The Kremlin's Candidate: A Novel

“I never heard the crypt CHALICE in my life,” said Nate, his cheek red. He knew instantly that he was at the end of a barium enema concocted by Benford and that the answer was already here: CHALICE. But now it had to get back to Langley. Maybe he could break out of his room at night and make it to the beach. The doctor nodded to one of the guards, who backhanded Nate on the side of the face. Dominika was about to get out of her chair when the doctor from Moscow State University interceded. His halo was blue. Dangerous.

“It would be counterproductive to strike the subject if I am to use certain compounds. As I’m sure my esteemed colleague knows, punches and slaps will raise his levels of adrenaline and endorphins,” he said softly, as if he were berating his counterpart from the insane asylum, who knew only about restraints and shock therapy.

“We’re wasting time,” Anton said. “What are your compounds? Do they work?”

“Let’s see, shall we?” the doctor said to Nate. Dominika held her breath.

The doctor took out three separate syringes, and laid them on the side table. Presumably each syringe contained a different chemical cocktail.

“Just so you don’t have Polonium-210 in that little black bag of yours,” said Nate. A guard clamped his hands on Nate’s right arm, but he shook it off, grabbed the guard’s lapel, twisted it, and pulled him forward to sprawl on the floor with a clatter. Two more guards clamped down on Nate’s wrist. The doctor lanced one of the needles into the vein on Nate’s arm, then stepped back to look at his face. He lifted one of Nate’s eyelids and looked at his pupils.

“Now I want you to relax,” said the doctor. “The experience will be quite pleasant.” Nate felt a hot rush travel up his arm, up his cheeks, then up the back of his skull. He experienced an intense wave of vertigo. The walls of the cottage spun in front of his eyes, and he had a sensation of falling a great distance out of the sky. He held on to the arms of the chair and rode the sensation, while quietly taking deep breaths to oxygenate his lungs. The doctor’s voice came to him from a great distance away, as if he were talking through a speaking trumpet.

“Psychotropic drugs are chemical substances that change brain function, and result in alterations in perception, mood, or consciousness,” said the doctor. “There is a wide range of compounds; the effectiveness of each depends on the personality of the subject. A period of testing is required to determine which specific drug will be most effective on an individual subject. I have chosen one that normally is quite effective.” Anton looked as though he was ready to plunge the needle into the doctor’s own neck.

“Perhaps you have not observed that this interrogation must be conducted with extreme urgency,” said Gorelikov. “We don’t have time for your damn chemical analyses, and we don’t have time for this other idiot’s moronic attempts to establish the subject’s trust, and we don’t have time for the luxury of Line S’s leisurely records searches. I need a name, the name of one of the two hundred guests now arriving for the president’s reception. One name. I need it before the sun goes down tonight. Can any of you duraki, mutton heads, accomplish that?” The doctor who had injected Nate stood stiffly with nervous indignation.

“I appreciate the urgency of the situation, you can be sure, comrade. I, therefore, have selected a robust compound of 3-Quinuclidinyl benzilate and amobarbital mixed with a stabilizing derivative of Valium. You will observe the effect on the subject quite soon.”

He pulled up a chair, and sat close to Nate, whose head was now lolling, his chin on his chest. The doctor looked nervously at a fuming Gorelikov, leaned close, and started speaking softly.

“Now Mr. Hale, we are going on a pleasant trip, you and me. It will be quite enjoyable. Are you ready? By the way, who is CHALICE?”