Zaslon operations included, among others, the poisoning death of Russian government critic Alexander Litvinenko six years after the former FSB officer had fled to Great Britain; the poisoning of Sergei Skripal, the former Russian military officer and double agent for the UK’s intelligence services; and, more recently, the poisoning of Kremlin critic Alexei Navalny, just ahead of Russia’s parliamentary elections.
Sokalov met the three men on the Persian rug beneath the tiered, crystal chandelier. Behind them the mahogany bookshelves held a collection of rare, antique books, but the officials were not interested in man-made opulence. Petrov’s eyes found Kulikova, as they always did. He ogled her as a cat ogled a play toy.
“Ms. Kulikova.” Petrov leered as he stepped around the maroon Chesterfield sofa to greet her. His gaze dropped to her breasts, and Kulikova leaned forward to allow him to kiss her on each cheek and to better peer down her cleavage. “Radiant as usual,” Petrov said, alcohol on his breath. “To what do I owe this great pleasure?”
She didn’t dare answer.
“Ms. Kulikova will take shorthand at the meeting and keep those notes in her safe,” Sokalov said, stepping forward like a protective father. As if to assert his superior position, Petrov did not release Kulikova’s hand.
“Out of the question.” Lebedev moved his significant girth toward an end of the pressed-button couch. “The president was explicit; there is to be no recording of our meeting.”
“And there shall be no recording.” Sokalov adjusted the knot of his tie, a tic when nervous. “But the president will ask for an update, and I want to be certain I am accurate in providing one.” Sokalov threw around what weight he had in this group—his long-standing relationship with the president. Otherwise, he was outranked on every level, which was why he was insistent on Kulikova keeping a record. As he liked to say, “Shit runs downhill.” And Sokalov was at the bottom of this hill, holding a shovel and a pail.
“I do not feel comfortable with this arrangement,” Lebedev whined. He shifted his girth to turn toward Petrov, who had not removed his gaze from Kulikova. She wondered if the old man expected her to just bend over the end of Sokalov’s Louis XV desk and let him take her.
“Ms. Kulikova has worked for me for more than thirty years. Certainly you are not questioning her loyalties,” Sokalov said.
“I am well aware of your professional relationship with Ms. Kulikova,” Lebedev responded. He let his comment linger a moment. Then he said, “I am only seeking to follow the president’s instructions that there be no record.”
Lebedev and Sokalov had one thing in common. Each sought the chairman’s position and a seat within the Kremlin.
General Pasternak, a no-nonsense military man, waded into the turbulent waters. “Perhaps a compromise to move this meeting forward?” He looked to Petrov, who dropped Kulikova’s hand, though not his gaze. She held it as long as she dared, not wanting to upset Sokalov, but also not wanting to offend Petrov. “Perhaps Ms. Kulikova can take notes, but her notes will be kept in the chairman’s possession.” Pasternak referred to Petrov.
“Ah, I understand your concern,” Sokalov said, not willing to concede so easily. “A very good suggestion, but I don’t believe the chairman wishes to be burdened with the obligation. I would propose, as an alternative, that Ms. Kulikova’s notes be placed in my safe, and kept here in my office for safekeeping . . . were something to happen.”
“Nothing will happen.” Pasternak bristled.
Sokalov smiled, but he was not playing to the standin at this theatrical performance; he was playing to Chairman Petrov. “One can ride a train a hundred times without a problem, but the hundred-and-first ride and that train derails, without fault of the conductor, of course. All I am suggesting, a hypothesis if you will, is that were something to go wrong—and I cast no aspersions toward you or your unit, I can assure you—I am close to the president. He will listen to me when I tell him this meeting was held in the utmost secrecy.”
Petrov sat on the opposite end of the couch from Lebedev. “I for one find Ms. Kulikova to be an aesthetically pleasing diversion from the horse faces I must otherwise endure at these meetings, my own included.”
They all dutifully chuckled.
“Ms. Kulikova will note the proceedings. Dmitry will keep her notes in his safe here in his office. Now, let us move forward.”
End of discussion, thought Kulikova, keeping her expression blank. As the other men found their seats, she moved to a chair Sokalov had placed to the side of his desk. Sokalov sat in one of two leather chairs; to sit behind his desk would be considered rude to his superiors in the room. Kulikova picked up her spiral notebook and flipped open the cover, noting the date and meeting participants.