The Kremlin's Candidate: A Novel

Gorelikov was certainly spending a lot of gratuitous time with the US Navy contingent, handing around flutes of champagne, raising his glass to toast the ranking officer of the group, the Chief of Naval Operations, but then he turned and toasted another admiral who Dominika saw was a mannish woman. Dominika eased through the crowd to get a closer look, and something stirred in her, the female admiral was familiar, somehow. She had smiled at a Gorelikov witticism, revealing uneven teeth. What was it? Gorelikov was recommending canapes from the tray of a passing waiter that featured an assortment of salaka, toasted brioche with herring and melted cheese. A snaggletooth. Twelve years ago. The Metropol Hotel. The GRU honey trap. The skinny naval student. The biter with the tooth. Her shoulder. She had never asked—or cared—about the result of the snap trap. It was possible, probable, that the blackmail did not take, for the historical success rate on honey traps was only 25 percent. If it did take, the Kremlin had been running a US admiral for more than a decade.

Then Dominika stopped, frozen like an idiot mannequin in the middle of the hall, jostled by partygoers under the blazing chandeliers, and felt her spine grow cold. The selection of the DCIA—Benford had written to her with the names of the candidates. This one here tonight had to be the naval admiral, Rowland. Her visit to Moscow on this delegation could mean nothing, but it could also mean much. The pieces tumbled in her head like a collapsed mosaic ceiling. Shlykov. Naval railgun. She knew who this was, and she knew why Gorelikov was toadying to her. Now all she had to do was get word back to Benford to find out whether MAGNIT liked herring on toast. With no commo she was mute and Benford was blind.

Gorelikov was sitting on a red velvet couch at the end of the empty hall with his feet up on a brocade chair, his tie loosened, and a flute of flat champagne on the floor beside him. Dominika sat at the other end of the couch. A few remaining waiters scurried about, collecting the last of the crockery from the twelve groaning buffet tables that had been spaced along the length of the hall. An army of cleaners would follow to polish the magnificent floor and to dust the interstices of the chandeliers.

“US naval officers are exceedingly adept in unfamiliar social situations such as tonight’s reception,” said Gorelikov, rubbing his eyes. “They receive schooling in diplomatic conversation and comportment, and handle themselves with confidence. Our senior officers are krestyane, peasants and plowmen, by comparison, hesitant to say anything for fear of revealing the color of the hulls of our ships. It’s positively Soviet, the way they act.”

Dominika wanted to work on him a little. “Back then they were all terrified of Stalin,” she said. “He purged the entire officer corps in the thirties.”

“Yes, but now? The president supports the armed forces.”

“Old habits fade slowly,” said Dominika, noncommittedly. “But who was the female admiral you were speaking to? She was the only woman in the bunch.” Gorelikov’s halo wavered, and Dominika listened for the deception.

“I don’t recall her name. She apparently is a science genius,” said Gorelikov, dismissively. “She is retiring soon, and doubtless will be offered seats on boards of defense contractors as a consultant. These admirals can manage little else in retirement.” Interesting. You don’t know her name or where she works, but it has not escaped your notice that she is retiring soon. Dominika forced herself to yawn, as her mind churned.

IF this admiral was the girl Dominika seduced twelve years ago at the Metropol, and IF Gorelikov had been successful in pitching her as MAGNIT, and IF New York–based illegal SUSAN was now undetectably meeting her, and IF she were selected and confirmed as CIA Director, the first thing Gorelikov and Bortnikov would ask from her would be the list of active recruited CIA sources inside Russia. DIVA/Egorova would be at the top of the list. A lot of ifs, but Dominika knew there was grave danger.

Why wasn’t Gorelikov telling her the admiral was MAGNIT? Professional covetousness? Orders from the president? Was she somehow suspected? No. They had specifically selected her to meet SUSAN on Staten Island. Were they waiting for her promotion and a further demonstration of loyalty? Perhaps.