Red Sparrow

Vanya Egorov was in his office working late. The sky had gone from pink to purple to black, but all Egorov noticed was the flat-screen monitor showing endless stories from Greek television, Eurovision, the BBC, Sky, the American CNN, about the incident in Athens.

The Athens rezidentura had confirmed that the dead man was Sergey Matorin. Vanya felt his bowels flip when the rezident informed him that the Greeks—inexplicably—had already cremated the body, making a forensic autopsy impossible. Inexplicably, my ass, thought Vanya. The CIA owned the Greeks, had for years.

Not important, not now. Vanya knew someone else had authorized the wet work in Athens, had dispatched the pie-eyed psychopath to Greece. Not the Director, not his counterparts at the FSB. Not even the dwarfish Zyuganov. Only one possible name. As if sentient, the VCh phone trilled, making Egorov jump in his seat. The familiar voice came through brutally, rasping and ragged, but evilly calm.

“The operation in Athens was a disgrace,” said Putin. Is he in his stocking feet? thought Egorov. Shirtless?

“Yes, Mr. President,” said Egorov dully. There was no point in stating that he had not authorized it. Putin knew.

“I expressly specified that there be no Special Tasks.”

“Yes, Mr. President, I shall investigate—”

“Leave it,” said the voice. “I looked for more successes from you. The loss of the senator is colossal. The mole in your Service remains active. What are you doing to track this traitor down?” If you had resisted your monstrous urges, thought Egorov, we might have him in the bottle.

“As you know, Mr. President, I assigned a skillful officer to exploit the American handler. I was hoping for important information—”

“Yes, your niece. Where is she now?” Here it comes, the worst.

“She is unaccounted-for, in Greece.” Silence at the other end.

“What is the probability that she is dead?” asked Putin. Don’t sound so hopeful, thought Vanya.

“We are waiting for word,” said Egorov. Another long silence. Dominika was a bigger threat to the president, more than the espionage flap in Washington, bigger than a mole in the Service.

“She needs to come home,” said Putin. “See that she is safe.” Which meant, Ensure that she will never—ever—talk about the Ustinov intriga, the action, whatever it takes—whatever. The line went dead.

Dominika was missing; if not dead, then presumably in hiding. How she could hide, alone, in the Greek capital, was a mystery. His little Sparrow must be resourceful, he thought. There was news footage of a cordon of gray-and-white Greek police vans around the Russian Embassy in Psychiko. The Greeks had considered the possibility that a Russian fugitive would seek refuge in the chancery.

News accounts included reports of another man, they didn’t have Nash’s name. Had Dominika gotten anything out of him? Had the CIA killed Dominika? Captured her? If she was alive, he had to get her back. Spasenie, salvation, would be possible.

The telephone on his desk purred—it was the outside line, and therefore nothing important. “What is it?” he snapped. His aide Dimitri was on the line.

“An outside call patched in from the duty officer, sir,” he said.

“What is this nonsense?” Egorov raved.

“A call from overseas, sir,” said Dimitri. “They traced it to Greece.”

Egorov felt the skin on his head contract. “Put it through,” he said.

Dominika’s voice came in over the line. “Uncle? Uncle? Can you hear me?”

“Yes, hello, my child. Where are you?”

“I cannot talk long. It is very difficult here.” She sounded tired, but not panicked.

“Can you tell me where you are? I will send someone to you.”

“I’d welcome the help. I’m a little tired.”

“I will send someone for you. Where can we meet you?”

“Uncle, I have to tell you that my friend, the young one, began talking. I made good progress. Like you hoped I would. But your man, that d’javol, almost killed us both.”

“What happened?” asked Egorov.

“They fought. My young friend fled, I do not know where he is.”

“The young American bested a Spetsnaz-trained fighter?” Egorov wanted to know.

“No, Uncle. I killed him. He would have killed me.” There was silence on the other end of the line.

Hristos, Christ, Egorov thought, what a demon. How could she possibly have liquidated Matorin? His hand on the receiver was wet. “I see. What did your young friend tell you?”

“Yes. Something strange. He bragged that the Americans had just caught one of your spies, a woman; he said she was important. I told him I did not believe him.” You can believe it, all right, thought Egorov.

“He told me you had tried to mislead the Americans, telling them the spy was sick, unable to work.”