The Silent Sisters (Charles Jenkins #3)(35)

15


Lubyanka

Moscow, Russia

Sokalov returned to his office, poured himself a stiff vodka that he swallowed in a gulp, then poured a second and paced along the windows that provided him a view of the Kremlin’s red walls and spires. He felt his pulse slow and exhaled the anger he had toward Lebedev for attempting to throw him under the bus. Sokalov had given the better part of his life to his country, and he had always placed its interests above his own. Yes, he had a mistress; what man in power did not? Affairs had become more common in Moscow since the fall of communism and the prolonged consumer boom. For once, Russians could indulge their whims and their desires. Sokalov knew many men who engaged in anything from single-night trysts with prostitutes to parallel families, often with both wives’ approval. What choice did the women have? Divorce? Slipping back to lower class? Raising their children alone? Not that his Olga had to worry, nor would she or her father ever tolerate such an arrangement. But if Lebedev wanted to throw stones, Sokalov had accumulated plenty to throw. He had a file documenting Lebedev’s second wife and two children living in an apartment in the Voykovsky District whom Lebedev went home to twice a week and financially supported.

The intercom on his desk phone buzzed. “Deputy Director?”

His secretary. “What is it?”

“Someone here who wishes to see you.”

He stepped behind his desk and considered the color-coded calendar he kept on one of multiple computer monitors, though he knew the calendar time slots would be empty since he had instructed his secretary to reschedule everything when he got the call to meet Petrov in the conference room. “I advised you to cancel all of my appointments for the remainder of the day.”

“This is unscheduled. I’m told the man has been very persistent.”

Sokalov thought it could be Pasternak, the general thinking there could be strength in numbers. However, he dismissed that possibility; at the moment, Lebedev held the better hand, and the wise move by Pasternak would be to hitch himself to the fat bastard and help Lebedev toss Sokalov under the wheels.

“Who is it?” Sokalov asked, ready to dismiss the intrusion.

“Helge Kulikov.”

Sokalov froze. He had met Helge at multiple functions and found the man insufferable, unable to talk of anything except his career playing football, usually while drinking copious amounts of free vodka. The two men were cordial. In fact, Sokalov found a perverse pleasure in talking to the man, all the while banging the man’s wife.

Vot der’mo. Shit.

Could the drunkard finally have realized Sokalov was sleeping with his wife—after all these years and at this very inconvenient moment? Maria had said Helge had recently retired and he was constantly at home, making it more difficult for her to get away. Sokalov wondered if Helge had come to confront him—security at Lubyanka made it impossible the man had a weapon, but . . .

Vot der’mo.

Sokalov decided it better to meet with the man to determine how much he knew and whether Sokalov could plausibly deny it. What better way to argue his innocence, if the fool were to accuse him, than to meet him here, in his office, with his wife right next door, as if he had nothing to hide?

And if Helge did know, so what? He was in no position to do much of anything.

He could tell Olga.

Der’mo. Der’mo. Der’mo.

Would the man do such a thing? A sickening thought crossed Sokalov’s mind.

Had he done so already?

Better to find out now—information was power—and, if necessary, deal with the man’s demands.

“Deputy Director?”

“Send him in.”

Sokalov opened the top drawer on the right-hand side of his desk and disengaged the safety of his Makarov pistol, then slid the drawer only partially closed so he had easy access to the weapon, if he needed it.

The door to his office pushed in, and his personal assistant led Helge Kulikov across the throw rugs to the two chairs across from Sokalov’s desk. Kulikov wore a suit, a size too small from the snug appearance, as well as a tie, though he had lowered the knot and opened the collar button to accommodate his extra weight. He did not look well. He looked pale and bloated. Nervous, but not angry.

“This is an unexpected surprise, Helge.” Sokalov offered his hand and Helge took it. Another good sign. Kulikov’s fingernails had yellowed from heavy tobacco use. His clothes smelled of cheap cigarettes, alcohol, and mothballs.

“Thank you for seeing me, Deputy Director.”

“Please. Deputy Director is for employees. Call me Dmitry.” He smiled. “We are both men, are we not?” He walked his assistant to the door and lowered his voice. “Tell no one of this meeting. Understood?”

“Yes, Deputy Director.”

He turned back to Kulikov. “Can I offer you something to drink?”

“Yes,” Kulikov said a little too quickly. “I mean, thank you.”

Sokalov walked to the bar. So far this did not have any of the earmarks of a confrontation. He looked to Kulikov, who had his hands thrust in his suit pockets. “If I remember correctly, you are a Stoli man, are you not?” Sokalov had no clue what vodka Helge Kulikov drank.

“Yes. With one ice cube.”

Sokalov poured three fingers, dropped an ice cube into the glass, and handed the drink to Helge. “I’m sorry to make you drink alone, Helge, but I have several late meetings.”