Red Sparrow

“Suspect,” said Chaz Montgomery. His tie was a Gauguin print of a lounging Polynesian girl. Benford experienced physical pain when looking at it.

“What?” said Benford, his voice rising. Nate wondered if the exchange would end with one of the FBI SAs actually shooting Benford to make him stop talking.

“I said ‘suspect,’” said Montgomery. “Whoever is meeting with Golov is a suspect.”

Benford looked around the room. “Chaz, would you send me the current curriculum of your basic-training course at the academy?” he said. “I expect to discover brightly colored pictures of ponies and flowers.”

“Fuck you, Benford,” said Montgomery. “You know the rules, and I’m guessing you are at least remotely familiar with the law. We need evidence, incontrovertible evidence, before we move forward to arrest anyone.”

“And tossing Golov?” asked Benford.

“Ever hear of diplomatic immunity? We don’t even know if there was a meeting or what, if anything, was passed. He could have been there to hand out invitations to the Russia Day reception at the embassy.”

“You’re not serious,” said Benford.

“You know as well as I that we need to build a solid book before we act. These investigations take time. It could break tomorrow, next week, next year.”

“You men are Tartars, Mongols, Visigoths, Carthaginians,” said Benford, shaking his head.

“What’s cancer have to do with it?” asked a young SA whose biceps were visible beneath his starched white shirt.

“Carthage, my learned young friend, not carcinogen,” said Benford. “I’d mention the name Hannibal to jog the memory of your lessons at Abilene Agriculture and Mining, but I fear you would recall only the Hannibal of fiction.”

“Hannibal the Cannibal,” said the SA. “Awesome movie. Bureau kicks ass in it.”

“Proctor, shut up,” said Montgomery, turning to Benford. “I don’t have to explain it to you. If we do our homework, UNSUB’s in a Supermax facility without parole, one hundred percent. We make a mistake, and he retires as a seven-figure consultant. You think you can press your legs together a little longer?”

“On one condition,” said Benford, acting as if he were offended at the brusque way he had been spoken to. “I want a CIA officer to be present when an arrest is made. It’s as much an intelligence matter as a criminal one.”

“I can’t agree,” said Montgomery. “The Director won’t agree. Besides, anyone involved with the investigation or the surveillance or the arrest is liable to appear in court. Unless you got a guy in mind without cover to preserve, are you willing to burn some case officer’s cover for this?”

“Catching this person probably will cost the Agency a valuable asset,” said Benford. “I want one of our own to be there.”

“I still don’t think the Director will approve, but I’ll ask,” said Montgomery. “Who should I tell them you have in mind?”

“Him,” said Benford, pointing at Nate. “He is personally invested in this case.” Sitting along the wall, Nate wasn’t sure whether he should feel honored or not. His cover was pretty well shredded by now. Besides, he wasn’t going to question Benford, especially not in front of a dozen FEEBs.

The Special Agent with the biceps looked over the back of his chair at Nate, trying to get a clue about what “personally invested” might mean.

“Proctor, do not fucking speak unless someone asks you a direct question,” said Montgomery.

CHIMICHURRI SAUCE

With a knife or food processor finely chop a bunch of flat-leaf parsley, an entire head of peeled garlic, and one medium carrot. Add olive oil, white wine vinegar, salt, dried oregano, hot pepper flakes, and black pepper, and chop or pulse into a thick sauce. Best served fresh.

34

Vanya Egorov was in his office staring through the plate glass, anticipating the imminent collision of the operational factors swirling around him. SWAN was still producing magnificently, but her lack of discipline made it likely she would burn up eventually. Egorov dared not contemplate losing SWAN.

The news from Korchnoi, just returned from Italy, was barely adequate. Some contact with Nash, relationship renewed, he had accepted the legend that Dominika was now in the Courier Service. They established a universal contact plan. Too slow, always too damn slow.

The mole was still out there, a threat to SWAN, to other cases, to Egorov himself. He ordered Korchnoi to prepare Dominika for another trip, ostensibly as a courier. He needed results. Then his phone rang. The special phone.

“Unsatisfactory,” said the president. “I trust you are moving ahead to engineer subsequent contact. No delays.” From his KGB days, President Putin knew how important operational momentum could be.

“Yes, Mr. President,” said Egorov, “a second trip by the officer is already scheduled. Results will be forthcoming.” Iisus, Jesus, now he was blowing smoke up Putin’s ass.

“Very good,” said Putin. “Where?”

Egorov swallowed. “We are determining exactly which overseas location will be most advantageous. I will inform you the instant I decide.”