The Kremlin's Candidate: A Novel

Gorelikov’s duty was to advise the president on foreign and domestic affairs, national security, and manipulating world events in favor of the Russian Federation, a modern-day Mikhail Suslov, who had been the Chief Ideologue of the Soviet Communist Party. He had graduated from the Faculty of Law at Saint Petersburg State University in 1975 with Putin, both with law degrees, and both had joined the KGB, Putin in foreign intelligence, Gorelikov in analysis. When Vladimir ascended in politics during the boozy last days of Yeltsin, he tapped his friend from law school to join his political satrapy, and thanks to Anton’s poise, acumen, and foresight—as well as a studied avoidance of all Kremlin intrigues—eventually attained chief of the Sekretariat. He had never married, was agnostic in matters of sex, trusted nobody, and was an astute and suspicious observer of human reactions. He had the president’s confidence (as far as Vladimir Putin conferred his total trust on anybody) chiefly because he never sank to sycophancy. He occasionally reminded the president that surely there were moles in the Kremlin, just as Russia ran agents in Washington.

Anton Gorelikov knew Putin’s Russia was atrophying slowly from within, buoyed only by her poorly managed natural resources and the geopolitical misadventures that kept Putin on the world stage. But like a chess master brilliantly defending a losing game until an advantage revealed itself, Gorelikov reveled in the intrigue, in the manipulation of events, and in the wielding of power. His putative allies were Bortnikov of the FSB, Patrushev of the Security Council, and, he hoped, Egorova, the rising star who had already been noticed by the Kremlin. Gorelikov was quietly maneuvering for her elevation to Director of SVR. It would be a tall order for a woman to be appointed Director of SVR, but the resourceful Gorelikov was known as a volshebnik, a conjurer, who could turn water to wine. There was no rush.

Aside from acting as Vladimir’s Machiavelli, Gorelikov was an aesthete. He collected paintings, bronzes, and antique maps, and was an immaculate clotheshorse. He appraised the incomparable beauty of SVR Colonel Dominika Egorova, who was sitting on one side of the table, a thin file folder in front of her. Her blue eyes were extraordinary, her hands in repose were serene, and that face could launch a thousand ships—if the rotting Russian Red Fleet had

that many left. Gorelikov knew Egorova’s personal and service history, where she lived, how many times she had been posted or traveled abroad (quite a lot for her age and rank), and the more spectacular episodes of her career, including her service as a Sparrow. One thing he did not know was that the beautiful Colonel Egorova was assessing the cerulean halo around his head, the luminous blue halo of the sophisticated thinker.

It was time to begin. Gorelikov knew this meeting would be unpleasant; he disliked churlish behavior, which was in abundance among the oxen of Putin’s inner circle of former KGB, gangster, and police colleagues, including the men opposite Egorova at the table.

“Are we all present?” said Gorelikov, his voice smooth as a cello. “May I make introductions?”

Across from Dominika sat Major Valeriy Shlykov of the GRU, the military foreign intelligence service of the General Staff of the Russian Federation. Dressed in a tailored suit with a blue necktie, Shlykov was in his thirties, a blond, broad-faced Great Russian with lazy blue eyes and big lips. The yellow cloud that hung over him like a plague flag signaled conceit, envy, duplicity. Shlykov did not acknowledge or look at Dominika, but dismissively flipped the pages of a folder in front of him. This one is ambitious and privileged

, thought Dominika. Why is he here? The summons to this meeting was vague, but she assumed it was to discuss her North Korean recruitment, Academician Ri. Why would the GRU be present to discuss an SVR case?

In Russia, competition among the services, and inside the branches of the military, and among the ministries was always feverish, and sometimes desperately ruthless. When the KGB split into the SVR and the FSB, it just meant two more muzzles drinking from the same trough. And they all disdained the krestyaniki, the peasants in the GRU.