The Kremlin's Candidate: A Novel

“We were conducting a counterintelligence investigation,” said Benford, with infinite weariness. “I was convinced, after an exhaustive investigation, that one of the three candidates for the job was working for Moscow. It turned out I was right. We were forty-eight hours from having a Russian mole as Director of the Agency. It was the reason Alex Larson was assassinated.”

Farrell scoffed. “You can’t leave Larson alone. You’re preposterous. That is speculation, but it does not excuse you from your dereliction,” said Farrell. “Or from your insubordination. Benford, you’ve been an irascible, uncontrolled rogue your entire career. Why is that, do you think?”

Benford shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “I suppose, unlike you, I never got accustomed to the taste of cock.”

Farrell sat up, red faced, and slammed his fist on the desk. “That will do,” he yelled. “You’re fired, effective immediately, separated from the Service. Go to that rat hole you call an office, and collect your personal items, and two officers from Security will escort you out of the building. You can surrender your badge to them, and good riddance.”

Benford left the Director’s office without another word, but by the time the two blue blazers escorted him through the turnstile at the north entrance, two hundred employees were lined up along the length of the atrium, applauding. Benford scowled at the crowd and waved once, then turned and unclipped his badge from his torn jacket pocket, handed it to one of the security men, and went through the automatic doors, which hissed closed behind him. From that instant forward, Simon Benford could have entered CIA Headquarters no more easily than could Vladimir Putin.

DOMINIKA’S ARTICHOKE APPETIZER

In a large bowl, toss marinated artichoke hearts, pitted Kalamata olives, capers, quartered tomatoes, and crushed garlic with white wine, olive oil, salt, and pepper. Spread out and roast on a baking sheet until tomatoes are tender. Drizzle with olive oil, sprinkle with salt, and top with torn basil leaves. Serve on toasted bruschetta.

39

Interview Room Three

Butyrka Prison. Nate was escorted downstairs from his cell by two guards who were careful not to jostle his left arm in a short cast or his little finger swaddled in a splint, which was good because his whole left side ached. Nate was surprised when they did not enter a standard ground-floor interrogation room with the usual table, steel chairs, and photographs of Marx and Lenin, and the ubiquitous bowl of roses, which of course concealed the microphones. Instead they descended to the clammy third basement with the flaking pale-green walls and the chipped steel doors that gave no clue what or who languished behind them. Nate thought he must be the first CIA officer to be marched down this windowless corridor. It was utterly silent as the guards stopped him in front of a door marked OPROS 3, interview room three.

Some interview room. The room was large and looked like a surgical theater with white tiles on the floor and up the walls above chest height. It smelled of disinfectant and was lighted a dazzling white. Several wheeled tables were aligned against the far wall and massive circular stainless-steel pole lights, also on casters, were gathered in a corner. Against the opposite wall there was a strange solitary chair that looked as though it was made of painted aluminum, with a high back and headrest, flat protruding arms, and rolling casters on the legs. The white paint on the chair was chipped and discolored, especially along the front legs, the arms, and the high back. Standing alone in a corner of the room, the chair looked like a discarded eighteenth-century baby’s high chair wheeled aside and forgotten. As he was marched in, Nate saw a makeshift gallery of five wooden chairs set up behind him. Interrogations normally did not have audiences, but perhaps these were for interrogator-trainees learning the finer points of their trade. It was typical Russian beastliness that observers were placed inside the room, to hear, see, and smell the proceedings firsthand, rather than behind one-way glass.