Red Sparrow

“Why are we doing this?” asked Gable. “The Greeks could escort her to the airport and put her on a plane. She would be home in three hours.” Benford studied one of the photographs, then finally answered.

“To use one of Forsyth’s unfortunate gambling metaphors, we have broken even, more or less. On one hand, thanks to MARBLE, we have neutralized a mole in Washington. On the other hand, we have sustained the grievous loss of MARBLE. In exchange, DIVA has, we hope, immensely advanced her standing. I might add,” he said, sipping his coffee, “that we were extremely lucky in that DIVA and Nash escaped mortal injury at the hands of that Spetsnaz assassin.

“For me, the one unsatisfactory aspect in all this is the ultimate price paid by a courageous old man. I tried to reason with him to continue as before, to avoid precipitate action, but he was adamant. He sensed his time was short.” Benford looked at the faces around the table, then began shuffling through the photos again.

“I refuse to let it go at that,” Benford said, lightly slapping the satchel on the table. “I want to address the one outstanding issue.”

“The one issue?” asked Forsyth.

“MARBLE. I intend to get him back. He’s earned his retirement,” said Benford. It was quiet in the bubble. The rush of forced air coming through the Lucite vent was the only sound in the room.

Gable shook his head. “There’s the small matter of his current status. Arrested Western spy,” he said. “There’s no work-release program in Lefortovo.” Forsyth stayed quiet; he saw what was coming.

“I believe the Center will be glad to exchange MARBLE,” said Benford.

“Exchange?” said Gable. “Who do you propose—”

“DIVA. They want her back badly enough to let MARBLE walk. It never would have happened with Stalin, or Andropov, but this is the new Russia. Putin is concerned about his image at home and abroad. DIVA knows a secret—several secrets—that would cause him a lot of trouble domestically.”

“The Russians will never agree,” said Gable. “They will never let MARBLE loose. They’ll be thinking about future traitors, loss of face, looking weak.”

“Actually, they already have agreed. Putin will have ordered the Center to make the deal.”

“Let me get this straight,” said Gable. “You made a deal with the Russians for a spy swap without knowing for certain whether DIVA will agree to return?”

“That is precisely why I am counting on you,” said Benford. “Besides, it is inconceivable that DIVA will continue to demur when she is told that a decision on her part not to return will effectively annul the release of MARBLE by the Russians.”

“Bitchin’ trump card,” said Gable. Benford looked up in annoyance. “That’s no way to motivate this woman to return to Moscow as our clandestine asset. I mean, if she resents us, resents our manipulation, she might simply pull the plug out of spite. It’ll be the last we hear from her.”

“I expect you to vitiate the negative aspects of our manipulation of her. Motivate her anew. Sit with her and prepare her for internal handling. Emphasize that she alone holds the key to MARBLE’s freedom,” said Benford.

“Vitiate the negatives, got it. All right. I’ll go out to Glyfada in an hour,” said Gable.

“We have a deadline,” said Benford. “I told the Russians we’re in a hurry. We have days, hours left.”

“Narva,” said Gable. “Estonia. Jesus wept.”

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The two Georgians stood at attention in Zyuganov’s office, looking at a spot on the wall above the dwarf’s head. They were midgrade chistilshchiki, mechanics from SVR Department V, the Wet Works, the inheritors of General Pavel Sudaplatov’s Administration for Special Tasks, which had eliminated the Soviets’ enemies at home and abroad for four decades. Zyuganov read from a just-received report from a Greek police informant. The thugs left.

Zyuganov then called for Lyudmila Tsukanova. She entered the office slowly, chubby, hesitant, looking at her polished brown shoes over an ample if doughy bosom cinched tight by a uniform jacket a size too small. Her brown hair was cut unevenly and quite short. Her round Slav face was at first glance rosy with good health, but closer inspection revealed that the thirty-year-old woman suffered from rosacea. The red blotch on her chin looked painful.

Ill at ease, Lyudmila sat and listened to Zyuganov speak steadily for more than half an hour. Uncomfortable as she appeared, Lyudmila’s black eyes, shark’s eyes, doll’s eyes, never left his face. When he was finished, she nodded and walked out of the office.

=====

Beneath the surface, Gable later remarked, Benford had a large case of flop sweat as he laid out the Chinese-puzzle operational schedule in a narrative flood that suggested the drive belt of his tongue had slipped the flywheel of his mind.

“Forsyth, you must remain at Station to deflect the inevitable obstreperous cable traffic from the First Lord of the Admiralty, Chief Europe, and the other savants in Headquarters.