Sokalov laughed. “Maybe he is more Inspector Clouseau than Petrovich.”
“Dmitry, I am so sorry he bothered you with this nonsense. How should I handle it?”
“Tell him that I spanked you a hundred times. You would like that, would you not? I know I would.” He adjusted the crotch of his pants so she could see his arousal.
“I’m serious, Dmitry. What do I tell him to make him let this go? If I don’t, he might very well catch the two of us and go to Olga. Then what would happen?”
“Yes,” Sokalov said, the very mention of his wife’s name sending a chill through his body, deflating him. He thought for a moment, then said, “Tell him that I confronted you with the jewelry, and I admonished you and reminded you of your duties and your responsibilities and that the matter is now over.”
“Thank you, Dmitry. What would I do without you?”
He opened his knees to pull her closer. She placed a hand on his desk, bent her leg, and jammed her knee into his crotch. He flinched as she added more weight. “Why did you toy with me? Do you not trust me, Dmitry?” She jammed the knee against him a second time.
Sokalov groaned from the pain and the pleasure he derived from it. “It was silly of me. I was just having some fun.”
She applied even more pressure, enough that he sat upright. “As if I have time for another man.” She leaned in close. The aroma of her perfume intoxicated him. His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Are you man enough for me, Dmitry?” She put her arms around his neck. Her shirt fell open, the gold chain and the crucifix dangling between her beautiful breasts. She nibbled his ear, a sensation that made his legs go weak. “Do you have time for me to show you now?”
He moaned. “Bosh! I cannot. Something has come up. A problem I must deal with before Chairman Petrov will have my head.”
“Pity,” she cooed. Her tongue traced the contours of his ear and she pulled his face deep into her cleavage. “Tell me you’re sorry. Tell me.” When he didn’t immediately respond she jammed her knee again into his crotch. He winced, then felt himself release all the tension of the day, maybe the week.
He moaned. “I’m sorry.”
16
Do or Dye Beauty Salon
Moscow, Russia
Charles Jenkins stepped down the back staircase to the storage room, hiding in the shadows but still able to watch the mirror on the salon wall, angled so he could see the store’s front. Bells atop the shop door rattled. The young woman wearing shorts and a T-shirt who Jenkins had spotted outside the Metro station closed the door behind her. Jenkins looked to Suriev, standing behind the salon chair. He had shut his eyes, realizing too late his failure to lock the door and turn the window sign to “Closed” after Petrekova had entered.
Suriev opened his eyes and glanced over his shoulder, speaking casually. “Ya vernus’ k vam cherez minutu.” I’ll be with you in a moment.
The woman stepped to her right to better view the person seated in the chair, not doubt to confirm it was Petrekova, but Suriev had also stepped to his right to block her view. When the woman took another step, Suriev reached for a jar on his tray, unscrewed the top, and applied green cream liberally to the look-alike’s face. Then he approached the counter.
“Chem ya mogu pomoch’ vam?” How can I help you?
“I’m thinking of a haircut,” the woman said, speaking to Suriev, but looking past him to the chair. “Perhaps some highlights.”
“Can you remove your hair band, please?” The woman did. Suriev stepped forward. “Turn around, please.” The woman turned toward the street. Suriev played with her hair. After a moment he said, “I can cut your hair for you, but I wouldn’t highlight it. Your hair has beautiful natural highlights as it is.”
A beeper buzzed. “Suriev,” the woman from the chair called.
“I’ll be with you in a moment, Zenaida.” He moved to the counter, looking at a computer monitor. “I could squeeze you in next week. Say, Tuesday evening at five thirty.”
“I have an engagement this weekend. Can you do it tonight?” the woman said.
“I’m afraid not. Zenaida is my last client.”
“Then I’ll have to go somewhere else,” the woman said. She moved to the door, glancing over her shoulder one last time before she departed. This time Suriev locked the door and turned the window sign, releasing a huge sigh.
17
Ministry of Internal Affairs
Building 38, Petrovka Street