In minutes his breathing slowed and his anxiety eased. Whatever the reason for Federov’s test tonight, Jenkins had seemingly passed—though one never knew with the KGB and, he assumed, the FSB. He hoped the bellboy’s news of a woman seeking his room number was further proof of his conclusion.
As he calmed, Jenkins felt pangs of hunger and considered his watch. Room service would be his best option. He dried his hands, exited the bathroom, and walked to the antique desk. Out the windows he saw the fountain in Teatralnaya Square and, across it, the columned entrance to the Bolshoi Theatre with the statue of Apollo crowning the peaked façade. To his right, down the street, the squat Lubyanka Building was ablaze with lights, a subtle reminder that the FSB never slept.
Jenkins picked up the amenities binder from the desk and flipped to the tab for in-room dining, then punched in the three-digit code on the desk phone. His gaze drifted to his left, to the gap in the open closet door, which remained as he had positioned it. His focus then shifted to the gold hinge.
A man answered the line. “Yes, Mr. Jenkins, how may I be of service?”
The lead filament did not rest on the hinge.
“Hello? Mr. Jenkins?”
He looked to the carpet, where the filament had fallen, snapped in half.
14
Jenkins turned his back to the closet, as if admiring the view out the window, but kept his attention on the mirror on the adjacent wall, assuming someone, the woman perhaps, was inside the closet.
“I’d like to order some food,” he said.
“My pleasure, Mr. Jenkins. What can I get for you?”
Jenkins flipped the pages in the binder but kept his gaze on the mirror. “I’d like the cheeseburger,” he said, “with fries. And a beer. Whatever you recommend.”
“How would you like your cheeseburger cooked?”
“Medium,” Jenkins said.
“Very good, Mr. Jenkins. Is twenty minutes acceptable?”
“That would be fine.”
The man hung up, but Jenkins continued talking. “I have a free day tomorrow. Do you recommend any place in particular that I might visit here in Moscow? Something close, given this cold spell?” He picked up the phone cradle, gripping the cord snaking behind the desk, turned his back to the closet, and yanked the telephone cord from the wall.
Then he paced.
“That sounds like it could be interesting. I think I would enjoy that very much.”
He continued talking as he paced, keeping an eye on the mirror. He noticed a slight change in light inside the closet, someone moving.
He paced the opposite direction, so the phone was in his right hand. “What about theater performances? Are there any that you would recommend?”
He waited, keeping up the imaginary conversation, looking for an opportunity. A cylindrical tube protruded from the closet door opening. He was out of time.
Jenkins threw the phone but didn’t wait to find out if his aim had been true. The phone crashed with a loud clang. He followed it, hurling his 235 pounds into the closet door and the person inside the closet. They hit the back wall with a thud. He found the hand holding the gun and shoved the barrel at the ceiling just before hearing a pop. Jenkins felt a knee come up fast and hard and quickly shifted. The strike missed his groin, and struck him in the right thigh. He bent the wrist holding the gun and heard the gun pop a second time, before it dropped to the carpeted floor. A hand clawed at his face, fingernails raking skin. He’d had enough. He delivered a short, powerful blow, and felt the person go limp, then sag to the floor.
Jenkins dragged the body from the closet. A woman. He dropped her onto the floor and retrieved the gun, shoving the barrel into the waistband of his pants at the small of his back. He turned the woman over. She wore no glasses. A black wig sat askew on her head. Her clothes were dark—black jeans, a black turtleneck, black boots. He pulled off the wig, revealing light-brown hair tied in a bun. She had angular, Slavic features. He quickly pulled the cord from the phone and used it to tie her hands behind her back. For the next several minutes he went through the pockets of her coat and other clothes looking for any form of identification, finding none.
Someone knocked on the hotel room door. Jenkins moved back to the closet and picked up the woman’s coat, searching it. In the pocket he found the scarf the bellboy had described.
A second knock, three short raps.
“Just a minute,” Jenkins called. He fit the scarf between the woman’s teeth and tied it around the back of her head. Then he dragged her into the closet and shut it. Moving toward the hotel room door, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. His shirt was torn. Claw marks lined his chest and had drawn blood down the right side of his face. He couldn’t open the door looking like this.
Another knock.
At the door, Jenkins stood to the side of the doorframe and leaned out to peer through the peephole. A man in a white jacket stood in the hall beside a rolling cart with a silver tray.
Jenkins moved away from the door in case the man also had a gun. “I’m just stepping from the shower,” he said. “Leave the tray on the cart, please?”
“With pleasure,” the man said. “Would you like me to leave the bill as well?”
The man was worried about his tip. “Yes, please. I’ll take care of it.”
Jenkins waited a beat, then looked out the peephole. The young man had departed. Jenkins opened the door and rolled the cart into the room. Then he hurried back to the closet. The woman had opened her eyes, dazed but coming to. He grabbed her and dumped her into the desk chair, then took a moment to examine the gun—a Ruger 22 with a suppressor. Efficient. An assassin’s weapon. The bullet would have been enough to kill him, but not so large as to splatter his brain and blood all over the room.
It raised additional questions, foremost being: If this was the eighth sister, why had the woman come to kill him? If she was the eighth sister, why hadn’t she come to find out what Jenkins knew of the remaining four sisters? Why hadn’t she known his room number without asking the clerk?
The woman sat, staring at him.
“If I remove the gag, are you going to be quiet?” he asked in Russian.
She nodded.
“If you scream, if you make a sound, I will shoot you and put your body under the sheet on that cart. Then I’ll leave you in the stairwell. Do you understand me?”
The woman gave another nod.
Jenkins spun the chair and untied the gag. He stepped back, out of range, in case she flung herself at him or attempted another kick to the groin. The woman squinted several times and opened and closed her mouth. He hadn’t broken her jaw or her nose. His aim in the dark had been off, but she would have a black left eye in a matter of hours.
“Let’s start with you telling me your name. Who are you?” Jenkins said, this time in English.
The woman responded with a blank stare.
“Nothing?” Jenkins said. “All right then. Why did you try to kill me?”
Again, she did not respond.
“Kto ty?” he said. Who are you?
“I speak English, Mr. Jenkins.” Her English was heavily accented.
“I could call the police,” he said. “And tell them that you tried to kill me.”
This time her lips slowly spread into a knowing grin. “And I would tell them that you tried to rape me and I fought back, bravely. The gun, I would say, is not mine. It is yours. Do you really want the Moscow police to be looking into your presence here?”
Did she know the reason for his presence? What he needed to determine was whether she worked for the FSB. He was beginning to think she did not. “I could call the FSB,” he said. “I’m sure they could extract information from you.”
Again, it drew no verbal response. He went to his coat on the bed and pulled out the burner phone. “No?” He shrugged. “Very well.” He punched in a number.
“Wait,” she said.
Interesting. “Something you want to say? Are you FSB?”
“If I were FSB, why would I want to kill a man willing to betray his country and the lives of seven women who may have done more harm to Russia than any others in its history?”
Rather than clarify, her answer complicated his situation. If she was not FSB, not the eighth sister, then how did she know of the seven sisters? He moved to the window and looked down at the hotel’s front entrance, but he did not see a Mercedes. “I don’t know. Why would you?”
“I wouldn’t,” she said.
“If you’re not FSB, then what are you?”
“Tell me first, Mr. Jenkins, why you are betraying these women? Why are you betraying your country?”
“I need the money,” he said, sticking to his story. “My business is failing.”
“You would so easily trade these lives for money?”
He shrugged. “I don’t bleed red, white, and blue.”
“And yet you did not kill me just now, though you had the chance. You still have the chance. I’d say the odds favor you. So why don’t you kill me, Mr. Jenkins? Why don’t you call the FSB and tell them to come and dispose of my body?” Before Jenkins could answer, she said, “No. You did not do so because you are having doubts. You asked me my name. What purpose would my name serve in making you money to save your business?”
“I’m curious.”
Her eyes bore into him. “I think I have misjudged you, Mr. Jenkins. I think that you wish to know my name because you are not here to tell Viktor Federov or Arkady Volkov the names of the remaining four sisters. That is why you provided them with the name of a dead woman. No. You did not come here for that purpose.”
Intrigued where this conversation was going, and why, but conscious of the minutes passing, Jenkins said, “So why don’t you tell me why I came here?”
“You came here to find the eighth sister.”
“Are you the eighth sister?” he said, now doubting that to be the case.
“Tell me if I am correct, Mr. Jenkins. What do you have to lose? I am bound and you are holding my weapon. You can kill me at any time. It doesn’t change your circumstances.”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Because, Mr. Jenkins, I am smelling a rat. And I think it has bitten us both.”
“What rat would that be?”
“The rat who sent you to Moscow to learn my name. The rat who told you that I work for the FSB and that I am killing the seven sisters. The same rat who is divulging the names of the seven sisters to Federov, and being paid much to do so.”
“You’re divulging the names to Federov.”
She laughed. “If I were, why would I try to kill the man who says he can provide the remaining four names? Why would the clerk not give me your room number if I worked for Federov?”
And those were two of the questions that continued to bother Jenkins. Logically, she was right, and Jenkins, too, was starting to smell a rat. He went again to the window and peered down at the entrance.
“Who do you work for?” he said.
“I suspect the same agency that you work for.”
Jenkins turned from the window, considering her.
She shrugged.
“Tell me why I should believe you.”
“Common sense.”
He stepped from the window and leaned against the desk. “Okay, explain it to me so it makes sense.”
“First, let’s discuss what you were told. You were told that I am the eighth sister and that my purpose is to determine the names of the other seven sisters. Correct?”
“Keep going.”
“But the circumstances of our encounter do not support what you were told.”
“Let’s say I’m questioning what I was told.”
“My purpose is not to determine the names of the remaining seven sisters for the FSB. My purpose is to determine the name of the person disclosing the names of the seven sisters to the FSB. Is that you, Mr. Jenkins? No.” She shook her head slowly. “I do not think you are the rat. I think, Mr. Jenkins, that the rat sent you to find me so the rat can kill me before I find him.”
Jenkins again looked down at the street. A black Mercedes had pulled to the front of the building. The reception desk had reached Federov. The FSB officer emerged from the passenger’s door. Volkov stepped from the driver’s side and came around the back of the car.
“They are coming, aren’t they, Mr. Jenkins?” the woman said. “They are coming to—how do you Americans say it—kill two birds with one stone.”
Jenkins was far from convinced of anything, but he also couldn’t dispute that things were not as they’d been presented to him by Carl Emerson. Was Emerson the rat? He didn’t know. But he wasn’t about to wait here to find out the answer. He needed to get out of the hotel. He needed time to seek answers. And his best option at the moment was to keep the woman alive to find out what else she knew. He assumed she had the same goal. It made for what case officers referred to as an uncertain but necessary alliance.
He grabbed the steak knife, moved behind the woman, cut the cord binding her hands, and discarded the knife. “We need to go.”
“Yes,” she said. “We do.”
He grabbed his backpack with his passport and what cash he had, then stepped into the bathroom and shoved his shaving kit with his medicines in as well. He picked up his coat, hat, and gloves, and stepped to the door. “How well do you know Moscow?”
“I was born here,” she said. “This is my city.”
“Then I suggest you get us out of here or we’re both going to die.”
“My wig.” She moved quickly to the closet and flipped the black wig on her head, adjusting it in the mirror as she moved toward the door. She slid on the large, round glasses, picked up her coat and the scarf, seemed to rethink the decision, and dropped them on the floor. “Better for us if they think we have left the hotel.”
“We are leaving.”
“Yes, but we must make them believe they are too late, that we have left in a hurry. It is the only way.”
Reluctantly, Jenkins dropped his winter coat, hat, and gloves back onto the bed.
She pulled open the door to the room and looked in both directions before stepping into the hall. Jenkins moved toward an exit sign above the stairwell.
“They will guard the stairwells and the elevator,” she said. She moved down the hall, stopping to pick up a wineglass from a dinner tray and knocked on the hotel room door. She directed Jenkins down the hall so he was out of the view through the peephole.
Jenkins turned and looked to the elevator. The woman knocked again. “Vpusti menya,” she said in a drunken voice. Let me in. She began to sway. She rapped three more times. “Vpusti menya.”
Jenkins turned again to the elevator.
A man spoke from behind the door. “U vas nepravil’naya komnata.” You have the wrong room.
“Otkroy dver’. Ya zabyl svoy klyuch.” The woman slurred. Open the door. I’ve forgotten my key.
The elevator bell pinged the car’s arrival. At the same time, the man unlocked and pulled open the door. “U vas nepravil’naya—” he began. The woman bull-rushed forward. Jenkins followed, shutting the door behind them.
The man started to protest, but swallowed his words when Jenkins raised the gun and pointed it at the man’s forehead. He clasped his other hand over the man’s mouth. The man’s eyes widened with fear. He stood naked but for white cotton briefs, his hairy stomach protruding over the waistband.
“Listen to me,” the woman said, speaking Russian in a hushed tone. “If you scream or make any noise, he will kill you. If you stay quiet, we will leave in due course. Sit down on the bed.” The man hesitated, eyes fixated on the gun. “I said, sit down on the bed.”
The man retreated two steps until the backs of his legs hit the mattress, and he collapsed onto the bed, shaking.
Jenkins moved to the door and looked out the peephole. Federov and Volkov, along with two others, hurried down the hall from the elevator. He felt the vibration of the floor
as they approached and continued past. If the woman was FSB, now was the time for her to scream. She remained silent.
Federov held a room card and motioned to the others to stand on either side of the door to Jenkins’s room. Each man held a gun, muzzle pointed at the floor. Federov swiped the key and pulled down on the door handle. The men barged inside.
The woman whispered to the man on the bed. “There are men coming to kill us. These are not police. These are not good men.”
“Mafiya?” the man said.
“Da, mafiya,” the woman said. “If they find us in your room they will kill us and then they will kill you. They will leave no witnesses. Do you understand?”
The man nodded.
Jenkins watched the men exit his room. Federov motioned for them to move to the doors at each end of the hall. They did so, but not to stand guard. They entered the stairwells. Volkov stepped from the room holding the woman’s long coat and scarf as well as Jenkins’s winter clothing. Her plan had worked. They thought Jenkins had already left. Jenkins heard muffled conversation between Federov and Volkov, but he could not understand what they were saying. Federov looked displeased. He hurried down the hall in the direction of the elevator, Volkov jogging to catch up.
“It’s almost over,” the woman whispered to the man. “We will soon leave. But let me warn you. If you tell anyone we were here, those men will find you and they will kill you. Do you understand?”
“Da,” the man said softly.
“You were sleeping. You had too much to drink. You did not see or hear anything.”
“Da,” the man said again.
“Go back to sleep,” she said. “You are having a nightmare.”
15
Jenkins peered through the peephole before opening the door. Clear. He stepped into the hall, wishing he could have taken his winter clothing so he wouldn’t freeze to death.
“How did you get here?” he asked the woman.
The Eighth Sister Page 9