Red Sparrow

Dominika began swimming to stay even with Nash, which she found she could do with ease. Neither was swimming very hard. Through her goggles, Dominika could see his body underwater, rolling rhythmically in a smooth freestyle. At the far wall, Dominika and Nate both touched at the same time and started the return lap to the deep end. By this time, Nate noticed another swimmer keeping pace with him. Looking underwater, he saw it was a woman, sleek in a racing suit, stroking smoothly and strongly.

Nate dug a little harder to see if a dozen deeper pulls would draw him slightly ahead of the mystery swimmer. She stayed even, without apparent effort. Nate pulled harder, flexing his lats. She kept up. Nate increased his kick rate slightly and checked. She was still there. The wall was coming up and Nate decided to go at it hard, nail a flip turn, and crank up his stroke rate to the opposite wall. Let’s see if she can hit a turn and finish with a sprint. He took a breath as he came up to the wall. Nate’s legs came over his shoulders, his feet slapped explosively on the tiles, and he came off the wall clean and hard, ready to motor. He cycled his arms, elbows high, driving, pulling, the metronome chop chop chop of them entering the water filling his ears. He cranked up his kick and felt the lift of the bow wave around his head and shoulders. Smooth and fast, he limited breaths to one side, away from the girl. There would be plenty of time when he touched to wait for her to come churning up to the wall. For the last five yards, Nate stretched and glided, turning on his side to face in the girl’s direction. But she was already there, her wake hitting the wall as he touched. She had touched him out. She looked over at him as she stood up in the shallow end, peeled the cap off her head, and shook her slightly damp hair.

“You swim beautifully,” Nate said in English. “Are you on a team?”

“No, not really,” said Dominika. Nate took in her strong shoulders, elegant hands holding the wall, plain short nails, and those blue eyes, electric, wide. Nate had pegged her accented English as Baltic or Russian. There were a lot of Finns who spoke English with a Russian accent.

“Are you from Helsinki?” asked Nate.

“No, I’m Russian,” said Dominika, watching his face for a reaction, for contempt, dismissal. Instead, there was the brilliant smile. Go ahead, Mr. CIA, she thought. What will you say now?

“I saw the Dynamo Swim Team compete in Philadelphia once,” said Nate. “They were very good, especially in the butterfly.” The water of the pool sloshed over his shoulders, reflecting his purple haze.

“Of course,” said Dominika. “Russian swimmers are the best in the world.” She was going to say, As in all sport, but kept quiet. Too much, she thought, settle down. All right, contact made, nationality established, now set the hook. Tradecraft from the Forest. She moved to the ladder to climb out of the pool.

“Do you come here in the evenings?” Nate asked when Dominika said she had to go. The muscles in her back flexed as she climbed up the ladder.

“No, my schedule is irregular,” said Dominika, trying not to sound like Garbo, “very irregular.” She searched his face; he looked disappointed. Good. “I don’t know when I will be back, but perhaps we’ll meet again.” She felt his eyes on her as she climbed out of the pool and walked into the women’s locker room.

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As it turned out, Dominika and Nate met again at the pool two days later. She nodded noncommittally to his wave. They swam more laps, swimming side by side. Dominika played it slow, indifferent. She was correct, reserved, a conscious counterbalance to his shambling American informality. She constantly told herself not to be so nervous. When he looked at her she knew from his expression that he was unsuspecting. He doesn’t know what this is, she thought with a thrill. The CIA officer doesn’t know who he’s up against. When it was time to go, she again got out of the pool without delay. This time she looked back at him. An unsmiling wave. That was enough for now.

Over the course of several weeks they met five or six times, and not one of them was by chance. Dominika had cased the Torni Hotel, diagonally across the street from the pool entrance. Most evenings Dominika would be in the sitting room at the window observing his arrival. As far as she could tell, he never was accompanied by anyone. He was surveillance-free.