He did know what Kulikova was going through—not the details of her life, but the guilt and the shame, certainly. As Kulikova lay down atop the blue blanket, Jenkins thought of the many years he had lived as a hermit on Camano Island, unable to forgive himself for what he had been a part of in Mexico City, the people who had died because of his work as a young CIA officer. He had been unable to comprehend that he would ever be forgiven. Then Alex had unexpectedly stepped into his life, and she had rotated it 180 degrees toward the better. She’d helped Jenkins to forgive himself and to love again.
Jenkins hoped someone would do the same for Kulikova.
38
Yaroslavsky Rail Terminal
Moscow, Russia
Arkhip found his way to his carriage. Two berths. It made him think of Lada. He placed the bag containing the two shirts he’d just purchased before boarding on the bed, sat at the window, and watched the remaining passengers board with suitcases and backpacks. Some were older, like him, perhaps checking off an item on their own bucket lists. Some were young, with large backpacks, off on an adventure before life sucked them in too deeply. None were alone. They all had someone to share the experience with.
His telephone rang. His captain.
Arkhip answered. “Senior Investigator Mishkin.”
“What exactly are you doing?” his captain asked.
“I am not understanding you,” Mishkin said. “You will need to be more specific.”
“Do you have any idea who the man was that you arrested?”
“None,” Arkhip said, lying.
“He is a former KGB and FSB officer who now works special projects for the Kremlin.”
“And what exactly is a special project? Painting?”
“Don’t be insolent, Mishkin. I just got off the phone with Lubyanka and was told that you had interfered with an FSB operation to capture a man of the highest order.”
“How could I have known such a thing? With whom did you speak?”
“The deputy director of counterintelligence. He advised me that you are to close your file and not to interfere in this operation again.”
“Which operation?”
The captain groaned. “The operation to bring in an American spy, Charles Jenkins.”
“I have no interest in Charles Jenkins the American spy. However, Charles Jenkins is the only man who can tell me what happened the night Eldar Velikaya died. I cannot close my file until I speak to him.”
His captain’s voice rose and Arkhip could hear the frustration with each word. “Eldar Velikaya was shot by Charles Jenkins, Mishkin. We have the medical examiner’s report.”
“The medical examiner’s report is a fabrication. I saw the body. Velikaya was shot in the back, not the front. Therefore, the shooter could not have been Charles Jenkins.”
“That is no longer your problem, Mishkin. It is a Lubyanka problem.”
“How am I to close my file?”
“Consider it closed. Do not interfere again, Mishkin. Let Lubyanka handle this matter and retire in peace, or I will consider terminating you. You don’t want that now.”
No, he did not. But he also could not retire, not if he wished to retire in peace. Not without speaking to Charles Jenkins. “What of the other three men who were arrested?” Arkhip asked.
“A case of mistaken identity. They were waiting for a friend in one of the apartments.”
“With weapons?”
“I know nothing of any weapons, Mishkin.”
“Where are they at present?”
“How should I know? I told you they were released.”
How very convenient, Arkhip thought.
The brakes of the train hissed. Arkhip felt a jolt as the train moved backward, then rolled forward. “Where are you now?” his captain asked.
“At home, of course.”
“What is that noise in the background?”
“The kettle. I am making a cup of tea.”
“Listen, Mishkin, you don’t have long and then you will be retired. You have earned it. Relax. Take it easy until that day arrives.”
Take it easy, Arkhip thought. And do what, exactly? “Thank you. I think I will take the next few days off. I believe I have accrued enough vacation days to do so. Yes?”
“Good. See. Already you are learning how to relax. Don’t think about work. Think about all the things you are going to do once you are retired. Maybe take a long-awaited trip.”
Arkhip looked out the window as the train pulled from the station. “Maybe sooner than we both know,” he said. He disconnected the call and removed the fur hat he had also purchased in the kiosk, then put it back on his head and considered his reflection in the mirror mounted on the inside of the cabin door. The hat added another two to three inches in height. He could hear Lada now, a chuckle in her voice. A man who wears a hat to look taller is hiding a certain failing in another area.