Red Sparrow

Inside his office, Volontov smoked a cigarette and tried to calm down. He reached for the secure, crème-colored telephone labeled VCh for vysokochastoty, high-frequency. “Get me Moscow,” he said to the operator. After a thirty-second wait he was speaking to First Deputy Director Egorov. Two minutes later he had been given instructions. These included: Ignore what Yelenova had said to him, repeat it to absolutely no one, and do nothing more. Volontov was about to protest that this sort of insubordination would undermine his authority. Over the scratchy line, Egorov told him to pay attention.

“Yest’ chelovek, yest’ problema. Nyet cheloveka, nyet problemy,” said Egorov. A chill ran through Volontov. He knew that one by heart. One of Comrade Stalin’s aphorisms: If there is a person, there is a problem. If there is no person, then there is no problem.

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Nate and Dominika sat on the couch in his apartment. Lights from the harbor filtered through the window and the bass note of a ship’s horn came from the darkness beyond the islands in the bay. A sweep team had checked Nate’s apartment so he could invite Dominika for dinner. Neither knew, at this stage, who had the operational advantage. Neither knew where his or her respective developmental efforts would lead. Neither fully understood the stakes of the Game. All either of them knew was that they looked forward to seeing each other. Nate’s little living room was dimly lit with two lamps. Music played softly, Beny Moré ballads.

Nate had cooked for Dominika, vitello picatta, veal scaloppine with lemon caper sauce. Dominika had stood leaning against the kitchen table watching while Nate lightly sautéed the wafer-thin medallions of meat in oil and butter. She moved closer to the stove as he poured wine and lemon juice into the pan to deglaze the fond, added thin lemon slices and capers, then pieces of cold butter. He put the pieces of veal back into the pan to warm them. They ate dinner on the couch, the plates on their laps. Dominika finished her wine and poured herself another glass.

They had picked up their relationship after the break of several weeks ago, had spent time together since then. On a chilly Sunday, walking around the old fortress, they had started the familiar argument.

“You lived in Moscow for a year, for goodness’ sake,” Dominika said. “But you don’t know Russians. Your view is black-and-white. You haven’t learned anything.”

Nate smiled and offered his hand to help her over a grassy parapet, part of the castle walls. Dominika did not take it and trudged up the mound on her own. “Look, nationalism is fine. You’ve got a lot to be proud of,” said Nate. “But the world is not populated with your enemies. Russia should concentrate on helping her own people.”

“We do very well, thank you,” said Dominika.

They continued squabbling in the apartment after dinner. “I’m just saying that Russia hasn’t fundamentally changed from the old days, that she is missing the great opportunities before her. That the familiar bad habits are all back.”

“What bad habits?” asked Dominika. She was drying a plate at the sink.

“Corruption, repression, imprisonment. Soviet behavior is the default, it’s strangling democracy in Russia.”

“You almost seem pleased to repeat the list,” said Dominika. “I suppose there is none of that in America?”

“Sure we have our problems, but we don’t let dissidents die in jail, or murder political opponents.” Nate saw Dominika’s face change. “There are people who value humanity, who believe that all humans have rights, it doesn’t matter what country they’re from. And then there are people who don’t seem to care about their fellow man, who have no conscience, like some of the people in the former Soviet Union, in the old KGB. Some of them never went away.”

Dominika could not believe they were having this conversation. For the first part, it was insulting to sit here being lectured by this young American. For the second part, Dominika knew that much of what he said was correct, but to admit it would be unthinkable. “Now you’re an expert,” she said, putting the plate down and picking up another, “on the KGB.”

“Well, I knew one or two of them,” said Nate.

Dominika continued drying the plate without pausing. “You knew KGB men? Impossible. Who were they?” she asked. And what will you do if he tells you? she thought.

“Nobody you would know. But in comparison I greatly prefer knowing SVR officers. They’re much nicer.” That grin again, deep purple.

Dominika did not react, but looked at her watch and said it was getting late. Huffy. Nate helped her into her coat, pulling her hair free of the collar. Dominika felt his finger brush her neck as he did so. “Thank you for dinner, Nate,” she said. She had her temper in a box, just barely.

“May I walk you home?” he asked.