“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?”
“A lot of kids in my class have them,” CJ said.
“What do your friends use their cell phones for?” Alex asked.
“Most just text. But they can also call home,” he rushed to add before Jenkins had the chance to respond, an indication CJ had rehearsed this seemingly spontaneous speech. “Like Anna Potts got sick the other day at recess and called her mother. And I could call you if, like, Dad forgot to pick me up from soccer again.”
“I didn’t forget,” Jenkins said. “I lost track of time.”
“That’s a responsible answer,” Alex said to CJ. “But I would not want you to be on your phone playing video games or texting your friends when we’re having family time, or when you should be doing homework. Perhaps we could make a deal that you could use the phone for emergencies and have a one-hour privilege to use it at home. Is that an agreement you could live with?”
“Sure.” CJ smiled—a clear indication the boy had expected to be shot down, which Jenkins would have done if his wife had allowed him to speak. Jenkins was anti-technology. He thought cell phones turned anyone under eighteen into zombies. Kids no longer knew how to interact or to play. Not to mention cyberbullying.
“Why don’t you let your dad and me talk about it after dinner? We’ll make a decision together. If you’re finished eating, you can clear your plate and get started on your homework.”