Palace of Treason (52 page)

She kept hearing splashes behind her, prodigious amounts of water were cascading ahead of her, and she slid off another basin rim and waded forward. She was getting the rhythm of sitting, pivoting the legs, and easing down into the next basin. The flashlight had passed her and continued up the stairs—one threat evaded, but the sloshing noise from above was growing. Sit, pivot, slide down. Try to breathe. Two more basins to go, and then she would come to the lower pool, then the park exit to the right, where her surveillance team would swoop in and pick her up, alerted by all the noise. Zarubina trudged through the water—the basins were larger the farther down she got—when she felt a hammer blow of pain in her left arm. She put her hand under her armpit to ease the ache, which was seeping up her neck to her jaw.

Zarubina felt dizzy as she sat and pivoted her legs to slide into the last
basin before the bottom pool. Her walking was unsteady and her breath came in shallow gasps. The park, and the trees, and the fountain, and all this damn water—everything was moving—and the orange glow of the night sky was pulsing. Zarubina sat heavily on the last basin rim and swung her legs around, but couldn’t slide down. She sat, legs dangling, fighting the pain that was coming in waves, just like the sheets of water sliding under her thighs and around her legs. She could taste the pain. Her left arm hung numbly at her side. She heard a terrible rushing sound in her ears and looked up again at the night sky, now crossed by pinpoints of light, and a new surge of pain exploded in her chest.

Zarubina’s head went back, eyes staring and mouth open, and she slowly pitched forward and belly flopped into the bottom pool. She floated facedown, arms underneath her, the softly falling water rocking her stocking feet. Her hair, knocked loose from its bun, fanned out in the black water, a Soviet Ophelia sadly not to be mourned by her blue-eyed prince in the Kremlin.

Nate slid down into the last basin. She was gone. Impossible; he had been seconds behind her. Then he saw her floating in the bottom pool. He vaulted the rim, splashed his way to her, and picked her head up out of the water. She stared at him with small black eyes. Her mouth was slack, and a strand of green weed was stuck to the side of her face. Nate tried to hold her weight and drag her to the edge of the pool to haul her out and get her on dry pavement. There was the sound of running footsteps and Fileppo appeared out of the dark, a hand over one eye. He helped Nate haul Zarubina out and they started working on her. Nate clenched his hands and began pushing her chest—the metronome beat of the pop hit “Stayin’ Alive” was the required 103 beats a minute.
Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin’ alive.

“Get some air into her,” said Nate, pumping. A cupful of dirty water spurted out of Zarubina’s mouth.

Fileppo looked at Nate. “Dude, you speak Russian,” he said.

“You’re not conjugating verbs, Donnie; blow into her mouth.” As Donnie bent forward, Nate saw his red-rimmed, swollen eye. He kept compressing Zarubina’s chest.

“What happened to your eye? Tell me you got him,” said Nate. Donnie came up from Zarubina’s mouth.

“Fucking guy sprayed me with some kind of fucking blinding agent,” he said, leaning down again. Nate kept pushing. Zarubina stared up at them.

“Tell me you got him,” said Nate again.

Fileppo turned his head to speak. “Lew chased him into an alley.”

“Why didn’t you light up the troops? They should have swarmed the area,” said Nate. Blue-lipped Zarubina listened to the conversation while staring at the sky, her head rocking slightly as Nate pushed at her chest.

“I don’t know,” said Donnie miserably. “Proctor had the SHRAPNEL unit.” He bent down again and blew into Zarubina’s mouth, and her cheeks puffed out.

It got crowded suddenly. Proctor appeared from the W Street entrance, drenched in sweat and panting. The park ranger, flashlight in hand, came breathlessly from the other side of the cascade. She was a slight girl with black bangs in a Park Service parka, wearing her campaign hat with the strap under her chin. She shined her light on Zarubina’s blue face.

“What’s going on?” she said, looking at the men.

“Mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, Officer,” said red-eyed Fileppo, coming up for air.

“We’re G-men,” said Proctor. “We’re attempting to revive this woman.” The park ranger goggled at him.
Do they actually call themselves that?
thought Nate.

“You have a radio?” said Proctor. The ranger moved her bangs.

“Call the DC cops, get an ambulance here.” The girl moved fast enough and started talking into her brick, the stubby antenna quivering as she held it in shaking hands.

Proctor looked at Nate, who was still pumping Zarubina’s chest, and his expression said it all. These street guys, like Nate, knew there were no excuses, not even when bad luck and fate went against you. “I lost the signaling unit when I went through the hedge,” said Proctor bitterly. “Then Donnie got his ass kicked, and I chased the son of a bitch across Fifteenth following the sounds of flying garbage cans and dogs barking. Then I lost him, but there’s something else,” he said, explaining.

The sirens began softly at first, then filled the air like a discordant flooding tide, and the surrounding buildings, park fountains, treetops, and faces
of the statues flashed blue-red-yellow as the sirens subsided with growls, and car doors began chunking and the squeak of gurney wheels grew louder. Nate and Donnie got out of the way as the EMTs popped Zarubina’s dress buttons and put paddles on her and she flopped twice, but she wasn’t coming back.

Montgomery and Benford finally appeared, looking like death. Proctor stepped up, grabbed Montgomery by the elbow, and took him aside. Benford, Nate, and Fileppo followed, walking away from the crowd gathered around Zarubina’s body, her feet sticking out between their legs. Benford looked up at the sky and closed his eyes.

“You lost the signaling device?” said Benford.

Proctor nodded.

“And you were spritzed?” Benford asked.

Fileppo nodded.

“Could you identify him in a lineup?” asked Montgomery.

They both shook their heads.

“So the guy got away?” Benford asked. “TRITON, the Center’s penetration of CIA, the man who knows the true name of our premier source inside Russia, is running loose?”

“Simon, the Russians have a saying,” said Nate. “
Eto yeshshyo tsvyetóchki a yágodki vpyeryedí.
These are just flowers; berries will come soon.”

Benford turned a baleful eye on Nate.

“Nathaniel, if this is how you wish to tender your resignation to leave federal service and pursue a career teaching Russian at Walden Online University, it is accepted immediately,” said Benford, turning to Fileppo and Proctor. “And these colleagues no doubt will be able to find employment as choreographers for the Ice Capades.”

“Mr. Benford, with all due respect,” said Fileppo, “go fuck yourself.”

“Everybody take it easy,” said Montgomery.

“What I meant by flowers and berries,” said Nate, “is that the best may yet be ahead. Proctor, tell them.”

“I got the plates off a moving car in the alleyway,” said Proctor. “The guy jackrabbited away when he saw me.” Montgomery called a FEEB special agent over and Proctor gave him the plate number to run an urgent trace.

“It could be a civilian,” said Proctor.

“Why’d he burn rubber?” said Montgomery.

“With that face approaching in a dark alley? Anyone would,” said Benford. Proctor opened his mouth, but Montgomery put up his hand. Behind them, Zarubina was zipped into a metro-DC coroner’s rubber bag and lifted with a thump onto the gurney. The SA came back after having called in the plate. Montgomery read off a notepad.

“Car belongs to a Vikki Mayfield,” said Montgomery. “Lives in Glover Park, on Benton Street.”

“That’s a few blocks from the Russian Embassy on Wisconsin,” said Fileppo.

Benford scowled at all of them. “Flowers before berries,” he said, shaking his head. “Charles, may I suggest you do a full run-up on this Mayfield woman?”

Montgomery nodded.

“And now it’s time for the Gs,” said Benford. “A straight surveillance.” He turned to Proctor.

“And before you leave for the evening, would you be so kind as to root around in those hedges to see if you could possibly retrieve the SHRAPNEL unit? It’s worth possibly the equivalent of three years of your salary.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Benford,” said Proctor. “Where shall I put it when I find it?”

There was still a rust-colored spot on the carpet where something had leaked out of Yevgeny’s head. Zyuganov sat at his desk, staring at the spot but not seeing it. Under his hands, on the desk blotter, were the cables from Washington reporting in detail every aspect of the disastrous events of the night before. Zarubina’s CS team described what appeared to have been an ambush at the site—the source disappearing into the night, pursued on foot by two men, outcome unknown. Another cable recounted the scene at the bottom of the cascade, where medical technicians attended someone. Cable three was the consul’s report of the death of
rezident
Yulia Zarubina, and his visit to the District of Columbia city morgue in southwest Washington to identify her. The remains would not be released to the Russian Embassy for another day, but the consul had been able to collect Zarubina’s personal effects—wristwatch, overcoat, one shoe, pocket litter—to ensure there was nothing of operational value. The consul moreover elicited from the morgue physician that Zarubina’s mottled face and purple lips strongly indicated a massive myocardial infarction.

Zyuganov was badly shaken: He had planned on riding the Zarubina elevator all the way up to the executive fourth floor at Yasenevo, but that
zastupnichestvo,
that patronage, was gone. Zyuganov’s scaly amphibian instincts knew that, despite his oily efforts, he was not favored by Putin—in fact, he was barely tolerated. The fourth cable from Washington was an operational perspective: Until the status of TRITON could be verified, the
rezidentura
would make no attempt at recontact. After an operational flap like this, the likelihood of a possibly arrested source being directed against his former handlers was high. Unless and until TRITON began reporting “incompatible” intelligence—that is, information the Americans would never give up—the case was on ice. Zyuganov swore. Now this compounded his troubles: He could not prove that Egorova was the mole; General Solovyov had disappeared, possibly in the hands of the Americans; Zyuganov’s grandstand play of tracking Egorova’s staff car to Petersburg had led police to a presidential guesthouse
where she was being entertained by Putin himself.

Zyuganov ominously had received no call about these setbacks from the president or the director—in Stalin’s day the hollow cessation of communication from the top meant only one thing: Kiss the wife and kids good-bye. The one call he
had
received was doubly alerting. Govormarenko telephoned on the secure line—
Since when did a civilian use encrypted government communications? Since Putin handed him the receiver, that’s when
—to curtly announce that his continued participation in the matter of the cargo now en route to Iran would no longer be required. Govormarenko mouthed the explanation that the deal was concluded, the last of the monies were being deposited, and the intervention of the Service could be brought to a close. Zyuganov knew very well what that meant: There would be no
vyplata,
no spoon of sugar—no payoff—for his work putting together the operation. It also meant that his connections to the
siloviki
around Putin likewise were being severed, like mooring lines on a departing ship, dropping one after another from the pier into the water.

Egorova.
Zyuganov closed his eyes and saw her on the stainless-steel table in the Butyrka prison cellar as he worked his way up her body with an iron bar—feet, shins, knees, pelvis, stomach, ribs, wrists, arms, collarbone, throat. He would use a bent spoon on her eyes. She would flop like a screaming leather bag of broken glass. Investigators still wanted to talk about Yevgeny. He did not experience even a second of remorse about staving in the skull of his moronic deputy—Yevgeny had told everything he knew, but nothing that could nail Egorova. Zyuganov’s options were narrowing, his career standing was tottering, his prospects were bleak. His career:
Bog ne vydast, svin’ja ne s’est,
God won’t give it away, pigs won’t eat it.

Mother. She had survived four decades in the Soviet grinder, a high administrative functionary successively in the NKVD, KGB, and SVR, through Khrushchev, Brezhnev, Andropov, Chernenko, and Gorbachev, through the dissolution of the Soviet Union, through the turmoil with drunken Yeltsin into the proto-Soviet moonscape of Putin. She had retired with honors and was now
zampolit,
political officer in the Russian Embassy in Paris, a ceremonial position, a reward for a lifetime of loyalty to the
Rodina
. She had brought him into the Service under her patronage. Maybe she could help him now. He picked up the secure Vey-Che phone and ordered the operator to connect him with Paris. He would tell her all the details.
Mamulya,
Mommy would know what to do.

Dominika had been at the guesthouse in Strelna for three days. She had no way of knowing what had happened with the TRITON meeting, and she expected and anticipated sudden exposure, the tramp of footsteps coming for her, the icy blue-eyed stare as she was led away from the madhouse charade of this power weekend. She was already surfeited with the cloying cream sauces, the endless ranks of chilled vodka bottles, the rose-scented sheets, the limitless views of the gunmetal sea, the piped-in patriotic songs—Putin’s favorite was “From What Begins the Motherland”—for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. There had been a steady stream of guests—fat-bellied oligarchs, nicotine-fingered ministers, sloe-eyed models, and dissolute actresses—and they socialized together in groups in the salons, dining rooms, and terraces, then separated and came together again in different groups, in clouds of greedy yellows, fearful greens, or, occasionally, the blues of intellect.

Govormarenko, in a dingy yellow haze, early on took it upon himself to introduce Dominika to the arriving luminaries, transmitting with an arm around her waist a “she’s with us” message, and the eyes would narrow and the heads would nod, and the women would appraise her jutting dancer’s glutes, and the men would stare at her top hamper, and Govormarenko’s hand would snake around her waist to steer her toward another introduction. Dominika initially planned to break the little finger of his encircling hand by bending it back to his wrist, but she quickly assessed this train of events and the opportunity it presented. She could not send a SRAC shot to Hannah—
Oh God, Hannah is gone
—but she knew what Nate would say, and Gable, and she could hear Benford’s voice, so she smiled and joked with the men, hinted darkly about her work in the Service, and flattered the women with clotted foundation on their collars and salt rings under the arms of their blouses.

Dominika’s magnificent radar registered the absence of sexual overtures from any of the men at the weekend retreat. To be sure, there were undisguised stares and furtive sidelong glances, but it was as if some invisible letter
Z
had been hung around her neck,
zapovednyy,
reserved, forbidden, hands off. But reserved for whom? After an initial and halfhearted flirtation from Govormarenko—his principal interest was food and drink—he did nothing more than paw at her waist and occasionally contrive to bump a shoulder against the side of her breast. It was clear that the only alpha male
in the mansion had sprayed the tree trunk, and the lesser omegas of the pride could read territorial pheromones very well.

Udranka’s spirit, sitting by the shore and singing the sweet song of the Rusalka, threw back her head and laughed. You’re Putin’s pussy.

Khorosho,
very well. Dominika resolved to be CIA’s penetration not only of SVR but also of Putin’s wheeling circle of vultures in business, politics, and government. The president spoke to her whenever he saw her, a fact noted by one of the actresses who, by her dismayed expression, clearly had previously been one of Vladimir’s wind-up toys. The president certainly was a dandy, dressed in open-necked shirts and fitted jackets. He had a jaunty sailor’s roll when he walked. He was usually accompanied by a statuesque beauty who, it was whispered, had been a rhythmic gymnastics dancer—a Russian and Olympic champion. The rumor was confirmed on the second day, in the sprawling, mirrored basement gymnasium filled with machines and free weights, when the blonde, dressed in spandex, demonstrated some routines, including lying on her chest and bringing her legs back over her body so her toes touched the floor on either side of her head. The president, dressed in a heavy, woven judogi tied at the waist with a black belt, beamed at his soft pretzel.

Now the judo demonstration. To the delight of the overdressed guests who lined the enormous gym mat, Putin began grappling with a chunky man in his twenties, and threw him with great force each time they grabbed each other’s lapels. The president was not thrown, ever—the young man knew how to fall and roll in this job. After one particularly violent takedown—Putin used
hane goshi,
the spring hip throw—a woman cried out in alarm and was shushed as if she were interrupting a pianist at a concert. After ten minutes, Putin straightened, wiped his face with a towel, and walked over to the nuzzling knot of sycophants, who politely applauded. Putin acknowledged the applause with Olympian modesty. His eye caught Dominika, standing in the back of the crowd.

“Captain, do you know judo?” Putin asked. Faces turned toward her.

“No, Mr. President,” said Dominika.

“What do you think?” Putin said. Faces were swiveling between the two.

“Very impressive,” said Dominika.

“I understand you were trained in
Sistema,
” said Putin. Faces turned again, expectant.

“Yes, Mr. President,” said Dominika. She hoped she wasn’t sounding like a cow.

“How would you compare judo against
Sistema
?” said Putin, draping the towel around his neck.

“It would be difficult to compare, Mr. President. For instance, I could identify only four ways to kill you during your sparring session.” The nervous woman gasped again, and they all looked at Putin’s face for his reaction. Putin’s blue halo was pulsing, and the corners of his mouth twitched.

“The notorious reserve of the external service,” said Putin to the crowd. He walked across the gym to the broad staircase leading up to the dining room, content to let the buzzing guests follow him and his blue aura like geese. The woman brushed past Dominika with her nose in the air, and a sweating industrialist mopped his face with a handkerchief and shook his head at Dominika, but she knew she had scored positive points with Putin. He was one-dimensional, primal, nationalistic, instinctive, afflicted with a world lens that registered only blacks and whites. But he was a natural conspirator who was concerned with only one thing—
sila
—power, strength, force. It was from having and keeping
sila
that everything else derived: personal wealth, Russian resurgence, territory, oil, global respect, fear, women. He consequently respected others who displayed strength. Dominika just hoped she hadn’t overdone it.

That night, Dominika was on the terrace after dinner talking to a ferret-faced man from Gazprom who was predicting that, by controlling natural gas exports, Russia would reclaim the Baltic countries as integral republics in thirty-six months. Dominika imagined Benford’s face when he read that. A white-coated attendant approached, stood with his heels together, and said that Captain Egorova was required in the president’s study.

The first thing she saw on entering the room was that there were no armed men lined along the walls to take her away. Putin was sitting behind an ornate desk covered by green felt under a heavy piece of glass. He wore an open-necked shirt under a preposterous velveteen smoking jacket—his notion of what a
chentelman
wore after dinner. He motioned Dominika to a chair and stared at her in silence for ten seconds. Dominika willed herself to look back at him. Had TRITON delivered her name? Was the door going to blow in and security thugs fill the room? Putin’s halo was steady; he did not appear outwardly agitated. He continued looking at her, his hands flat
on the glass. How tiresome this Svengali act was; Dominika wanted to slap his blue eyes crossed.

“
Rezident
Zarubina is dead,” said Putin. “She died last night during a meeting in Washington.”
Was this a trap? She wasn’t supposed to know about TRITON. Play dumb.

Dominika kept her face closed down. “My God,” she said. “How did she die?”
Satisfactory. But do they know my name?

“Heart attack,” said Putin, “while trying to escape from an ambush.”

Too bad, Baba Yaga. I guess your broom couldn’t fly you to safety,
thought Dominika. “Ambush? How can this be? Zarubina was too good on the street,” said Dominika, shaking her head. “But what about the source?”
Do you know my name?

“Status unknown,” said Putin, still looking at her.
Is this a game he is playing? Does he know something else?

“Mr. President, this is a disaster. But in my work, when we speak of ambushes, we speak of foreknowledge, of setting a trap. Besides Zarubina and her team, the only two people in Line KR who knew the location of any Washington, DC, meeting sites were Colonel Zyuganov and Major Pletnev. Madame Zarubina kept very close control on such operational details.”

“Pletnev is dead too,” said Putin.

This time Dominika did not have to feign surprise.
Poor hairy Yevgeny, but now he’s no longer a danger.
Her mind was racing, calculating, evaluating the risk of what she was going to do. “Pletnev dead?” said Dominika. “Did Colonel Zyuganov kill him?”

Putin leaned forward on the desk. “That’s an interesting question,” he said. “Why would you think that?” Putin smelled intrigue like a croc smelled a carcass in the river. And like crocodile Stalin, Vladimir Putin knew the value of keeping subordinates at one another’s throats. Dominika registered his animated interest, took a deep breath, and told Putin about Zyuganov’s boycott of information in Line KR, about how Yevgeny was frightened of him, about Zyuganov’s fixation on and determination to uncover the mole.