The Silent Sisters (Charles Jenkins #3)(7)

“Is there a possibility either woman has turned?” Jenkins asked.

Lemore shoveled potatoes and eggs in his mouth. After swallowing, he said, “Can’t be sure of the second sister, but the first sister is the person who provided the classified information on Operation Herod.”

Jenkins, about to sip his coffee, set down his mug. “She’s that highly embedded?”

“They’re both that highly embedded, which is why I think they’ve gone silent. The second is in a position to know of Operation Herod or suspect something big is happening.” Lemore shook his head. “If we lose them, it will be the greatest loss of classified information we’ve ever had access to in Moscow.”

“Playing devil’s advocate, each could be feeding us just enough information to make us think they’re highly placed. Can’t someone in Moscow figure out what’s going on?”

“It’s tricky,” Lemore said. He told Jenkins of the minefield of surveillance that CIA officers and diplomats dodged in Moscow, how they couldn’t leave the embassy to drive home without attracting multiple tails and satellite surveillance, not to mention some two hundred thousand facial recognition cameras throughout Moscow and a computer center programmed to match the faces of wanted individuals, of which Jenkins was one. Using a Russian asset could jeopardize that asset’s exposure—and life.

“Can technology be used to reach them and find out what’s going on?” Jenkins asked.

The last time they had met, Lemore told Jenkins about the implosion of the CIA’s covert communications system used to converse with intelligence assets around the world. He said the implosion had been a textbook example of overreliance and na?ve trust in digital security, especially in countries with cyber-savvy intelligence services, like Russia. As a result, the CIA had moved away from technology that could be hacked and had gone back to Cold War, tried-and-true spycraft methods their young officers weren’t familiar with. That made Jenkins, once a boots-on-the-ground intelligence officer, of particular value.

“These women are also old-school. Both are in their sixties.”

“Careful . . . ,” Jenkins said, not willing to concede sixties was old.

“Because of their positions in the government, their cell phones and computers are closely monitored at work and at home. Each undergoes intense scrutiny every morning when she arrives at work, and evenings when she leaves.”

They talked about the two women in greater detail, then Jenkins said, “What exactly do you need?”

“We need someone to observe both women, determine if either is under surveillance, determine what the problem is, if any, and why each has gone silent. If they’re clean, we have an exfiltration plan, code named ‘Red Gate.’”

“And someone over there can’t exfiltrate them?”

“It gets tricky, as I said. They’re old-school. They’re paranoid. Because of their positions they know about the three sisters Emerson betrayed, as well as about how you got Ponomayova out of Lefortovo. They’ll trust you.”

Jenkins could tell by the disturbed look on Lemore’s face, not to mention that he’d put down his fork, which until this point he had used as a food shovel, that there was something more bothering him. “What else?” Jenkins asked.

Lemore frowned. “According to information we received from this sister at Lubyanka, the remaining four sisters were put on a kill list signed off by the president.”

“We knew that, didn’t we?”

“We did.”

“So . . .”

“So,” Lemore said. “We’ve learned that you’re also on that kill list. But as I said, I have a plan.”

“A plan? Gives me the warm and fuzzies all over,” Jenkins said.





3


Lubyanka

Moscow, Russia

Maria Kulikova stood off to the side as Dmitry Sokalov welcomed the three men into his office. Bogdan Petrov, National Antiterrorist Committee chairman, answered only to Vladimir Putin. Gavril Lebedev, the deputy director of Directorate S, led Russia’s infamous foreign intelligence division. And General Kliment Pasternak led Zaslon, Russia’s elite, highly secretive unit within Directorate S, the existence of which Russian authorities vigorously denied. Zaslon consisted of some three hundred highly trained operatives, each capable of speaking several languages without an accent, and each having extensive covert operation experience in secret units within Russia’s military.

This was indeed an interesting development.

Zaslon operations included, among others, the poisoning death of Russian government critic Alexander Litvinenko six years after the former FSB officer had fled to Great Britain; the poisoning of Sergei Skripal, the former Russian military officer and double agent for the UK’s intelligence services; and, more recently, the poisoning of Kremlin critic Alexei Navalny, just ahead of Russia’s parliamentary elections.

Sokalov met the three men on the Persian rug beneath the tiered, crystal chandelier. Behind them the mahogany bookshelves held a collection of rare, antique books, but the officials were not interested in man-made opulence. Petrov’s eyes found Kulikova, as they always did. He ogled her as a cat ogled a play toy.

“Ms. Kulikova.” Petrov leered as he stepped around the maroon Chesterfield sofa to greet her. His gaze dropped to her breasts, and Kulikova leaned forward to allow him to kiss her on each cheek and to better peer down her cleavage. “Radiant as usual,” Petrov said, alcohol on his breath. “To what do I owe this great pleasure?”