Jenkins shook the thought. He needed to focus. The matter immediately at hand was Zenaida Petrekova. During his time at Langley, he had memorized both Petrekova’s and Kulikova’s habits and their cues. Each weekday morning, Petrekova walked from her detached, redbrick home to this railway station to take the thirty-minute train ride to the Kazansky railway station in Komsomolskaya Square. From there she crossed the street and took the Metro, exiting at the Okhotnyy Ryad terminal and walking to the State Duma federal building.
When Jenkins got resituated in a new hotel, he had logged into the encrypted chat room using a different access code—it would change daily—and sought additional information on Petrekova. Lemore advised him that Petrekova had performed a Google search on her home computer the night before, looking for Friday’s Moscow weather. She had deliberately misspelled Friday—indicating she desired to communicate. The CIA ran a series of paid advertisements on her weather page, and Petrekova clicked on the one for the Anteka A5 pharmacy, which brought up several ads for common pharmaceutical items. Petrekova clicked on two items, then exited.
Minutes later, she had posted a picture on her Facebook account. She sat in her home kitchen proudly displaying the meal she had cooked for supper—blini, pelmeni, and beef Stroganoff. She had switched on the light above her stove, to simulate the sun, i.e., daytime. The wall clock above the stove read 7:48. The time that she would be at the Anteka A5.
At precisely 7:12 a.m., Petrekova walked down the concrete platform dressed for work in a blouse, skirt, and tennis shoes, her eyes glued to her phone. In her other hand she dangled a cigarette, which she periodically inhaled. Jenkins recognized her from the many photographs he had studied. Midsixties, she blended in seamlessly with the other commuters, though better dressed, befitting her position in the State Duma. Petrekova’s other cue was her scarves. Either she did not wear a scarf, meaning she had nothing to communicate and no need for a meeting with her handler, or if she desired a meeting or had information to pass, she wore a particular colored scarf, coordinated with the particular weekday. Yellow on Monday, red on Tuesday, blue on Wednesday, and so forth. To indicate a problem, she wore a different-colored scarf than the particular day called for. This morning, a Friday, she wore a lightweight blue scarf.
A problem.
Jenkins’s job was to determine the problem, communicate to Petrekova her message had been received and that there was a plan in place to exfiltrate her out of Russia.
Petrekova raised her gaze from her phone and greeted another woman, who approached on the platform from the opposite direction. The two exchanged air kisses and Petrekova put away her phone.
Jenkins put his phone to his ear, simulating a call, but scanned the growing number of commuters gathering on the platform. A minute or two after Petrekova’s arrival, a young woman walked down the platform dressed in business attire, a briefcase slung over her shoulder. But unlike Petrekova and the other women also dressed in business attire, this woman wore heels instead of tennis shoes. She did not regularly commute. Her eyes roamed the platform, as if looking up and down for the approaching train, but each time her head turned, Jenkins noticed the slightest pause when her gaze swept over Petrekova. The woman removed her phone from her coat pocket and considered it. She’d received a text message. She punched the keyboard on her phone, then lowered it. Jenkins watched the other commuters for a reaction. Seconds after the woman sent the message, a man, casually dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt, turned a cell phone over in his hand and read his text. He shoved a cigarette between his lips and blew out smoke, then tapped a reply. Jenkins shifted his attention back to the woman. She turned her phone over. Her partner had also arrived.
Petrekova had been accurate. She had a problem.
When the train arrived, Petrekova and her friend boarded, continuing to chat. Jenkins had to hand it to her. She never broke character, never looked about the platform or gave any indication of concern, though she clearly and rightly suspected she was being followed. The man and the woman entered the car through separate doors. One sat at the front and one at the back. Jenkins stepped onto the car and noticed the CCTV cameras in the ceiling. Big brother. With no seats available, he stood.
With each stop, additional passengers commuting to downtown Moscow boarded, and the car filled with the aroma of aftershave and body odor. At the fourth stop, the young woman in heels departed the train. Jenkins had not expected this. He watched to see if the woman made eye contact with any commuter entering the train, but he did not detect it. He looked behind him. The man remained on the car, on his phone. Jenkins looked at the other passengers, but if the man had texted a message to one of them, Jenkins couldn’t pick out the person.
He swore under his breath. This could complicate things.
After roughly thirty minutes, they arrived at the Kazansky railway station, one of three major hubs in Komsomolskaya Square. Jenkins knew it well. He and Paulina Ponomayova had taken a train from the Leningradsky station to Saint Petersburg while being chased by the FSB.
Petrekova exited. So, too, did the man in the black T-shirt, and presumably an unidentified second tail. Petrekova said goodbye to her commuting friend on the platform and proceeded inside the opulent railway station, crossing marble floors beneath frescoes on the arched ceilings and hanging chandeliers. The hall included multiple businesses, coffee shops and shops with various sundries. Jenkins checked his watch. At 7:48 a.m. Petrekova stepped into an Anteka pharmacy and browsed the aisles. She would stay no more than three minutes.
Jenkins looked again. The man outside the pharmacy had his head tilted up, as if to read the elevated board listing the arriving and departing trains. Jenkins considered the other commuters, then scanned the patrons inside the store, but he could not find the second tail.
With a minute to spare, Jenkins entered the pharmacy and proceeded down the aisle with eye-care products. Petrekova came down the aisle in the opposite direction. Jenkins forced himself not to look at her. He stopped and picked up the first product Petrekova had clicked on the night before.
Visine.
It gets the red out.
Petrekova stopped beside him, picked up contact lens solution to acknowledge she had seen his confirmation. She put the solution in her basket. He noticed her hand shook, despite her polished fa?ade. A good sign. She was afraid. If this had been a setup, she would have nothing to fear.
Jenkins paid for his item at the cash register, turned, and broke off surveillance. He had confirmed Petrekova had a problem and communicated her message had been received. That was the easy part. The harder part would be Petrekova shaking her tail long enough for the two of them to meet someplace and communicate in privacy.
He left the pharmacy and doubled back several times, entering and exiting stores to be certain he was not being followed.
Clean, he went to work on setting up a secure meeting location.
11
Directorate of the Ministry of Internal Affairs
Building 38, Petrovka Street