The Silent Sisters (Charles Jenkins #3)(33)

“We do not at present know. We are attempting to find out without divulging any link back to Lubyanka or the Kremlin. It is tricky,” Pasternak said.

A sickening silence permeated the room. After nearly a full minute, Lebedev waded in with a question. “Have we any information from our diplomats? Perhaps the ambassador—”

“Can what?” Petrov’s eyes shifted to Lebedev and nearly burned a hole through him. Lebedev looked as if he had melted into the leather. “Ask whether the Virginia police happened to arrest two men from Russia’s most elite special forces division sitting in a car outside the home of a Russian traitor? On this General Pasternak is correct. The Americans will deny they have detained anyone and wait for us to ask about the two men. It would be a tacit admission that your men, General, were authorized by the Russian government to kill Fyodor Ibragimov.”

“What then are our options?” Sokalov asked, his voice soft.

“Precisely,” Petrov said. “What options can I take to the president?”

“My men will reveal nothing,” Pasternak said, trying to sound defiant.

“Their presence has revealed enough,” Petrov shot back.

Sokalov knew where this was headed. The president would need to be protected at all costs. Their job now was to provide an excuse to ensure plausible deniability by the Kremlin. It meant someone high up, someone no doubt seated at that table, would have to fall on his sword and admit that his office, without the Kremlin’s knowledge or consent, had authorized the mission. In short, someone at the table would be the sacrificial lamb. The United States would never believe this explanation, but they would accept it if they could use it to their advantage, as both sides had done in the past, most likely for an exchange of spies in Russian custody. If the Americans wished to play hardball, however, they could take the matter to an international court and put Russia on a public stage of humiliation and embarrassment.

“Our job now is to protect the president,” Petrov said, right on cue. “Our job is to find an alternative that will be satisfactory to the Americans, get our men back, and not result in a black-eye embarrassment to this administration.”

No one at the table said a word.

After a moment Lebedev cleared his throat. “If I may suggest . . .”

Petrov glared at him. Sokalov knew that look. Whatever Lebedev had to say, it had better be good.

“If I might suggest that what has happened here is not a simple coincidence.”

That comment drew Sokalov’s and Pasternak’s attention. Both knew what was to come.

“Meaning what?” Petrov asked.

“Meaning that the wife did not just happen to return home, and the Virginia police did not just happen to be in the area before General Pasternak’s men could abort and flee.”

Sokalov knew what Lebedev was suggesting and what the rat bastard was attempting to do. He was looking to place blame on anyone but himself, likely Pasternak.

“I am suggesting that perhaps the Americans intended this to appear to be a coincidence in order to protect a high-level mole within Lubyanka who leaked the information.” Lebedev shifted his girth and looked directly at Sokalov.

Sokalov, initially surprised, took several moments to gather himself. He fumed. “If your suggestion is intended to implicate me, need I remind the deputy director that the president and I go back a very long way, to childhood in fact, that we have been friends for more than sixty years. So please, do not be discreet. Take your implication directly to the president and see how far it goes.”

Lebedev smiled like the cat who had caught his prey. “You are too defensive, Dmitry.” The use of Sokalov’s first name, a sign of disrespect, was purposeful and did not go unnoticed. “I did not intend to implicate you. There was someone else from your office in our most recent meeting. Someone from your directorate whose presence you insisted upon, despite my objections. A woman, in power, over the age of sixty.”

Sokalov fought against overreacting. “I will have you know . . . Gavril, that Maria Kulikova has worked for me for nearly four decades. Her parents were proud and prominent Communist Party members, and she has been vetted on a number of occasions with no findings of even the smallest stitch of impropriety.”

“Perhaps you are . . . too close to Ms. Kulikova to be objective? Is it not your task force’s job to interrogate Russian women over sixty years of age and in positions of power? And yet, she has not yet been interrogated.”

Sokalov sought another way to defend and deflect. “Your comment is not only offensive to Ms. Kulikova and to me, it is an offense to my wife, Olga, and to her father, General Portnov.” Sokalov did not like his father-in-law, but he was not averse to playing that card when it was to his benefit.

“We all know your father-in-law,” Lebedev said, but with a tone of caution. “I’m asking why Ms. Kulikova has not yet been questioned by your task force.”

“Perhaps you would like to bring something to his attention?”

“If you are through stabbing each other in the back, put your daggers away,” Petrov said. “We have more important matters to deal with. General, I want a full update as soon as you have it. Dmitry, as charming as I find Ms. Kulikova, you will undertake an internal investigation to ensure nothing untoward has occurred.” He sighed. “I have the unenviable task of breaking the news to the president. But let me make myself very clear, gentlemen. A head . . . or heads . . . will roll. And it will not be mine. I would suggest that you get busy finding the president an alternative he can use to save face if you wish to keep your heads attached to your bodies.”