The Silent Sisters (Charles Jenkins #3)(46)

And now Helge had given them something else to consider.

He told Sokalov of the phone calls to their apartment, of the wrong numbers, and how he had followed her to the temple. Did Sokalov realize her actions were the same night, just after they had all gathered to discuss the operation? Did Helge tell Sokalov of the phone call asking for Anna? Would Sokalov be able to control his sickening urges long enough to put all the clues together?

She had made up the excuse about the candles on the fly. It was both brilliant and careless. Brilliant because it provided a viable explanation for both her and her handler’s behavior. Careless because it could so easily be proven false—were Sokalov interested enough to send someone to the temple. There were no candles behind the statue, only a moveable stone in the pedestal—a dead drop used to pass things like microchips and cassette tapes.

Maria stepped onto her train and found a seat near the door. She studied the faces of the other commuters in case one chose to follow her. If so, she might already be too late. She could run, leave Russia, but Helge would see no reason to do so. And if Sokalov determined the truth about Maria, that she was one of the seven sisters and had spied beneath his nose for decades, he could never let her or Helge live. He could never let that information get out.

His father-in-law would kill him.

So, too, would the president.

What have you done, Helge?



Sokalov fiddled with a napkin at a table in the back of Vos’myorka s rulevym—the Coxed Eight. The bar was not far from his home in the Rublyovka suburb where many government officials and wealthy businesspeople lived. Homes cost up to $80 million. Sokalov had his father-in-law to thank for their 2.5-acre estate, ten-thousand-square-foot home, pool, tennis court, private movie theater, and gym. The general had received the home when communism fell and capitalism became a money grab. Things, like homes, were a way to pay those who had devoted their lives to the Soviet Union. Sokalov’s estate came at a price, however.

His in-laws lived on the property, in the guesthouse.

The Coxed Eight was a far cry from those expensive homes, which was why Sokalov chose it for this meeting. The name was a tribute to the gold medal won at the 1985 World Rowing Championships by an eight-man Soviet boat from the Krylatskoye Sports Complex. The bar’s dark interior, with tables shoved in nooks and crannies, made it a good place to have a private conversation.

Sokalov’s hand shook with each sip of his brandy, which only exacerbated the pain in his stomach that four Tums had not helped. Nor had the alcohol. But he needed the alcohol ever since Ilia Egorov had been escorted into his office with news that Charles Jenkins was back in Moscow.

Alexander Zhomov stepped into the bar looking as though he might rob it. A block of a man, Zhomov, retired from the FSB, remained in exceptional shape. He lifted weights, rowed, and played eighteen holes, usually with wealthy clients. Zhomov got his start as a sniper in Afghanistan. His and Sokalov’s relationship began when both later worked for the KGB and had a mutual interest in moving up the bureaucratic ladder. Zhomov eventually worked for Sokalov, and he had been a decorated and celebrated mole hunter who oversaw the arrest of, and took pleasure in, the torture of spies. He had once convinced the CIA that he sought to defect to the United States, and he learned how the US exfiltrated spies through ferry crossings into Finland. A true believer, Zhomov hated nothing more than he hated America, its capitalism, and its incessant meddling, which he believed had caused the fall of the once proud Soviet Union. He was not averse, however, to the pleasures capitalism could buy, like an expensive Mercedes.

Since Zhomov’s retirement, Sokalov had employed him as a troubleshooter and torpedo—an assassin. Zhomov had been the torpedo Sokalov launched in 2008 to take out several mafiya family heads, as well as an oligarch, when the president deemed the men to be a threat to his power.

Zhomov sat across the table from Sokalov. The waitress appeared, but Zhomov—who did not drink—dismissed her with the wave of a hand.

Sokalov picked up his brandy, set it down again. He leaned back.

“The temple exists,” Zhomov said, his voice deep and soothing, like a disc jockey on a classical radio station. “The kneeler exists. The statue of the icon exists.” He paused, just the hint of a smile forming. “The candles . . . do not.”

Sokalov felt the fire in his belly stoke. He took several quick breaths while using a napkin to wipe perspiration from his forehead. The waitress returned, setting a glass of water on the table.

“Napkins,” Zhomov said.

The woman produced several dark-green napkins from the pocket of her apron and placed them beside the water glass before again departing. Zhomov handed a napkin to Sokalov. “Something else. There is a stone in the pedestal that can be removed. Beneath it is a hollowed-out area where messages and cassettes and such could be exchanged. A dead drop. No doubt. I have seen more than my share.”

Sokalov closed his eyes, a burning rage running through his body. Helge Kulikov, the bumbling fool, had solved one of Moscow’s most significant and long-standing security breaches. For decades Maria Kulikova had spied directly under Sokalov’s nose while plying him with alcohol and sex.

After his meeting with Egorov, Sokalov had slowly, reluctantly, fit the pieces together. The night that Helge Kulikov had followed his wife had been the night of the meeting in his office with Chairman Petrov, Gavril Lebedev and General Kliment Pasternak, the meeting in which Sokalov insisted Maria take shorthand notes. She had not been going out to walk the dog or to get dinner and spend time away from her husband. She had left the apartment to pass along information, information she had learned that afternoon, information about the Kremlin’s plan to assassinate Fyodor Ibragimov. The wrong telephone numbers of which Helge had spoken had not been wrong numbers at all. They had been coded messages from a handler, advising Maria of certain drop boxes throughout Moscow. Anna, the name asked for that night, had been code for the Temple Martyr Anastasia.