Red Sparrow

It was a stormy day with sheeting rain coming in waves from the south, from Estonia. Dominika was out of the embassy when Volontov called Marta into his office. Marta sat without being bidden, squared her shoulders. “You wanted to see me, Colonel?”

Volontov looked at Marta without speaking. His eyes traveled from her legs to her face. Marta looked him in the eye. “What is it you wish, Colonel?” Marta repeated.

“I have been noticing your close friendship with Corporal Egorova,” said Volontov. “You and she seem to be spending a fair amount of time together.”

“Is there anything wrong with that, Colonel?” asked Marta. She lit a cigarette, lifted her head, and blew the smoke toward the ceiling.

Volontov watched her like a farm boy. “What have you been saying to Egorova?”

“I’m not sure I understand the question, Colonel,” said Marta. “We go out for a glass of wine, we talk about family, travel, food.”

“What else do you talk about?” Volontov asked. “Do you speak about men, about boyfriends?” The light from the fluorescent tubes in his office reflected from the sheen of the lapels of his Bulgarian suit.

“Excuse me, Colonel,” said Marta, “what is the reason for these personal questions?”

“Sookin syn!” Volontov slapped his hand on his desk. “I don’t have to give you a reason,” he bellowed. “Whatever you have been saying to Egorova, I want it to stop. Your well-known cynical attitude and jaded views are affecting her. Her productivity has dropped. She is falling behind in her assigned work. Her written reports are unsatisfactory. Leave her alone. Or I will take measures.”

Accustomed to and unaffected by the phlegmy bellows of Soviet officialdom, Marta calmly leaned forward and stubbed her cigarette in the ashtray on his desk. His eyes flicked down to the opening in her blouse. She put her hands on the edge of his desk and leaned farther to give him an even better look. “Colonel,” Marta said, “I must tell you something. You are repulsive. It is you who should leave Egorova alone. Don’t sully her with your disgusting manner. She has done nothing wrong.”

“Who do you think you’re talking to?” yelled Volontov. “You’re nothing but an overripe whore, blyadischa! I can have you sent home tonight, trussed up like the sow you are. You’ll be manning a regional travel office in Magnitogorsk, where you can check travel permits all day and suck toothless Metallurg hockey players all night.”

“Ah, yes, Colonel, all the familiar threats,” said Marta. She knew this species of toad, this kind of coward. “But what about this threat, Colonel? I’ll go over your head. I’ll create so much trouble for you in Moscow that it will be you on your knees in Magnitogorsk. Vanya Egorov will not be pleased to hear that your rezidentura is a svalka, a trash heap, and your accomplishments are nonexistent. He will be quite interested to hear how you leer at his niece and dream of putting your face between her legs. Bastard. Mudak.”

This was colossal insubordination. This was treason. Volontov stood behind his desk and screamed at Marta. “Pack your belongings. I want you out of here by tomorrow night. I don’t care how: train, boat, plane. If you’re not gone by tomorrow night—”

“Zhopa! Asshole!” said Marta, who turned her back on Volontov and walked toward his door. Trembling with rage, Volontov tore open the desk drawer, scrabbled around in it, and brought out a small Makarov automatic, the pistol he’d had with him all his career. He had never fired it in the field, never fired it in anger. Now, with shaking hand, he racked the slide back to chamber a round. At the door, Marta heard the sound and turned. Volontov’s pistol was raised, pointing directly at her. “I’m not Dimitri Ustinov, Colonel Volontov. You and your kind cannot destroy every single thing you don’t control.” Marta’s heart was beating; she didn’t know if Volontov would pull the trigger.

Ustinov? The murdered oligarch? Butchered in his penthouse, buckets of blood, rumored Mafia vendetta? Volontov had no idea what this bitch was talking about, but the 1950s-vintage Soviet vacuum tubes in his head heated up. His water-bug instincts told him there was something lurking under the surface, perhaps something very important. He lowered his pistol. Marta turned the knob on his office door and walked out. Colleagues were gathered in the hallway; they had heard the shouting.