The Kremlin's Candidate: A Novel

Everyone looked at Finn. “Three people will slow her down,” he said, “and it’ll be a little cramped. Two of you will essentially have to lie on top of each other in a moderate chop for forty-five minutes. It’ll mean some bouncing.”

Benford stifled a wan smile. “That will not pose any problem for Casanova, here,” he said.

“So let’s give it a try, Simon, for Christ sake,” said Nate. “Look, if the wrong candidate—namely MAGNIT—gets nominated and confirmed in less than a week, Dominika Egorova is the first name that gets sent back to Moscow. Putin and company will be so scandalized and embarrassed that she’ll just disappear, no show trial, no spy swap. She’ll be headfirst in a wet hole with no marker. I’ll bring back the name, and we keep her alive.” Benford looked at Forsyth who minutely nodded his head. Benford turned to Finn.

“Can you have one of your infernal machines on the beach below Cape Idokopas in three days?”

Finn nodded. “Then, Nash, I suggest you prepare to crash President Putin’s party.” He seemed amused at how dangerous that would be.

MEXICAN CORN

Combine mayonnaise, sour cream or crema, cotija cheese, chili powder, garlic, and cilantro in a large bowl. Stir until blended. Grill shucked ears of corn until cooked through and charred on all sides. Sprinkle hot corn with cheese mixture. Sprinkle with extra cheese and chili powder. Serve hot with lime wedges.

34

House of Cards

As Nash made crash-dive preparations for the mission to infiltrate Putin’s Cape Idokopas compound, Benford sat alone with Forsyth. Simon was in a foul mood, introspective, troubled, and heartsick. Losing Gable and Alex Larson had affected him in ways he could not have predicted, and the specter of dispatching Nash into Russia with such slapdash cover troubled him. With DIVA in imminent danger, the outlook was even bleaker. He told Forsyth that he thought Nash might not make it even close to DIVA: She would be in the company of ministers, service chiefs, VIP guests, and the president himself, plus ample security. How could Nash or the Polish woman get near her?

“Maybe Agnes can follow her into the ladies room,” said Forsyth, half joking.

“Perhaps, but I anticipate operational ruin compounded by the possible loss of a star asset and two officers,” Benford said.

“Nash is one of the best,” said Forsyth helpfully. “He’ll get through. The son of a bitch has one advantage: he loves her.”

Benford snorted. “I assume it did not escape your notice that he seemed to have kept in contact with your former WOLVERINE, what’s her name? Agnes, yes, well I suppose there’s no reason why this infernal case cannot continue as a ménage à trois.”

It did not help Benford’s state of mind when he received word that he had this afternoon to brief the three candidates a final time before one was selected as the formal nominee by POTUS and appeared before Congress to be confirmed. The process would be faster than usual, because the president was eager to install his hand-chosen replacement at Langley to begin rolling back what he considered the hyperactive operational focus of CIA under the late Alexander Larson. Acting Director Farrell had it right: CIA should be an information-gathering organization, eschewing dirty tricks, and assassinations, and whatever other skullduggery they always seemed to be hatching. Farrell, in fact, had been promised the Deputy Director slot—everyone in Washington knew he was an obsequious toad prone to vapors, but as deputy, he would be an effective ideologue who would advocate for what he described as a more human face of espionage. “Like Mikhail Suslov in short pants,” said Forsyth, referring to Brezhnev’s hard-line politburo chief in the seventies.

As usual, scheduling conflicts resulted in the need for three separate briefings, an infernal nuisance. Forsyth and Westfall would backbench the sessions, to provide moral support. Briefing Senator Feigenbaum and her mealy-worm butler Farbissen would be a matter of gritting teeth and weathering the senator’s scorn and her doughy aide’s ready accusations of being lied to. Briefing Admiral Rowland would be a matter of getting through a polite if impenetrable indifference to intelligence matters: if it wasn’t naval science, she didn’t seem interested. Ambassador Vano had seemed appreciative of prior briefings while clearly understanding no more than half of what was being said to him.

Benford spent the morning locked in his office. Even Forsyth couldn’t get in to see him. At the first of the afternoon briefings, Forsyth watched with alarm as Benford walked into the room. He was chalk-white and moved slightly bent over, as if in physical pain. A heart attack? Forsyth made to rise, but Benford waved him off. He slowly shuffled the papers in his folder. Before he began briefing the senator he turned to Forsyth and Westfall, leaned close, and whispered. His lips quivered.