The Eighth Sister

by Robert Dugoni

  A low-watt glow emanated from the bedside lamp. Alex walked in from the adjoining bathroom dressed in her pajamas, her stomach protruding beneath the pale-blue fabric. She eyed him, shook her head, then pulled down the sheets and the comforter and climbed into bed without uttering a word. This was not going to be easy.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, lingering in the doorway. “I didn’t want it to be this way.”

  “Really? What did you think was going to happen?”

  “I thought I could save those women, as was represented to me.”

  “I suppose paying the company bills had nothing to do with it?”

  “Of course it did,” he said.

  “Of course,” she said. “So why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You know I couldn’t, Alex.”

  “I’m not talking about the operation, Charlie. I’m talking about the extent of CJ Security’s financial problems—our company’s problems—or did you forget that I am also an owner?”

  “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to worry you,” he said.

  “Oh? And this is better?”

  He took another breath, trying to remain calm, not wanting their argument to escalate again and further stress her. “I didn’t want to worry you and risk you having complications.”

  “Well, you failed.” She pulled up the covers. Jenkins handed her a glass of water and sat on the edge of the bed.

  “I won’t push this, if that’s what you want,” he said. “I’ll let it go.”

  She shook her head, speaking softly, fighting back tears. “I know you can’t,” she said. “And I know it’s the right thing to do, to try and save those women. I just wish it wasn’t you who had to do it. Promise me you’ll watch your back. I know you didn’t want to say it in front of David and Jake, but we both know someone went to great lengths to keep you from coming home, to silence you. If you start talking, that person, whoever he is, will have to respond.”

  48

  The following day, Jenkins drove from Three Tree Point to Sloane’s offices in the SoDo district, a term that had originally meant South of the Dome, before demolition of the Kingdome stadium. It now meant South of Downtown. Until the construction of billion-dollar baseball and football stadiums, the area had been primarily industrial. Paul Allen, the Microsoft billionaire, owned one of those stadiums and, sensing an opportunity, spurred redevelopment. Warehouses had been demolished or converted to office buildings, condominiums, nightclubs, restaurants, even distilleries. Sloane’s building, a converted warehouse, was one of those.

  Jenkins met Sloane in the large conference room behind reception. He knew Sloane sought tangible evidence to support Jenkins’s story, to make it credible. Unfortunately, Jenkins did not have a lot to offer.

  At noon, Carolyn walked in with a bag of sandwiches. Sloane’s secretary and Jenkins had always had a love-hate relationship. “Who gets the pastrami?” she said to Sloane. “You or the Jolly Green Giant?”

  “That’s mine,” Sloane said.

  Carolyn looked to Jenkins. “Turkey, plain. You really need to put some spice in your life.”

  “I’ve had enough spice to last a lifetime,” Jenkins said.

  “I got the Reader’s Digest version.” Carolyn paused. “Glad you made it back.”

  “Was that a civil comment?” Jenkins looked to Sloane. “That was, wasn’t it?”

  “Don’t get used to it,” Carolyn said.

  After Carolyn left, Sloane said, “I thought a lot about what you said last night, about not being able to go to the CIA, and not being able to go public with what happened. I’ve got another thought.”

  “Okay.” Jenkins set down his sandwich.

  “What if we tell another federal agency about what happened, and let them do the investigation for us?”

  “Who’d you have in mind?”

  “I have a connection in the FBI’s office,” Sloane said. “He’s not a friend, but he respects me. What if you explain to him, without mentioning a specific operation by name, what happened? You could ask him to follow up with the CIA to confirm you were reactivated and to get further details. It would let the CIA know they either have a mole, or a leak selling classified information to Russia. Even allegations, I would think, would spur some type of investigation.”

  Jenkins gave the idea some thought. It had merit. The FBI operated within the United States and would have jurisdiction. “Is he dogged?” Jenkins asked. “If I give him bits of information, will he work to verify what I tell him and try to find more?”

  “I would think he would—if we give him a reason to. If we tell him the CIA has a mole, or a leak, I would think that would be reason enough,” Sloane said.

  Jenkins considered his options, limited as they were. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s do it.”

  Sloane made the call to Christopher Daugherty, at the FBI’s field office on Third Avenue in downtown Seattle. After reacquainting himself, he told Daugherty he had a client who wanted to talk. When Sloane mentioned the CIA, Daugherty said he’d be in Sloane’s office within the hour.

  For the better part of the afternoon, Jenkins spoke cautiously to Daugherty about CJ Security’s relationship to LSR&C, the financial difficulties his company experienced because LSR&C had been late in making payments, and Carl Emerson’s timely visit to his Camano farm. He told Daugherty of his two trips to Russia without ever mentioning the seven sisters.

  “I can’t mention the operation,” he said. “It’s still in play.”

  He told Daugherty he’d met with Viktor Federov and, as authorized by Emerson, disclosed the name Alexei Sukurov and the name of the operation, Graystone. He said he later disclosed the name of the Russian nuclear scientist Uliana Artemyeva. Daugherty listened, asked few questions, but took notes—a good sign, Jenkins thought.

  When Jenkins had finished, Daugherty rocked back in his chair. “Let me see if I understand this. You received a fifty-thousand-dollar payment to disclose the information?”

  “No. The fifty-thousand-dollar payment was part of my fee.”

  “And you used that money to pay CJ Security’s debts and payroll.”

  “Yes. To keep the business afloat until LSR&C could get caught up.”

  “Did the Russians ever pay you?”

  “No.”

  “And this man . . .” Daugherty looked at his notes. “Carl Emerson. He was your station chief in Mexico City when you were a field operative?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And you hadn’t seen him since you left Mexico City.”

  “Correct. That was decades ago.”

  “But he came to you and asked you to run this operation in Russia.”

  “Yes.”

  Daugherty wrinkled his brow as if trying to solve a complex problem. After another moment he said, “Why would he do that?” Skepticism crept into his tone, but Jenkins had been expecting it and he had an answer.

  “Because I was fluent in Russian and counterintelligence, and it’s cheaper and quicker to reactivate an agent than it is to train one.”

  “And time was of the essence.”

  “That’s what I was told,” Jenkins said.

  “Okay,” Daugherty said. “But you can’t tell me the reason Carl Emerson sent you to Russia.”

  “I can’t tell you specifically, no.”

  “Classified?”

  “Yes.”

  “Operatives’ lives potentially in danger?”

  “Yes.”

  “But not Alexei Sukurov or . . .” Daugherty looked down at his notes.

  “Uliana Artemyeva,” Jenkins said. “Carl Emerson provided me those names. I did not reveal any unauthorized information.”

  “So, it was authorized.”

  “It was authorized to me.”

  Daugherty looked to Sloane, then back to Jenkins. “You understand why I would have a very hard time believing this without more to corroborate what you’re telling me.”

  “I do understand, and I’m telling you th
ere is more to it, more than I can tell you. The CIA has a leak, or a mole, and that person is doing damage to their operations in Russia. If the CIA investigates, they could put an end to it. You’ll have to bring in the CIA and have the agency fill in the rest, to whatever extent they’re willing.”

  Daugherty sat back, seemingly studying Jenkins. “Would you be willing to take a polygraph test?”

  Jenkins knew polygraph tests were inadmissible in court. He knew that both an examiner and a witness could manipulate the results based upon the phrasing of the questions asked, and the answers given. He also knew that without something more to convince Daugherty that Jenkins was telling the truth, the FBI agent might not be motivated to seek further answers.

  “Under certain conditions,” Jenkins said.

  “Such as?”

  “I won’t answer questions about the specific operation. I will answer questions about my reactivation, and questions asking if I revealed any unauthorized information.” Jenkins wanted to get out as much as he could, but also to protect himself.

  Daugherty flipped closed his notebook. “When can you come to the office?”

  “I won’t,” Jenkins said, knowing the environment for the test was important. “We can conduct the polygraph here.”

  “You want the examiner to come to you?”

  “I want a neutral environment, and I want my attorney present to assure the questions are phrased appropriately. I also want the results before you leave the office.” Maybe he was being paranoid, but Jenkins didn’t want anyone to manipulate the results.

  “What time tomorrow?”

  “What about this afternoon?” Jenkins said.

  “Let me make some phone calls.”

  Jenkins had only been attached to the machine for twenty minutes, but it would take the examiner time to go through his physiological responses to each question. Night had fallen and Jenkins heard the banging of railroad cars coupling and uncoupling on the tracks behind the building. It sounded like distant thunder.

  Sloane’s cell phone rang. Daugherty was ready for them in the conference room.

  Daugherty stood at the head of the table beside the examiner, a dowdy-looking woman with an officious demeanor. He handed Sloane the report. “No deception indicated.”

  Jenkins breathed a sigh of relief. Polygraph results could either be NDI—no deception indicated, DI—deception indicated, or INC—inconclusive. All Jenkins cared about was that the test gave Daugherty reason to further investigate.

  “So he’s telling the truth,” Sloane said.

  “He didn’t lie, not to the questions asked of him,” Daugherty said. He looked to Jenkins. “I’ll make some calls tomorrow and try to fill in some of the significant blanks in your story. If the CIA confirms you were working for them and some of the other things you told me, we’ll go to work and see if we can find the leak. We might have more questions though, depending on what we get. I imagine the CIA might also. You’ll be available?”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  The men shook hands, and Daugherty and the examiner departed. Shortly thereafter, Sloane shut down the office, and he and Jenkins left for home.

  “So far so good,” Sloane said.

  As Sloane drove, Jenkins checked the side mirror. “We’ve got a tail.”

  “What?” Sloane said, eyes darting to the rearview mirror.

  “The car behind us. Two men. FBI.”

  “How do you know it’s the FBI?”

  “Because the car isn’t attempting to conceal itself, which means the two men are not likely CIA operatives or Russians trying to kill me.”

  “Why would the FBI be following us? Your test proves you’re not lying.”

  “Agent Daugherty wants to keep an eye on me until he can cross all his t’s and dot all his i’s. I just told him that I disclosed classified information to the FSB.”

  Alex greeted them at the door when they arrived home. Jenkins had called her on the drive and told her of the polygraph test and the results.

  “I was just getting CJ ready for bed,” she said, sounding more chipper than she had in days. “I have food in the oven if you’re hungry.”

  “Let me put him to bed,” Jenkins said. He went upstairs to CJ’s room and found his son sitting on the carpet, putting together Legos, one of a dozen different models Jake had pulled out of the attic and given to CJ.

  “Hey.” Jenkins took a seat on the carpet. “What are you building?”

  “It’s a Death Star,” CJ said. “Dad, when can I go back to school?”

  “Pretty soon,” he said.

  “But when?”

  “I can’t give you a specific date, son. You miss your friends?”

  CJ nodded. “And soccer.”

  “I know,” Jenkins said.

  “Are you in some kind of trouble?”

  “Why would you ask that?”

  “I’m not stupid.”

  “No, you’re definitely not.”

  “Are you?”

  “I’m not in trouble but it’s kind of a sticky situation.”

  “Could you go to jail?”

  Jenkins paused, and in that brief moment of hesitation he saw the boy’s concern etch on his face. CJ started to cry. “Hey,” Jenkins said as CJ fell forward into his arms. “Hey, come on now. Everything is going to be all right.” Jenkins had never lied to his son. He considered honesty to be a big part of parenting. “Listen,” he said, lowering himself to look CJ in the eye. “Your dad didn’t do anything wrong, okay? I want you to know that. I’m telling you the truth. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “So you’re not going to jail?”

  “Why are you worried about me going to jail?”

  “Because David’s a lawyer and you’re always having meetings with him after I go to bed.”

  It was a logical deduction. “David does a lot of different types of law, CJ. Not just keeping people out of jail.”

  “So then why are you having meetings with him and why are we living here? Why can’t we go home?”

  “Those are good questions,” Jenkins said, and he thought of where to begin. “Listen, a long time ago I worked for the government, and recently they asked me to work for them again. That’s why I was traveling so much. Things have gotten kind of sticky, and I’ve asked David and Jake to help me. Do you understand?”

  “Not really.”

  “The important thing is I don’t want you to be scared. Okay?”

  CJ nodded.

  “Good man. Let’s get you to bed so I don’t get in trouble from your mother. Now, she is someone I’m afraid of.”

  49

  Jenkins spent the next three days giving Alex a break from homeschooling CJ and getting him out of Sloane’s house so she could get some rest. When not doing schoolwork, they fished from the beach and hunted the shore for polished glass and unbroken sand dollars. They finished putting together the Death Star Lego model as well as two others, and while Jenkins loved the time with his son, he was also stir-crazy and anxious waiting for Daugherty to call. Whenever Jenkins left the house, whether to the library to get books with CJ, or to the local Fred Meyer to buy food and fishing supplies, the two FBI agents accompanied him. Hip-pocket surveillance, they called it.

  This morning, Jenkins suggested to CJ that they fish before beginning schoolwork, which would give Alex additional time to sleep. CJ didn’t need any more convincing to delay his studies.

  They bundled up in winter clothing—a cold spell had dropped the temperature to near freezing—and stood at the water’s edge with half a dozen other fishermen, all casting their lures into Puget Sound. Jenkins had just cast his line when his cell phone rang. He recognized the telephone number to the office building in Stanwood that CJ Security shared with several other businesses. He’d forwarded CJ Security’s incoming calls to David Sloane’s legal office, and Jake had been fielding calls from unpaid vendors and attorneys threatening lawsuits.

  “Charlie? It’s Claudia Baker.”
r />   Baker was the receptionist Jenkins shared with the other businesses in the building. Jenkins apologized for being out of touch.

  “I wanted to let you know that, well, you had an FBI agent come into the office yesterday afternoon.”

  That aroused Jenkins’s curiosity. “What did he want?”

  “He had a subpoena for documents. I told him you didn’t keep documents here in the office, and you didn’t have a desktop computer.”

  “Did the agent leave a card or a name?”

  “He wasn’t going to, but I asked for a card and for his credentials before I’d answer his questions. His name was Chris Daugherty. I have his card.”

  Jenkins saw this as a good sign; Daugherty was continuing to dig.

  Baker paused and Jenkins could tell she was hesitant to continue.

  “What else did he say, Claudia?”

  “Well, he just sort of inadvertently said the FBI knew you worked for the CIA, and they needed your files to document it.”

  Jenkins smiled. Daugherty’s digging had confirmed the biggest hurdle, that Jenkins had been acting on behalf of the CIA. His desire to obtain Jenkins’s files could only mean he was trying to document what Jenkins had told him.

  He thought of Sloane’s comment about the business card and need for more tangible proof. “Claudia, I need you to do me a favor.”

  “Sure,” she said, though she sounded tentative.

  “I need you to type up what you just told me and attach the business card from the agent to that document. Then I want you to date and sign the document. When you’re done, I want you to make a copy. Put the original in an envelope, seal it, and take it to the post office and be certain to get it date stamped today.” Jenkins had worked with Sloane long enough to know that a person sending herself certified mail was a way to prove she had written and signed a document on the date stamped on the envelope. He instructed Baker to do this, then said, “When you get the envelope, don’t open it. Keep it someplace safe in the office.” He gave her David Sloane’s name and his law firm mailing address and told her to also send the copy certified mail.