The Silent Sisters (Charles Jenkins #3)(101)

“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.”

Sokalov did not answer. His eyes drifted to the box on the coffee table.

“You seem uncertain,” the woman said. “Did you not unwrap your gift? It has been freezer packed, but you wouldn’t want it to spoil. It is compliments of my father, Alexei Velikaya. I am Yekaterina Velikaya. Catherine the Great. Remember my name, for what little time you have left. One last thing. Maria Kulikova sends her regards. Look for an internal office envelope.”

Velikaya hung up.

Sokalov held the phone to his ear, listening to the dial tone. Fear enveloped him, making his joints weak. His hands shook and he shifted his gaze to the envelope, then to the package on the table.

“Dmitry?” Petrov said.

Sokalov pushed back his chair, stood unsteadily, and stumbled to the package. He studied the shipping label.

The Irkutsk Meatpacking Plant.

His knees weakened. His stomach roiled.

“What are you doing, Dmitry?”

“I’m sorry, Chairman Petrov. I am not feeling well. Could we meet later? I think it might be something I have eaten.”

“Who was on the phone? Why did you ask about Alexander Zhomov? I need to know if he has been successful. The president expects an answer.”

Sokalov felt like he was traveling through a tunnel, the chairman’s voice soft and distant. He turned and looked at the man. “I hope to have one for you within the hour, Chairman Petrov. I’m sorry. I don’t know any details, but I will find out and I will inform you.”

Petrov let out a sigh and pushed out of his chair. “Do so, Dmitry. I am receiving pressure from the Kremlin about how best to respond to the Ibragimov situation. I do not wish to give them a false hope, nor will I take responsibility if Zhomov were to fail. I warned you. The fault will lie with you.”