Sokalov, initially surprised, took several moments to gather himself. He fumed. “If your suggestion is intended to implicate me, need I remind the deputy director that the president and I go back a very long way, to childhood in fact, that we have been friends for more than sixty years. So please, do not be discreet. Take your implication directly to the president and see how far it goes.”
Lebedev smiled like the cat who had caught his prey. “You are too defensive, Dmitry.” The use of Sokalov’s first name, a sign of disrespect, was purposeful and did not go unnoticed. “I did not intend to implicate you. There was someone else from your office in our most recent meeting. Someone from your directorate whose presence you insisted upon, despite my objections. A woman, in power, over the age of sixty.”
Sokalov fought against overreacting. “I will have you know . . . Gavril, that Maria Kulikova has worked for me for nearly four decades. Her parents were proud and prominent Communist Party members, and she has been vetted on a number of occasions with no findings of even the smallest stitch of impropriety.”
“Perhaps you are . . . too close to Ms. Kulikova to be objective? Is it not your task force’s job to interrogate Russian women over sixty years of age and in positions of power? And yet, she has not yet been interrogated.”
Sokalov sought another way to defend and deflect. “Your comment is not only offensive to Ms. Kulikova and to me, it is an offense to my wife, Olga, and to her father, General Portnov.” Sokalov did not like his father-in-law, but he was not averse to playing that card when it was to his benefit.
“We all know your father-in-law,” Lebedev said, but with a tone of caution. “I’m asking why Ms. Kulikova has not yet been questioned by your task force.”
“Perhaps you would like to bring something to his attention?”
“If you are through stabbing each other in the back, put your daggers away,” Petrov said. “We have more important matters to deal with. General, I want a full update as soon as you have it. Dmitry, as charming as I find Ms. Kulikova, you will undertake an internal investigation to ensure nothing untoward has occurred.” He sighed. “I have the unenviable task of breaking the news to the president. But let me make myself very clear, gentlemen. A head . . . or heads . . . will roll. And it will not be mine. I would suggest that you get busy finding the president an alternative he can use to save face if you wish to keep your heads attached to your bodies.”
14
Do or Dye Beauty Salon
Moscow, Russia
Jenkins led Petrekova down the narrow staircase to the cramped storage room. Upstairs, Sergei increased the volume of the music. Jenkins turned a dial on what appeared to be an old-fashioned radio on a shelf. It emitted white noise.
“I did not pick up on a tail this afternoon,” Petrekova said, speaking Russian.
“A young woman waiting by the Metro stairs. She followed you this morning on the platform, though she changed her appearance this afternoon. Shorts, a T-shirt, hair pulled back in a ponytail. Black-framed glasses.”
“I spotted the woman this morning at the train, as well as a man. The woman got off the train two stops early.” Petrekova wrapped an arm around her waist. In the basement she had dropped her guard. She looked and sounded frightened. “I have gone back over everything I have done the past six months. I can think of nothing to warrant this attention.”
“When did you first notice that you were being followed?”
“Four days ago I picked up on the tail as I commuted to work. I was not certain, but I saw the same man that afternoon when I left the office. He communicated by cell phone to a woman, the same one as this morning. I did this for several days to be certain before I sent word to my handler.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong.” Jenkins explained the president’s authorization of Operation Herod.
“He’s gone from a rifle to a shotgun then,” Petrekova said.
“I’m afraid so.”
“But I am an elected member of the Duma and have been for twenty years.”
“Your position won’t protect you. In fact, it probably pushed you to the top of the list. You have access to information others do not. They are undoubtedly checking to determine if any such information to which you were privy resulted in an asset or operation being burned.”
“Then I guess this is over, isn’t it? Do you have a plan to get me out?”
Jenkins nodded. “We do.”
“When?”
Jenkins would not disclose any details in case Petrekova was a double agent. “You must be prepared to leave at a moment’s notice.” Petrekova should have known better than to ask, but he chalked it up to nerves. “You can bring nothing with you.” He did not want her to be tempted to take something of sentimental value—a photo album, a piece of jewelry, or other items that would potentially alert authorities to her escape.
Petrekova paced the cramped quarters.
“I know you’re frightened,” Jenkins said. “I know it is hard to leave, but do as I say, when I say it, and everything will be fine.”
Not all spies chose to leave their countries, frightened by an uncertain future in an uncertain country with a different language and different customs and without the support of family or friends. Some spies chose instead to remain and take their chances, retiring and going dormant. The problem with this option, however, had become abundantly clear when two American traitors, Robert Hanssen and Aldrich Ames, compromised hundreds of highly classified CIA assets within the Russian government, including many who had retired. Those assets had been immediately arrested, tortured for information, and executed.
Petrekova shook her head. “I am more afraid not to leave. Since my husband’s death, I go home each night and rattle around in an empty house and an empty bed. I cook gourmet dinners for one, just to pass the hours. Weekends I spend in the yard, when the weather allows, or visit friends. Neither of my two children live in Moscow any longer, tired of the regime and the corruption. My son lives in Berlin with his German wife. My daughter lives in Canada, working for a high-tech company. Both have implored me to retire and to leave the country. It is time. I feel constantly sick, unable to eat or to sleep. This is no life for me—for anyone. I am ready to go.”
Jenkins checked his watch. He had started the stopwatch when they reentered the basement. “You must leave everything in your home as it is—dishes in the sink, a bed unmade, a radio or television on, so as not to arouse any suspicion. Do you have plans on the weekends, things you do routinely?”
“No.”
That would hopefully give them sixty hours before suspicions were raised when Petrekova did not appear at the train platform for her regular Monday morning commute.
“Is your house being watched?”
“I presume so, but I don’t know.”
Jenkins would have to determine this. “Any questions?” he asked. Petrekova shook her head. “It’s time,” he said. “You better get back upstairs.”
She started up the stairs, stopped, and looked down at him. “Are you the man who came before, to stop the American spy divulging the names of the other sisters? The one who got the woman out of Lefortovo?”