Red Sparrow

“When you cross, walk at a steady pace. Not too fast, but not hesitant either. It’s important that you don’t look at Korchnoi when you pass him on the bridge. He’s a traitor, and you were the one who put him in prison,” said Gable.

“They might call for you both to stop at the midway point on the roadway. It’s marked with a line of asphalt, a little bump in the road. It’s normal; the guards aren’t happy unless they’re shouting into bullhorns. They probably will be transmitting video images of you back to the Center to confirm your identity.” Dominika was better. Gable could see she had started thinking about the walk ahead and not Nash.

“Steady pace right up to the trucks. It’ll be a Leningrad knuckle-dragger in a bad suit who steps up to say… What will he say?”

“Dobro pozhalovet,” said Dominika, staring out the window. Welcome home.

“Yeah, well, do me a favor and kick him between the legs. Your behavior from then on is critical. Remember,” said Gable, “you’re coming home, freed from CIA custody. You’re relieved and, well, safe. Not exactly talkative, that would be inappropriate. You’ve accounted for three KIAs, your own frigging people tried to kill you, and you’re pissed. You’ll be surrounded by all those Leningrad thugs in the car or on the train, or however they get you up to Saint Petersburg.”

“I am familiar with the species,” said Dominika. “There will be no trouble from them. I have just come back from an operation for the Center. The only people I will talk to are in Moscow.”

“Exactly. And once you’re there, show them your Greek stitches and yell about the Spetsnaz maniac, and about Korchnoi and what took them so long to come get you. You’re back, baby, you’re back.”

“Yes,” said Dominika, “I am back.”

“And we’ll see you in six months,” said Gable.

“Do not count on it,” said Dominika.

“You remember the universal call-out number?”

“I threw it away,” Dominika said.

“After you memorized it,” said Gable.

“Tell Forsyth good-bye for me,” she said, ignoring him.

=====

Lyudmila Mykhailivna Pavlichenko was the storied Red Army sniper, the deadliest female sniper in history, with 309 confirmed kills during the Crimean campaign in World War II. This evening, on the ruined south tower of the Ivangorod Fortress on the Russian riverbank, her namesake Lyudmila Tsukanova, the primary sniper of SVR Special Group B, eased onto her stomach and settled herself. She was dressed in a baggy black coverall, a hood pulled over her head tight around her cherry-splotched face. Her felt-soled boots were splayed out flat behind her. She snugged the VSS Vintorez rifle, the “thread cutter,” against her riotous, chapped cheek and sighted through the NSPU-3 nightscope three hundred meters diagonally across the water at the western end of the Narva Bridge—this would be a night shot comfortably within her ability. She was looking for a profile—a dark-haired woman who walked with a slight limp.

=====

The medium Mi-14 “Haze” helicopter with the black Mickey Mouse nose was a civilian transport version painted red and white. It settled slowly into the empty parking lot of the Ivangorod Railroad Station. The mustard walls of the station’s baroque façade flashed pink in the range lights of the helicopter. As the helicopter bounced on its gear, the engine note dropped from a scream to a whine to a purr. The massive rotors stopped spinning and drooped, hot in the chilly night air. No doors opened on the helicopter until two of the SVR cars that had been waiting down the road pulled up tight alongside. The side passenger door opened and two men in suits banged the metal stairs down and walked a frail white-haired figure to the lead car.

The two cars drove slowly up the road to the blocking trucks at the bridge, and the three men got out, one on each side supporting the smaller man. They squeezed past the trucks and stood silently, unmoving, while looking down the roadway at the dim figures at the other end. The border guards around the trucks unslung their rifles and the spotlights on the trucks came on, flooding the Russian side of the bridge in light. The railings and light pole stanchions cast slanted shadows across the roadway. There were half a dozen cherry pinpricks of light behind the window of the customs tollbooth. The Leningrad boys were smoking, watching, not talking.

=====

They got out of the van and came around to stand in front, facing the Russians. The Russian spots came on and Benford signaled the KaPo jeep to turn on its headlights and single spotlight. The Russian side was now obscured by a glaring wall of light past which the fog continued to billow.

“We’ll walk you to the start of the bridge,” Gable said, holding Dominika’s arm steady. Benford stepped close and stood on the other side of her, holding her other arm above the elbow. Nate had exited the van and stood to one side. Gable and Benford walked forward.

“Wait,” said Dominika, and she leaned toward Nate and slapped him hard across the cheek.