Red Sparrow

Vanya frowned. “Stop talking. Not another word. You don’t have the sense to see what I’m offering you. You’re thinking about yourself, about your childish preoccupations. As an SVR officer you have no preferences, no choices. You accomplish what you are told to do with excellence. If you choose not to accept, to allow your frantic prejudices to derail your career before it begins, tell me now. We will release you from the Service, close your file, cancel your pension, and withdraw your privileges—all of them.”

How many times will my mother’s neck be put into the noose? thought Dominika. What else would they make her do to let her serve with honor? Vanya saw her shoulders slump. “Very well,” she said, rising. “With your permission, may I go?”

Dominika got up and walked in front of the picture window toward the door, the sun highlighting her hair, framing her classic profile. Vanya watched her walk across the carpet—did she limp a little?—and stop briefly at the door to turn and look back at him. A shiver ran over his scalp as he saw the blue eyes, intense and unblinking, ripsaws and scalpels, fix on his face for three alarming seconds. Glowing like wolves’ eyes just beyond the lights of the bliznye, the dacha. He had never seen a look like that in his life. Before he could say anything else, she was gone, like a klikusha in the Krasny Bor Forest.

SVR GOLUBTSI

Blanche cabbage leaves, cook rice. Sauté chopped onions, carrots, and peeled and seeded tomatoes until soft, incorporate with the rice and ground beef. Fold cabbage leaves around two spoons of mixture to form large square envelopes. Fry in butter until brown, then simmer for one hour in stock, tomato sauce, and bay leaves. Serve with reduced sauce and sour cream.

7

Nate Nash arrived at Helsinki-Vantaa Airport after a two-hour flight. The modern airport was sparkling and well-lit. Like at Sheremetyevo, there were flashy advertisements for cologne, watches, and vacation trips. Airport shops stocked with lingerie, gourmet food items, and magazines stretched down the airy terminal. But the lingering smell of cooked cabbage, rosewater cologne, and wet wool was missing. Instead, cinnamon buns were baking somewhere. As Nate collected his single suitcase, cleared customs, and headed to the taxi stand outside, he did not see a short man in a plain dark suit watching him from across the arrival hall. This man spoke briefly into a cell phone and turned away. In thirty minutes, nine hundred kilometers to the east, Vanya Egorov knew that Nash had arrived in Finland. The Game would begin.

The next morning, Nate walked into the office of Tom Forsyth, Chief of Station in Helsinki. Forsyth’s office was small but comfortable, with a single nautical painting hanging above his desk and a small couch against the opposite wall. A framed photo of a sailboat on a glassy ocean stood on a table beside the couch, with another framed photo of what appeared to be a youthful Forsyth at the wheel beside it. Shades in the office were drawn over a single window.

Forsyth was tall and lean, in his late forties, with receding gray hair and a strong chin. Intense brown eyes looked up at Nate over the top of half-moon glasses. Forsyth smiled, threw a sheaf of papers into an in-box, and got up to shake hands from across the desk. His handshake was firm and dry. “Nate Nash,” he said with a smooth voice. “Welcome to Station.” He gestured for Nate to sit in a leather chair in front of his desk.

“Thanks, Chief,” said Nate.

“You in an apartment? Where did the Embassy put you?” asked Forsyth. The Embassy housing office had that morning deposited him in a comfortable two-bedroom flat in Kruununhaka. Nate had been delighted when opening the double doors to a small balcony with a view of the marina, the ferry terminal, and the sea beyond, and he told Forsyth so.

“It’s a nice area, an easy walk to work,” said Forsyth. “I’d like you to huddle with me and Marty Gable to get an idea of what we’ve got going.” Gable was the Deputy Chief of Station, whom Nate had not met yet. “We’ve got a couple of good cases, but there’s more we can do.

“Forget about the internal target, the Finns are allies and we’ve got them covered. Marty and I work liaison, so you don’t have to worry about the internal service. We’ll pass along any unilateral possibilities that we develop.