Back at the car, he waved the gun at Arkhip and Maria inside the vehicle. “Both of you, get out.”
Maria and Arkhip did so. Light inside the concrete room came from fluorescent tubes in light fixtures suspended by chains from the ceiling. Spare car parts littered a wooden workbench along with tools. The aroma of oil and gas permeated the air.
Federov held Arkhip at gunpoint. “Remove your weapon slowly and hand it to me,” he said. Arkhip did so.
“You are a police officer? You have been following me?” Maria said again.
“Not a police officer. A senior investigator. And I was not following you, Ms. Kulikova. I was following Mr. Jenkins. I am sorry for not telling you the truth on the train, but I assume you can understand why.”
“How did you even know we were on the train?”
“I followed you from the apartment building in Moscow to the Yaroslavsky station. When you boarded the Trans-Siberian train I had no choice but to follow.”
“What is your business in this?” Federov asked.
“My business is the murder of Eldar Velikaya,” Arkhip said. “My business is speaking to Mr. Jenkins.”
Federov laughed. “Well, you’ve bitten off a lot more than a murder, Investigator Mishkin.”
Arkhip looked to Maria and spoke calmly. “Yes. It appears that I have.”
“On the train . . .” Maria struggled to find her words. “I don’t understand. Why didn’t you just arrest Mr. Jenkins? Why take the train all the way to Irkutsk?”
Arkhip didn’t immediately answer but his look was telling. He had not been following Maria, but he had been anticipating their meetings. “My situation is complicated, as is yours, Ms. Kulikova. As I said to you the other night, I am being retired. I might already be retired. This is the thanks I get for three decades of service, a pat on the back as I am ushered out the door. I am trying to come to terms with forced retirement, but not before I close this case. Not for them—they have already removed me from it. For myself.”
Maria looked to Federov and they all collectively exhaled. “What do we do now?” she asked.
“He stays with us for now,” Federov said. “We can’t very well let him leave; and killing a Moscow police officer will generate more interest, and we have enough as it is.”
“I assure you. I have no interest in this except in speaking to Mr. Jenkins. If I cannot leave on my terms, at least I will leave with a perfect record. It is a small thing, and it isn’t.”
“What is your interest in this, Viktor?” Maria said. “Are you a CIA asset?”
Federov chuckled. “No. I am not CIA. I am no longer FSB. I have no affiliation with government organizations any longer, nor do I wish to be so affiliated.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Money,” Federov said. “It pays better to be an independent contractor.”
“You approached the CIA and offered your services?”
“No. The CIA, Mr. Jenkins specifically, approached me several months ago and asked for my services.”
“You helped him get Paulina Ponomayova out of Lefortovo Prison and out of the country.”
“Yes,” he said. “For which I was paid very well.”
“Then why are you here now . . . It doesn’t sound like you need the money.”
“One can always use more money, Ms. Kulikova.” He shook his head. “But no. It was not the money. Mr. Jenkins’s handler found me in Paris. It seems the CIA has followed me for some time, my alias anyway. They seek to turn me.” He looked to Arkhip. “But like you, I will do this on my terms, nobody else’s. Mr. Jenkins’s handler told me the situation. I said it was of no concern of mine. He offered me money; I told him I had money. Then he offered me something I didn’t have.”
“What?” she said.
“The chance to spit in Dmitry Sokalov’s face is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, is it not?”
“The man who fired you.”
“Yes. Besides, Mr. Jenkins’s handler told me his plan to get you out, and I am from Irkutsk. I was born and raised here. I have many friends, and I know this city like the back of my hand.”
“You sent the message about ‘a friend.’”
“Yes. But as it always seems to be with Mr. Jenkins, nothing is simple, is it? The men who grabbed him, do you know who they are?”
“They work for Yekaterina Velikaya,” Arkhip said.
“Vot der’mo,” Federov said. “When Jenkins gets himself in trouble, he really gets himself in trouble. And the other man?”
“Alexander Zhomov,” Maria said. “He—”
“Vot der’mo,” Federov said again, sounding exasperated. He let out a held breath and ran his hand over the stubble atop his head. “I am well familiar with Alexander Zhomov, and his reputation.”
“Who is he, exactly?” Arkhip asked. “FSB, no doubt.”
Maria explained.
“This is getting more and more interesting,” Federov said, continuing to rub his stubble as he paced.
Maria told him the conclusion she and Jenkins had reached. Why Sokalov wished to keep her apprehension quiet.
“It makes sense,” Federov said. “Then can I presume that the rumors of your relationship with Sokalov being more than professional are true?”
Maria glanced at Arkhip, then redirected her focus on Federov. “Yes. They are true.”
Federov chuckled. “Don’t look so surprised, Ms. Kulikova. There were many rumors inside Lubyanka.”
“Mr. Jenkins would be a very big fish for Sokalov to land,” Maria said. “His goal has always been to be chairman and to work at the Kremlin.”
“True. But Jenkins is on a kill list.”
“He is,” she said, “but Sokalov would have another purpose for him.”
“Which is what?”
“To provide the Kremlin with someone they could exchange for the two members of Zaslon recently arrested in a failed attempt to kill Fyodor Ibragimov.”
Federov’s eyes widened. “Tvoyu mat’,” he said. Holy shit. “When did this happen?”
“Recently. The Americans have not yet acknowledged it, or that they are holding the two men.”
“They’re waiting for the Kremlin to act first,” Federov said. “An admission would be a huge embarrassment, especially if the Americans can prove the president was aware of the operation.”
“Yes, it would,” Maria said. “Not to mention justifying a condemnation and the imposition of strong sanctions other NATO countries would join. If Sokalov can deliver Mr. Jenkins, he provides the Kremlin with a powerful bargaining chip to get the two men returned quietly.”
Federov looked to Arkhip. “It seems you and the Velikayas are not the only ones who want Mr. Jenkins, Senior Investigator Arkhip Mishkin.”
“It would seem not,” Arkhip agreed.
“As I said, when Mr. Jenkins steps in the shit, it is deep. Tell me, Mishkin, about the death of Eldar Velikaya and why you wish to speak to Jenkins. We may be able to use this to our advantage. But be quick about it. I don’t believe Mr. Jenkins has much time.”
45
Irkutsk Meatpacking Plant