Sokalov had returned to his office frantic, angry, and terrified of what awaited him. In time he had calmed enough to realize that the timing of Charles Jenkins’s return to Moscow could also not be a coincidence, not with the creation of the clandestine FSB operation to find and terminate the seven sisters. Maria had access to this information as well, and she clearly had alerted American intelligence. Jenkins’s return to Moscow could be for just one reason, to bring home the remaining sisters before they, too, were discovered and executed. To bring home Maria Kulikova, and whoever else remained out there in operation.
Maria fit the profile. Her age. Her position at work. Her access to confidential information. She had cultivated her relationship with Sokalov, playing on his prurient desires until he craved them as much as he craved her, addicted to the pleasure and the pain that she could so artfully administer. But in the midst of Sokalov’s torment and despair, a flicker of clarity revealed itself, a flicker that provided perhaps his only hope, his only means to survive.
He could still save himself. Even now. He had always been able to save himself.
The FSB, like the KGB, was compartmentalized for security reasons. No one outside his division knew what happened within his directorate. Nothing was taken home. Not a tape recorder or a scrap of paper. At night, each agent locked his work in a safe in his office affixed with a personal seal broken only by that agent the following morning. The computer server was an internal network that only allowed officers to send communications to other officers within the Counterintelligence Directorate.
Operation Herod was known by fewer still. The president had entrusted the matter to Sokalov in complete confidentiality. Sokalov had handpicked the half-dozen members of the operation team, and they, too, had been sworn to secrecy under penalty of termination.
Sokalov replayed what Bogdan Petrov had last said to him, Lebedev, and Pasternak in the conference room.
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.
And that was when Sokalov hit on the idea—just how he might manipulate his way out of this predicament. The arrest of General Pasternak’s two men might very well prove to be a stroke of fortune, as opposed to a massive intelligence breach, that could save Sokalov’s life. If Zhomov could kill Maria, her betrayals would remain hidden. If he could bring in Jenkins, the Kremlin could use him as the needed bargaining chip to exchange for Pasternak’s two men. Sokalov would not look like a fool but a hero. He would eliminate one of the seven sisters—not that anyone would know Maria had been one—while reprising another biblical story of King Herod. He would bring the president the head of Charles Jenkins, though still very much attached to his body, and very much alive.
Zhomov sat patiently. He fingered the silver crucifix that hung around his neck, a habit when deep in thought, or interrogating a suspected spy. “Tell me what you need, Dmitry.”
“First, I need a few loose ends taken care of,” he said, so no one could ever talk of what Sokalov had allowed to happen, and with Zhomov’s help, no one ever would. “Then I will need you to do what you do best—hunt down an American spy and bring him to me.”
21
Korolyov
Moscow Oblast, Russia
As Jenkins applied Petrekova’s mask and makeup, he could not shake the thought of FSB officers barging in the door to arrest him, could not shake the vision of spending years in a Lefortovo prison cell like the one Paulina Ponomayova had occupied.
The clock on the wall ticked. Jenkins turned his head when it emitted an annoying buzz, as if to find and smash a fly.
“It sticks,” Petrekova whispered. She shrugged and smiled, but her smile had a sad quality to it. “You get used to it. When you live alone, noise can be comforting.”
Petrekova’s leg shook a nervous beat, and Jenkins had trouble applying her makeup because she was sweating, despite an oscillating fan they had placed on the counter to move the air and, along with the television, disrupt any eavesdropping. Jenkins derived comfort from the fact that Petrekova displayed nerves and looked around her home wistfully as she discussed what had been her life. She pointed out the photographs on the living room mantel of her deceased husband and her son and her daughter. Her family. Jenkins knew she did so because she wanted to take those photographs with her, another indication she planned to leave, that she did not have an intent to deceive him. Either that or she had missed her calling on the Russian stage.
He dabbed a bit more makeup with the sponge, then sat back to admire Langley’s handiwork. He held up a mirror so Petrekova could see his creation. She gently touched the mask, then smiled.
“Slip on the clothes,” he said, checking his watch. “I’ll call for the delivery.”
Petrekova did as he instructed, then paced the kitchen while Jenkins put the makeup kit away. When he had finished, there was a knock at the front door. Petrekova startled, then seemed to regain her composure with a few deep breaths. Jenkins nodded to her, hoping to give her confidence, but inside he felt his own nerves and braced for the worst.
Petrekova walked to the entry and looked through the peephole, then turned back to Jenkins and nodded. He stepped into a darkened corner of the living room as she opened the door.
Roughly an hour after Zenaida Petrekova had returned home, a car with a Domino’s Pizza light attached to the roof drove down the darkened road past where Chernoff and Vinchenko had parked. The street, pitch-black and without streetlamps, was lit only by a few sporadic lights affixed to the fences and the ambient light from stars in a cloudless sky. Vinchenko remained behind the wheel, seat reclined, his eyes closed.
“Delivery driver,” Chernoff said.
Vinchenko grunted.
“Have you tried it?” Chernoff asked.
“Tried what?” he said, without opening his eyes.
She looked over at him. “Domino’s.”
“No.”
The Domino’s driver stopped at the gate to Petrekova’s home. Chernoff sat up, taking notice. She trained binoculars on the driver, face mostly hidden beneath a ball cap and shadows. “He’s going to Petrekova’s home.”
“I guess she didn’t want to cook.”
“I think it’s a woman,” she said, adjusting the focus.
“Who?”
“The delivery driver.” Chernoff gave this a moment of thought. “Does that seem odd to you?”
“I assume delivery drivers come in all shapes and sizes,” he said, still not opening his eyes.
“That’s not what I meant. Last night she posted a photo on Facebook after cooking a gourmet meal. Tonight, she is eating crap. Seems odd to me.”
“She got home late from her appointment, is tired, and doesn’t want to cook. What’s odd about that?”
“I don’t like it. With the fence and the window shades drawn we can’t see enough to know what is happening.”
“What’s to see?”
“Something is odd to me.”
“Are your spidey senses tingling?”
“What?”
“You have children. Surely you have seen Spider-Man.”
“Why is it taking so much time to drop off a pizza?”
Vinchenko sat up and looked down the road. “I think you are starting to let your imagination run wild.” The gate opened and the driver stepped out, walking back to the car. “There. You see. No big deal.”