The bitter aroma of coffee teased her, as did the tempting odors of scrambled eggs, ham, and sausage, but those were luxuries not on her menu. Coffee made her jittery, and she followed a strict diet to keep her figure. She supplemented her three-day-a-week Pilates class with yoga to stay limber. At sixty-three, she could no longer run, though she had once been an Olympic-caliber long-distance runner who had held the Soviet record in the three thousand meters. Her years of training had worn out her knees.
It could have been worse. At least she had avoided the “supplements” her Soviet trainers imposed on other athletes, who now experienced heart and lung problems and various forms of cancer.
Maria had loved the competition, but that had not been the reason for her pursuit of athletics. Being a Soviet athlete had elevated her stature and given her access to people she would not have otherwise met. She exercised now for much the same reason. Her appearance. Her figure opened doors and provided opportunities. Her boss, Dmitry Sokalov, the FSB’s Counterintelligence Directorate’s deputy director, liked fit women with large breasts. The joke within the Secretariat, a ruthless rumor mill at Lubyanka, was that Sokalov liked the contrast to his own slovenly visage—he, too, had large breasts, to match his even larger gut.
Kulikova’s appearance, and her decades-long position as Sokalov’s mistress, provided her access to classified information, but it also subjected her to a degradation most could never imagine or stomach.
“Maria.”
Kulikova turned at the familiar sound of the voice of her assistant, Anna. The poor woman looked flushed and sounded out of breath as she crossed the marble floor to where Maria stood in line at the “Prison” cafeteria. One of two staff dining rooms at Lubyanka, the Prison was in the building’s basement, where the infamous KGB prison had once been.
“Thank God.” Anna blew out a breath. “He is looking for you—again. Something about a file he cannot find. I don’t know who or how many he has fired this time.”
Maybe if Sokalov lost twenty-five to thirty kilograms, he could find things on his own, like his belt buckle. If not for Kulikova, Sokalov would have been fired years ago, childhood friend of the president or not. He drank too much, ate too much, and was too disorganized. He remained in power because he was ruthless.
She checked her watch; she had another fifteen minutes before she officially clocked in to start her day. Fat chance. She couldn’t get away for ten minutes without someone, usually Sokalov, searching for her. Nights, weekends, holidays. As the Secretariat director, Maria was always on call. The government paid her handsomely and provided a luxury apartment close to Lubyanka that she and her husband, Helge, would have otherwise been unable to afford. In her position she served as the gatekeeper to all Lubyanka files, and absolutely no one in the FSB could do without her or her staff. The execution and completion of every FSB officer’s work was dependent upon the women of the Secretariat. They typed, registered, and trafficked each document. They sent and received all mail. They booked vacations. If the Secretariat broke down, the Counterintelligence Directorate would grind to a ponderous halt.
Her position provided her the keys to every file in the directorate, as well as information too sensitive for files. Sokalov readily revealed such secrets during their role-playing sessions, when he pretended he was an FSB officer with classified information and encouraged Kulikova to bind, whip, slap, pierce, and drip hot candle wax on his fat body to extract the information—usually while he was so drunk he could not remember the night, let alone the information he had disclosed.
Information was power. Sokalov became drunk on it. And Kulikova was his drink.
She sighed. “Did the director say what he needed?”
“You!” Anna said. “He told me not to come back if I did not find you in the building. Thank God I know your habits. I’m sorry to interrupt your breakfast.”
In addition to being a disgusting pig, Sokalov was a bully to those over whom he held power, including the women Kulikova directed.
“Don’t worry about it, Anna, but do me a favor,” she said with a practiced, reserved demeanor. “Get me a cup of tea, no cream or sugar, two hard-boiled eggs, and tvorog. Just put them on my desk.” She handed Anna several rubles and made her way through Dom 1, one of two L-shaped buildings linked by a nine-story tower set in a large inner courtyard that gave Lubyanka the false appearance of being a single, square-shaped structure. At a bank of elevators, she used her secure card to summon a car. She had gone through metal detectors to enter the building and had her briefcase checked thoroughly—a Kremlin mandate. The president, a former KGB officer who had appointed himself czar, was obsessed with security and with punishing those who would betray Russia or him.