“What did he say?”
“What are you doing this weekend?” said Sharpe.
“Are you and Mrs. Sharpe on the outs?”
“Funny,” said Sharpe. “I think we need to meet with Berg’s circle of trust. If we decide to pursue this, we’re going to need a few friends to back us up. Friends that don’t fuck around.”
“As long as your wife doesn’t have a problem with it,” she said.
“Trust me. If this is what Berg thinks it is, I’m putting her on the first flight to New Zealand.”
“Why don’t you put me on the New Zealand flight, business class, and take your wife this weekend.”
“Even funnier,” said Sharpe. “Keep digging through the data. His people seem to be ahead of you.”
“Is that a challenge?”
“Just saying,” said Sharpe. “And Dana?”
“Yes.”
“This has the potential to go sideways really fast, so—”
“I’d feel really insulted if you gave me an out or a pass on this one,” she said.
He grinned. “Just letting you know it could get ugly.”
Really fucking ugly.
Chapter 60
Alexei Kaparov held onto the metal horizontal rail next to the subway car’s door, occasionally glaring at the youngster hooligans slouched in the plastic seats across from him. He was the oldest passenger on the train by twenty years, and these punks just sat there, earbuds inserted and stupid hats pulled over their unkempt hair. If they knew he was an FSB deputy director, it probably wouldn’t make one bit of difference. Today’s youth didn’t care or scare easily. He could turn a bit more and show them his service pistol, and it wouldn’t matter. Nothing was going to dislodge them from their seats. Especially not the sight of an older man hanging on for his life as the subway shook and rattled.
His phone buzzed in his suit coat pocket, barely audible over the Metro car racket. Now he got to pull out his flip phone and add to the agony. The kids were busy swiping screens larger than his first apartment’s bathroom mirror. He flipped open his antique device and checked the caller ID. This couldn’t be good. Karl Berg had been brief during their last call. Curt was a better word. Something had been wrong, but it wasn’t information his friend intended to part with too easily.
“To what do I owe this pleasure?” asked Kaparov.
“Sorry about cutting you off the other day. I needed to pass on the information immediately,” said Berg. “It made a difference. Thank you.”
“How are things? You sounded surprised by the information.”
“Things are not good over here. At all,” said Berg. “Which is why I’m calling.”
“I’ve never heard you like this.”
“It’s that bad, and I can’t go into details on the phone. I know what my side can do to track phrases and words. Understand?”
“Yes. These capabilities are ripening here,” said Kaparov.
“I need you to carefully cover your tracks regarding our most recent conversation. I’m not sure how much longer the name in question will remain off the radar,” said Berg. “The next time we are in touch, it will be in person, over drinks and dinner — on me of course.”
“That bad, huh?”
Berg laughed. “I’m not betting against that dinner, but there are factors working very strongly against it.”
“Understood. Stay safe, my friend. Watch your back. Don’t trust anyone. All that crap.”
“Sage advice,” said Berg. “If we don’t speak again, thank you for everything. It’s been an honor and a pleasure knowing you.”
“I’d toast to that if I hadn’t left my damn flask in the office,” said Kaparov.
“Toast to it when you get back to your apartment. I’m sure there’s no shortage of vodka there.”
“You know me too well.”
“Take care, old friend.”
“You take better care. I look forward to our reunion,” said Kaparov.
He closed his phone, fairly sure that he would never hear from Karl Berg again. The CIA officer hadn’t sounded like himself. The confidence and energy was gone, replaced by uncertainty — and a stern warning about Sokolov.
Prerovsky had identified Sokolov through what could only be interpreted as a routine and logical follow-up into Zuyev’s death. The “known-associates” list had contained hundreds of names. Their story started to fray when Prerovsky added a few dozen of the names to the FSB Intelligence Network watch list, conveniently including Sokolov.
Prerovsky had been clever enough with the watch-list stunt, openly suggesting it to his fellow directors. Since the Organized Crime division hadn’t been given the details regarding Zuyev’s death, he easily sold it as a background intelligence-gathering effort. Innocent enough from an FSB standpoint, but unlikely to withstand the paranoid scrutiny of a Foreign Intelligence Service inquiry.
He considered his options while the subway car continued its stop-and-go journey. A few stops later, he decided that the best course of action had to be an active one. He’d never reported his analysis of the raid directly to Greshnev, as the chief Counterterrorism director had asked. Tomorrow morning he would schedule an appointment to suggest the theory that Kaparov had been taken by an insider — the fourth man in the boat. He’d then offer to liaison with Organized Crime, where an incredible coincidence would materialize.
Until then, he’d drink several toasts to his American friend tonight, until the memory of the conversation faded from his thoughts, along with his consciousness. Like so many others, the day had suddenly turned into one he wanted to forget.
Chapter 61
Matvey Penkin stole an impatient glance at his Patek Phillipe Nautilus before taking a sip of his cognac. 1:35 AM. He despised being out this late, especially in a strobe-light-filled, hip-hop-gyrating nightclub, but this was one of the prices he paid for keeping a girlfriend half his age. Alina loved to party, one of the few “skills” she excelled at beyond snorting cocaine, looking good and spending his money. Penkin really hoped she wasn’t powdering her nose again. They’d be there for another hour, surrounded by her insufferable fan club.
At least once a week, she insisted they “be seen” together — usually at one of the most exclusive clubs in Moscow. Of course, in order to “be seen,” her friends needed to be on the VIP list, which Penkin arranged. On top of that, he paid their exorbitant bar tab, which tended to skyrocket after he left. The only downside to leaving before the place shut down for the night. Alina was no doubt using him on every level, and he really didn’t care. She was easy-to-maintain eye candy, which was all he really wanted in a relationship at this point.
Alina strutted through the crowd at the edge of the pulsating dance floor, two of his security staff clearing her way like Moses parting the Red Sea. She moved swiftly, Penkin sensing that the night had finally come to an end. Alina had a sensitive stomach, and the spicy tuna tartare she’d eaten a short while ago might have saved him from another two hours of headache-inducing sound and light. He stood up to offer her his arm when she reached the heavily guarded table.
“You should have your men talk with the chef,” said Alina. “His tuna got me sick again. Let’s go.”
More like thank the chef. He’d have to remember this for next time and suggest ordering food as soon as they arrived. Anything spicy.