“I’ve had difficulty freeing myself from work,” she said, her message deliberate.
“And today?”
“Today I was determined to do so, and I believe I have succeeded.”
“I understand,” Suriev said, playing with her hair.
“Can you save me before it’s too late?”
Suriev smiled. “Of course. I think we need to trim your split ends while we are at it. They have become unruly.”
“Whatever you say,” she said. “I’m all yours.”
Suriev directed Petrekova to the free chair behind the divider. She looked at Jenkins and the woman seated at the other sink, then sat and leaned her head back while Suriev washed her hair and kept up a steady flow of questions and comments in case someone listened in on the salon. He wrapped her hair in a white towel, then stepped to the look-alike and, using a second towel to partially obscure her face, led her back to the stylist’s chair, rotating the chair so the back of the look-alike’s head faced the salon windows. There was no mirror to reflect her image.
Dmitry Sokalov would have shrunk in his conference room seat at Lubyanka, if possible, to avoid Chairman Bogdan Petrov’s stare. Gavril Lebedev sat two seats to Pasternak’s left on the same side of the table and looked to also be inching himself as far away from the chairman as possible. Petrov stood with his palms planted on the table and peered up at the three men from beneath his bushy gray eyebrows. His gaze, for the moment, burned holes in General Kliment Pasternak.
“Tell me, General, how two of your most highly trained men could be apprehended by simple Virginia State Police officers.” Petrov, a veteran of many clandestine wars, spoke evenly, though his eyes betrayed his calm fa?ade and demeanor.
Pasternak blew out a breath and shook his head. “Everything was going according to plan, Chairman Petrov.”
“Apparently not,” Petrov interrupted. He straightened. His eyes never left Pasternak. A signal that the general’s answer had been insufficient.
Pasternak tried again. “The wife left the house with the two children as scheduled. My men were to wait until they received confirmation of the traffic accident. Confirmation that did not come.”
“Why did they not abort immediately?”
“Traffic is as bad in Virginia as here in Moscow. They thought perhaps . . .”
Petrov slapped the table, and his face blotched red. “They are not paid to think, General. They are paid to follow orders. Your orders. Apparently, you did not make your orders clear. At the first sign of anything out of the ordinary they should have immediately aborted.”
“They did not have time to do so. Ten minutes after the wife left the house, she returned, with the two children still in the car.”
Petrov paced the room. “Why did the wife come back?”
“I do not yet know. Perhaps one of the children became sick, or left something at home—homework or a school lunch. I don’t know.”
“Why did your men not leave immediately when the wife returned home?”
“That was the intent, but the police showed up before they had the chance.”
“Who called the police?” Petrov asked.
“Again, we do not know. All I can suggest at the moment is conjecture.”
“Which is?”
“That the wife saw the car and my men when she left and had a heightened sense of concern given recent poisonings of persons in similar circumstances as her husband. I can only assume she alerted the police, who also had been made aware of Ibragimov’s circumstances, and they responded immediately.”
“Where are your men now?” Petrov asked.
“We do not at present know. We are attempting to find out without divulging any link back to Lubyanka or the Kremlin. It is tricky,” Pasternak said.
A sickening silence permeated the room. After nearly a full minute, Lebedev waded in with a question. “Have we any information from our diplomats? Perhaps the ambassador—”
“Can what?” Petrov’s eyes shifted to Lebedev and nearly burned a hole through him. Lebedev looked as if he had melted into the leather. “Ask whether the Virginia police happened to arrest two men from Russia’s most elite special forces division sitting in a car outside the home of a Russian traitor? On this General Pasternak is correct. The Americans will deny they have detained anyone and wait for us to ask about the two men. It would be a tacit admission that your men, General, were authorized by the Russian government to kill Fyodor Ibragimov.”
“What then are our options?” Sokalov asked, his voice soft.
“Precisely,” Petrov said. “What options can I take to the president?”
“My men will reveal nothing,” Pasternak said, trying to sound defiant.
“Their presence has revealed enough,” Petrov shot back.
Sokalov knew where this was headed. The president would need to be protected at all costs. Their job now was to provide an excuse to ensure plausible deniability by the Kremlin. It meant someone high up, someone no doubt seated at that table, would have to fall on his sword and admit that his office, without the Kremlin’s knowledge or consent, had authorized the mission. In short, someone at the table would be the sacrificial lamb. The United States would never believe this explanation, but they would accept it if they could use it to their advantage, as both sides had done in the past, most likely for an exchange of spies in Russian custody. If the Americans wished to play hardball, however, they could take the matter to an international court and put Russia on a public stage of humiliation and embarrassment.
“Our job now is to protect the president,” Petrov said, right on cue. “Our job is to find an alternative that will be satisfactory to the Americans, get our men back, and not result in a black-eye embarrassment to this administration.”
No one at the table said a word.
After a moment Lebedev cleared his throat. “If I may suggest . . .”
Petrov glared at him. Sokalov knew that look. Whatever Lebedev had to say, it had better be good.
“If I might suggest that what has happened here is not a simple coincidence.”
That comment drew Sokalov’s and Pasternak’s attention. Both knew what was to come.
“Meaning what?” Petrov asked.
“Meaning that the wife did not just happen to return home, and the Virginia police did not just happen to be in the area before General Pasternak’s men could abort and flee.”
Sokalov knew what Lebedev was suggesting and what the rat bastard was attempting to do. He was looking to place blame on anyone but himself, likely Pasternak.
“I am suggesting that perhaps the Americans intended this to appear to be a coincidence in order to protect a high-level mole within Lubyanka who leaked the information.” Lebedev shifted his girth and looked directly at Sokalov.