He shoved the burner phone into his coat pocket and grabbed his thick wool cap and fur-lined leather gloves from his suitcase. Then he committed to memory the position of every object in the room, which would be searched.
He walked to the door and dropped to a knee, as if to tie his shoe, and placed the piece of paper he’d torn from the dossier beneath his sole so the breeze when the door opened would not disturb it. Standing, he pulled open the door and stepped out, carefully shutting the door.
In the hotel lobby, the valet asked Jenkins if he desired a cab. Jenkins declined. “Just going for a walk,” he said, practicing his Russian. “I don’t suspect I’ll get very far in this cold.”
He zipped his jacket and pulled the knit hat down over his ears as he stepped outside. A gust of Russian winter smacked him in the face like a fist. He stopped just outside the door to slip on his gloves, which provided a moment to confirm the continued presence of the black Mercedes parked across Teatral’nyy Prospekt.
He walked north, each breath marking the air as he approached the burnt-orange building in Lubyanka Square. The rectangular edifice had once been one of the most feared in the world, home to the KGB and its infamous prison.
Emerson said the KGB had been Keystone Cops compared to the FSB, and that when Putin seized power, he made strengthening his position and the state top priorities. He created his own oligarchy, bringing friends and colleagues with him from Leningrad, then planted them inside the FSB to keep him apprised and to ruthlessly stop anyone who challenged him.
Across the square from the Lubyanka Building stood Jenkins’s destination, the massive, multistory building once called Detsky Mir, home to more than one hundred children’s stores. Jenkins trudged to a glass door entrance decorated for Christmas with three large neon figures—a young girl, a bear, and Pinocchio. He wondered if they had political significance—the young girl, new Russia; the bear, old Russia; and Pinocchio, a character caught in between. What Jenkins cared about, other than the building’s location, was that mothers and their children would pack the stores, particularly this close to Christmas. He wanted a public place for his first meeting, if a meeting was to take place at all.
Inside the mall, Jenkins removed his gloves and hat and shoved them inside his coat pockets. His face tingled as if he’d spent the morning at the dentist and the Novocain had begun to wear off. He found a Starbucks coffee shop on the ground floor, ordered a grande cappuccino, and carried it to an open table beneath an ornate and colorful glass atrium roof. Shoppers’ voices—a low hum—nearly drowned out Christmas music. Jenkins busied himself on his cell phone to give his two Russian handlers time to catch up. The two men entered the mall and stood near an ornate lamppost, one of the men with his head buried in a folded newspaper.
Jenkins took a deep breath and placed the call. It rang several times and he thought it would go to voice mail. Then a male voice answered. “Federov.”
“Dobroy dien,” Jenkins said, greeting him in Russian, then speaking English. “I’m an American businessman in Moscow, and I have information I think would be of interest to the Russian government. I would like to meet with somebody to discuss a proposal that may be of value to you.”
Federov paused, likely scrambling to record the conversation. “Kakaya informatsiya?” he said, using Russian, though he no doubt spoke English. Language was a means to control a contact, and you never wanted to divulge how much you understood.
“Information that must be discussed confidentially,” Jenkins said, again speaking English.
Federov paused. Then in English he said, “We don’t handle anything like that. If you’ve lost your passport or are in need of directions, why don’t you go to the American embassy?”
“I don’t believe they would be as interested in the information as the FSB. But if you’re not interested, then I’m sorry to have wasted your time.”
“Podozhdite,” Federov said quickly.
“Yes,” Jenkins said. “I’m still here.”
Another pause. Federov asked, “Where did you learn to speak Russian?”
Jenkins smiled. The game had changed little in the intervening decades. This was an opportunity to impress. “Mexico City in the 1970s. But I’m finding that it is like riding a bike.”
“Riding a bike?”
“An American expression. Once you learn, you never forget.”
“You wish to come to Lubyanka?”
“No. If you or someone else is interested in speaking to me, you can call me back at this number. I’m close by. I’ll tell him where to meet.” Jenkins did not wait before rattling off the burner phone’s number. He could hear Federov searching for a pen and paper.
“I won’t be here for more than fifteen minutes,” Jenkins said. “Once I finish my coffee, I will leave. You might want to tell the two men following me that mothers tend to get uncomfortable when they see men in a children’s store unaccompanied by a child. Proshchay.”
Jenkins disconnected and sat back, watching his two Russian minders in his peripheral vision. Within a minute, the one closest to him turned his head ever so slightly to try to hide the wire snaking up from the collar of his jacket to his ear. He was receiving a call.
Fifteen minutes passed. No one returned Jenkins’s call. Like the KGB, the FSB would be patient. It preferred to do things on its terms.
Jenkins picked up his drink, sipped the final contents, and discarded the cup in a garbage can as he left the building. He walked past his minders and just couldn’t resist the chance to tweak them and in the process communicate he was an experienced field officer.
“Vy mozhete byt’ arestovany za besporyadok v detskom magazine,” he said. You could be arrested for loitering in a children’s store.
Jenkins spent the afternoon going over security measures with Uri for LSR&C’s offices in Moscow. When they’d concluded their meeting, the investment team suggested dinner at a Chinese restaurant. Jenkins, who hadn’t eaten since a snack on the plane, readily accepted. He kept vigilant that evening but did not see anyone who appeared to be shadowing him, or watching him while at dinner.
Toward the end of the evening, Jenkins excused himself to use the bathroom. Standing at a urinal, he heard the door swing open and another man enter. Though there were several open urinals, the man stood at the one adjacent to Jenkins. Jenkins flashed back to his training and realized his mistake. He’d been taught to never use a urinal, leaving his back to the door and his hands occupied.
“Mr. Jenkins.” The man spoke without turning his head or shifting his eyes from the white tile above the urinal. “I am Federov, Viktor Nikolayevich. We spoke this morning by phone. We would be interested in speaking with you. Come to the lobby of the Lubyanka tomorrow morning at ten a.m. Do you know it?”
“Too well,” Jenkins said. “So, you’ll excuse me if I decline your invitation. Old prejudices die hard. I prefer someplace neutral.”
It was a matter of keeping a fish on the line but not making it too easy.
Jenkins heard Federov inhale and exhale sharply. “You are familiar with Zaryadye Park?”
“Is that where the Hotel Rossiya once stood?” Jenkins said, sensing another opportunity to impress Federov as an American intelligence officer, though Federov had likely found that out already. The Hotel Rossiya, once the largest hotel in the world, had housed all foreign visitors during Soviet times. After the fall of communism, a new owner had sought to remodel the hotel but was forced to tear it down when his contractor found the walls to be filled with cameras, listening devices, and pipes to distribute gas. Putin, it was said, convinced the owner to walk away from the building so as to prevent a national embarrassment. He built the park instead, and called it a gift to the Moscow people.