The Kremlin's Candidate: A Novel

Dominika’s return from China—rumors of her secret commission to Beijing had the siloviki (except Gorelikov and FSB Chief Bortnikov) frantic with envy and trepidation—coincided with the announcement of her promotion to one-star general and to the post of Director of the SVR. Chubby, jowly faces clustered around her after the Security Council meeting to congratulate her, enveloping her in an impossibly cloying miasma of competing colognes underlaid with the earthy fear-sweat of officials who had millions squirreled away in overseas accounts. It, therefore, was important to establish good relations with this

shlyukha, this former trollop, who now had the organizational means and authorities to investigate foreign bank accounts whenever Vladimir Vladimirovich ordered it. Beefsteak hands with manicured nails and pinky rings pumped her hand and yellow halos quivered above their yellow smiles, interspersed by the rare blue crowns of the few pragmatic thinkers on the Council, the occasional gazelles who roamed among the muddy-flanked buffaloes. The thinkers had a low survival rate in the jungles of the Kremlin.

The official promotion ceremony took place the following week in the gilded Andreyevsky Hall in the Grand Kremlin Palace, in front of the forty-foot curved gold filigreed doors, above which the black double-headed eagle of the Russian Federation stood guard, wings outspread, the orb and scepter in its talons. The relics represented God’s dominion over the Earth, and the monarch’s benevolent and just rule over his people. Dominika contemplated the towering irony of benevolence and justice in modern Russia as the president approached her to pin the Order for Merit to the Fatherland, First Class, on the lapel of her forest-green tunic, the military uniform the service chiefs wore to ceremonial events to reflect their flag ranks. Dominika hated the baggy cut of the double-breasted jacket, the stiff epaulets, and the straight-line green skirt, more suitable for a librarian or a wedding magistrate’s clerk. The clunky black service shoes, she couldn’t even look at.

“Pozdravlyayu

, General,” said Putin, looking into her eyes. Felicitations. His fingers lingered while pinning the medal on her lapel, solicitously smoothing the hanging claret ribbon, brushing with knowing fingers the start of the swell of her left breast. Dominika idly wondered if there was an ornate general’s belt buckle to be awarded next, that would present additional opportunity for the president to smooth the folds of her uniform skirt.

“Thank you, Mr. President, I will continue to serve the Rodina with all my energies,” said Dominika, standing at what she imagined was a semblance of attention. Putin’s azure halo pulsed once, and he gave her an olive oil smile that unambiguously transmitted, no, serve me with all your energies, stuff the

Rodina, as he shook her hand and stepped sideways to the other medal recipient, a twenty-seven-year-old champion rhythmic gymnast, who was retiring from the sport and had been named as a district organizer for Yedinaya Rossiya, the United Russia Party—the government’s party that controlled 75 percent of Parliamentary seats. Dominika wondered how she had qualified for that position. The president turned back to Dominika after laboriously pinning a sports medal on the blushing gymnast.

“I look forward to hosting you at the reception at the cape in several days,” said Putin, leering. Dominika wondered if her dacha was wired for sound and video, and if the president had a key to the front door. Stupid questions.

“I will be there, Mr. President. Thank you for the invitation. And I must thank you again for use of the dacha. It’s quite beautiful.”

Putin nodded. “The view of the sea from that particular dacha is second only to the view from the master apartment in the main house,” he said as if he were selling shares in a Ponzi scheme.

Dominika smiled. “I have no doubt of that,” she said, noncommittally. She was not going to stick out her chest, wet her lips, and tell him she couldn’t wait to compare the two views. How to keep a suspicious, covetous, and randy despot’s hands off you for two or three days without incurring his wrath, or worse, embarrassing him regarding performance issues? There were bawdy rumors on the streets of Moscow that Dimitri Medvedev, Putin’s diminutive prime minister, a protégé who had switched leadership positions with Putin as a way to satisfy term limits laws, was better endowed and, well, more feral than his supposedly ubervirile patron. Medvedev’s nickname from those years was Nano President, but the mere thought that Putin was not the rampant alpha wolf among the whole pack could not be remotely contemplated. “Until then,” said the president before moving off. She felt footsteps coming up behind her.