Red Sparrow

“Right now you have to figure out whether DIVA has the inclination to doubt her system. Is she willing to listen to you and let you lead her to make the big decision?” Forsyth sat back. “Not a bad job, sitting with a beautiful Russian, trying to convince her to spy for you. Okay, get out of here and have fun. Door’s open anytime you have a question.”

Gable took him to a little bistro owned by Greeks and made him try the scrambled eggs, fluffy and laced with onions and tomatoes. Over eggs and multiple beers that night, Gable tried to lighten Nate’s mood about the DIVA case. “Don’t try to get her in bed before you recruit her. She will correctly conclude that you fucked her to get her to sign up. Recruit her first, then you’ll be able to enjoy two of life’s singular pleasures: Running an SVR officer, and eating breakfast in bed with cunty fingers.” Gable threw back his drink and ordered two more for them.

“Golly, Marty, I feel I’m really growing under your coaching,” said Nate, rolling his eyes. “All I know is I have to get her to relax, to like me. What happens if this starts getting emotional?”

Gable looked over at him with a face. “Please. There’s no such thing as a case officer falling in love with an agent. It’s not allowed. It cannot be done. Get it out of your head. Go ahead and bang her if you must, but love?”

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The large main room of the SVR rezidentura in the Russian Embassy in Helsinki was dotted with plain wooden desks, set up in vaguely staggered rows. None of the desks had a terminal, but most had electric typewriters with odd lacquered turquoise covers sitting on small metal typing tables. These were specially produced JAJUBAVA typewriters manufactured in Moscow under license for the SVR and FSB, and securely pouched to overseas rezidenturi, to ensure the machines were not tampered with.

The low-ceilinged room was harshly lit by overhead fluorescent tubes also imported from Moscow for the same reason. They hummed and blinked and reflected milk-white off the scratched glass desktops. Along the exterior walls, the small dormer windows—the rezidentura was on the attic level of the Russian Embassy—were secured first by exterior bars, then by bolted steel shutters, then double-paned glass, and finally by heavy gray curtains, the hems of which trailed ragged on the floor. Worn deer trails in the bare carpet ran between the desks. The shabby room smelled of stale cigarettes and cold black tea in paper cups.

At one end of the room there were two offices. One was glassed in—the classified file room—with the clerk sitting at a desk in a circle of light from a gooseneck lamp. The room was lined with tall safes, some of whose drawers were open, others closed and secured by irregular yellow wax seals, as if someone had been throwing fried eggs at them. The other office was totally private, the windowless office of Rezident Volontov.

The half dozen officers in the SVR rezidentura kept their heads down over their work as Volontov’s voice came through the closed door of his office. It was obvious that he was dressing down the newly arrived junior officer from Moscow, Egorova.

“Moscow has been hectoring me for progress reports,” yelled Volontov, leaning over his desk. “They want to see more results against the American.” The orange cloud around his head was like smoke, swirling and unsettled. He’s feeling the pressure, thought Dominika.

“I am making progress, Colonel,” said Dominika. “We have had a dozen encounters, all of them discreet. He has made no indication that he has reported the contact to his superiors, a significant development.”

“Don’t tell me what’s significant and what isn’t. I directed you, the Center directed you, to document each of the meetings with Nash. Why aren’t you drafting telegrams for my review and dispatch to Yasenevo?”

“I have drafted telegrams. You yourself told me to combine several messages in summary format. I cannot write about contacts until they actually materialize.”

Volontov slammed his desk drawer shut with a bang, and the orange smoke swirled. “You’ll do well to be respectful and leave the sarcasm for another time. Now I want you to accelerate this slow waltz with the American. You’ll remember that the ultimate goal is to elicit information that may lead to the identification of a traitor. It is urgent, paramount, that you do.”

“Yes,” said Dominika, “I understand the ultimate goal. I drafted the operational proposal in the first place. Everything is progressing.”

“That includes observing whether he seems to be preparing for an imminent operation, whether he is going on a trip, whether he is nervous, or distracted, or apprehensive.”

“Yes, Colonel, I know all these things. I am confident I will be able to discern changes in his schedule.” Dominika wasn’t sure she could; their relationship was stuck, it seemed.