Red Sparrow

Jaana Räikkönen poured two glasses of schnapps, raised her glass in a Scandinavian toast, looking him in the eyes while taking the first sip. The living room was small and comfortable, with overstuffed furniture and bookshelves lining the polished wood walls. The house was filled with the smell of vegetable soup.

“Is your husband home?” asked Nate. “I hoped to meet him too.”

“He won’t be long,” said Jaana. “He was out on the street covering your arrival.” She shrugged. “I’m afraid it’s a habit with us.” Nate chuckled to himself. He had run a two-hour dry-cleaning route looking for a tail and had missed the old guy hanging around outside his building. That’s how they’ve operated for so long, he thought.

Just then a key rattled in the lock, the front door opened, and Marcus Räikkönen walked into the room. ARCHIE. He led a tan dachshund on a leash, which, after sniffing briefly at Nate, trotted over to his bed and flopped down. His name was Rudy. Marcus was tall, over six feet, and broad across the shoulders. He had clear blue eyes under bushy eyebrows. Muscular cords stood out on the side of his neck, under a sharp jawline. He moved easily, athletically. He was balding and wore his remaining hair in a buzz cut. His handshake was firm. He wore a dark-blue tracksuit with black training shoes. There was a small Finnish flag on the left breast of the suit.

“Across the street in the courtyard?” asked Nate. “The bench near the steps?”

“Good,” said Marcus. “I didn’t think you noticed.” He smiled and picked up the third glass of schnapps. “To your good health,” he said, draining the glass while looking Nate in the eyes.

Nate remembered the summary file on them. ARCHIE and VERONICA had been the core of Helsinki Station’s unilateral surveillance team for close to forty years. Both were retired pensioners now. ARCHIE had been an investigator in the Finnish Tax Administration, VERONICA a librarian. They were effective simply because they mixed different looks on the street with an instinct about what the rabbit was going to do next. Of course, they knew the city and its Metro system intimately, they had grown up as the city had grown. Dogged, discreet, with the patience and perspective of a lifetime, they could work on a target for months without being burned. Their style of coverage was what Gable had called “more of a wife’s caress than a doctor’s finger.”

Nate and the Räikkönens drafted a surveillance sked on Dominika, who they would cover irregularly but at carefully selected times—evenings after work, weekends—when something interesting was likely to occur. From afar Nate watched them work. Knit caps, mittens, and parkas one day, business suits and umbrellas the next. Bicycles with ting-a-ling bells and Rudy on a leash. An indistinct gray Volvo compact, a motor scooter with a basket. Sometimes they walked together, holding hands, sometimes apart. One day Jaana followed Dominika into a store using a walker. ARCHIE and VERONICA did it all—trailing surveillance, static, leading, crossing, parallel, leapfrog.

Nate met them again at their apartment after the first two weeks. They had taken a few photographs. Marcus summarized the results so far. His report was crisp, precise. Jaana would occasionally interrupt with observations. “First,” said Marcus, “we are quite sure that up until now she has not detected or suspected surveillance.” He shrugged his shoulders. “She is young, but we see considerable skill on the street. She does not resort to the usual tricks and she moves well, takes advantage of her surroundings. I would say she is significantly above average on the street.

“She knows her way around already. We observed her using specific tradecraft only once,” said Marcus, looking at Jaana. “She waits in the mezzanine of the Torni Hotel across the street from Yrjönkatu Swimming Hall to watch you arrive. She waits for a few moments after, then enters.”

“Marcus disagrees with me,” said Jaana, “but I think she is not operational. She is not handling agents and is not involved in operational support to the rezidentura. She does not have a job to do.” Jaana looked over to Marcus, waiting for the rejoinder.

“Of course she has a job to do,” said Marcus. “It’s just that we have not seen it yet. Give it time.”

“One thing is for sure,” said Jaana, ignoring Marcus. “She is lonely. She goes straight from the embassy to her little apartment. She buys groceries for one. She walks alone on the weekends.”

“Have you seen any hint of coverage on her?” asked Nate. “Is anyone from the rezidentura keeping tabs on her?”

“We think not,” said Marcus. “She is clear. We will keep looking for any indication that they are watching her.”

“I’m going to have more encounters with her,” said Nate. “I’ll need you to help cover some of our meetings outside the swimming hall.”