Rasputin's Shadow

25

Sokolov sat on the creaky bed in the small bedroom of the second-floor apartment above the Green Dragon and stared at the cell phone he had taken from Yakovlev after shoving the man out his window.

He had tossed and turned all night, finally falling asleep not long before dawn. He wasn’t used to staying up that late. It was something he hadn’t done with any regularity, not since first arriving in the United States. He and Daphne had found a way to make their lives dovetail, even with her recent move to alternating shift schedules. They had been comfortable in what seemed like perfectly complementary patterns. At least until his past had crashed right through his present with all the subtlety of an eighteen-wheeler.

He had already established that the last call placed by Yakovlev was to a DDI number at the Russian consulate. Which wasn’t surprising, given that he worked there. It was where Sokolov would start, but so far, he hadn’t dared test the number. He didn’t want to make contact until he was ready. He’d removed the SIM card and battery from the cell phone as soon as he’d put enough distance between himself and his apartment to stop and take a breath. He knew that nowadays, locating someone via a live cell phone was a relatively simple task. As an engineer and a scientist, the advent of cell phones had in fact fascinated him. He had become an expert on cell technology, something that had spurred him to renew his own research and advance his work into realms that would have sounded like science fiction a mere decade or two earlier.

Realms that, at the time, he couldn’t resist exploring even though he knew they would only lead to trouble.

Ironically, his work could now prove to be crucial in saving Daphne-and himself.

After replacing the SIM card and battery, he powered up and immediately pressed the Dial button. The call rang through for four long rings, then someone picked up.

And said nothing.

Sokolov grasped the phone close to his ear, also saying nothing. He could hear some faint breathing on the other end.

He imagined that whoever picked up the phone was probably surprised as hell to see the caller ID displaying their dead colleague’s name. And whoever it was probably figured it could only be one of two people: either a cop investigating Yakovlev’s death, or Sokolov himself.

After a few drawn-out seconds, the male voice said, “Da,” flatly and questioningly.

Sokolov felt his throat tighten, then he said, “Eto ya. Shislenko.” It’s me. Shislenko.

More silence.

Sokolov guessed that whoever was on the other end probably wasn’t alone and was almost certainly starting a recording and initiating a trace.

“Prodolzhat,” the man then said. Continue.

Sokolov’s heart was punching its way out of his chest. “You have my wife,” he said in Russian. “And I have what you want. So here’s what we’re going to do. I will call you back at exactly eight o’clock to tell you when and where we make the exchange. There will be no discussion.”

He clicked off and swiftly removed the battery and SIM card.

He stared at his shaking hands.

What the hell are you doing?

He sucked in some deep breaths and tried to calm himself. He could feel a headache galloping in.

The only thing you can.

He stayed like that, immobile, for a few minutes, questioning himself, second-guessing his actions. Then he pushed the doubts away and stood up.

He got dressed, collected the small number of possessions he had with him, and left his room.

He had an errand to run.

“HE JUST CALLED. He’s going to call again at eight. He wants his wife back.”

Koschey listened as Oleg Vrabinek, the Russian vice consul and the city’s senior SVR operative, relayed the little that Sokolov had said.

“All right,” he told Vrabinek. “Call me as soon as he contacts you again.”

He killed the call and glanced in the direction of the small office, where he was keeping Daphne. This was good. Sokolov was feeling brave. He was offering a trade. He was willing to expose himself.

Koschey couldn’t really ask for more.

He’d need more muscle, though. Just in case. Even though it was an added complication, he had no misgivings about killing the two bratki at the motel. He couldn’t let them live. For one thing, they had been sloppy. Yakovlev had failed, and they had been compromised. Proof of that was how easily the Americans had found them. And despite the strict code of silence he knew any bratok would follow religiously, Koschey couldn’t count on that silence. He needed that silence to be permanent, and there was only one way he knew of to guarantee it.

Beyond the risk of exposure, leaving those two bratki alive would have left him open to another, greater risk, one he was even more keen to neutralize: he didn’t know how much they knew. They’d spent several hours babysitting Sokolov’s wife. Koschey didn’t know how much Sokolov had told her, nor did he know what she’d told them. And given what was at stake, given the potential involved, Koschey really didn’t want anyone running around out there who knew, especially not a couple of lowlife incompetent gopniki.

He had a couple of potential sources who could supply him with the muscle he needed, but in a moment of inspired perversity, he decided to go back to the original source. Doing that opened up all kinds of interesting possibilities.

He pulled up the number he’d been given by Vrabinek, and, liking his plan more and more with each passing second, dialed the vor they called the Sledgehammer.