Red Sparrow

Volontov noted the dancer’s legs, the body beneath the tailored shirt. Volontov was fifty-five years old, warty and stout, with a silver-gray 1950s Soviet pompadour. He had one steel tooth in the back of his mouth, visible only when he smiled, which was never. His suit was dark, baggy, and shiny in places. If modern spies today are made of space-age composites, Volontov was still steel plates and rivets.

Dominika observed with interest the orange haze of deceit and careerism around his bullet head. Orange, different from the yellow-tinted walruses back home. But he had been around for many years, during the really difficult times in the KGB, and was a protean survivor. Those specific instincts told him to handle the niece of SVR First Deputy Director Egorov carefully, even though it rankled. Plus this young bombshell was here on a special assignment. A sensitive one. After a week of preparation, Dominika tonight was to attend her first diplomatic reception—National Day at the elegant Spanish Embassy—to see if she could spot the American Nash. Volontov would also be there, watching from across the room. It would be interesting to see how she would work the reception. Volontov’s diesel-fueled thoughts turned to the excellent hors d’oeuvres the Spaniards always served.

Dominika had been put in a temporary apartment in the old quarter of Helsinki hurriedly rented by the rezidentura per directions from Moscow, separated by design from the Russian Embassy community typically jammed into tiny apartments on the compound. Helsinki was a wonder. She had looked in amazement at the tidy streets, buildings with scalloped cornices, painted yellow and red and orange, and lacy curtains in the windows, even the shops.

In the comfortable little flat, Dominika got ready for Spanish National Day. She put on her makeup, slipped into her clothes. She brushed her hair; the brush handle felt hot in her hand. For that matter, she felt hot, ready for battle. Her little flat was awash in undulating bars of color: red, crimson, lavender; passion, excitement, challenge. She reviewed what she had been instructed by Volontov to accomplish with the American. This first night, establish contact; in the coming weeks, arrange a follow-up, then regularize encounters, develop bonds of friendship, build trust, uncover his patterns and movements. Get him talking.

She had been briefed in the Center. Before she left Moscow, Zyuganov had spoken to her briefly. “Corporal, have you any questions?” he asked. Without waiting for her reply, he continued. “You realize that this is not a recruitment operation, at least not in the classic sense. The primary goal is not foreign intelligence.” He licked his lips. Dominika kept quiet and kept still. “No,” said Zyuganov, “this is more a trap, a snare. All we require is an indication—active or passive, it doesn’t matter—when and how this American meets his agent. I will do the rest.” He looked at Dominika with his head tilted slightly. “Do you understand?” His voice grew silkier. “Obdirat, I want you to flense the flesh from his bones. I leave it to you how to do it.” He locked on her eyes. Dominika was sure he knew she could see colors. His own eyes said, Read me, if you can. Dominika had thanked him for the instruction and had hurried away.

This Nash was a trained CIA officer. Even a single contact with him was going to require great care. But the difference was that this operation against the American was hers to manage now. It was hers. She put down the brush and gripped the edge of the vanity as she looked into the mirror.

She stared back at herself. What would he be like? Could she sustain contact with him? What if he did not like her? Could she insert herself into his activities? She would have to determine the right approach to him quickly. Remember your techniques: elicit, assess, manipulate his vulnerabilities.

She leaned closer to the mirror. Rezident Volontov would be watching, and the buivoli in the Center would also be observing the outcome, the buffalo eyes of the herd all turned her way. All right, she would show them what she could do.

Americans were materialistic, vain, nekulturny. The lectures at the Academy insisted that the CIA accomplished everything with money and technology, that they had no soul. She would show him soul. Amerikanskiy were also soft, avoiding conflict, avoiding risk. She would reassure him. The KGB had dominated the Americans in the sixties during Khrushchev’s Cold War. It was her turn now. Her hands ached from gripping the vanity. Dominika shrugged on her winter coat and turned for the door. This CIA boy had no idea what was going to happen to him.

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