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Khrushchev’s favorite Cold War threat had been the earthy, peasant curse
Pokazat kuz’kinu mat’—I’ll show you Kuzka’s mother
—which meant
I’ll annihilate you. Well, call Kuzka’s mother, Mr. President,
thought Dominika,
because I’m going to punish you.
Over the taste of copper in her mouth, the edgy secret that soared above it all, the ice-cold diamond in her breast, was that she was CIA’s new penetration of her service. Not even this blue-eyed python knew that.
    “You can depend on my discretion, Mr. President,” said Dominika, returning his unblinking stare. He cultivated the image of a clairvoyant, the inescapable reader of men’s minds and hearts. Could he see into her soul?
    “I look forward to excellent and speedy results in the matter of the Iranian scientist,” said Putin. “The Paris operation was satisfactory, the debriefing next week will be critical. I want regular progress reports from you.” Obviously he already had been briefed. Zyuganov.
You swivel-eyed dwarf,
Dominika thought.
Did you also tell Putin how I got this black eye
? Putin’s stare never left her face. “Of course, you will work under the guidance of the director and Colonel Zyuganov,” he said. His meaning was clear: He was ordering Dominika to work within the hierarchy of the Service, but also expected her to report directly to him, a vintage Soviet tactic to drive wedges between and place informers among ambitious subordinates. The cerulean cloud above his head blazed in the sunlit room.
    CIA’s beautiful mole inside the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service nodded, counting the pulses pounding in her breast. “Of course, Mr. President,” she said. “I will keep you informed of everything I do.”
    KREMLIN MUSHROOM APPETIZER
    Aggressively sauté thinly sliced mushrooms in oil until brown around the edges. Add greens (spinach, chard, or kale) and capers, and cook until wilted. Season, then stir in mustard and vinegar and let thicken, spooning sauce over mushrooms and greens. Serve lukewarm or cold.
     



3
     
    The endless buzz of Athens traffic on Vasilissis Sofias Boulevard was audible through the grimy windows of the CIA Station, windows that had been shuttered and curtained since the bureaucrats cut the ribbon on the chancery in 1961. Athens Station, a warren of interconnecting offices, hallways, and closets, had not been repainted since then: An Electrolux canister vacuum from the 1960s lay forgotten in the back of a coat closet beside a 1970 Martin flattop guitar with no strings that generations of officers assumed had a concealment cavity for bringing documents across borders, but no one could remember how to open it.
    Deputy Chief of Station Marty Gable walked into CIA case officer Nate Nash’s small office. Nate had half a
tiropita,
a triangular cheese pie, on his desk that he had bought on the street for breakfast, and he brushed the flaky crust off his pants as he stood up. Gable reached over him and took the last half of the pie, popped it into his mouth, and chewed, while looking around Nate’s new office. Gable swallowed, picked up a framed snapshot of Nate’s family, and held it to the light. “This your folks?” Nate nodded. Gable put the photo down. “Handsome looking bunch. You’re adopted then, or what, forceps delivery?”
    “It’s great being in your Station again, Marty,” said Nate. He respected the stocky Gable, maybe was even fond of him, but he wasn’t about to say that out loud. Nate had started his third tour two months ago in the bustling anthill that was Athens Station, happily again under the sponsorship of urbane Chief of Station Tom Forsyth and his cynical, profane deputy.
    The three of them had been an effective team, having run several world-class operations over the last years. In Moscow during his first tour, Nate had handled MARBLE, CIA’s best clandestine agent in Russia, until the general was shot during the spy swap they had arranged to rescue him. During his