Red Sparrow

Marcus nodded. “As you see more of her it will become interesting. Especially what she does immediately after your meetings. That is when they always run to the phone or rendezvous with an embassy officer. As much as you can, let us know your plans. If you wish, we can make some suggestions for places to meet her,” Marcus said.

“One last thing,” said Jaana, pouring another glass of schnapps. “If you would forgive me, she looks like a nice person, a sweet girl. She needs a friend.” Marcus looked at her and back to Nate with arched eyebrows.

=====

Nate reviewed ARCHIE and VERONICA’s reports with Gable. “Good, keep an eye on her, especially if she’s got anybody from her embassy supporting her,” said Gable. “If we see she’s got backup, then it’s possible she’s operational, maybe even she’s working on you.”

“Not in a million years,” said Nate. “No way.”

“Glad you’re so sure. Anyway, go after her, hard. Take your time, in a hurry.”

Nate set a goal of seeing Dominika at least once a week outside of the swimming. He scoured the city for places to meet without being seen. They met after work at basement bars, for coffee on Saturday mornings, lunches on Sundays at remote cafés. Put her in the chair with her back to the room. There were embassy Russians all over Helsinki, and Nate wanted to avoid a chance sighting. Build a friendship, stay clandestine, always arrive separately, leave apart. Stay off the phones, vary patterns, build a relationship. A waste of time.

Dominika applied her own tradecraft. She checked for coverage as she walked through the city to their meetings. Finns would stare at the beautiful dark-haired girl walking up the escalator, or slipping into a snowy alley, or leaving a store by a back entrance, unaware she was looking for coverage, or that she was watching from across the street as Nate arrived at their coffee shop, counting heads, looking at faces, marking hats and overcoats.

They were getting to know each other. Over the last few meetings they had talked, really talked, a natural evolution after spending time together. Dominika assessed Nate as honest, natural, intelligent. He was not nekulturny. He was, well, just American. His comments about living in Moscow were evasive, of course they would be, he was hiding the fact that he had been handling a Russian mole. Dominika didn’t much care for his comments about Russia, even though she knew she felt mostly the same way. Come on, get going, she told herself. She had to spend more time with him, continue concentrating on his patterns. She had to determine when he was operational.

She felt the pressure. If there was no breakthrough soon, with the Center and Volontov bearing down, would she contemplate a physical approach? Nelzya! she thought. No, never. He was attractive, his openness and humor appealing. But forget it.

How many meetings had there been? Nate felt the anticipation of seeing Dominika again, but he wasn’t convinced that he could persuade her of anything. She was unbending. Facing a hundred surveillance cars in Moscow didn’t faze him, but he fretted over how to determine what motivated her. If she had an operational agenda, Nate couldn’t identify it. It almost seemed as if she were in Helsinki just to get experience, and that didn’t make sense. The SVR connection was important, the aspect that made her a worthwhile recruitment target. He had to get a handle soon or Forsyth would grow impatient and Gable would kick his ass.

One thing. He could look at her face for hours. Jesus, listen to you. Concentrate on the developmental, on the assessment, what makes her tick. They talked more easily now, even though they disagreed. She got hot and fussy whenever he pinged on Russia, he could see that, but he also had a sense that she grudgingly agreed with him at times. She didn’t believe all the propaganda. Maybe an opening. Maybe not.

He looked into the mirror and combed his hair. This Sunday he had suggested lunch at a little ethnic restaurant in Pihlajisto, a crossroads community on the Metro line northeast of the city. Dominika had agreed to meet him there. Weeks before, ARCHIE had suggested it as out-of-the-way: “We will not encounter any Russian friends there,” he said. “One of us on the train watching her, the other covering you.” Nate threw on an oiled field coat over a V-neck sweater and corduroy pants. He wore ripple-soled walking shoes. He left his apartment and walked a stairstep route through the swept streets of Kruununhaka, then along the frozen waterfront, then kicked off his real dry-cleaning route.