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

Kulikova’s appearance, and her decades-long position as Sokalov’s mistress, provided her access to classified information, but it also subjected her to a degradation most could never imagine or stomach.

“Maria.”

Kulikova turned at the familiar sound of the voice of her assistant, Anna. The poor woman looked flushed and sounded out of breath as she crossed the marble floor to where Maria stood in line at the “Prison” cafeteria. One of two staff dining rooms at Lubyanka, the Prison was in the building’s basement, where the infamous KGB prison had once been.

“Thank God.” Anna blew out a breath. “He is looking for you—again. Something about a file he cannot find. I don’t know who or how many he has fired this time.”

Maybe if Sokalov lost twenty-five to thirty kilograms, he could find things on his own, like his belt buckle. If not for Kulikova, Sokalov would have been fired years ago, childhood friend of the president or not. He drank too much, ate too much, and was too disorganized. He remained in power because he was ruthless.

She checked her watch; she had another fifteen minutes before she officially clocked in to start her day. Fat chance. She couldn’t get away for ten minutes without someone, usually Sokalov, searching for her. Nights, weekends, holidays. As the Secretariat director, Maria was always on call. The government paid her handsomely and provided a luxury apartment close to Lubyanka that she and her husband, Helge, would have otherwise been unable to afford. In her position she served as the gatekeeper to all Lubyanka files, and absolutely no one in the FSB could do without her or her staff. The execution and completion of every FSB officer’s work was dependent upon the women of the Secretariat. They typed, registered, and trafficked each document. They sent and received all mail. They booked vacations. If the Secretariat broke down, the Counterintelligence Directorate would grind to a ponderous halt.

Her position provided her the keys to every file in the directorate, as well as information too sensitive for files. Sokalov readily revealed such secrets during their role-playing sessions, when he pretended he was an FSB officer with classified information and encouraged Kulikova to bind, whip, slap, pierce, and drip hot candle wax on his fat body to extract the information—usually while he was so drunk he could not remember the night, let alone the information he had disclosed.

Information was power. Sokalov became drunk on it. And Kulikova was his drink.

She sighed. “Did the director say what he needed?”

“You!” Anna said. “He told me not to come back if I did not find you in the building. Thank God I know your habits. I’m sorry to interrupt your breakfast.”

In addition to being a disgusting pig, Sokalov was a bully to those over whom he held power, including the women Kulikova directed.

“Don’t worry about it, Anna, but do me a favor,” she said with a practiced, reserved demeanor. “Get me a cup of tea, no cream or sugar, two hard-boiled eggs, and tvorog. Just put them on my desk.” She handed Anna several rubles and made her way through Dom 1, one of two L-shaped buildings linked by a nine-story tower set in a large inner courtyard that gave Lubyanka the false appearance of being a single, square-shaped structure. At a bank of elevators, she used her secure card to summon a car. She had gone through metal detectors to enter the building and had her briefcase checked thoroughly—a Kremlin mandate. The president, a former KGB officer who had appointed himself czar, was obsessed with security and with punishing those who would betray Russia or him.

On the seventh floor, Maria hurried along windowless, poorly lit hallways. The soft parquet squares compressed beneath her steps. The low-grade pine constantly wore out, and workers perpetually circled the building adding new layers. A running joke at Lubyanka was that eventually there would be no space between the floor and ceiling.

To gain entrance to the Secretariat, Maria put her eyes to a scanner. A green light traced her irises and granted access. She pulled open the heavy door and stepped inside. The women seated at their desks gave a collective sigh of relief. The more experienced looked frazzled but not particularly concerned; they had been through many Sokalov tantrums. The less experienced looked terrified, which only fed Sokalov’s ego—as massive as his appetite for food and sex. It took Kulikova just seconds to determine who had borne the brunt of Sokalov’s latest tirade. Tiana, relatively new, wept at her desk as she packed picture frames of her children.

“Put your photographs back, Tiana,” Kulikova said, passing by the young woman’s desk.

“But the director . . . ,” Tiana said.

“Is having a bad morning. Continue with whatever it is you were doing.”

Karine, Kulikova’s second in charge, quickly approached. She grabbed Kulikova’s arm and spoke in hushed tones as they moved toward Kulikova’s office door. “His Majesty is on the warpath again.”

“I’ve heard. What this time?”

“Something about a meeting this morning and a file he needs.”

Kulikova stopped outside her office door. “I’ll handle the deputy director. You calm everyone. Tell them I said not to worry.”

Kulikova stepped into her office and closed the door. She set her briefcase beside her desk, moved to her credenza, and exchanged her tennis shoes for a pair of black Christian Louboutin pumps, one of seven pairs she kept at work. She tipped a drop of Roja Parfums—a Sokalov present for her sixtieth birthday—on each wrist, then rubbed her wrists along her neck. She touched another drop to her index finger and ran that finger down her cleavage, then freed a button of her blouse. She peeled the yellow magnetic strip of tape that sealed her safe each night, entered a password that changed weekly, and exchanged her daily wristwatch for the Rolex, then slipped on a diamond-and-ruby bracelet—Sokalov gifts she also never brought home.