Red Sparrow

Nate had been about to respond when Forsyth snapped, “Shut the fuck up, both of you.” Maratos thought to say something else but kept his mouth shut.

The radio on the table clicked twice, the signal from Gable in the van that Volontov and Dominika had entered the hotel lobby. Three minutes later, laptop one showed the door opening and Volontov, Dominika, and a short young man entering the room. Dominika carried a briefcase. The volunteer was dark-complexioned, had an unruly shock of black hair, and heavy eyebrows. He wore a blue Windbreaker and carried a black duffel bag slung over his shoulder. What the camera did not record was what Dominika saw. The air around him was suffused with a soiled yellow cast, like a fever wind or the sky before a tornado. She knew what Volontov was going to do to him—Dominika knew the young man was lost. They sat in chairs around a low table. The audio picked up Volontov speaking in Russian and Dominika translating. It was eerie to hear Dominika’s voice coming out of the laptop.

At Volontov’s insistence the young man identified himself as John Paul Bullard, a midlevel analyst in the National Communications Service. He described his work and his need for money. He patted the duffel bag and repeated his demand that Volontov pay him a half million dollars for the manual, the cover sheet of which he had already provided. Volontov spoke again and Dominika asked the young American how they could be sure it was genuine.

Bullard zipped open the duffel and handed Dominika a bound manual the size of a thin telephone book. She handed it to Volontov, who spent three seconds riffling the pages before he handed it back to Dominika. He said something to Bullard that Dominika translated. They would have to examine the document privately before determining its exact value. Bullard said, “It’s genuine, all right, it’s the real thing.”

At Volontov’s nod, Dominika got up from her chair with the document and the briefcase and walked into the bathroom. Per his detailed instructions the day before, the rezident wanted the manual in the false bottom of the briefcase as soon as possible in case this was a Western provocation, a trap. The windowless bathroom was the place to secure it.

Forsyth whispered into the radio, “All okay, hold.” Laptop two showed the bathroom door opening and Dominika’s head filled the screen. She closed the door, placed the briefcase on the bathroom vanity. Moving quickly, she bent to the floor and pushed the kick plate of the vanity, which opened inward on three piano hinges. Dominika pulled an identical-looking manual, modified under a microscope by a score of eggheads and meticulously prepared—down to the missing cover page—out of the concealment cavity and pushed Bullard’s original manual into the space. The hinged kick plate swung closed. Dominika pressed two rivets in the lid of the briefcase. With the pressure, the inside lining of the briefcase opened to reveal a false bottom, into which Dominika put the modified replacement manual. She snapped the concealment cover closed, and shut the briefcase lid with a click.

Dominika paused to look at herself in the mirror, patted her hair, and then looked up at the vent and into the invisible camera. Nate, the evening before, had told her they would be monitoring the switch to ensure everything went smoothly. Dominika stuck her tongue out at the camera and, with a last look at herself in the mirror, went back out into the bedroom.

“Jesus Christ,” said Forsyth, “unbelievable. What kind of operation are you running?” he said, looking over at Nate.

“Can I get her number?” said Ginsburg the tech.

“Shut up, both of you,” said Forsyth.

Dominika sat down again as Volontov dug into his coat pocket and took out a fat envelope. He placed it on the table and slid it across to Bullard. Dominika told Bullard that they could pay him only $5,000 until they had verified the authenticity of the manual. Bullard’s look of astonishment was met with stony-faced silence from Volontov.

“What’s he gonna do,” said Ginsburg, “go to the authorities?” A sharp look from Forsyth shut him up. Dominika told Bullard that they would leave first and that he should wait in the room for five minutes before exiting the hotel. The young American sat back in his chair, gobsmacked. Volontov stood up, buttoned his coat, and walked out of the room, Dominika following him. Alone now, the American leaned forward with his face in his hands.

Forsyth was whispering into the radio, repeating Bullard’s name twice. “Party’s over. Guest still upstairs. No one move. No movement.” Two clicks of acknowledgment came back. Suddenly Bullard straightened and stood up. “Sit the fuck down,” Forsyth said to the screen on the laptop. “Stay put, you little bastard.” Bullard walked to the door and left the room. Forsyth grabbed the radio. “Guest is moving. Blue Windbreaker, black duffel. All still hold. Do not move.”