The Kremlin's Candidate: A Novel

They waited for thirty minutes. Dominika stayed seated behind Nate so their eyes wouldn’t meet. Sergeant Riazanov had to dip his head when coming through the door. He must have been over two meters tall, a giant. The first thing Dominika noticed were his hands, which were huge, with bony knuckles and long fat fingers. He had the face of an ogre—acromegaly was the medical name of the affliction commonly known as gigantism—with a protruding forehead, jutting lower jaw, pronounced cheekbones, widely spaced camel’s teeth, and a massive fleshy nose. Dominika had no doubt that the skulls of Sergeant Riazanov’s early relatives had been found in Pleistocene caves in Spain and France. He wore no uniform, but was in mechanic’s overalls, zippered in front, short in the sleeves and cuffs, and a pair of enormous combat boots. No insignia, no mark of rank. That he had been summoned by Bortnikov suggested to Dominika that Riazanov was a member of some FSB unit kept in reserve for extraordinary duties, like right now, in this little quaint cottage.

General Bortnikov pointed at Nate with his chin and the ogre stepped up to the armchair, lifted Nate by the armpits, shook him like a rag doll, and threw him back into the armchair. Nate looked up at him in amazement.

“You must’ve been the tallest kid in your class,” said Nate. “You ever get checked for a tumor on your pituitary gland?” Bortnikov, unimpressed, nodded again at Sergeant Riazanov. The sergeant took Nate’s left hand in one of his grizzly-bear paws and started bending Nate’s little finger back toward his wrist. Nate thrashed wildly, but could not escape the vise grip of the sergeant as the little finger kept bending back, and back, until there was an audible snap and Nate groaned and fell into the armchair holding his broken finger. As the sergeant towered over the doubled-over figure of Nate, General Bortnikov moved slightly closer. Dominika felt faint sitting there. Those sweet hands, she thought.

“Do you recall the name of CHALICE now?” he said. “We would like to know his identity rather quickly.” Nate held his wounded hand, his little finger dark blue. From behind, Dominika saw Nate’s crimson halo steady and bright, fueled by courage and, she knew, his love for her. But how long could he last?

“I’m telling you assholes, I don’t know anyone named CHALICE,” said Nate. Bortnikov’s face flushed with anger.

“Break his left arm,” he said to Riazanov. The giant grabbed Nate’s left arm, twisted the wrist, held it out away from Nate’s body, and swung a massive fist down against Nate’s forearm with more force than an iron pipe. The snap of Nate’s ulna made Dominika jump. Nate screamed and held his shattered arm while bent double in the chair.

“Now, the name of CHALICE,” said Bortnikov. “Let’s be reasonable. All we require is a name. Sometimes it is easier to write it rather than to actually say it out loud.” He took out a pen and a notebook and put them on the arm of Nate’s chair with an encouraging smile.” You see we’ve left your right arm and hand alone for the time being so you can write the name,” said Bortnikov.

“The hospitality and honor for which Russia is widely known,” said Nate, gasping and still bent over. He didn’t reach for the pen.

“Let the sergeant help you,” said Bortnikov. The giant took the pen and placed it between Nate’s index and ring fingers and squeezed, lighting up the ulnar nerve in the hand as the pen ground against the bones. Nate’s head went back in agony.

“CHALICE?” said Bortnikov. Suddenly Dominika knew she had to do something, anything. She was the Director of SVR. She got up from her chair, put a reassuring hand on Gorelikov’s shoulder, and strode forward.

“Let’s stop this display,” said Dominika, with vehemence. “I wonder if the three of us could talk outside for a second,” she said, indicating Bortnikov and Gorelikov. The senior officers were taken aback, especially at the tone of her voice, and they filed outside onto the little decorative porch of the cottage, leaving Nate with Sergeant Neanderthal. She followed her colleagues out, slammed the front door behind her, and stared at the two startled men.

“What the fuck are we doing?” hissed Dominika. She amped up her indignation. “This is not 1937 with Stalin running amok.” She paced up and down the little porch while Gorelikov and Bortnikov followed her with their eyes. Dominika knew both of them were capable of pulling rank on her, and probably would, but she had to get them to stop breaking things on Nate.

“We don’t have the luxury of time,” said Gorelikov. “If this CHALICE reports the name of MAGNIT, we lose the best asset in the history of Russian espionage.” And probably both your heads, Dominika thought.