“Maria Kulikova,” Mily said.
Yekaterina stopped and faced him. “Director of the Secretariat. Sokalov’s longtime lover.”
The Velikaya family had, for years, maintained files on key government officials, information they could use to blackmail the person. Sokalov had been a priority. Mily’s men had secured photographs of Sokalov with Kulikova, though always in public, where Sokalov had always been discreet. He and Kulikova never rode together in the same car, never walked Moscow streets together, held hands, or showed any other public displays of affection, even when dining out in restaurants. Every photograph Mily and his men had filed away, Sokalov could explain as a business meeting.
Yekaterina smiled. “The little bitch,” she said.
“Comare?”
She looked to Mily. “If Kulikova is running with Mr. Jenkins rather than from him, then what must we conclude? She is a spy.”
Mily felt his jaw go slack. How did he miss it? This was information he should have brought to her.
“And if Kulikova is a spy, then she has been spying under Sokalov’s nose for years.” Yekaterina laughed. It sounded out of place in the darkened and somber room given what had transpired over the last few days. “Sokalov is not trying to keep this quiet because of Mr. Jenkins, Mily.”
“That would not make any sense,” he agreed.
“The FSB would have a manhunt seeking to arrest Mr. Jenkins,” Yekaterina said. “The fat pig is keeping this quiet because the little bitch has been spying on him between the sheets, and if such knowledge were to become public knowledge, Sokalov is a dead man. They will be lining up to kill him—his father-in-law and the president. If we can produce such evidence, they may even allow me the honor of killing him.”
Mily’s cell phone rang. He pulled it from his suit pocket, considered the caller, then smiled at Yekaterina. “Ugolov.”
“Sokalov will kill Kulikova to keep his secret hidden. We cannot allow that to happen, Mily. You need to find them both and bring them to me, alive. I wish to determine from Mr. Jenkins what business he had with Eldar. As for Kulikova, I have an entirely different use in mind.”
30
Ministry of Internal Affairs
Building 38, Petrovka Street
Moscow, Russia
Arkhip Mishkin used the eraser of his pencil to rub at the eczema spot on the back of his head. His itch got worse with each passing minute, and with each passing minute he seemed to get farther and farther away from a resolution in the Charles Jenkins matter. No doubt the latter caused the former. He was running out of options. He had made several attempts to speak with Yekaterina Velikaya, but the mother of the victim was said to be in mourning and would not be speaking to him or to anyone else. It was a polite way of telling Arkhip to go screw himself, and Arkhip didn’t have much recourse.
He’d gone back to speak to the bartender at the Yakimanka Bar, but the man had gotten a rapid case of the three monkeys. He no longer could see, hear, or speak of the shooting. It was a wonder the man even remembered that Eldar Velikaya and Pavil Ismailov had entered his establishment. Arkhip tried to charm the man, but charm was no match for fear as a motivator and, Arkhip suspected, it didn’t pay nearly as well either.
He’d spoken to the medical examiner, but the ME politely told Arkhip that his visual perception of the wound had been mistaken. As the report clearly stated, Eldar Velikaya had been shot in the stomach and died from massive hemorrhaging. Arkhip warned that he would have a second autopsy performed, and if the results were to the contrary, he would have the man brought up on charges—a hollow threat. The department would never pay for a second autopsy, and the medical examiner knew it. He told Arkhip to proceed in whatever manner he deemed best. Oh . . . and in case Arkhip was interested, he could find Eldar Velikaya’s body, or at least his ashes, at a certain crematorium in east Moscow.
In the midst of all this, Adrian Zima had requested another meeting at the repair shop, during which he told Arkhip his source at the FSB, who had provided information on the return of Charles Jenkins, had gone missing. Zima spoke to the man’s wife, who said her husband had called late the prior afternoon to tell her he had an important meeting with the deputy director of counterintelligence, and he hoped the meeting would lead to a promotion. That was the last she had heard from him.
In short, Arkhip was getting screwed more ways now than when Lada had been alive.
He looked at the picture of his wife on his desk. “Sorry,” he said.
He leaned back and stared at his notepad. Beside it, his cup of tea had gone cold. He was dog tired. He didn’t know how much he’d slept the past few days. He’d napped, more off than on, in one of the interrogation rooms. And he’d eaten, more crap food than healthy, in the cafeteria. If Lada had been alive, she would have warned him about burning the candle at both ends and filling his stomach with junk; how it could shorten his life the way cigarettes could, had he not quit upon her urging.