“Did you enjoy it?”
“I did,” he said. “I enjoyed our evenings on the train, Maria. I enjoyed your company very much.”
“Then it was a success. You said, if so, you might travel again.”
Mishkin nodded. “I did. And I hope to.”
“Have you ever had a desire to see the United States, Arkhip?”
Mishkin smiled. “Indeed. It, too, is on my long bucket list. I would like to see the national parks. The Grand Canyon, I think.”
“As would I,” Maria said.
Jenkins was in no position to make either a promise that they would be reunited. After weeks of debriefing, Maria would be given a new name, a new identity, possibly plastic surgery, and a new life. As long as Putin remained in power, her life would be in danger. Could the CIA find a way for Mishkin to meet with her? Mishkin had nothing to do with Sokalov or the FSB, and the FSB would know nothing of this budding relationship between Mishkin and Maria. Jenkins imagined that once Mishkin retired he could take a trip to the United States without garnering any FSB attention and, upon his arrival, arrangements could be made for him to visit Maria without giving away her whereabouts.
Mishkin bowed and gave a nod of his head. “I have no doubt that a part of America, at least, would appeal to me.”
53
Lubyanka
Moscow, Russia
Dmitry Sokalov arrived at Lubyanka early the following morning, nervous. At his wife’s request, and his father-in-law’s insistence, Sokalov had spent the night at home, and off his work cell phone.
When he did retrieve his phone, Alexander Zhomov had not called since he had called to request the layout of the Irkutsk Meatpacking Plant, and informed Sokalov that he would take out the men who had abducted Charles Jenkins. Chairman Petrov, on the other hand, had called repeatedly. Petrov had left messages that he was getting considerable pressure from the Kremlin—with whom he had shared Sokalov’s news that Alexander Zhomov was on the verge of arresting Charles Jenkins. Sokalov tried to stall the chairman, and when he no longer could avoid the chairman’s calls, he had Olga advise that he was ill. Petrov, in turn, sent a terse text message demanding that Sokalov meet with him in person the following morning to update him on Zhomov’s efforts. Sokalov’s calls to Zhomov’s cell phone all night and morning had, however, passed directly to voice mail, and Zhomov had not responded to encrypted e-mails or texts.
Things at home had also not been pleasant. With Sokalov’s mind elsewhere, he struggled to pay attention and to remain engaged with Olga and the children. They had all eaten together, including his in-laws. His wife had cooked fresh sausage and fried potatoes, but the meal, like Zhomov’s silence, had not sat well with him. He really did feel ill.
Sokalov hurried into his office and removed his coat, hanging it on the coat-tree. He went directly to his phone and called his secretary, whom he had asked to come in early. “Any word from Colonel Zhomov?”
“No, Deputy Director.”
“Let me know immediately if he calls; do not hesitate to interrupt me.”
“Yes, Deputy Director. You did receive two packages, however.”
“Packages? When?”
“They were on my chair this morning, Deputy Director. A box and an internal envelope. The box passed internal protocols.” Which meant it had been inspected to ensure it did not contain a bomb that could blow up Lubyanka. “Do you wish for me to bring them in?”
Sokalov debated this. He checked his watch. “Yes. Do so now before my meeting with the chairman.”
“The chairman is here, Deputy Director.”
The door to Sokalov’s office opened and Chairman Petrov entered carrying a two-foot-square cardboard box and the orange internal envelope. Sokalov quickly rose from his chair and took both packages. “Chairman Petrov, you didn’t need to do this.”
Petrov waved him off. Sokalov set the box on the coffee table and took the internal envelope to his desk. Petrov sat in a chair across Sokalov’s desk.
“Would you be more comfortable on the couch?” Sokalov asked.
“I do not intend to be long . . . I hope. You no longer answer your phone?”
“My wife,” he said. “She insisted that I spend family time with her and the children.”
Petrov waved this off too. “You said you would have information for me on your efforts to arrest Charles Jenkins. What is that information?”
Sokalov moved back to his desk chair. “Yes, Chairman. I am still awaiting word from Colonel Zhomov on the status of the operation. I’m sure he will be calling any moment to confirm his success.”
“You have not heard from him?”
“Not this morning, no.”
“What did he say when you last spoke with him?”
“That he had knowledge of Mr. Jenkins’s whereabouts in Irkutsk and would move to bring him in—”
“But nothing since then?”
The telephone on Sokalov’s desk rang. To Sokalov it was like the bell rung at the end of a round, saving a boxer about to be knocked out. “Excuse me,” he said to Petrov. “I asked my secretary to interrupt me were Zhomov to call.”
“What happened to Ms. Kulikova?” Petrov asked.
“Still not well. I am told she has gone into the hospital.”
“Have your secretary give my secretary the details so that I might send over flowers.”
Sokalov picked up the receiver. “Yes.”
“Dmitry Sokalov. Deputy director of counterintelligence.” It was a woman, but Sokalov did not want to indicate this to the chairman.
“Yes. What do you have to tell me?”
“Your assassin and I have finally had the chance to meet,” the woman said. “I must tell you that I enjoyed this immensely.”
“I don’t understand,” Sokalov said. Across the desk Petrov’s bushy eyebrows inched together.
“But you do. You see, I know that Alexander Zhomov is responsible for the death of Alexei Velikaya, that he shot him in broad daylight, and you then blamed another mafiya family for the murder.”
Sokalov felt his knees go weak. Perspiration ran in rivulets down the sides of his body beneath his shirt. He could no longer maintain the game. “Who is this?”
“You know who this is, Deputy Director Sokalov. Though we have never met in person, we are well acquainted. One would say that you have intimate knowledge of my family, and now I have intimate knowledge of you and your sick perversions.”
“Maria?” he asked, though it did not sound like her.
Petrov sat forward.
“I’m disappointed,” the woman said. “To be mistaken for the object of your perversions.”
Desperate, he asked, “Where is Alexander Zhomov?”
Now Petrov looked concerned.
“Is he missing?” The woman asked. “I arranged for him to arrive at your home yesterday, and in your office early this morning.”