The Kremlin's Candidate: A Novel

Nate’s furtive deep breathing was just keeping the effects of the drugs from totally swallowing up his head, WHO IS CHALICE? and the room was still spinning but his grip on the armchair helped, as did digging his fingernails into his palm so he could concentrate on the pain, which became his tenuous hold on to the lip of the cliff, to the real world, keep breathing, he was on the edge of the abyss, WHAT IS CHALICE’S NAME? between consciousness and the dreamy state where he might start talking a blue streak, keep breathing dammit, think about Benford, keep your wits about you, Nash, and he thought about Forsyth, you’re stronger than they are, and he thought about Gable, rookie, don’t give those fuckers one thing, I’m proud of you, and he thought about them all, Korchnoi, and Hannah, and Udranka, and Ioana, everybody but Dominika, she doesn’t exist, WHO IS CHALICE? and he thought about Agnes two days ago in the hotel room in Warsaw, keep breathing, how her hands felt on his cheeks, feel the sensation, remember the sensation, don’t let go, and the room spinning and the doctor’s voice intruded into his thoughts, friendly, soothing, insistent, WHO IS CHALICE? don’t let go, stay in this room, his face was hot, and he could feel the sweat running down his cheeks. He looked up, the spinning got worse with his eyes open, but there was the photograph of Lenin looking down at him with those doll black eyes and the goatee unevenly trimmed, and the tight-lipped mouth waiting for Nate to start talking, but I won’t talk unless you do, you bastard, and Nate concentrated on those eyes, he locked on them, nothing else, nothing else, and waited for them to blink or move and the more he stared at Lenin’s face the stronger he became and he kept staring at the bridge of Lenin’s nose, taking in the whole photo, come down off that wall you bastard, come down and take over the interrogation, because the drugs weren’t going to work, Nate knew that now his head was clearer, and he kept breathing and the room slowed, and he kept looking at the photograph, and Lenin’s eyes blazed with hatred, and Gable’s voice told Lenin, you can go ahead and blink first, you goat fucker, because you’re not getting shit from us, and shove your proletarian revolution up your ass, and Nate kept staring at Lenin’s face, expecting the photograph to combust into the fire of Hades and to hear the roar of rage as his will was denied, and suddenly Nate was through the tunnel and his head cleared with an enormous rush, his eyesight crystal clear, noticing the grain of the logs on the wall, a fly on a windowpane, the frayed collar of the doctor, everything was humming and then Gable’s words came to him. “Listen up, rookie, just when things look darkest, they go black.” And Nate took a deep breath, and looked at the doctor. It had been twenty minutes, or three hours, Nate had no clue.

The doctor looked at Nate and knew he had lost him, the drugs were already dissipating in his system—they typically spiked in the first half hour, then faded quickly. The doctor followed Nate’s gaze and saw the picture of Lenin and instantly understood that Nate had used the photograph to focus his attention and resist the soporific effects of the drugs. Smart young man, obviously trained. He would have to wait at least twelve hours before another injection might be effective, otherwise an overload of drugs might put the subject too deep and unable to respond from that desired state of drifty half awareness. This American seemed less susceptible; perhaps it was his apparent lack of fear. The doctor looked at Gorelikov and shook his head, as he nervously started packing up his little black bag. Anton turned away in disgust, and Dominika let out a long silent breath.

Alexander Bortnikov of the FSB came through the door to the cottage and looked around. Gorelikov gave him a shrug of impotent rage. Bortnikov walked in front of Nate’s chair and stood looking down at him silently. “So nothing seems to have made an impression on our young American friend, eh? You can go,” he said, indicating the doctors. “One guard only. If the American moves, damage him considerably.” He pointed at the stenographer. “You. Out.” He picked up the receiver of the gray telephone on a side table. “Serzhánt Riazanov to the Gorki cottage, instantly,” said Bortnikov, hanging up. “We will see if we can keep your attention a little more closely,” said Bortnikov, his blue halo pulsing.