The Eighth Sister

by Robert Dugoni

  “Spasibo.” Jenkins handed the young man the bottle of champagne and a twenty-dollar bill. Then he said, “I’d like to know if anyone comes to the front desk asking about me.”

  The bellboy nodded. “No problem.”

  That evening, prior to departing his hotel room, Jenkins again placed a scrap of paper on the carpet near the door. He’d also opened the closet door several inches, unscrewed his mechanical pencil, removed a filament of lead, and slid that filament onto the door hinge. If someone did search his room, they’d be savvy enough to leave the closet door similarly ajar, but they’d have no way of putting the lead filament back together once it snapped when they opened the closet, in the unlikely event they even saw it.

  Jenkins stepped out the back door of the hotel at 8:15 p.m. Federov was not prompt. Jenkins suspected the FSB officer and his partner, Arkady Volkov, were sitting in a parked car with the heater blasting, taking great pleasure knowing Jenkins stood in the cold, freezing his nuts off.

  The Moscow temperature had plunged with nightfall; meteorologists said a cold wave rippling across the country would drop the temperature to minus thirty degrees Celsius. Jenkins stood beneath a decorative lamppost—the light like a candle flame in an oxygen-deprived room. Soon the cold seeped into his joints, despite his heavy coat and the hat with earflaps he’d purchased in Seattle. Jenkins moved his arms and his legs, trying not to freeze. After fifteen minutes he’d had enough. He walked back through the lobby doors into the warm hotel interior.

  As he made his way across the marbled lobby, the bellboy he’d generously tipped appeared with an envelope. “Excuse me, Mr. Jenkins, a message came for you.” The bellboy paused and looked about. “There’s a taxi waiting out front.”

  “Spasibo,” Jenkins said.

  Jenkins considered the lobby but did not see anyone overly interested in him. He opened the envelope.

  Change of plans. Take taxi out front.

  Jenkins swore, stuffed the envelope into his coat pocket, and slid on his gloves as he walked across the marbled foyer, down the steps, and out the front door. A man stood outside a waiting cab, his shoulders hunched against the cold. Smoke from a cigarette filtered from his nostrils. When Jenkins made eye contact, the man tossed the cigarette butt into the snow and quickly moved behind the wheel.

  Jenkins slid into the back seat. The driver didn’t ask where Jenkins wanted to go or flip the lever on the cab meter. He appeared to be driving without a destination, though certainly with a purpose—to determine if Jenkins was being followed. Jenkins used the Kremlin, lit up in the hazy night sky, as a landmark, and confirmed they were driving in circles. After fifteen minutes, a cell phone rang. The driver answered it, listened, then set down the phone and pulled a U-turn in the middle of the street. They crossed the Moskva River. Jenkins again kept note of the street signs. The taxi made another right, this time on Krymsky Val. Minutes later he pulled to the curb and stopped.

  The driver pointed down a pedestrian walkway in what looked to be a park. “Carousel.”

  When Jenkins stepped from the cab, the cold again engulfed him. He pulled up the collar of his jacket and pressed the flaps of his hat tight against his ears as he walked a path illuminated by old-fashioned streetlamps struggling to provide a sallow light. The path led to a children’s playground with several colorful carousels, but neither Federov nor the black Mercedes. More waiting. So Russian.

  Several more minutes passed before the Mercedes slowly approached, driving toward Jenkins on the deserted pedestrian walking path.

  Jenkins raised his hand to deflect the glare of the car’s lights and watched Federov exit and approach, smoking a cigarette. The streetlamp cast a tempered glow across the car’s windshield, illuminating Volkov’s presence in the driver’s seat, and the red glow of his cigarette. “This is a pedestrian walkway,” Jenkins said to Federov. “You could get a ticket if a police officer comes by.”

  “I’ll take my chances,” Federov said. Despite the cold, he wore only a leather car coat, no hat or gloves—no doubt another display of Russian men’s physical and mental virility. Jenkins really didn’t care. He wasn’t out to impress Federov with feats of strength—physical or mental. He shoved his gloved hands into his coat pockets, preferring not to get frostbite.

  “Where are we?” Jenkins asked, looking about.

  Federov feigned surprise. “Do you not read, Mr. Jenkins? I took you to be a man of the arts.”

  And that place where Jenkins had stored information from the past, including the street name, revealed itself. “Gorky Park,” he said.

  Federov smiled, nodding. “Very good. Your Martin Cruz Smith, I believe.”

  “You’ve read it,” Jenkins said.

  “I read everything about Russia.”

  “I didn’t take you to be much of a reader.”

  “You’ve misjudged me,” Federov said. “Though I prefer Russian writers. Dostoyevsky and Tolstoy.”

  “Crime and Punishment?”

  “A masterpiece,” Federov said. He removed a crumpled pack of cigarettes from a coat pocket, tapped the pack against his palm and withdrew a cigarette with his lips, then offered the pack to Jenkins, who declined.

  “You Americans.” Federov shook his head. “You don’t smoke. You don’t drink. You work out every day. Something must kill you; it might as well be enjoyable.” He flicked his lighter and touched the blue flame to the tip of the cigarette. The tobacco burned red as Federov inhaled, seeming to savor the taste. When he exhaled, the tendril of smoke lingered, as if trapped by the oppressively thick air. “I wished for you to be comfortable for our meeting. Someplace in Moscow perhaps you are familiar with, no?”

  “I read it many years ago,” Jenkins said, feeling the cold seeping through every seam in his clothes. Comfortable my ass. “I’m afraid I don’t remember all of the details.”

  “No? Inspector Arkady Renko?” Federov pointed to a spot to his right. “Three bodies shot and mutilated and left buried in the snow. A—how do you say . . . murder mystery? No? They didn’t find the bodies until the melt in April.”

  “Gruesome,” Jenkins said, wondering if Federov’s point had been to intimidate. “Did you know it almost wasn’t published?”

  “Gorky Park? No?” Federov said.

  “The publisher didn’t think a book involving a Russian detective would sell, that Americans wouldn’t be interested.”

  “Look around you—Russia is a very interesting country,” Federov said. “I believe the killer was an American, though, yes?”

  “Spoiler alert.”

  “Izvinite?”

  “It means you gave away the ending of the book. You spoiled it.”

  “You Americans are odd.” Federov took another drag on his cigarette, speaking as the smoke filtered out his nose and mouth. “You said you have additional information?”

  “I also said I had financial demands.”

  “My superiors were not impressed with the information provided. Perhaps this will be more impressive.”

  “I’m not sure we’ll find out.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “You read of Nikolay Chekovsky?” Federov asked, right on cue.

  “Yes,” Jenkins said. “I did.”

  “A shame a man so talented must die.”

  “As you said, something must kill you.”

  “Yes, something.” Federov dropped the butt of the cigarette and ground it out with the toe of his shoe. “You could have saved him.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “No?”

  “I assume you had him under surveillance long before you told me his name. So, even if I had been inclined to tell the agency his name, which I wasn’t, what really could have been done?”

  “No daring American rescue like your adventure novels?”

  Jenkins gave a thin smile. “Not likely.”

  “But the fact remains that you did know his name, and yet you did nothing to warn your superiors. How do you believe they
will respond if they were to learn of this?”

  “Who would tell them?”

  Federov smiled.

  “I want fifty thousand dollars deposited by the end of the week or I get on a plane and I don’t return.”

  Federov gravely shook his head. “That is a lot of money, Mr. Jenkins. Perhaps you have not been following the news. Oil prices are falling each day. Russia’s economy is in recession.”

  “I’m sure your bosses can scrape up the money. Perhaps one of the Russian oligarchs is a patriot.” He smiled again. “That was the deal.”

  “Yes,” Federov said. “In principle, certainly. But my superiors would be more inclined to pay once they have this additional information.”

  Jenkins paused, though only for effect. He wanted Federov to think he had Jenkins over a barrel and that Jenkins knew this. Jenkins said, “You are searching for four of the remaining seven sisters.”

  “We have had this discussion.”

  “Number four,” Jenkins said.

  “You know the identity—”

  “Uliana Artemyeva,” Jenkins said. He watched Federov’s eyes shift to Volkov as he provided the details of Artemyeva’s betrayal and the CIA’s use of that information to undermine Putin’s nuclear industry sector. Jenkins was being recorded, likely filmed.

  Jenkins reached into the interior pocket of his jacket and produced the manila envelope Carl Emerson had given him. He handed it to Federov. Then he said, “Fifty thousand in the account I gave you. Otherwise, our conversations, much as I have enjoyed them, will come to an end.” Jenkins turned and started up the path.

  “You will freeze to death walking in this cold,” Federov said.

  Jenkins turned back and smiled. “Something must kill us.”

  11

  The walk back to the Metropol Hotel might have killed Jenkins. Ironically, he was saved by an ambulance that stopped as he reached the other side of the Crimean Bridge. He would have considered this a good deed, or perhaps a practical solution by two men who figured if they didn’t help him they’d be by later to pick up his corpse, but when the driver opened the door he asked for “forty American dollars.” Jenkins had read that Moscow vehicles of all types—even hearses and garbage trucks—were picking up pedestrians. In a city where so many struggled to make ends meet, every ruble helped.

  He gladly paid the not-so-altruistic ambulance driver.

  When he returned to his hotel room, the scrap of paper remained on the floor where he’d placed it, and the pencil lead balanced on the closet-door hinge. He bolted and chained the door and collapsed onto the bed.

  His ringing cell phone awoke him. Caller ID indicated Alex. Jenkins checked the time: eleven a.m. He’d slept almost twelve hours, which was six more than he normally slept on a good night. He looked about the room, considering whether it was possible he’d been drugged. If he had been, he felt no side effects. Everything looked to be in place.

  “You sound like you’re still sleeping,” she said.

  “I had a bit of a late night last night,” he said. “The Brits enjoy their pubs. I hope to be home in a day or two. How are you?”

  “Tired. CJ negotiated an additional chapter of Harry Potter tonight. I think that kid is going to be a lawyer.”

  She sounded down. “Everything okay?” he asked.

  “I don’t want to alarm you.”

  Jenkins sat up. “What is it?”

  “I had some spotting today,” she said. “The doctor said it could be nothing, but he wants me to put my feet up for a couple of days.”

  “I’ll come home,” Jenkins said. He’d never forgive himself if anything happened to Alex or to the baby.

  “No, don’t,” she said. “I spoke to Claire Russo and she’s agreed to pick up CJ in the mornings and take him to school and to soccer practices. All I have to do is get him out of bed and out the door on time.”

  “I’ll call CJ today and tell him we need his help.”

  “Don’t,” she said. “I’ve already spoken to him and he’s trying. He made dinner tonight.”

  “I’ll bet that was special,” Jenkins said.

  “Turkey sandwiches. And they were pretty good. I’m going to bed. I’m tired. I just wanted to hear your voice. I love you.”

  “I love you too,” Jenkins said.

  He disconnected and stared at the phone. What the hell was he doing? What the hell would he do if Alex lost this child because he was in Russia, working again for the CIA? He didn’t belong here. He was too old to be out at night in the bitter cold talking to FSB officers about classified material. He should be at home, taking CJ to school and caring for his wife. He thought again of why he’d started CJ Security. Was it to provide his family with financial security? Or was it his ego, his never-satisfied quest to try something new, something different, something challenging? That might have been okay when he was young and could afford to make mistakes, but he was sixty-four years old, with a nine-year-old son and a pregnant wife. He wouldn’t be much good to them dead, and he wasn’t so naïve that he hadn’t considered that a distinct possibility. The Russians did not like to be fooled. If Jenkins was successful, and he determined the identity of this eighth sister, he could be looking over his shoulder for the rest of his life. The CIA would not protect him or his family. Emerson had made it abundantly clear that if things went sideways, they’d disown the mission faster than a busted teenager disowned a bag of pot. Jenkins needed to move. He needed to find the eighth sister and get the hell out of Russia.

  Jenkins returned to the Metropol Hotel at just after six in the evening following another meeting at the LSR&C Moscow office. The clerk at reception greeted him with a wave and handed Jenkins an envelope.

  Jenkins thanked him. Stepping inside his hotel room, he noticed the scrap of paper on the carpet where he had placed it. He took off his coat, hat, and gloves, set them on the bed, and opened the envelope. Inside was a folded sheet of paper. When he unfolded it, a ticket fluttered to the carpet. Jenkins bent and picked it up. The ticket was to the Vakhtangov Theatre for the 7:30 p.m. performance that evening of the play Masquerade.

  Federov wanted to meet. He also apparently seemed intent on convincing Jenkins he was not just a brute, but a man of the arts.

  Jenkins wasn’t buying it.

  Jenkins exited his cab and walked the Arbat, a cobblestone street rich with history. At present, the Arbat looked to have become gentrified, which was to be expected given its proximity to the center of Moscow.

  Tonight, the pedestrian foot traffic was light due to the blistering cold. A crowd stood outside the Vakhtangov Theatre, sucking on last-minute cigarettes, their breaths trailing them like smoke from steam engines.

  At one of several entrances, a woman scanned his ticket and Jenkins shuffled inside. He quickly shed his coat, hat, and gloves, but decided not to check them in case of the unexpected. He handed his ticket to an usher. Rather than lead Jenkins down the aisle, she directed him to a staircase and said something about following the stairs to the third level.

  Jenkins did so, and eventually made his way to a private booth with six red velvet seats. Predictably, Federov and Volkov were not there. Jenkins took the seat closest to the railing. The curtain remained drawn across the stage, and a cacophony of voices, atop instruments being tuned in the orchestra pit, echoed up, along with the audience’s strong odors of perfume and cologne.

  Jenkins sat, once again waiting. At least this time he wasn’t outside, freezing.

  With the theater seats nearly full, the house lights dimmed. As if on cue, a part of the rehearsed play, Federov entered the booth. He’d dressed in a dark suit and striped tie. Volkov followed, dressed in jeans, a polo shirt, and winter coat. He also carried a briefcase, which seemed odd given the setting.

  Federov looked at Jenkins and said, “Would you mind switching seats?”

  Jenkins stood, wondering about the possible reason for the request, but he took the outside seat in the first row. Volkov sat behind him, which a
gain made him think of The Godfather and Peter Clemenza.

  “Have you ever seen this play, Mr. Jenkins?” Federov asked, keeping his voice low.

  “I don’t believe so,” Jenkins said. “Thank you for the ticket.” The orchestra made a few final noises, then fell silent. Jenkins could see the conductor’s raised arms, poised to begin. “I would wait before you are thanking me,” Federov said. He handed Jenkins a program. “The play was written in 1835 by Mikhail Lermontov. I am told that it is often compared to Shakespeare’s Othello.” The orchestra burst into music, the conductor’s arms frantically waving. Federov leaned closer so Jenkins could hear him. “The hero, Arbenin, is a wealthy middle-aged man with a rebellious spirit. Born into high society, he ends up murdering his wife.”

  “So, another uplifting Russian comedy,” Jenkins said.

  “Life is not always uplifting or comedic.” Federov sounded resigned. His breath smelled of garlic and beer.

  “Nor is it always depressing and humorless,” Jenkins said.

  “You should live through the winters here in Russia before you decide. You may have another opinion.”

  “I’m sure I would.” A beat passed and Jenkins said, “I didn’t take you as a man of the arts.”

  Federov chuckled. “Do you have children, Mr. Jenkins?”

  Jenkins did not answer, making it clear that any questions about his family were off the table.

  “I have two daughters,” Federov said, picking lint from his slacks. “My oldest, Renata, is in the play tonight—an inconsequential role, one of the servants.”

  Jenkins turned his head to see if Federov was being serious. The Russian shrugged. “My ex-wife has seen her now three times. I am the bad parent. I am the parent who is always working late and cannot be here. I have promised my daughter that I would attend on three occasions, and each time I have had to disappoint her. Trust me when I say there is nothing worse than a disappointed daughter and a vindicated ex-wife.”