Palace of Treason (48 page)

Through the spittle and tears and snot, Yevgeny talked. “We were intimate,” he said.

Zyuganov shook Yevgeny’s head by the hair. “Pig. Intimate with who?”

“Captain Egorova. Dominika,” whispered Yevgeny.

Of course,
thought Zyuganov. “What did you tell her?”

“Office matters. She was in Line KR, after all.”

Zyuganov used the shank of the baton to lift Yevgeny’s chin. “
Mudilo,
motherfucker, what office matters?”

Yevgeny stared at Zyuganov, not speaking, daring to resist, and the baton was snapped on Yevgeny’s cheekbone, one-quarter force, just enough to get the ears ringing and the eyes watering. “What office matters?” he repeated.

“Zarubina,” panted Yevgeny, “TRITON, Solovyov’s house arrest.”

More came out. He had authorized a car for her to drive to Saint Petersburg to visit family—fearing additional demonic ministrations, Yevgeny did not mention the invitation from the president. Zyuganov straightened, exultant. This was as good as confirmation for him that she was the mole, that Solovyov was with her, that she probably intended to hand him over to CIA officers in Petersburg—there were cruise ships, ferries, trains to Finland and the Baltics, innumerable flights. He left Yevgeny sobbing in the chair, picked up the phone, and called the SVR dispatcher. It was a matter of seconds to establish which pool car Egorova had been issued. Zyuganov barked orders
to activate the transponder in the vehicle via encoded phone—all staff cars had tracking beacons installed to prevent their unauthorized private use (unless of course the dispatcher’s palm had been greased).

Zyuganov then called the Big House—the Saint Petersburg SVR regional office—and forced the duty officer to wake up the chief. It was three in the morning, but Zyuganov did not apologize: Moreover, he was taking an immense bureaucratic risk in demanding all the resources for a full-out sweep search for Egorova’s vehicle. He was almost certain she was heading to Saint Petersburg. The chief, another Putin crony, agreed reluctantly—a spy case was nothing to fool with, so he’d comply—but he resolved to report Zyuganov’s unhinged behavior to the director in Moscow and, given the opportunity, to the president during the breakfast reception at Strelna later this morning.

In the meantime, police and
militsiya
mobile units would be alerted by radio, the car, plates, and passengers’ descriptions broadcast widely. Additional teams would roll the minute the drivers reported for work and, most important, two stubby, twin-boomed, twin-tailed Kamov Ka226 militia helicopters would be airborne within thirty minutes. The midnight-blue aircraft were equipped with standard receivers that could detect the beacon signal from Egorova’s vehicle at a distance of two miles and an altitude of one thousand feet. It would take time for them to quarter the city airspace, to cover the urban sprawl around the horseshoe-shaped Neva Bay, but once locked onto the beacon signal, moving or stationary, vectoring ground units could converge in a matter of minutes. Zyuganov closed his eyes, picturing blue lights all around the car, Egorova and Solovyov facedown on the roadway, hands cuffed behind them.

Zyuganov asked the chief to keep him informed. He declared that this manhunt was the culmination of a protracted and highly classified mole hunt that would ultimately conclude with the arrest of two dangerous traitors. And Saint Petersburg would share in the credit, and foreign enemies would be thwarted, and the Federation would remain strong and inviolate, under the inspired leadership of the president. The Petersburg chief purred something into the phone, an exchange between them of
vranyo,
the Russian bureaucratic lie—the chief knew Zyuganov was lying, and Zyuganov knew he knew, and both of them didn’t blink an eye. Zyuganov hung up the phone, incrementally placated. He might have all this under control.

Yevgeny was sitting tilted in his chair, head forward, a thread of saliva from his mouth to the floor. Yevgeny’s disloyalty to the Service and to his country was monstrous, but his betrayal of Zyuganov personally stirred up in him all the noxious, misanthropic, adult-diaper issues that his mother—SVR doyenne Ekaterina Zyuganova, now political advisor in the Paris
rezidentura
—had palliated in his early career by tucking her son into the Lubyanka job. But he was chief now, chief of Line KR, and on his own, responsible for the imminent capture of two CIA agents in Russia. He was partner with the genius Zarubina in the conduct of the massively productive TRITON case. He wondered whether Egorova had reported about the case to Washington. No matter, once an illegals officer began handling TRITON the Americans would never find him.

And he would be running SVR with Zarubina, and the Service would multiply and prosper, and the Main Enemy would thrash hopelessly against them, and other enemies would quail, and fractious former republics would come back into the fold, and a new Russian hegemon would be born with Vladimir Putin in charge, stronger than before, and traitors—he looked down at the back of Yevgeny’s wooly head as his doubled-over deputy quietly retched on the carpet—
traitors like this,
thought Zyuganov, hearing his own shrill voice as he brought the baton in a singing arc down on the back of Yevgeny’s skull,
pig manure like this will be eliminated.

They ate in moonlight off the hood of the car, soft
pyrahi
buns with blood-red savory beet filling.
Nathaniel would tease about the beets,
she thought. Dominika then registered that this would be the last authentic Russian meal LYRIC would ever have, and it would be her last
nonprison
Russian meal too, if the United States Navy did not appear in approximately twelve minutes. At exactly seven minutes after four in the morning, she dug the radio out of the pack and stood on the boulder above the water, a statuesque
Rusalka
mermaid (despite the black jeans, sweater, and black running shoes) about to serenade the moon. The empty sea was a slab of smooth slate, the horizon in the gulf a silvery line. Dominika’s elegant hands with square-cut nails—the same hands that six hours ago had snapped the hyoid bone in a Moscow policeman’s throat—held the radio and depressed the transmit button of
the jet-black, cigarette-pack-sized AN/PRC-90 modified by CIA, transmitting an encrypted very-low-frequency (VLF) trinumeric code to the British Ministry of Defense’s Skynet 5 satellite in geosynchronous earth orbit at fifty-three degrees meridian east, twenty-two thousand miles above Franz Josef Land archipelago in the Barents Sea. DIVA did not know any of this.

When the Red Routes Two, Three, and Four operational exfiltration plans were being formulated three years earlier, Simon Benford had reluctantly agreed to partner with the British MOD and Secret Intelligence Service (MI6) to take advantage of UK satellites’ footprints over Russia’s northern tier and Arctic latitudes. After all, the Brits exfiltrated agents too; allies could share capabilities. But negotiations had stalled in London when Benford demanded nothing less than
instantaneous
message relays from the Brit satlink, dryly noting that MI6’s performance during previous crisis operations recalled “a dead heat in a dirigible race.” That prompted the patrician Oxonian who looked after operations at “Six” to call Benford a tossbag, but since Benford did not know he was being called a fuckhead, the exchange was forgotten and the liaison negotiations were successfully concluded.

Skynet 5’s microprocessors received DIVA’s trinumeric blast, read it, reencrypted it, and transmitted a different trinumeric code in 1.6 seconds. The VLF transmission from the satellite arrived simultaneously in the Doughnut—Government Communications Headquarters (GCHQ) in Cheltenham—where automated equipment instantly forwarded the “execute” code to MI6 London Headquarters in Vauxhall Cross and to CIA Headquarters in Langley, Virginia, then to the thirty-five-meter buoyant wire antenna trailed behind the forty-foot US Navy shallow water combat submersible (SWCS) ghosting at a depth of five fathoms, one thousand yards from where Dominika and LYRIC were standing on the beach.

In two minutes, as if to heighten the drama, the minisub surfaced smoothly, directly in the shimmering path of moonlight. It was motionless on the dead-calm sea: The SWCS looked like the smooth gleaming back of a sleeping baby whale; only two feet of freeboard showed above the surface. Dominika dug into her pack and took out a plastic square the size of a matchbox, flipped a tiny toggle, and set it on the rock. The Pegasus cube began showing brilliant infrared light, invisible to the naked eye, in intermittent green-flashing and steady-on modes. Dominika looked through a short IR spotting scope and saw lightning-bright green flashes from the
submarine. She handed the scope to LYRIC, who looked through it at the submersible and grunted, impressed.

A smaller dark blob separated from the SWCS and silently headed toward them—the inflatable’s bow pushed a white curl of water that chuckled under the raft, the only sound it made over the nearly imperceptible whine of its electric trolling outboard. A single hunched figure sat in the back of the craft. It would take several minutes to reach the beach, so Dominika got busy: She packed the transmitter and the IR scope into the backpack, along with the IR beacon light; all this equipment would go with LYRIC into the submarine. There would be no trace of General Solovyov; the
Rusalki
would have carried him forever beneath the sea. The little raft was still a ways off, and Dominika had a dread feeling that it was taking too much time. Every minute saved would be critical—she had to dress for the president’s weekend garden party—so she walked back to the trunk of the car, unlocked it, opened her suitcase, shucked off her shoes and socks, yanked off her sweater, and peeled off her jeans. She shivered in the night air, barefoot and in her bra and panties. Then she heard the sound of a helicopter somewhere to the southeast.

Zyuganov sat in his office with three officers from the SVR administrative and security sections. The shrouded body of Yevgeny had been carried out on a canvas stretcher a half hour ago, and Zyuganov had foamed at the mouth while describing to the men how Yevgeny had been in league with the CIA mole he, Zyuganov, was minutes away from apprehending. Yevgeny was doubtless a subagent dishing information to the opposition and, when confronted by Zyuganov, had panicked and made a move to attack his boss.

“Attack? With what?” said one of the security men. Not even Zyuganov’s reputation as a wet-boy executioner, inheritor of the speckled majesty of the
Vozhd,
the multilimbed monster that lent its name to Uncle Joe Stalin, could confer immunity in the case of unjustified murder committed inside the walls of the Center. To be sure, justification could come in the space of a fifteen-second exculpating phone call from the Kremlin,
or in the microsecond after the triumphant arrest of the CIA mole in their midst,
thought Zyuganov.

“With this instrument,” said Zyuganov, holding up a half-inch, curved surgical needle. “He was trying to slash me.”

“How is it you have such a thing in your office, sir?” said one of the men.

“What difference at this point does it make?” said Zyuganov, pounding his fist. The white phone on his desk trilled—the secure high-frequency Vey-Che line. It was the SVR chief in Saint Petersburg calling to report that one of the militia helicopters reported a signal to the southeast of the city, in a vector essentially along the line of the M10 from Moscow. Zyuganov checked his watch: four thirty. It had to be Egorova coming up from Moscow; they’d have her in the bag within the hour. Zyuganov barked orders that police and militia vehicles be directed to converge on the M10, setting up on all exits to the A120, the outer ring road just after the town of Tosno. He put the phone down and looked at the three
zadnitsi,
these three admin assholes, knowing they’d heard every word, and told them to get out
of his office. They hesitated, then rose to leave, but one security man mumbled something about continuing the interview at another time.
Yes, your dismissal-from-the-service interview when I’m deputy chief,
thought Zyuganov, his brain buzzing with excitement.

He had not considered before now that as deputy of SVR he would be able to compile and maintain a list of people who displeased, angered, or otherwise annoyed him. He could have video feeds from the cellars at Lefortovo and Butyrka piped into his office. He would be driven to the Kremlin to have tea with the president. He shivered deliciously as he recalled the sound of dropped melon and the yielding resistance of bone when he hit Yevgeny with the steel baton. He thought of the sights and sounds that would accompany the upcoming interrogations of Egorova and Solovyov. Then the phone trilled again.

“Goose chase,” the Petersburg chief said over the phone. “The air unit went right down on the deck as signal strength increased, and almost got sucked into the pressure wave of the Sapsan high-speed train from Moscow. The bastard runs at two hundred and fifty kilometers an hour.”

Zyuganov swore. “What about the signal?” he said.

“No cars on the road,” said the chief. “I woke up the Rail Ministry; the engine has a transponder in the nose to track the train. The helicopter was homing in on that. Lucky they didn’t fly into—”

“What the fuck is the train doing on the track at four in the morning?” raved Zyuganov. “It’s supposed to be in Petersburg at midnight.”

“I asked about that too,” said the chief. “Five-hour departure delay in Moscow. Something on the tracks in the middle of nowhere. It’s bad luck. The helicopter is returning to the field to check for damage. I can tell you the pilot was really shaken.”

“Fuck the pilot,” yelled Zyuganov. “I want that bastard to continue to search. Find that car. I know she’s out there.” Zyuganov banged down the phone.
Sapsan,
a peregrine falcon chasing a Sparrow;
eto prosto pizdets,
this is totally, elementally, fucked up.

When Dominika heard the helicopter thrashing around in the night sky somewhere to the south she dropped everything, ran around the car, and
stuffed the last of the equipment into the kit bag. She took the docile general by the elbow and helped him over the rocks to the small sandy beach, willing the rubber raft to hurry, hoping that the old man would get off this beach, willing the helicopter to stay away. According to the exfil drill, Dominika helped the general off with his topcoat, which she also stuffed into the kit bag. In Athens there had been discussion of leaving LYRIC’s shoes and coat on the beach, eventually to be found and to suggest that the desperate fugitive had committed suicide by walking into the sea, but Dominika had convinced Benford that this would be
inostrannyy,
too foreign, un-Russian. Better that he should dematerialize without a trace.

The rubber raft grounded on the beach, the man stepped over the rubber gunwale, and Gary Cooper walked toward them—at least that’s what the six-foot-two Navy SEAL looked like to Dominika. Petty Officer Second-Class Luke Proulx of SEAL Team Two was dressed in black Nomex overalls and carried a stubby matte black MP7 submachine gun across his chest on a one-point sling. As he approached Dominika and the general he pulled a knit watch cap off his head.
Of course he would have blond hair,
thought Dominika. And a red halo that turned the color of chilled rosé in the moonlight.
Naturally.

“General. Ma’am,” said Proulx in unaccented Russian. “Good morning.”
Perfect Russian, and of course he would also have blue eyes,
thought Dominika, only then realizing she was in her underwear—Simone Perele from Paris, but still … The SEAL didn’t give the faintest indication that he saw her nakedness.

“I heard a helicopter a minute ago,” said Dominika, resolved not to be embarrassed. “You must leave immediately.” Petty Officer Proulx nodded, put his cap back on, and took the kit bag from Dominika.

“Ready, sir?” he said, shifting his weapon and moving to the rubber raft. Without his coat, General Solovyov was shivering in the cool night air. He turned to Dominika, stood straight, and saluted. He silently mouthed
Spasibo,
thank you, then turned and climbed into the raft, which the SEAL had pushed off the sand and was holding steady in shallow water. Luke Proulx looked back at Dominika, smiled, and whispered
Udacha,
good luck. He bounded into the raft, started the silent motor, and headed out for the wallowing black log of the submarine in the moon path. Dominika was shivering now too as she watched the silver bow wave spread in a vee across
the flagstone sea. She was astounded to register a “Hey, wait for me” stuck behind her lips, but knew she would never be able to go.

“Stupay s Bogom,”
she whispered. Go with God. She turned quickly and clambered over the rocks, then dove into her suitcase in the open trunk of her car. Dress over her head—a gray scrunched tunic-drape cocktail number—pointed toe Fendi stilettos onto her feet—she had to wipe her soles clean of sand—a string of onyx stone beads around her neck. She slammed the trunk and got inside the car, smoothing her upswept hair and putting on a touch of lipstick. She wanted the effect of arriving at the Strelna mansion as if she had been driving all night, dressed somewhat inappropriately for a breakfast buffet, or whatever beastly Fall-of-Rome entertainment these
kabany,
these tusker boars who ran her country, who lounged and ate and drank and stole Russia’s wealth out of the mouths of her people, had in mind—provided, of course, that the Tsar approved.

She looked out at the empty ocean; the silver sea was flat. The vessel had slipped beneath the waves; the
Rusalki
mermaids had gotten their man. Perhaps now the spirits of Udranka and Marta and Hannah could rest—how Hannah would have enjoyed this early-morning operation on this pebbly beach. Dominika gripped the steering wheel and fought fatigue, emotion, longing. She longed for Nate, to see him and talk to him, and to have him take her in his arms and just hold her—at least for a while before they fell into bed. The sound of helicopter rotors was audible somewhere in the distance, growing louder, and Dominika started moving fast down the beach road—headlights out,
Don’t clip one of the boulders, I hope it’s too dark to see a dust plume
—and squealed onto the A121 back toward Petersburg, past the dark palaces, no traffic at 5:00 a.m. and her mirrors were clear.

The rotor noise was louder as she pulled into the entrance to the Constantine Palace and Strelna conference facility. The gate guard looked into the sky as he walked around to her window and shined the light in her eyes.

“Get that light out of my face,” snapped Dominika. “Captain Egorova of the
Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki
, SVR. I’m expected.”

Sitting in the SWCS was like being a fragile and somewhat insignificant component in a cramped steel tube stuffed with conduit and pipes and cable ties
and digital displays. Petty Officer Proulx had helped LYRIC squeeze through a hatch on the dorsal surface of the SWCS and eased him into a nylon webbing seat, buckled a harness over his shoulders and across his stomach, then released a latch and slid the seat on tracks backward to click and lock against stops in the third position. After pulling the sea cocks on the raft—once inflated it could not possibly fit back into the submersible—and watching it settle underwater by the heavier stern, Proulx slipped through the hatch and into the second seat, putting the MP7 on safe and stowing his weapon in a scabbard beneath his seat. He stuffed the bag with the exfil equipment in a side locker, then hit a toggle to close the hatch, which he then manually dogged with a hand crank. Their ears popped as the hatch sealed shut and the cabin pressurized.

Proulx turned in his seat—no easy feat in the cramped space—and took a pair of headphones off a small hook and handed them to the general. He put on his own headset and adjusted the bud mike across his cheek.

“You okay, sir?” said Proulx. The general nodded and whispered “Da” into the mike. Proulx passed a plastic squeeze bottle he took out of a becket on the side of the seat. “Here, sir, drink this. It gets pretty hot and dry in here.” The mildly fruit-flavored water had a low dose of benzodiazepine to reduce anxiety, relax the muscles, and make sleep possible. The “benzo cocktail” was standard kit for maritime exfil ops.

“Better than the motherfucking wet-pig boats we had to drive before,” said Master Chief Petty Officer Mike Gore over the headset, sitting ahead of Proulx in the nose. The hulking and dyspeptic Chief Gore was at the controls. “C’mon, let’s get out of here; shallow water gives me the shits,” he said. The men were sitting like a three-man bobsled crew, in single file, legs slightly bent, knees against the backs of the seats ahead. There was a sound of gurgling water that enveloped them, and a slight sensation of sinking. The only ghostly light in the stuffy compartment came from LED displays.

“General, you want to listen to a little music?” said Proulx into his mike. “How about some Tchaikovsky?” It had been Benford’s suggestion that they have Russian classical music on hand, music that could be silenced if the boat’s sonar detected surface units anywhere nearby. The SWCS perceptibly started moving forward, a small hum came from the engine compartment bulkhead behind their seats, and the entire submersible suddenly banked like an aircraft and took a steep vertigo-inducing downward angle.
Fifteen minutes later, Proulx glanced at a small piece of polished metal attached to the overhead like a rearview mirror and saw that LYRIC’s head was back against the padded headrest, his eyes closed. Proulx switched off LYRIC’s headset and reached forward, tapping Master Chief Gore on the shoulder.

“So the landing zone is clear and this angel in her underwear is on the beach with the old guy—I mean Ingrid Bergman meets Jane Russell. Couldn’t be true, Master Chief; shit, I expected Spetsnaz to come out of the sea grass.” Gore grunted into his mouth mike.

“Proulx, the next hop, you sit offshore, and I’ll take the inflatable in. Fucking CIA running porn stars in Russia. I gotta get a job with them.” The two SEALs were silent for a few minutes. “The old guy okay?” said Gore. Proulx nodded.