“Come. It is best to get this resolved and put it behind you so that you and Maria can move forward. I will talk to her, but I anticipate a stern talking-to from you would have more impact, no?” Sokalov stood from the table.
Helge did not want to confront the man. What would he say? This man was also an FSB officer, probably trained to fight. Still, he could think of no way out of the confrontation, not if the deputy director had arranged it. Not if Helge wanted to save face. Besides, he had Sokalov, and the threat of this man being fired to empower him. The FSB officer, after all, was the one who would suffer if Helge chose not to forgive. Helge held control over this man’s livelihood, over the livelihood of his family. That alone should be sufficient to shame him.
“You know, Dmitry, I do want a shot at this man. I will do my best to be calm and rational, but I can’t promise anything.”
“I understand, certainly, and . . . If you decide you want to rough this man up a bit, just to get the point across . . .” Sokalov winked and smiled. “I wouldn’t say a word to anyone.” Sokalov pushed open the metal door and they stepped to the back of the building, where a black Mercedes had parked.
Charles Jenkins drove the Third Ring Road that circled downtown Moscow. He did his best not to speed, not wanting to get pulled over. Lemore had advised Jenkins that Maria Kulikova’s handlers received an urgent message requesting immediate exfiltration, but Kulikova had failed to show at her dead drop at the designated time that evening. Lemore said a tap on Kulikova’s home phone line had revealed a call from Dmitry Sokalov, the deputy director of counterintelligence, requesting Kulikova’s husband meet Sokalov at a bar near Moscow State University to discuss a “delicate situation.”
Lemore had no further information on whether the husband had somehow exposed his wife. The husband did not work for the FSB or any other intelligence office. He had been employed by the Moscow parks department and had recently retired. In other words, there was no professional reason for Sokalov to request a meeting.
As Jenkins took the exit, he spoke again with Lemore. “What would the deputy director of counterintelligence want to discuss with a parks and recreation employee?” Jenkins asked.
“I don’t know,” Lemore said. “It sounds like a setup.”
“And you’re assuming this meeting is somehow the reason Kulikova didn’t show at her dead drop?”
“Again, that is not presently known, but further attempts to communicate with her have been unsuccessful. How far away are you from the bar?”
“Three minutes,” Jenkins said.
“Do not engage unless it is absolutely necessary,” Lemore said. “This could be an elaborate trap.”
“I understand,” Jenkins said. He remained in disguise, an old man, which should give him the ability to at least get into the bar and determine the situation. “And if she is there? What then?”
“Get her the hell out, by any means necessary.”
“I’m going to need help.”
“We’re looking at all available options,” Lemore said.
Whatever the hell that meant, Jenkins thought. He disconnected and checked the map on his phone. He was one minute away—from what, he had no idea.
Maria Kulikova exited the Metro station sprinting. Her Pilates and yoga classes had been about keeping in shape for the job she had to do, but now they might just keep Helge alive, if she could reach him before he got to the bar. Before he met Sokalov, or whatever henchman Sokalov had dispatched. She had her phone out, an app providing her directions. Previous attempts to call Helge had gone immediately to his voice mail.
She reached the end of a block, an intersection, and stopped to check her map. Her breathing was heavy, but controlled. She didn’t know what she would do when she arrived at the bar, what she might say. She had no weapon.
She checked the map and realized she had run a block in the wrong direction. She swore and turned to her left, watching the blue dot with the arrow on her phone calibrate, then she again took off running.
Another block and she saw the red neon name lit up atop the single-story building like a beacon. The Goaltender. She crossed the street to a nearly vacant dirt-and-gravel parking lot, gravel crunching beneath her shoes.
Maria took a deep breath, pulled open the bar door, and stepped inside. A woman collected beer bottles and glasses from upright tables. “Zakryvayemsya cherez desyat’minut.” We close in five minutes.
Maria ignored her. No one stood at the upright tables. She walked to the back of the bar, seeing empty tables and empty chairs. About to leave, she noticed a jacket draped over the back of one of the chairs.