Red Sparrow

Egorov’s big marble head glistened, and his shirt was fresh and starched. He hugged his old friend and waved him to a seat. “I wanted to meet here, Volodya, because they can set up the projector. Since you’re now directing the operation, I wanted to show you some extra material.” He picked up a remote control and pushed a button. Projected on the wall was a grainy photograph of Nathaniel Nash, hands in the pockets of a coat, hunched against the cold, walking along what looked like a Moscow street. “You wouldn’t know this man, Volodya, but he is the CIA officer Nash, who is handling the traitor. He was posted to Moscow for less than two years and left approximately eighteen months ago.”

Korchnoi wondered first whether the surveillance photo of Nate had been taken while he was on the way back from one of their meetings. Then he wondered whether this was all sarcastic drama to bait him. Would the conference-room doors burst open to admit rushing security men? Was Egorov this devious, would he be inclined to torment him this way? No, Korchnoi thought, it’s nothing. This is your life, breathe it in, circle the abyss, stay cool.

“This Nash was very skillful. But for one bungled near miss, we never were able to determine even a mote of his activities.” Egorov paused to light a cigarette. He offered the pack around the table. Korchnoi filed away the words that seemed to confirm he was still safe. Unless this was all Egorov’s elaborate red herring.

“I personally believe that the traitor is in the Service,” said Egorov, while Zyuganov looked evenly at the image of Nash on the screen. Were they playing with him? Korchnoi thought. Zyuganov easily could be this diabolical.

“It is an assumption you’re making about the Service,” prattled Zyuganov. “One thing is sure. The Americans would not run the extraordinary risk of meetings in Moscow to handle a low-level source.”

Say something, be casual. “If you’re both right, brothers,” said Korchnoi, “and he’s a big fish and he’s in the Service, then the short list of candidates would be the Director, you, Vanya, and the twelve department heads, including Lyosha and me.” Korchnoi saw their sour looks. What was he doing? This was exhilarating madness.

“That, of course, is not considering that it could additionally be your special assistant, or a secretary, or a communications-code clerk, or a hundred other employees with indirect access to cable reading boards, their bosses’ in-boxes, and to unguarded conversations in anterooms and the cafeteria. Clerks in Records see more sensitive paper in a day than the three of us combined see in a week.” Korchnoi could tell from Zyuganov’s expression that he had already calculated all that. All the more people to interrogate.

Korchnoi decided to stop there. Too much analysis, too many pat phrases. Egorov ground out his cigarette. “You are exactly correct, Volodya. There are too many possibilities. We’ll catch this svoloch only if we get a creditable internal lead, or if we catch him or his handler on the street. These two options could take months, even years. That’s why our third option is the only one.”

“Ogovoreno, agreed; your niece is our best chance,” said Korchnoi. This scene was unthinkable, improbable, impossible. He suppressed insane, cackling laughter. He was discussing finding the spy, flushing him out, exposing him, catching him.

Zyuganov swiveled in his chair, his feet not touching the carpet. “And if your niece does not succeed in a reasonable amount of time? Perhaps we then consider other means.”

Egorov turned to him quickly. “Absolutely not. I have received instructions from the highest levels. No ‘active measures’ in this operation. Is that clear?” Zyuganov swiveled a little more, a faint smile on his face.

“You’re right,” said Korchnoi. “In the history of our Service, in the history of postwar intelligence operations, no service has ever intentionally harmed an officer of an opposing service. It is not done. It would create havoc.” Zyuganov swiveled.

“Volodya, relax. If we wanted to try the rough stuff, I’d be talking to Line F, not you,” said Egorov, laughing. Korchnoi saw Zyuganov’s right eyelid twitch. “No, what I want is an elegant operation, nuanced, brilliant, that will produce quick results and will leave the Main Enemy wondering what hit them, wondering how they lost their sensitive asset and marveling at the SVR’s skill and cunning.”

MARBLE’S SIRNIKI PANCAKES

Thoroughly blend soft goat cheese, eggs, sugar, salt, and flour into a sticky dough. Refrigerate. Drop small balls of the dough into flour, coat well, and flatten into thin discs. Fry in melted butter over medium heat until golden. Serve with sour cream, caviar, smoked fish, or jam.

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