The telephone on his desk rang.
Arkhip picked up the receiver. “Mishkin,” he said.
“Have you stopped reading your e-mails now as well? Why are you so opposed to technology, Mishkin?”
“Who is this?”
“Come down to the technology department. I have something I think will interest you.”
Stepanov hung up. Arkhip stared at the receiver, then at the picture of Lada on his desk. “Nah,” he said. “It’s probably nothing.”
A man who looks at a glass as half empty will always be half full, Lada said.
Arkhip stepped inside the Technology Center, about to ring the counter bell when Stepanov came out of his office. “Follow me.” He looked very much like he had secrets to hide.
“Where?” Arkhip asked.
“Don’t be obstinate. Just do as I say, Mishkin.”
Arkhip followed Stepanov into one of the computer rooms, whereupon Stepanov locked the door and lowered the blinds. He typed at one of the computer terminals.
“What are you doing, Stepanov?”
“Preserving my retirement, which, unlike you, I am very much looking forward to, and financially planning to afford.” Stepanov hacked at the keys, then sat back. “There.”
“There what?”
“Don’t be thick, Mishkin. Look at the screen. What do you see?”
“I see a man and a woman.”
Stepanov closed his eyes and shook his head, clearly frustrated. “You are as thick as butter, Mishkin. How you have solved every one of your cases is beyond me. Who were you searching for yesterday when you came into my office?”
“I was searching for—”
Stepanov raised a hand. “Don’t say his name.” He pushed his chair back from the desk. “I know nothing. You know how to move the video forward and backward and how to zoom in and out, I presume?”
“Yes, of course. But who is the woman?”
“The file, Mishkin. The file.” Stepanov motioned to the file on the desk. He sighed and moved toward the door, gripping the door handle.
“Stepanov.”
Stepanov did not turn to face him. “Do not thank me, Mishkin. This was no act of heroism or duty. It was an act of self-preservation. I am not worried about you turning me in, but if word somehow got back to the Velikayas that I had somehow discussed . . .” He sighed. “I would not have to worry at all about my retirement. I am hoping this will be sufficient.”
With that, Stepanov stepped out, shutting the door behind him.
Arkhip didn’t know what to think. Could it have been his Lada who found a way to get Stepanov to redirect his moral compass and do the right thing? Or was it just as Stepanov had said—conscience be damned, this had been another selfish act. Arkhip wouldn’t know, but it felt better believing his Lada was somehow involved.
Don’t question the motivation for the act, Arkhip, just accept the act as one driven by motivation.
Yes, Lada.
He opened the manila file folder on the desk and found an official-looking photo of Charles Jenkins, along with his vitals and the various crimes he had supposedly committed inside Russia justifying the Kremlin seeking a red notice from the National Crime Agency, and making his apprehension of the highest priority. It was all very interesting, but perhaps not as interesting as the fact that Adrian Zima said his friend who had provided the information on Charles Jenkins’s return to Russia was now missing.
It could not be a simple coincidence, but who would want to kill an FSB officer? And why?
Arkhip set aside the photograph and found another, this of a beautiful woman, that gave him pause. The only other woman to cause this type of visceral reaction had been Lada. This woman was well put together. Her auburn hair had been cut and styled and fell to just above her shoulders. Her face practically levitated off the page. Straight white teeth, fine features, and inviting green eyes behind thick lashes. Arkhip looked to her vitals, her most important feature—her height. Five feet seven inches.
Maria Kulikova. Sixty-three years of age.
“Hmm.”
He read more about her. His mind churned. Kulikova was director of the Secretariat within the Counterintelligence Directorate. Another coincidence? Unlikely. Arkhip knew enough about Lubyanka and the FSB to know the Counterintelligence Directorate belonged to Dmitry Sokalov, and he knew Sokalov to be one of many elevated to a high place within the government because he grew up with the president in Saint Petersburg.
Arkhip hit “Play.” Jenkins and Kulikova walked the streets of Moscow. They looked like they had just stepped from a shower, their clothes wrinkled and wet, Kulikova’s hair straight and flat. Jenkins did not appear to be forcibly taking Kulikova anywhere. Arkhip reasoned what that could mean.
Arkhip would double-check to be sure, but he had not seen any bulletin seeking the arrest of either Jenkins or Kulikova. Why not? Could it just be too big an embarrassment for Sokalov and Lubyanka? Was Sokalov seeking to suppress this matter and handle the discipline internally?
This sounded very much like someone, or some persons, working hard to cover their asses. Or maybe Arkhip was just predisposed to think such a thing because it seemed to be a genetic trait found in all political figures. Or maybe it was because Arkhip was in the middle of an investigation in which everyone seemed to be covering their asses.
Jenkins and Kulikova turned the corner. The video coverage ended. Again, an oddity, but in a case filled with oddities, perfectly fitting.
Still, it was something.
And something was better than what Arkhip had before, which had been nothing.
He walked away from the video to the door. He’d do what he’d always done. He’d follow this lead and see where it took him.
31
Varsonof’yevskiy Pereulok
Moscow, Russia
Charles Jenkins leaned against the wall and peeked from behind the window curtain. A white van had parked at the front entrance to the building, and a man got out wearing white coveralls and a black baseball-style cap pulled low on his brow. He was tall—Jenkins estimated several inches over six feet—and dark skinned. The man moved to the back of the van and opened the doors, removing a handcart. He put a large cardboard box on the cart and wheeled it to the front door beneath the pergola.
The buzzer on the intercom rang. At the front door Jenkins pressed the button. “Hello.”
“Mogu ya uvidet’ Nikolaya?” Is Nicholas in?
“Spasibo,” Jenkins responded, and buzzed the man in.
He turned to tell Kulikova to hide in the back room until he was certain the man was legitimate. Kulikova, in the doorframe between the hall and the living room, held a gun, the barrel pointed at Jenkins.
Jenkins froze.
“Just to be sure,” she said.
“Where did you get that?”
“I’ve hidden it here in the apartment for many years. I can’t tell you the number of times I wanted to shoot Sokalov with it.”
Jenkins let out a held breath. “Hide in the bedroom in back. If you hear me say ‘Kremlin,’ come out. If I say ‘Saint Basil’s,’ do not.”