The Silent Sisters (Charles Jenkins #3)(32)

The stylist, Suriev, shook his head to indicate Petrekova had not yet arrived. In a chair at one of two sinks sat a woman approximately the same height and build as Petrekova, with presumably the same hair color. She wore a maroon stylist robe snapped tight at the neck, her hair wrapped in a white towel. Her tennis shoes were the same brand and model Petrekova wore to work that morning. This double was a precaution in case Petrekova had not shaken her tail. Though Petrekova had for years had her hair cut and roots dyed by Suriev, she purposely kept no pattern to her appointments, nor did she ever use her cell phone, the phone in her office, or her home phone to make an appointment. The salon was one of the places she and her handler met.

Jenkins had communicated the meeting location in a call that afternoon. He asked to speak to Dasha, which was code for the salon. Petrekova had responded, “There is no one here by that name,” to indicate she would make the meeting.

A gay man, Suriev hated the current Russian regime, which oppressed gay people and encouraged the population to persecute them by calling them “subhuman” and “devils.” Suriev had been a CIA asset for years, hoping for a regime change.

Jenkins looked to the street. A cab pulled to the curb beside the salon’s black awning. Petrekova stepped out and approached the ground-floor business in the four-story apartment building. Like most of Moscow, the area had undergone a revival, though they had kept the architectural character of the redbrick buildings lining both sides of the street.

Jenkins remained behind the divider, watching in a mirror as Petrekova pushed open the door. Chimes signaled her entrance. She greeted her longtime stylist with a kiss on each cheek.

“It has been too long,” Suriev said, leading her to one of two salon chairs.

“I’ve had difficulty freeing myself from work,” she said, her message deliberate.

“And today?”

“Today I was determined to do so, and I believe I have succeeded.”

“I understand,” Suriev said, playing with her hair.

“Can you save me before it’s too late?”

Suriev smiled. “Of course. I think we need to trim your split ends while we are at it. They have become unruly.”

“Whatever you say,” she said. “I’m all yours.”

Suriev directed Petrekova to the free chair behind the divider. She looked at Jenkins and the woman seated at the other sink, then sat and leaned her head back while Suriev washed her hair and kept up a steady flow of questions and comments in case someone listened in on the salon. He wrapped her hair in a white towel, then stepped to the look-alike and, using a second towel to partially obscure her face, led her back to the stylist’s chair, rotating the chair so the back of the look-alike’s head faced the salon windows. There was no mirror to reflect her image.



Dmitry Sokalov would have shrunk in his conference room seat at Lubyanka, if possible, to avoid Chairman Bogdan Petrov’s stare. Gavril Lebedev sat two seats to Pasternak’s left on the same side of the table and looked to also be inching himself as far away from the chairman as possible. Petrov stood with his palms planted on the table and peered up at the three men from beneath his bushy gray eyebrows. His gaze, for the moment, burned holes in General Kliment Pasternak.

“Tell me, General, how two of your most highly trained men could be apprehended by simple Virginia State Police officers.” Petrov, a veteran of many clandestine wars, spoke evenly, though his eyes betrayed his calm fa?ade and demeanor.

Pasternak blew out a breath and shook his head. “Everything was going according to plan, Chairman Petrov.”

“Apparently not,” Petrov interrupted. He straightened. His eyes never left Pasternak. A signal that the general’s answer had been insufficient.

Pasternak tried again. “The wife left the house with the two children as scheduled. My men were to wait until they received confirmation of the traffic accident. Confirmation that did not come.”

“Why did they not abort immediately?”

“Traffic is as bad in Virginia as here in Moscow. They thought perhaps . . .”

Petrov slapped the table, and his face blotched red. “They are not paid to think, General. They are paid to follow orders. Your orders. Apparently, you did not make your orders clear. At the first sign of anything out of the ordinary they should have immediately aborted.”

“They did not have time to do so. Ten minutes after the wife left the house, she returned, with the two children still in the car.”

Petrov paced the room. “Why did the wife come back?”

“I do not yet know. Perhaps one of the children became sick, or left something at home—homework or a school lunch. I don’t know.”

“Why did your men not leave immediately when the wife returned home?”

“That was the intent, but the police showed up before they had the chance.”

“Who called the police?” Petrov asked.

“Again, we do not know. All I can suggest at the moment is conjecture.”

“Which is?”

“That the wife saw the car and my men when she left and had a heightened sense of concern given recent poisonings of persons in similar circumstances as her husband. I can only assume she alerted the police, who also had been made aware of Ibragimov’s circumstances, and they responded immediately.”

“Where are your men now?” Petrov asked.