The Kremlin's Candidate: A Novel

The tone of the jet nozzles grew louder as the USV backed off the beach, the surf still smacking the transom as it moved away. Then a grinding bump as the stern collided with a flat rock protruding above the surface and the vessel stopped dead. From the foam around the stern, Dominika could see that the USV was trying to go forward and backward to free itself from the invisible obstruction, but it kept bumping into the outcrop and could proceed no farther. Cursing, Dominika waded in up to her chest, was swallowed by a breaker, and then managed to swim to the hung-up hull and push the bucking stern with all her might. She finally got a lift from a wave, and heard the transom grind against the rock and float free. Another wave slapped her under, but the jets pulsed in reverse and the zebra-striped boat silently backed out of the rock field into open water. Another wave hit Dominika and she swallowed some seawater and retched, but recovered enough to see the USV spin in her own length, settle by the stern, and pick up speed, headed out to sea. She paused briefly to squat in the shallows. Seawater should do the same job as vinegar and baking powder. There was some satisfaction in consigning the president’s DNA to the Black Sea. Dominika struggled to the beach, her clothes streaming with water (she’d win the wet T-shirt contest at the party tonight), and looked back seaward. The stealth vessel had already disappeared from sight. Good luck, Agnes Krawcyk. Don’t fail me.

Shivering, Dominika staggered up the goat path to her dacha, shucked off her clothes, collected the champagne glasses, and mopped up Gorelikov’s mess from the marble. She then stood under a hot shower for twenty minutes, too tired to mind the inevitable nightmare image of Grace Gao hanging by her neck from the glass shower door.

It was noon before anyone noticed that Gorelikov was missing. Bortnikov ordered a massive search of the compound, and had spotter planes and fast motor-patrol boats from Sevastopol comb the coast in case Gorelikov somehow had fallen off the cliff into the sea. After an informal roll call it was additionally noticed that Agnes Krawcyk, one of the art-restoration workers, was also unaccounted for. Bortnikov and Dominika met in the compound’s security-control building’s conference room, to discuss how they would brief the president on these disturbing developments. There was no record at Gelendzhik Airport of either individual boarding a plane and all compound vehicles were accounted for—they had simply disappeared into thin air. Bortnikov remembered that MAGNIT had reported part of an exfiltration plan involving a powered stealth glider that could land in the Balaklava Valley undetected, but there was no way Gorelikov or the woman could have exited the compound unnoticed and walked the ten kilometers at night, on country roads, to reach an exfiltration pickup point. Frustrated and furious, Bortnikov ordered a second complete search of every structure in the compound, including the presidential wing and the president’s own private apartments. Nikolai Patrushev deigned to attend the last meeting with Bortnikov and Dominika at the end of the day. Despite the cataclysmic possibilities, Patrushev’s conniving yellow halo was steady and unperturbed. He’s already chosen a scapegoat, thought Dominika. He’ll assume none of the blame.

“The Polish woman is of no importance,” said Patrushev. “She could have been taken by one of the soldiers into the woods, raped, and killed, then thrown into a ravine. It would take months to find her body.”

Bortnikov goggled at him. “Are you mad? Why do you assume that?”

Patrushev ignored him. “Anton Gorelikov is a different matter. If he has defected, it is a potential disaster. Your services should have been more vigilant.”

Bortnikov looked across the table at him. “You are levying blame on Egorova and me? Are you serious? You are head of the Security Council with an oversight charter over all matters of State security. You share the responsibility.” Bortnikov was almost yelling, but Patrushev was blasé and unaffected.

“The FSB exists to catch spies in the Rodina. The SVR is supposed to run foreign assets who can give early warning of such breaches,” said Patrushev. “It is my observation you both fell short in these duties, and in consequence failed the president.” There it was, the cringing, blame-shifting, famous among the Kremlin siloviki, with no one taking responsibility, and everyone distraught and disapproving when the president was ill served by others. Dominika calculated that perhaps this criticism would push her and Bortnikov closer—at least until the next palace crisis. Bortnikov still goggled at Patrushev, and his blue halo flickered in agitation.