“I would guess that’s the reason,” he said. “At least for the one at Lubyanka who revealed it. Not yet sure about the second sister.”
“Anybody thought that maybe these women don’t want to leave their country after sixty years?”
“Me,” Jenkins said. “It’s a weighty decision, especially if their positions have accorded them some luxury. Then again, if they’re that high up, they know what happens to traitors. The other possibility is they turned, maybe years ago.”
“How would you make contact without drawing attention? We’ve been over this. Russia’s population is less than one percent Black; you don’t exactly blend in here, much less in Moscow.”
“Lemore has a plan and said the CIA is already at work on a number of disguises and passports, and I’d receive further training at Langley.”
Alex didn’t speak.
“I know you’re worried,” he said. “But Moscow is an enormous city—”
“With facial recognition cameras everywhere.”
“I’ll be in disguise twenty-four seven. I determine their situations and get them out, or I get out.”
“Anything else I should know?”
Jenkins thought of Lemore’s comment that Jenkins had been placed on a kill list. It wasn’t new information; they had suspected that to be the case, but the confirmation was sobering. Still, Jenkins didn’t intend to get caught. “That’s it,” he said.
“If either of these women has turned—and don’t insult my intelligence and tell me Lemore can guarantee they haven’t—one of them might be providing confidential information to lure you back to Moscow.”
“I’ll have the element of surprise.”
“How do you figure?”
“Not even the Russians would think I was stupid enough to return a third time.”
She shook her head. “Don’t joke. This isn’t funny.”
They walked in silence, then Jenkins said, “We did talk about this. These women gave their lives. They helped us win the Cold War, and they’ve kept eyes on Putin. Three have already died because of Carl Emerson. I’d like to finish what I started and get the remaining two out. There are risks, but this time we can control the risks.”
“Can we?”
“Anything gets squirrelly, I’ll get out.”
“I know you, Charlie; if you see an injustice, a wrong, you won’t be able to keep your nose out of it.”
“I can still take care of myself, Alex.”
His comment stopped Alex dead in her tracks. “What does that mean? I hope this isn’t something you’re doing to prove you still can—some validation that your age is just a number.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Jenkins said, but there was some truth to her comment. “I just meant Lemore has resources to help me.”
He knew she suspected he wasn’t telling her everything, that he was holding back information so she wouldn’t worry. But he also couldn’t deny that when he’d gone back into Russia to get Paulina Ponomayova out, he’d felt an adrenaline rush, the high that came with outsmarting people trying to outsmart him. The feeling had been intoxicating forty years ago in Mexico City, and even more so in Moscow, the darkest corner of the espionage world.
“Just remember one thing,” Alex said.
“What’s that?”
“Not everyone has your sense of duty and justice. Don’t give yourself up thinking someone will repay the favor. Most people choose to save their own skin, even if you’ve given yours for them.”
“I know,” he said.
“You have responsibilities here at home to think about.”
“I don’t plan to get caught, Alex.”
“No one ever does, Charlie.”
Alex was quiet the rest of the evening, and Jenkins could tell she was upset. He let her be. She usually worked things out. This would take time. She sent CJ up to bed, and the boy was on his best behavior. Then she disappeared. Jenkins watched television alone, then turned it off and went upstairs. Before going to the bedroom, he went to Lizzie’s room. He heard Alex rocking in the rocking chair beside their daughter’s crib, the same chair she had used to rock CJ to sleep as an infant. In the glow from the lamp on Lizzie’s nightstand, Jenkins could see tears lining his wife’s cheeks.
5
Yakimanka District
Moscow, Russia
Maria Kulikova purchased the first bundle of fresh-cut flowers she saw at her customary street vendor, not bothering with the particulars or the price, then jumped on the Moscow Metro for the fifteen-minute commute to her home in the Yakimanka District—Old Muscovy. Her district was well known for Gorky Park, the Tretyakov Gallery, and its many churches, including the Cathedral of Christ the Saviour—the golden domes of which she could view from her bedroom windows. Being this close to Lubyanka was both good and bad. Good, because she hated commuting. Bad, because Sokalov mandated she be at his beck and call at all hours of the day and night.
Exiting the Kropotkinskaya station, she emerged aboveground on Volkhonka Street directly across from Christ the Saviour. She paused at the bus stop on the busy street as if to admire the cathedral’s gold onion domes glistening in the fading dusk light. She took out her lipstick and her compact and used the mirror to check behind her and to each side, searching for anyone watching her or who looked purposefully disinterested. She used the lipstick to draw a check mark on the glass shelter of the bus stop, then pocketed both lipstick and compact, and crossed the street. She walked until she reached the Prechistenskaya embankment, which ran parallel to the Moskva River.
She crossed triangles of lawn and trees dissected by paved cobblestone walking paths lined by antique streetlamps, not yet lit. Muscovites lazed on blankets reading and enjoying picnics. Anything to stay out of an apartment baked all day by the unseasonably warm September weather. Fathers chased after young children, and shirtless men kicked a ball. It reminded Maria of the years when she and Helge used to picnic outside their small apartment. Helge would challenge young boys to a football match, not revealing that he played professionally in Russia’s Premier League.
But a sad recollection accompanied each fond memory. She recalled the evening she told Helge she could not bear children. A lie, like so many others that so easily slid from her tongue. She had been taught to lie, without guilt or regret, to serve a higher cause. She could bear children. She was not willing. It would not be fair to the child. The decision had pained her, but she did not choose this life. Her parents had chosen it for her. Maria also never knew when she might have to flee, without leaving even a note to those she loved. She could not do that to children.