Red Sparrow

The billion-dollar SAP was contracted exclusively to, and managed in a strict compartment by, Pathfinder Satellite Corporation of Los Angeles, located in the high-tech corridor along Airport Road and the LAAFB in El Segundo. This coincidentally also happened to be Senator Boucher’s former congressional district. Yes, indeed, thought Golov, the best is yet to come.

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Senator Boucher walked briskly through the small English country-house lobby of the Tabard Inn, squeezed past people in the narrow picture-lined corridor connecting sitting rooms and lounge, before coming out to the garden. She saw Golov at a table in the rear and strode over to him. Golov stood up, offered his hand, and bent in the European fashion to bring the lips to within inches of the hand. Golov did not actually touch the senator’s hand with his lips. He recalled early assessment reports about her social habits and what she liked to do with those hands.

“Stephanie, good evening,” said Golov, choosing his words. He used her first name to create familiarity and to avoid using her title, striking a chord between courtesy and intimacy. You never knew what kind of mood she would be in. Golov waited for her reply as she sat down.

“Hi, Anatoly,” said Boucher. She put her elbows on the table. “I’m sorry to get right to business, but did you receive an answer from your people?” The senator fished a cigarette out of her purse. Golov leaned forward to light it with a pencil-thin gold Bugatti lighter.

“I passed along your request, Stephanie,” said Golov, “along with my recommendation that they should agree without hesitation. I expect a reply within the next few days.” He sat with his hands resting easily on the tablecloth. His coffee arrived, and Stephanie ordered a whiskey and soda.

“I feel so good that you recommended they pay, Anatoly,” said Boucher in her committee voice. “I don’t know what I’d do without your support.”

What an insufferable woman this is, thought Golov. But he knew the Center would pay. They would pay five times her asking price for the information. The first discs she already had provided from Pathfinder Satellite SSCI briefings had amazed Russian researchers. Additional discs, manuals, and software from future Pathfinder and DoD briefings would be priceless. “Stephanie, you know you have my support always. Don’t worry, the Center will agree, and gladly.” Golov resisted the impulse to pat Boucher’s hand across the table.

“That’s good, Anatoly, because today we were briefed that Pathfinder is close to completing the first stage of bench testing for some of the navigational and targeting circuits. I’ve insisted on regular progress reports. I’m visiting Pathfinder in Los Angeles once a quarter. This project will be funded for another decade.” Boucher blew a stream of smoke straight up. “So, if your comrades in Moscow”—this last said altogether too loudly, thought Golov, like a threat—“don’t want to pay, then okay, we’re finished and I’m done.”

Golov noted once again that it was a measure of Boucher’s sublime arrogance, of living in a world devoid of consequences, that she was incapable of contemplating the certainty that the Center would never let her “quit,” that the choice was not hers. Golov tried to imagine the meeting at which Boucher would be told that she would be required to continue spying for Moscow or be exposed.

“Of course we’re going to continue our collaboration,” said Golov soothingly. “Don’t even suggest anything else. We will continue safely and securely, you will continue to amaze and astound our people, we will continue to remunerate you for your efforts, and your career will flourish.” Golov had long since discarded the temptation to add ideological blandishments. A simple recitation of the facts sufficed. You pass us secrets, we pay you for them.

“I want to continue our discussion from last time about your security,” said Golov. “I know you don’t think it’s necessary, but I must insist that you listen to me. I’m doing this for you, Stephanie, no one else. It’s rather important.” Golov sipped his espresso and looked at Boucher over the rim of his cup. Boucher blew cigarette smoke in a huff of fatigue.

“You are a well-known personage in Washington,” Golov said softly. “In certain circles, I am also recognizable as a senior Russian diplomat. Our continued public meetings are extremely inadvisable. Moscow is worried. I am worried. We have to do better.” Golov kept his voice steady, offhand. They had met too frequently. He was stretching his luck. Boucher blew more smoke into the air.

“Are we going to have this conversation again?” Boucher said, flicking cigarette ash off the table. “We discussed all this before and I thought I made myself clear.”