The Silent Sisters (Charles Jenkins #3)(65)

She paced, turned, and looked out the window. “Did Ugolov identify the second man with Sokalov?”

“He did not, but he said it was clear this man was in charge, that Sokalov deferred to him.”

She gave Mily a quizzical look. He, too, had thought the information odd. “Did Ugolov know this man’s name or tell you what he was doing there?”

“Only that Mr. Jenkins and a woman used the underground tunnels to avoid capture and he was directing their search to surface streets. Something else Ugolov said of interest.”

Yekaterina waited.

“Sokalov told him any information regarding Mr. Jenkins was highly classified and not to be shared with anyone. Sokalov was even concerned with Ugolov’s choice of technician to review the camera footage. Ugolov said they did not alert the Moscow police or any other FSB officers.”

Yekaterina gave this a moment of thought. “Given what we know of Mr. Jenkins, that he is on a Kremlin kill list, one would have assumed all of the FSB would have been alerted, would one not?”

“One would, but it is not the case. I have made multiple telephone calls to those who work for us,” Mily said, meaning the FSB officers on Yekaterina’s payroll. “Ugolov is correct. They know nothing of Mr. Jenkins’s supposed return to Moscow, and they are unaware of any general order from Sokalov about him.”

“Sokalov is keeping this quiet. Why?” She paced again, in and out of the shadows from the windows. “Who is the woman?”

“Maria Kulikova,” Mily said.

Yekaterina stopped and faced him. “Director of the Secretariat. Sokalov’s longtime lover.”

The Velikaya family had, for years, maintained files on key government officials, information they could use to blackmail the person. Sokalov had been a priority. Mily’s men had secured photographs of Sokalov with Kulikova, though always in public, where Sokalov had always been discreet. He and Kulikova never rode together in the same car, never walked Moscow streets together, held hands, or showed any other public displays of affection, even when dining out in restaurants. Every photograph Mily and his men had filed away, Sokalov could explain as a business meeting.

Yekaterina smiled. “The little bitch,” she said.

“Comare?”

She looked to Mily. “If Kulikova is running with Mr. Jenkins rather than from him, then what must we conclude? She is a spy.”

Mily felt his jaw go slack. How did he miss it? This was information he should have brought to her.

“And if Kulikova is a spy, then she has been spying under Sokalov’s nose for years.” Yekaterina laughed. It sounded out of place in the darkened and somber room given what had transpired over the last few days. “Sokalov is not trying to keep this quiet because of Mr. Jenkins, Mily.”

“That would not make any sense,” he agreed.

“The FSB would have a manhunt seeking to arrest Mr. Jenkins,” Yekaterina said. “The fat pig is keeping this quiet because the little bitch has been spying on him between the sheets, and if such knowledge were to become public knowledge, Sokalov is a dead man. They will be lining up to kill him—his father-in-law and the president. If we can produce such evidence, they may even allow me the honor of killing him.”

Mily’s cell phone rang. He pulled it from his suit pocket, considered the caller, then smiled at Yekaterina. “Ugolov.”

“Sokalov will kill Kulikova to keep his secret hidden. We cannot allow that to happen, Mily. You need to find them both and bring them to me, alive. I wish to determine from Mr. Jenkins what business he had with Eldar. As for Kulikova, I have an entirely different use in mind.”





30


Ministry of Internal Affairs

Building 38, Petrovka Street

Moscow, Russia

Arkhip Mishkin used the eraser of his pencil to rub at the eczema spot on the back of his head. His itch got worse with each passing minute, and with each passing minute he seemed to get farther and farther away from a resolution in the Charles Jenkins matter. No doubt the latter caused the former. He was running out of options. He had made several attempts to speak with Yekaterina Velikaya, but the mother of the victim was said to be in mourning and would not be speaking to him or to anyone else. It was a polite way of telling Arkhip to go screw himself, and Arkhip didn’t have much recourse.

He’d gone back to speak to the bartender at the Yakimanka Bar, but the man had gotten a rapid case of the three monkeys. He no longer could see, hear, or speak of the shooting. It was a wonder the man even remembered that Eldar Velikaya and Pavil Ismailov had entered his establishment. Arkhip tried to charm the man, but charm was no match for fear as a motivator and, Arkhip suspected, it didn’t pay nearly as well either.

He’d spoken to the medical examiner, but the ME politely told Arkhip that his visual perception of the wound had been mistaken. As the report clearly stated, Eldar Velikaya had been shot in the stomach and died from massive hemorrhaging. Arkhip warned that he would have a second autopsy performed, and if the results were to the contrary, he would have the man brought up on charges—a hollow threat. The department would never pay for a second autopsy, and the medical examiner knew it. He told Arkhip to proceed in whatever manner he deemed best. Oh . . . and in case Arkhip was interested, he could find Eldar Velikaya’s body, or at least his ashes, at a certain crematorium in east Moscow.