“How do we limit collateral damage?” Sokalov asked. “With a radioactive agent we have little ability to limit who might come in contact with either the agent or the container in which it is delivered. Killing a Russian spy is one thing. Killing innocent Americans on American soil is quite another.”
“Maybe not,” Pasternak said.
The others looked at him as if he had misspoken. The general had the annoying habit of pausing between thoughts. Was it for dramatic effect? Kulikova had wondered. Or did the general speak too quickly, then need the time to contemplate what he had said?
The general shook his head. “Ibragimov’s belief that he and his family are beyond punishment in America is also his biggest weakness.”
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.