Zhomov, Maria had called him.
No time to close the grate. If it made a noise, it would draw Zhomov to him, and Jenkins would literally be the fish about to be shot in the barrel.
He stepped down the ladder rungs, moving as quickly as he dared. The lower he descended into the pitch darkness, the less he could see. He had to be sure his foot found a perch before he let go to reach down to the next rung. He likened it to rock climbing, or what he imagined rock climbing to be, trying to keep three points of contact on the ladder as he descended.
If he slipped and fell, he had no idea how far the drop, or if Kulikova was still beneath him.
Zhomov reached the courtyard in front of the building and slowed his pace, assuming the man who had come for Kulikova, Charles Jenkins, to be armed. He didn’t know Jenkins, but he knew of him from Sokalov. He knew Jenkins had come to and escaped from Russia twice, the second time killing Adam Efimov, “The Brick,” and one of Lubyanka’s best torpedoes. The president had placed Jenkins on a kill list, and Zhomov would have liked nothing better than to appease the president, but Sokalov had been adamant that Jenkins be taken alive, a much more difficult task.
Zhomov removed the pistol from the holster at his back and held the barrel pointed at the ground as he walked and listened. He stopped, allowing his eyes to search the trees and shrubs for natural hiding places and unnatural colors. His ears listened for man-made sounds.
He touched his earpiece. “Anything?”
“No. They have not moved since they entered the courtyard in front of the main building. Do you see them?”
“Nyet.”
“They have to be close by.”
“Yes. They do.”
Zhomov took a step forward. He stopped when he heard a metallic tink. Tink. Tink. He tried to determine its location. He heard it again and stepped toward the sound, treading softly.
“Still—” Sokalov began.
“Do not speak,” Zhomov whispered. He wondered if perhaps the sound was from one of the buildings, a mechanical system, then dismissed the thought. The noise had no pattern, making it likely man-made. It stopped. He heard a creaking noise, again man-made. Again, he moved toward the sound.
He stepped around a row of bushes and trees and came to the southwest courtyard dominated by a central, dry fountain. His eyes searched the shadows and natural hiding places, again seeing no one.
“Anything yet?” he whispered into the headset.
“Nothing,” Sokalov responded.
They had to be here. Somewhere. He moved down a path toward the fountain and proceeded around it clockwise, looking left and right. No one.
Zhomov stopped. Listened. He did not hear anything, but something about one of the grates at the base of the fountain caught his attention. He moved toward it. The grate had been pulled open. A ten-centimeter bolt lay on the concrete. He felt scratch marks under the square head. It explained the tinking noise—someone prying up the bolt to free the grate. Carefully he leaned forward, holding out his phone, and used the light to look down into the darkness at a rusted ladder descending a shaft. His light was not strong enough to reach the bottom.
He pulled back and spoke into the headset. “They have gone underground. I am not far behind them and will follow. Have the center activate the cameras in the tunnels.”
“I don’t have time to explain, but there are no cameras in the underground.”
“Then take the car back to Lubyanka and pull up a map with points of entry and exit. Find out where the tunnel beneath the fountain in the southwest corner of the courtyard goes. They have to come back above ground somewhere. Alert the Moscow police.”
“Remember, I need Jenkins alive,” Sokalov said. “Kill Kulikova and leave her body below Moscow so I can think fondly of her each time I drive to Lubyanka.”
“I have no desire to be part of your fantasies, Dmitry. Do as I say. And do it now if you wish for me to succeed.”
Jenkins stepped off the final rung and used the phone light to illuminate an enormous underground bunker with multilevel labyrinths of tunnels and rooms. It reminded him of the tunnels beneath Oslo that he and Ponomayova had used to escape. Those tunnels had been built so leaders of Oslo could move around the city while it was under Nazi rule. But these tunnels were many times the size of those tunnels.
“What is this?” he asked, keeping his volume low.
“The underground city,” Kulikova said. “Ramenki-43. Built in the 1960s and ’70s to withstand a nuclear attack. It can house up to fifteen thousand people, some say for thirty years.”