The Silent Sisters (Charles Jenkins #3)(100)

“You told Yekaterina Velikaya what happened.”

“Yes,” he said. “I did. But, you see, the videotape from the CCTV cameras has gone missing, the medical examiner’s report is a fabrication, and every other witness is deceased. You are the only person remaining who can tell me the truth, so that I may close my file, my last file before I retire. I believe your testimony will contradict official reports and perhaps cost a few jobs.”

Mishkin did not look happy at the prospect.

“That’s your only motivation for being here?”

Mishkin looked at Maria Kulikova. “It was,” he said.

Jenkins looked to Maria, then to Mishkin, and understood. “What is it you would like to know, Chief Investigator?” Jenkins asked.

“Only the truth.”

Jenkins waited a beat. “Did you want to record our conversation?”

“Absolutely,” Mishkin said. The chief investigator moved his hands, then stopped. “I’m afraid I don’t have my notebook or an instrument to write with.”

“One moment,” Maria said, and she left for the door across the hall.

“Maria left the cabin at night on the train. Did she speak with you?” Jenkins asked.

“It seems neither of us sleep well,” Mishkin said.

Maria returned with a pen and a pad of paper with “Irkutsk Meatpacking Plant” across the top. “This will do,” Mishkin said. “Thank you.” He looked to Jenkins. “Please. Begin.”

Arkhip Mishkin put pen to paper as Jenkins patiently answered Mishkin’s questions. When they had finished, Mishkin clicked the pen. He looked to Maria. “I will make my way back to Moscow. I do apologize again for not telling you who I was, but I hope that you can understand.” He bowed slightly and turned to walk away. Maria’s question stopped him.

“Do you travel, Arkhip?” Maria asked.

He shook his head. “I have never had the time. I was always working. Now . . .” He sighed. “It is one of my regrets. My Lada and I discussed trips many times that we would take when I had retired.”

“Like the Trans-Siberian Railway?”

“Yes. That was one.”

“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.”