The Kremlin's Candidate: A Novel

Lustbader’s eyelid pulsed as he lectured the class. “If you focus on a thought or person, or on an external object, really obsessively focus, the mind can effectively counteract the effects of the interrogation drugs that coincidentally quickly spike in effectiveness, then dissipate dramatically. Coming out of it feels like rising to the surface after a deep dive. The euphoria at that stage, the rush back to the light, is the danger period where the ebullient subject is most likely to be susceptible to elicitation.” He looked at the trainees who were dreaming of future glories in the field, or thinking about lunch. “Unless they want to turn you into a gibbon monkey—though I suspect some of you in this class are already halfway there—they cannot top you off with more drugs for another twelve hours, without risking harm.”

None of the students ever dreamed they would in the course of their careers have to recall Ramón’s words.

When SUSAN sent the encrypted flash message detailing MAGNIT’s verbal report about a CIA case officer infiltrating the compound to contact an American-handled mole, code-named CHALICE—a mole who somehow knew the closely held identity of Admiral Audrey Rowland—Gorelikov was amazed. The tenacity of the Americans to recruit sources deep inside the corridors of the Federation never seemed to abate. Unmasking this CHALICE was not going to be easy. As much as Gorelikov had run MAGNIT meticulously as his own asset recently, there were an infinite number of potential leaks and points of entry into the case: a dozen GRU handlers from the early years, twice as many supervisors, records clerks, the Security Council staff, and technical experts evaluating MAGNIT’s voluminous reporting. But none of these people was on the VIP guest list for the Cape Idokopas weekend gala. The two hundred guests were service chiefs, ministers, and the slobbering siloviki around the president. But who knew about MAGNIT? Bortnikov of FSB, that idiot from the GRU, the president. But that is not how secrets are lost: mistresses hear things, people get drunk and brag at a party, the president himself might comment on MAGNIT to an old friend from the Petersburg years, and the bird is out of the cage, impossible to trace back to the source.

There was one thing: Egorova did not know MAGNIT’s name, which provisionally exonerated her and meant that Gorelikov could depend on her to assist in the counterintelligence investigation, but there was no time to fiddle with suspects and interviews. CHALICE had to be identified and wrapped up within the next five days. Word from the Washington rezidentura was that the derogatory stories had been loudly trumpeted by a US press corps with a taste for political calamity: Senator Feigenbaum and Ambassador Vano were out of the running for DCIA, and VADM Rowland would begin congressional confirmation hearings immediately.

Gorelikov contemplated the audacity of the Americans to send an operations officer into Russia, to the president’s compound, to brazenly meet an agent to scoop up MAGNIT’s true name. The bastard case officer being held in the Gorki cottage in the woods was the key: the identity of CHALICE had to be ripped from his throat. Gorelikov had quickly assembled three experts in interrogation methods: a doctor from Moscow State University who specialized in psychotropic drugs; a psychologist from the Serbsky State Scientific Center for Social and Forensic Psychiatry; and a behavioral scientist from Section 12 of Line S in SVR, the illegals directorate. Meanwhile, the honored party guests were arriving by limousine, shuttle bus, or personal helicopter, each according to their place on the food chain. And one of them was CHALICE. Gorelikov frantically summoned Egorova, and briefed her on the situation, and together they hurried through the woods to the cottage. Egorova was smart and capable. Gorelikov saw the color drain from her face as she instantly realized the imminent danger to MAGNIT.