They all nodded.
“As the chairman states, he has refused protection because he does not want his children to live as prisoners. I also agree with the deputy director that the use of a poisonous agent—a trademark now linked to Russia—will make plausible deniability impossible and could result in collateral damage.”
“What is it then that you would have us do?” Petrov asked.
“What if we were to take a different tack, one that would ensure no collateral damage?”
“You have something in mind?” Petrov asked.
“One well-placed bullet.”
At first no one spoke, all awaiting Petrov’s comment. When he remained silent, Sokalov waded in first. “This is a dangerous game to play—sending Russian assassins to shoot someone on American soil would be . . .” Sokalov shook his head. “The Americans would immediately put their border guards on alert. If they located the assassins and identified them to be Russian, the end result would be the same. No plausible deniability. American public outrage would demand severe economic sanctions, and the Americans would influence their allies to do the same.”
Pasternak shrugged. “Not if Ibragimov was the victim of an accident, or perhaps the criminal element so prevalent in the United States. A robbery perhaps.”
“The danger remains—if the assassin were caught,” Petrov said. “Unlike a toxin, which can take hours before symptoms occur, the bullet leaves little time for those responsible to slip away. Our intelligence advises that Ibragimov’s movements are limited throughout the day. His wife rarely leaves the house except to take the children to and from school fifteen minutes from their home.”
“What if the assassins had more time to slip away?” Pasternak said.
“How?” Petrov asked, clearly intrigued by the general’s thinking.
“I am not yet certain, but something common—perhaps a traffic accident on the wife’s return home from taking the children to school.”
Sokalov looked at Pasternak as if he’d lost his mind. “A traffic accident? We are trying to eliminate any ties to a Russian agent, not hand one over.”
“Not a Russian. I’m proposing we do to the Americans what the Americans have been doing to us with their seven sisters.”
Kulikova fought not to react or show any indication she knew that code name. For years she had thought she was the only sister, until Sokalov advised that a CIA officer turned spy talked of seven sisters, three of whom the officer had betrayed and who had been tortured and killed.
“We activate an illegal living nearby and prepare a plausible reason for her to be in the area. She runs a stop sign at a designated moment and hits Ibragimov’s wife’s vehicle. They must stop to exchange information. A police officer is called to file a report. Perhaps an ambulance is needed to treat Ibragimov’s wife’s injuries and she is taken to the hospital. Time. It would give my men time to kill Ibragimov, slip across the Canadian border, and make their way home.”
Pasternak’s suggestion had legs, but no one would agree until it had the chairman’s blessing. Petrov turned his attention to Pasternak. “I would like you to explore this further. Provide me with a detailed analysis I can take to the Kremlin.” He shifted to Sokalov. “I think this calls for a drink.”
They all stood. Sokalov moved to the liquor cabinet on the credenza.
Kulikova felt sick to her stomach but recognized an opportunity to do more damage to the administration. She moved toward the interior door leading back to her office.
“Ms. Kulikova,” Lebedev said.
She turned and faced him. “Yes, Deputy Director?”
“Leave the notes, please.” He glanced down at the notepad in her hand.
“Of course, Deputy Director.” She set the notes and her pen on the edge of Sokalov’s desk.
“Ms. Kulikova,” he said. “I’m wondering if I might ask your age?”
Sokalov bristled. “One does not ask a woman her age.”
“I only marvel that a woman—over sixty, I believe—remains in such good physical condition. You are older than sixty, are you not? Or have I offended you?”
“No offense, Deputy Director. Yes. I am over sixty.”
Lebedev gave Sokalov a knowing look.
Kulikova stepped from the office and closed the interior door behind her. In her office she struggled to catch her breath. She felt the air conditioner’s cool air on her damp forehead. She cursed Lebedev, the fat pig. “‘Leave the notes’?” She smiled. “Gladly.” And she reached for her bra to turn off the recorder.
The guards at the metal detectors no longer even bothered to question her when she set off the sensors, which she had dutifully done for years, until it became a common occurrence the guards expected. They believed a metal wire, sewn into Kulikova’s bra to provide the support necessary for a woman blessed with her cleavage, set off their detectors. They never suspected she had sewn a voice-activated, wireless tape recorder, no larger than a paper clip, into her bra.
The game she had played for some forty years continued to become more dangerous. With the Operation Herod task force searching for sisters, Maria had gone into hibernation, neither responding to nor sending signals of a desire to meet her handler. Now she had no choice. She had to get this recording to her handler. This wasn’t just about saving Ibragimov, though she felt for his wife and his two small children, it was for all those other Russians who detested the current authoritarian regime. If the regime succeeded in killing Ibragimov, it would scare others into silence, and Russia would slip further back to the dark age of authoritarianism.
She could no longer remain silent, though coming out could be a death sentence.
4
Camano Island
Washington State
Jenkins sat at the head of the kitchen table enjoying his family, even if it was a bit like watching the food fight scene from the movie Animal House. Lizzie, currently their holy terror going through the terrible twos a few months early, alternately slapped at the macaroni on her tray, or picked it up with chubby fingers and flung it to the floor, where the dog, Max, dutifully cleaned it like a vacuum.
On the table Jenkins noted just a few stray noodles in the pan of baked macaroni. The bowls of corn and cherry tomatoes and cucumbers were empty. The chocolate cake for dessert was also now just a wedge. He’d first noticed how much CJ’s appetite had increased when they went to their favorite New York pizza joint in Stanwood. They had always ordered the family special—a large pepperoni pizza and Caesar salad—and had invariably taken home a few slices of pizza and leftover salad. Not any longer. Their last visit Jenkins counted four pieces of crust on CJ’s plate.
“Mom, can I have a cell phone?” CJ asked the question as he wiped his mouth with a paper napkin, crumpled it, and put it on his freshly cleaned plate.
“A cell phone?” Jenkins said.
Alex gave Jenkins the “look” and kicked him under the table. Then she asked CJ, “Why do you want a cell phone?”