Red Sparrow

“Athens,” said Putin.

“Mr. President?” said Egorov.

“Send the officer—your niece—to Athens. Low security threat, we have people inside the police.” Why was he insisting on Greece?

“Yes, Mr. President,” said Egorov, but Putin had already hung up.

=====

One floor down, Zyuganov looked into a milky eye and at the death’s head skull. “Make arrangements for Athens,” said the dwarf, and watched the man get up and leave his office. Zyuganov considered briefly that Dominika could be in danger if she were caught between this Spetsnaz maniac and his target, but that couldn’t be helped.

=====

Benford had CID researching compartmented defense projects and crunching names. He was waiting for an echo from Vanya’s canary trap. The Orions were trying to fox Golov again on the streets of Washington. But he needed something right away.

They had discussed it in Rome and MARBLE knew what he had to do, despite the risk, and Benford had reluctantly agreed. Korchnoi walked down to the first-floor laboratory of Directorate T. Nasarenko was seated behind his desk, a moonscape riot of papers, boxes, and folders. A long table against the wall was chaos, and similarly covered to overflowing. Nasarenko looked up at Korchnoi, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

“Yury, please excuse the interruption,” said Korchnoi, walking up to the desk and shaking Nasarenko’s hand. “May I speak with you?” Nasarenko looked like a sailor suddenly caught on a disintegrating ice floe, contemplating the widening gap between his ship and the ice.

“What is it?” Nasarenko asked. His face was gray and his hair—never overly combed anyway—was strawlike and dull. His glasses were smudged and cloudy.

“I need your advice on a communications matter,” said MARBLE, and for the next fifteen minutes discussed a backup communication system for a Canadian recruitment target. Nasarenko, agitated and with twitching thumbs, distractedly discussed the matter.

Korchnoi leaned over Nasarenko’s desk, crowding him, creating blind spots. “What’s bugging you, old friend?” he asked.

“Nothing,” said Nasarenko. “It’s just that work has been piling up.”

“If there’s anything I can do to help…”

“It’s nothing,” said Nasarenko. “Just a lot of work. I’m drinking from a fire hose of data. I need translators, analysts.” His thumbs bent spasmodically as he spoke. “Do you know how much information is on a single disc?” He swiveled his chair around to face a four-drawer safe, took out a lidded steel box, and shook it out over his desk. A dozen plastic bags, stapled at the top, spilled onto his blotter. Inside each bag was a disc inside a gray sleeve. He picked up several discs in shaky hands. “These can hold gigabytes of data. I have all these waiting for processing.” He threw a plastic bag across his desk, where it skittered under a pile of dun-colored folders.

Korchnoi reached over to pick up the little bag. He peered at the piece of plastic as if he could not imagine so much information could fit into such a small object. He read the Pathfinder logo on the side of the discs. “Why can’t they give you more staff?”

Nasarenko put his head in his hands. Korchnoi felt sorry for this pugalo, this scarecrow, with his straw hair and flapping arms. “Yury, don’t panic,” he said. “You’ve done too much excellent work for too many years to be treated this way.” As Korchnoi reached across the desk to pat Nasarenko on the shoulder, he slipped the plastic bag with the disc into the out-of-sight pocket of his suit coat. Were the discs sequential? Were they logged in? Would Nasarenko notice one of two dozen was missing? “I could send one or two analysts from my department to assist you temporarily, if that would help. God knows we’re all shorthanded, but your work is critical. Could you use them?”

Nasarenko looked up gloomily. “Your analysts could not work on the sensitive project, it is restricted.”

“Maybe they can work on other projects, to give you some time. Yury, don’t say no. It’s settled,” said Korchnoi. “I’ll send over two of my analysts this afternoon, but Yury”—Korchnoi wagged a finger at him—“don’t even dream that you’ll steal them.” Nasarenko smiled thinly.

=====

Washington rezident Golov’s cable reporting the barium variant with “shingles” was lying on Vanya Egorov’s desk. A single page with a diagonal blue line across the text, it was wrinkled from repeated clench-fisted readings. The Line KR chief, Zyuganov, sat in a chair in front of Egorov, delighted beyond measure. Egorov shook his head. “I cannot believe that Nasarenko is the mole,” he said. “He can barely carry a conversation in the cafeteria. Can you see him at night, meeting with the Americans?”

Zyuganov licked his lips. “Shingles. Golov would not make a mistake with this. You read his report, a direct quote from SWAN. ‘The mole is afflicted with shingles.’ The variant used with Nasarenko.”