“They say that can cause you to go blind,” a colleague had said on his way out the door. “Among other things.”
Egorov smiled, but he was in no mood for jokes. He faced a dilemma. Adrian Zima had been his friend for twenty years; they had forged a friendship as students at the University of Moscow studying criminology and science. They each wanted to work in law enforcement. Zima found his joy working behind the scenes, finding clues in the tiniest corners of a crime scene that could break a case wide open. Zima had always related his work to solving a puzzle.
Egorov liked the criminal sciences, but he didn’t aspire to be a lab rat. He wanted to get outdoors, where the action happened. He didn’t want to be hunting criminals through microscopes and spectrograms; he wanted to be chasing them down in fast cars. While Zima had remained at the Criminal Investigation Department, Egorov became an FSB officer. Being a federal employee certainly had its advantages, but Egorov soon learned the days of chasing down criminals in cars were quickly coming to an end. Now, most everything was done with computers and cameras. FSB officers were on their way to becoming the geeks Egorov had sought to avoid.
Egorov was currently sitting on a ticking time bomb, though, and it had been Zima who triggered the fuse. Zima had called and asked Egorov to run a name for him in the FSB database, a name that had come up from a latent fingerprint at a crime scene in the Yakimanka District, but for which the ministry did not have a match. Egorov and Zima had done favors for one another in the past, and Zima had let slip that the print could be related to the shooting of Eldar Velikaya. The death of the son of Moscow’s largest crime family was big news.
The fingerprint had turned out to be even bigger news.
It was not every day you learned that one of the most sought-after men in FSB history was back in Moscow. Charles Jenkins was an international criminal. The Kremlin had put out a red notice and alerted Britain’s National Crime Agency that Jenkins was wanted in Russia to stand trial on numerous criminal charges. Finding his fingerprint was like finding a gold nugget in a mountain stream. Extremely rare and extremely valuable—if Egorov played it correctly. Possessing information of this import could distinguish Egorov and help him to move up the FSB ladder, maybe into the counterintelligence unit.
He risked a lifelong friendship perhaps, but then, Zima didn’t have to know he’d breached their confidence. And if Zima found out . . . well, Egorov could say simply he was only doing his duty. For the Kremlin and for Russia.
And if a little something extra were to fall his way as a result . . . could a good friend like Zima begrudge Egorov a morsel . . . or a nugget?
He picked up the phone. He did not intend to speak to just anyone, fearful someone might steal this golden nugget for themselves. He’d practiced his delivery. He had information for the director’s eyes only. If he got any pushback, he’d tell the person to tell Sokalov that the information related to someone for whom the directorate had requested a red notice from the National Crime Agency. That would narrow the possibilities significantly. He dialed the number with visions of fast cars, fast women, and shootouts once again dancing in his head.
Maria Kulikova left her office at just after 6:00 p.m., careful not to appear rushed—or guilty.
What have you done, Helge?
Sokalov would be tied up in high-level meetings. For this, Maria could be thankful. The meeting and the tryst in his office would distract him from the conversation with Helge that afternoon. Over the past twenty years, Maria had learned which buttons to push, the fetishes the letch relished, and how to inflict pleasure and pain. She had learned that, when aroused, Sokalov was like a bull elk in rut. He thought of nothing but the sex, remembered nothing but the sex. For decades he had told her everything and remembered nothing.
But the information had come at a steep price.
Maria had allowed herself to fall to a depth of depravity and degradation that haunted her days and kept her awake at night. She feared she had lost her moral compass, the very essence of herself as a good and decent person. A person she could be proud of.
Upon leaving Lubyanka, Maria contemplated a taxi, but at this hour, on a Friday night, a taxi would take far longer than the Metro. One look at the snarling traffic confirmed it.
She needed to get home quickly.
What have you done, Helge?
The attempt to kill Fyodor Ibragimov had been thwarted, and though the CIA had attempted to make it look like a coincidence, a mother returning home to find two men seated in a car, Maria was not so na?ve. Neither were Chairman Petrov or Deputy Director Lebedev. They were also not blinded by her sexuality. Petrov perhaps, but certainly not Lebedev.
There had only been five people in Sokalov’s office that afternoon. How many more knew of the operation? Maria would be closely monitored, if she was not already.
And now Helge had given them something else to consider.
He told Sokalov of the phone calls to their apartment, of the wrong numbers, and how he had followed her to the temple. Did Sokalov realize her actions were the same night, just after they had all gathered to discuss the operation? Did Helge tell Sokalov of the phone call asking for Anna? Would Sokalov be able to control his sickening urges long enough to put all the clues together?
She had made up the excuse about the candles on the fly. It was both brilliant and careless. Brilliant because it provided a viable explanation for both her and her handler’s behavior. Careless because it could so easily be proven false—were Sokalov interested enough to send someone to the temple. There were no candles behind the statue, only a moveable stone in the pedestal—a dead drop used to pass things like microchips and cassette tapes.
Maria stepped onto her train and found a seat near the door. She studied the faces of the other commuters in case one chose to follow her. If so, she might already be too late. She could run, leave Russia, but Helge would see no reason to do so. And if Sokalov determined the truth about Maria, that she was one of the seven sisters and had spied beneath his nose for decades, he could never let her or Helge live. He could never let that information get out.
His father-in-law would kill him.
So, too, would the president.
What have you done, Helge?
Sokalov fiddled with a napkin at a table in the back of Vos’myorka s rulevym—the Coxed Eight. The bar was not far from his home in the Rublyovka suburb where many government officials and wealthy businesspeople lived. Homes cost up to $80 million. Sokalov had his father-in-law to thank for their 2.5-acre estate, ten-thousand-square-foot home, pool, tennis court, private movie theater, and gym. The general had received the home when communism fell and capitalism became a money grab. Things, like homes, were a way to pay those who had devoted their lives to the Soviet Union. Sokalov’s estate came at a price, however.