Red Sparrow

“Yes, I think I would do well,” said Dominika. “You yourself said I performed satisfactorily with Ustinov in gaining his trust.” Raising Ustinov made the point. Vanya lit his third cigarette in as many minutes. Not counting the women in support functions, there had been two, perhaps three, women in the First Chief Directorate in the old KGB, and one of them was an old battleax in the Presidium. None had ever been admitted to the old KGB Higher School or to the Andropov Institute or to the current AVR. The only women involved in field operations were the co-opted wives of rezidenturi officers, and the vorobey, the trained “Sparrows” who seduced recruitment targets.

But in thirty seconds Vanya Egorov made a lightning calculation. As a candidate in AVR, his niece would be under even more stringent control. Her performance, attitude, and physical whereabouts for the foreseeable future would be constantly monitored. She would be physically out of Moscow for long periods of time. If she strayed and was tempted to open her mouth, she would fall under the disciplinary jurisdiction of the Service. Her dismissal, even imprisonment, would be a matter of a stroke of the pen.

More broadly, he could generate some political profit from putting her name forward as a candidate for the Academy. He would be the high-minded deputy director who for the first time selected a woman—athletic, educated, fluent in languages—for formal training in the modern SVR. Bosses in the Kremlin would see the public-relations benefits.

From across the desk, Dominika saw his face, followed his calculations. Now would come the reluctant agreement, the inevitable stern warnings.

“You’re asking a lot,” Vanya said. “There’s an entrance examination, a high refusal rate, then long training, quite rigorous.” He swiveled in his chair to look out the picture window, considering. He had made up his mind. “Are you prepared to commit yourself to this path?” he asked.

Dominika nodded. She wasn’t absolutely sure, of course. But it would be a challenge, and that appealed to her. She was also loyal, she loved her country, she knew she wanted to try to join one of the premier organizations in Russia, perhaps, she thought, even to contribute. The Ustinov killing had repulsed her, but it also had shown her, in the space of an evening, that she could handle secret work, that she had the brains, and the courage, and the fortitude.

There was something else, she knew, something ill-defined, something accumulating in her breast. They had used her. Now she wanted to intrude into their world, these domovladel’tsy, these landlords who abused the system and its people. She wondered what her father would think.

“I will consider it,” said Vanya, swiveling back to look at her. “If I decide to submit your name, and if you are selected, your performance in the AVR will be a reflection on me, on the whole family. You realize that, do you not?” Charming. His concern for her and the family had not kept him from throwing her at Ustinov.

She almost said, I’ll be sure to preserve your reputation, but pushed the anger back down and instead nodded again, more sure now about wanting the Academy. Vanya stood up. “Why don’t you go downstairs and have lunch? I will tell you my decision this afternoon.” He would have to clear it with the Director (gentle persuasion) and the director of training would have to be browbeaten (a pleasure). But Dominika’s place would be reserved, and the thing would be done, and his problem with her would be solved. When she left, Vanya picked up the phone and spoke briefly into it.

Dominika was escorted back down the hallway to the elevator. The former directors all looked as if they had faint smiles on their faces. In the sprawling cafeteria, Dominika ordered the kotleta po-kievski, a hard roll, and a bottle of mineral water. The cafeteria was moderately crowded and Dominika had to search for an empty seat. She found a table where two middle-aged women were sitting at the other end. They looked at the beautiful young girl with the tired eyes and the visitor’s badge, but said nothing. Dominika began eating. The chicken was lightly breaded, golden brown, and delicious. A trickle of butter came from the rolled-up cutlet; there was the rich taste of garlic and tarragon. The cutlet morphed into Ustinov’s throat and the butter sauce turned vermilion. She put down her knife and fork with trembling hands. Dominika closed her eyes and fought the nausea. The two women at her table were looking at her. This was not something you see every day. They didn’t know how right they were.

Dominika looked up and saw swirling black. Sergey Matorin was sitting at the table across from hers, leaning over a bowl, spooning soup into his mouth. He was staring at her as he ate, his dead eye unblinking, just as a wolf watches even while drinking at a brook.