Red Sparrow

“It’s not a joke,” said Nate. “I just wonder what he will remember about Russia, about Moscow. Will he have fond memories of the city, or will he remember only being lonely, unloved?” What a strange thing to say, thought Dominika.

“What do you know about Moscow?” she asked, already knowing part of the answer.

“I lived there for a year, I think I told you before, working in the American Embassy. I lived in the housing compound next to the chancery.”

No interest, no inflection. “Did you like it?” she asked.

“I was always busy, not enough time really to explore the city.” He took a sip of his wine and smiled at her. “I wish I had known you, though; you could have shown me around. Unless it was forbidden.”

Innocent little boy, she thought. What an act. Dominika ignored the comment. “Why did you leave after a year? I thought diplomats stayed longer than that.” His answer would be the lead sentence of her report.

“There was a sudden vacancy in Helsinki,” said Nate. “So I made the change.” Very smooth, thought Dominika. She noted that the purple around his shoulders did not change when he did not tell the truth. Very professional.

“Were you sad to leave?” asked Dominika.

“In some ways, yes,” said Nate. “But I felt sad for Russia as well.”

“Sad for Russia? Why?”

“We finished the Cold War without blowing each other up, came close a couple of times. Whatever you thought about the Soviet system, it was over. I think everybody hoped Russia would see a new day, freedoms, a better life for its citizens.”

“And you think life is not better in Russia now?” said Dominika, trying to tamp down the indignation in her voice.

“In some ways, yes, of course,” said Nate, shrugging. “But I think people still struggle. The cruelest outcome is seeing a new age dawning, but nothing coming of it.”

“I do not understand,” said Dominika.

Let’s see if she takes the bait, he thought. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I think that your current leaders are creating a system as notorious as the Soviet system of the past. But it’s not as evident. It’s more modern, telegenic, plugged-in. The new weapons are oil and natural gas, but behind the scenes there’s just as much cruelty and repression and corruption as before.” Nate looked at Dominika sheepishly and raised his hands. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to criticize.”

Despite all the training and practice, Dominika had never before engaged with an American in such a discussion. She had to keep in mind that he was an intelligence officer, was adept at saying provocative things to elicit comments from her. She told herself to relax. This was no time for her to lose control. Still, she had to respond. “What you say is not correct,” said Dominika. “This is the sort of anti-Russia attitude that we are constantly aware of. It is simply not true.”

Thinking about the renegade KGB officer poisoned by polonium and the journalist shot in her elevator, Nate finished his wine. “Tell that to Alexander Litvinenko or Anna Politkovskaya,” said Nate.

Or Dimitri Ustinov, thought Dominika guiltily. But she was still furious with him.

SPANISH EMBASSY TORTILLA ESPAÑOLA

Cook seasoned, medium-sliced potatoes and chopped onions in abundant olive oil until soft, then remove and drain. Add beaten eggs to potatoes and onions and return to oiled pan on medium heat until edges and bottom start to brown. Place plate over skillet, invert, then slide tortilla back into pan and cook until golden brown.

11

Nate sat in the Station staring through the slats of the venetian blinds on the window in his office. He absentmindedly batted the cord of the blinds, making the plastic handle hit the wall and bounce back, click, click, click. Last night had been another National Day reception at some embassy. The half dozen calling cards on his desk amounted to squat, and there was a knot between his shoulder blades.

The thought of swimming reminded him of Dominika. He had looked hard at her, they had been out several times, but he still thought the case was going nowhere. She was a believer, way committed, no doubts, no vulnerabilities. He was wasting time. The plastic at the end of the cord clicked against the wall. The cards on the desk mocked him. A single paper—his latest cable on contact with Dominika—lay in a metal tray on his desk.

Gable stuck his head into his office. “Jesus, the fucking Prisoner of Zenda in the tower,” he said. “Why aren’t you out on the street? Take someone to lunch.”