The Kremlin's Candidate: A Novel

Dominika’s heart was pounding in her chest as she walked down the path to the cottage with Gorelikov. She knew the American who had been captured had to be Nate. Just had to be. You pushed the exfil signal to get a reaction, and you got one, she thought. But trying to break into the compound? She knew Nate was brash, but what was Benford thinking? Now she had to supervise the interrogations, her own exposure and ruin one croaking confession away. Anton was frantic to protect MAGNIT, who Dominika was now 100 percent certain was Admiral Rowland. No more hunches. Dominika had read the daily summaries circulated from the Americas Department: Rowland was being confirmed this week as next Director of CIA and would surely read Dominika’s name as a CIA asset the week after. With Nate in custody, Dominika had one option left: she’d have to send Rowland’s name back to Benford in that crazy drone speedboat—if they’d send it—that would be on the beach tomorrow night. She had no idea if the information would get to Langley in time.

Her heart fell when she saw him, but if he noticed her in the now-crowded, overheated cottage, he gave no indication. Three experts, five guards (three militiamen and two SBP), Dominika, Gorelikov, and a stenographer were all squeezed into the room. Bortnikov was expected momentarily; this technically was an internal security matter that belonged to FSB.

Nate was in an armchair, wearing wire-rimmed glasses and a ridiculous T-shirt, being talked to by one of the pros from Moscow. The doctor from the Serbsky Institute—his yellow halo hinted at duplicity—was leaning close, a paternal hand on Nate’s knee, talking to him in English in a soft voice, which Dominika could barely hear. She made out phrases “futile effort,” “early release,” and “return home.” Dominika sat in a straight-backed chair slightly behind the armchair, out of Nate’s line of sight. Anton paced the length of the little living room, looking impatiently at Nate and the doctor, until Dominika grabbed him softly by the arm and made him sit down. The elegant and phlegmatic Gorelikov was a nervous wreck. Hearing Nate’s voice for the first time was a knife blade in Dominika’s heart.

“Doc, you’re either going to have to give me a happy ending, or take your hand off my knee.” The doctor sat back and smiled. He was the chief psychologist from the Serbsky Institute, the clinic where dissidents are evaluated and remanded to psychiatric wards instead of Siberian gulags.

“I appreciate your sense of humor,” said the doctor, who had snow-white hair and one eye higher in its socket than the other, which made him look like a Dover sole. “But you’re in serious trouble, Mister . . . ; forgive me, I don’t know your name.”

Nate smiled. “I didn’t offer it,” he said, holding out his hand. “Nathan. Nathan Hale.” The stenographer scribbled furiously, but none of the Russians knew who that was. After traces were run, they’d all get a lesson in the American Revolution. Gorelikov stood up and signaled his impatience. The fish-eyed doctor leaned forward again.

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Hale,” he said. “But I must now ask you to answer my questions. Your plan has been foiled. Absolutely nothing can come of it. Your cooperation will be viewed favorably by the relevant authorities, including at the highest levels. We can avoid any unpleasantness, and you will be returned home without delay.”

“What highest levels?” said Nate. “And what sort of unpleasantness? Just so I can inform my own authorities, at the highest levels, of course.” Dominika closed her eyes. Nate’s smart mouth would be his undoing—and hers.

“Whom were you sent here to meet?” said the doctor brusquely. “We know a great deal. In a matter of hours we will know your true name and a summary of your career. I sincerely hope it was more illustrious than this debacle.” Dominika knew the technique: belittle the subject, impress him with Russian omniscience, take away hope, and then give a little back. Hard-soft, push-pull.

“If you know so much,” said Nate, “then you know I’m here to work on the art-restoration project and take a look at the compound.”

“What did you expect to do on the compound?” asked the doctor.

Nate shrugged. “The usual. Take latitude, longitude, GPS coordinates. So we can bomb it later.”

The doctor slapped Nate’s face, losing his cool. “Who is CHALICE?” he yelled. “We know all about your ill-fated plan.”