The Kremlin's Candidate: A Novel

President Putin was standing under the front entrance lantern, the glow casting shadows under his eyes, nose, and chin, transforming him into a blue-haloed gargoyle, an otherworldly creature on a late-night pop over to visit his new Director of Foreign Intelligence, who was barefoot and dressed in a satin sleep shirt that barely covered her sex, and whose wild hair was tied with a blue ribbon. The satin shirt did nothing to hide the swell of her breasts, or the imprint of her nipples, or the rhythmic flutter of her heartbeat. The president’s retinue of bodyguards was clustered on the paved path below, in three or four electric golf carts, watching. In an acid flash, Dominika knew the head of state of the Russian Federation would in ten minutes be between her legs, that this was the inescapable moment—no more creepy frottage during furtive midnight visits—the moment that CIA asset DIVA would be required to sacrifice herself to her chosen role as spy, seductress, and implacable foe of the monster in the Kremlin. She thought of Gable as she felt herself shutting down, closing the internal doors of her emotions, marshaling strength to overcome revulsion. She was moving into full Sparrow mode. She wondered if Gable was looking down from Heaven’s cocktail lounge.

“Dobriy vecher, Mr. President, good evening,” said Dominika. “This is a pleasant surprise. Do you have time for a glass of champagne? I was having one myself.” Putin waved his security men away into the darkness after one of them asked if he should check the dacha beforehand. As she poured a glass of bubbly, she noticed the extra wet ring made on the countertop by Agnes’s glass, but she smeared it away with her hand, and they clinked glasses and sipped.

“To the quick discovery of the traitor among us,” said Putin, and Dominika rolled the champagne around her tongue, savoring the secret.

“The American knows who it is. We will grind it out of him like a peppercorn under our thumb. Bortnikov and Gorelikov briefed me this afternoon on the CIA officer,” said Putin. “They described the bumbling preliminary interrogation this morning about why he came here and what he knows. They also told me about your proposed solution to the problem, which I found astute and well-timed. Are you enjoying the party?” A typical Putin conversational swerve that, Dominika was convinced, was designed to demonstrate the president’s rapidity of mind.

“I told them both we cannot be eliminating our opponents as if we were barbarians,” said Putin. Króme Shútok Are you kidding? marveled Dominika. She silently thought of the names of the two-hundred-plus journalists, dissidents, and political activists eliminated since the year 2000 under this president’s beneficent reign, not to mention half the civilian population of Grozhny, in Chechnya.

“Thank you for your confidence in me, Mr. President,” said Dominika. “I am sure we can discover the American mole from a pared-down list of fifty names. In fact, I was going to suggest that you review the final list—your perspective on individuals will be invaluable.” Putin smiled and nodded; he could purge other enemies in the process.

“In five days we will know that name, and all the others,” said Dominika, soothingly. Putin had endorsed her plan not to damage Nate, and to keep him in reserve as a bargaining chip. Now he was talking about crushing peppercorns. A faint sound came from upstairs and Dominika was terrified that Agnes thought the coast was clear and was coming back downstairs. Vladimir had heard the noise and was looking up the stairs. Would the tsar care for a threesome?

“The breeze from the balcony moves the drapes in the bedroom. Come, I’ll show you.” Dominika put her glass down, took the president’s hand—it was callused because he picked at it—and led him upstairs, making as much racket as possible.

“The view from the balcony is exceptional,” said Dominika. “I must thank you again for the use of the dacha.” Putin stuck his head out of the sliding doors, glanced at the sea and the moonlight shining on the surface riffled by the land breeze that started after sunset. He came back into the bedroom. He didn’t care about moonlight. His blue halo pulsed in time with his heartbeat.

“A handsome view, but not as beautiful as you.” Dominika imagined Agnes falling out of the closet, hands over her mouth. Quiet sestra, sister, our tsar is a love poet, don’t ruin the moment.