The Kremlin's Candidate: A Novel

That unmanned boat was due on the beach below her dacha at midnight tonight, according to the exfiltration plan. Dominika would meet the silent craft, open the hatch, and emplace a thumb drive with a detailed report of the events of the past three weeks, but primarily with the presumed identity of MAGNIT. The mole was US Navy Admiral Rowland; Dominika had approximately five days before the admiral was confirmed as CIA Director. Would Dominika’s intel get back to Benford, from the 6th Fleet frigate on patrol in the Black Sea through US NAVEUR in Naples, through the maze of the Pentagon, and onto Benford’s desk in that short period of time? She would, of course, address the thumb drive to the immediate attention of Simon Benford, CIA, but the ponderous US Navy bureaucracy was an unknown. Would they react accordingly?

Her mind seethed, trying to calculate all the imponderables of the situation, her concern for Nate, her lack of commo. The opening day of Putin’s reception had been lavish, with two more days to go, and with enough food and drink to feed half of Moscow for a year. The bovine wives of the siloviki, dressed in outrageous satin and velvet frocks in teal, peach, or tangerine, the height of Soviet haute couture, vainly competed with the lithe trophy wives of the oligarchs in their bodycon minidresses and tanned cantilevered bosoms. The heavyweights could not compare in the sex department, but they held their own at the buffet tables. Gorelikov, Bortnikov, and Dominika had watched the exuberant guests from the sidelines as they milled about, whispering to each other, privately assessing the likelihood that one of them could be the mole. A score of one meant unlikely, a two meant a possible, and a three meant a short-list finalist. Dominika went along with the Star Chamber game with mock enthusiasm and grim determination. Some of the threes were going to have their lives rudely disrupted next week back in Moscow.

Dominika padded downstairs to the dacha’s stainless-steel kitchen, took a bottle of champagne out of the refrigerator, and started peeling the foil and wire to pop the cork. A slant of silver moonlight was the only light in the room, and cut diagonally across the marble countertop. The sea breeze picked up a little and the house stirred.

“Do you need help with that cork?” said a female voice. Dominika jumped a foot. A sturdy woman appeared out of the shadows of the kitchen and walked toward the kitchen island. She was dressed in a white T-shirt and black leggings, which did nothing to conceal a prodigious bust and athletic legs. She was Slavic and classically attractive; Dominika thought she might be close to fifty years old, with a dramatic white forelock that started in front and was swept back with the rest of a thick lion’s mane of hair. She had a crimson halo of passion—like Nate’s—strong and bright.

“Who are you?” said Dominika. “How did you get into this house?” The woman smiled and approached closer, but without any menace.

“As elegant as this villa is,” said the woman, “the locks installed are of inferior quality, especially those on the sliding doors. But I suppose you don’t have to worry about security here on the compound.”

“You are right about that,” said Dominika. “In fact, I can summon a security patrol to this house in about ninety seconds.”

“I have no doubt of that,” said the woman. “Forgive my bad manners, but are you General Egorova?”

“As much as I’ve enjoyed your unannounced visit,” said Dominika, “I believe it’s time for me to call security. Who are you?” The woman seemed unfazed. She approached closer and began whispering. She obviously knew about the limitations of audio emplacements in a large room with tall ceilings and cement walls. But this conversation was too dangerous in what Dominika assumed was a bugged space.

“I know you are Egorova, and you are exactly as Nathaniel described you.” This situation was too bizarre, insane, implausible. Was this a trap or trick conjured up by Bortnikov? Did he think she was a three on the suspect list?

“I’m afraid I know no Nathaniel, and I believe I’ve asked for your name for the last time.” She opened a drawer of the kitchen cabinet and took out a small PSM pistol, favored by senior security service officers and politburo members. She racked the slide back.

“You have every cause to be cautious, but before you shoot me, I’d appreciate a glass of champagne,” said the woman. Dominika intuitively knew what this must be: this Polish beauty was from Langley. She poured a glass of champagne for the woman, while holding the pistol in the other hand. Dominika waggled the muzzle, indicating they should walk upstairs. Once in the softly lighted bedroom, Dominika led the woman outside onto the balcony. She held the PSM down by her side and sipped champagne. The sea breeze hissed through the pines and the Black Sea moon hung over the horizon.

“Who are you?” Dominika asked.