“I need to unwind from school.”
Jenkins stifled a laugh and walked through the kitchen to the front entry. Alex stood beside Matt Lemore and Paulina Ponomayova. Lemore held a bottle of wine. Paulina held Lizzie, and his little girl, currently going through stranger anxiety, didn’t look the least bit scared or uncertain. Maybe there was more of the steely-eyed woman Jenkins first met in Moscow, and saw again in the Oslo tunnels, in Lizzie than Jenkins knew.
Paulina looked to Jenkins, beaming. She had tears in her eyes and a broad smile. “She is beautiful,” she said.
“She looks like your wife,” Lemore said.
Jenkins smiled. “That she does.”
“You’ve healed up nicely,” Lemore said. “You were a bit of a mess last time I saw you. How do you feel?”
Jenkins looked to Alex. “Twenty years younger,” he said.
Lemore nodded.
Paulina had put on weight, and it looked good on her. Her hair had grown and now looked like a pixie cut. Lizzie clutched at it. “You look good also,” Jenkins said. “Healthy.”
“I am doing the physical therapy and getting stronger,” she said, not taking her eyes off Lizzie.
“How long can you stay?” Jenkins asked. “Can you have dinner at least?”
“Yes,” she said. “I can stay for dinner.”
“I’m hoping it’s lasagna again,” Lemore said. “I brought an Italian red. The guy at the store in Stanwood recommended it.”
Alex smiled. “We’ll see.”
“You found a job?” Jenkins asked Paulina.
“I am told that is classified,” she said, smiling and looking to Lemore.
“She’ll be in another city under an assumed name, at least for the time being,” Lemore said. “It’s for the best if you two don’t have any direct communication, at least for a while. At least until we’re sure you’re not being watched. Have you noticed anything?”
Jenkins shook his head. “No.”
Lemore had offered to move Jenkins with Alex and the kids, to provide them with new identities, but Jenkins wasn’t going to run, and he wasn’t going to hide.
“I’m glad it has worked out for you,” Jenkins said to Paulina, but she ignored him in favor of Lizzie.
“Why don’t we open the wine and see what we can put together,” Alex said.
“I don’t think Paulina is going to let Lizzie go.” Jenkins smiled at the pair.
“I’m happy to give you a hand,” Lemore said to Alex. “Just give me a second to talk to your husband.”
Alex looked to Jenkins and smiled. “You do that,” she said.
Jenkins grabbed two beers from the fridge, and he and Lemore stepped out the back door onto the porch. Jenkins closed the door behind them and handed one of the beers to Lemore. They stood looking out at his pasture and the boarded horses.
“You’ve got a nice place here,” Lemore said.
“It’s home,” Jenkins said. “Used to be just a place to hide, but it’s home now.” He sipped his beer, assuming Lemore didn’t come to talk about the farm. “Paulina looks good. Strong again,” he said.
“She’s doing well,” Lemore said. “We’re keeping a close eye on her. Physically everything is healing, but I suspect the emotional aspects of what she experienced will take some time. She’s set up with a psychiatrist. The issue with her brother is still pretty raw. So is Lefortovo. She’s been through a lot.”
Jenkins nodded. “Judging by the number of bullets she emptied into Efimov, I assumed that was the case. You can keep her safe?”
“I’m not sure the Russians will try anything on US soil, but if they were planning something, they’ll have a hell of a time finding her. We wiped clean her background. She never existed. She has a whole new identity and history. You don’t have that luxury.”
“I know.”
“We’re going to keep some officers around town, have them keep their eyes and ears open. It’s a good training exercise. We might even throw in a couple of decoys just to see how they react. And don’t argue with me about it.”
Jenkins smiled. “No, I won’t.”
“How are you doing? You all healed?”
“For the most part. A little stiff, but that comes with age. Still, I’ve never felt better.”
“Have you heard from Federov?”
“I received a postcard in the mail from Africa. It didn’t say anything, and it wasn’t signed, but it was from him.”
“How do you know?”
“It came shortly after you released the rest of the money. I think it was Federov’s way of acknowledging he received it and thanking me for keeping my word.”
Lemore drank from the bottle, then said, “You gave up a lot of money.”
“It was never mine. It was blood money. I didn’t like the karma. Federov . . . I don’t think he cares.”
“Makes what I pay you pale in comparison.”
“It was still a lot more than I expected. Besides, I told you I didn’t do it for the money.”
“I know you didn’t,” Lemore said. “But now that I have a kid on the way, I know what they cost.”
“Wait until they get to college. Our knees are already buckling, and CJ hasn’t even started high school.” He took another sip of beer. Then he asked, “Any blowback from the Kremlin?”
Lemore shook his head. “And we don’t expect any. The Kremlin doesn’t like to be embarrassed. They’ll let this go, deny they had any involvement.” Lemore gave Jenkins that charm-school smile. “Besides, you don’t exist. You’re not on our books and haven’t been for forty years.”
He thought of his conversation with Federov. “I’m a ghost,” Jenkins said. He smiled. “Sometimes I feel like it.”
“It’s an advantage, in some instances. So are your human-intelligence skills.” Lemore sipped his beer. Then he said, “Which brings me to why we’re out here on the porch.”
Jenkins looked over his shoulder, at Alex in the kitchen. “I guess we’re both big chickens.”
Lemore chuckled. “She made it pretty clear the last time that she’d string me up by my balls if I let anything happen to you.”
“What’s going on?”
“Something I learned from Paulina about the remaining four of the original seven sisters.”
“She knows who they are?”
“She does.”
Jenkins couldn’t believe it. Federov said Efimov was a brutal interrogator, one of Russia’s best. Paulina had to have endured hours of agony. Perhaps wanting to die, having nothing left to live for, had been a blessing but . . . still. He couldn’t imagine what she’d been through, and she’d never said a word. “My God,” he said.
“Amen to that,” Lemore agreed. “She said back when Emerson was around that the danger to the four remaining sisters was more imminent than we understood at that time. Putin isn’t wallowing in pity. Our assets in Russia tell us he’s ramped up his efforts to find the remaining four sisters.” Lemore paused. “Listen, this is nothing—”
“You need to get them out.”
Lemore nodded. “We’re going to need someone to get them out sooner rather than later. Someone who knows the language, the terrain, and what’s at stake. Someone who can convince them of a clear and present danger. Someone who they’ll trust.”
Jenkins nodded. He sensed what was coming, and he felt both intrigued and concerned.
“But we don’t have to decide this tonight,” Lemore said.
“That’s good,” Jenkins said. “Because if you told Alex tonight, you might be wearing that lasagna instead of eating it.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As always, it takes a village to write a novel, especially one such as this. I will try to thank all who helped me. Some I can name. Others I cannot. I am grateful to all. As always, any mistakes are my own.
Much of my knowledge of Russia comes from a visit that I detailed in the acknowledgments to The Eighth Sister. Though I have traveled extensively, that trip to Moscow and Saint P
etersburg remains a highlight for the sights I saw and for the people I met. I experienced the paranoia and the concern—I was searched at the airport and followed around Red Square and other sights for days—but also the generosity of the people, who did not hesitate to provide directions, even if those directions were out of their way. When I got past their stoic façade, I found a warmth and kindness, as I have found most everywhere I travel.
Special thanks to those who helped me with the spycraft. We didn’t agree on everything, and at times I asked, “Is it beyond the realm of fiction?” Getting out of Lefortovo was particularly difficult, but we finally came up with a plan that might work, at least within the pages of a novel. I am grateful for their generous help.
Special thanks to John Black and others who helped with the Russian language. Again, I’m sure I made mistakes, but hopefully not too many, and none that butchered the language too much.
Getting Charles Jenkins and the other characters out of Saint Petersburg was another problem, especially after I froze Neva Bay and the Gulf of Finland, which does happen. We experienced a partially frozen Saint Petersburg on our visit. I came to the conclusion that a small aircraft would be one of my few options, but I’ve never flown an airplane and I sensed to do so would be harrowing in the conditions I had created. Ah, tension! Luckily, I have a good friend, Rodger Davis, who flew for the navy and has flown his Cessna in Alaska for decades, sometimes in similar harrowing conditions. Rodger, always willing to help, answered dozens of questions, corrected many mistakes, and offered insightful suggestions to bring the scenes alive. He even gave me the name of a pilot who could fly in such conditions and did so, usually while singing the Doors. Rod Studebaker was particularly fond of “Light My Fire.” Rodger is also a talented and gifted writer, and I’ve been mesmerized by several of his novels.
Special thanks also to my sister Bonnie, who is a clinical pharmacist and helped me with the drug to make it look like Paulina suffered a heart attack. Again, I had to improvise a bit and to ask whether it was “beyond the realm of fiction.” The improvisation was mine.
Special thanks also to my good friend and law school roommate, Charles Jenkins. In law school I used to tell Chaz that he was larger than life. In many ways he is. I told him I would someday put him in a novel, and did so in my first, The Jury Master. He was kind enough to let me continue the character in The Eighth Sister and The Last Agent. Chaz has never been in the CIA, or to Russia, at least not that I know of. He is a good man with a good heart, and I consider him a blessed friend.
Thank you to Maureen Harlan of La Conner, Washington, who helped to raise funds to build a library in that city by purchasing a character in this novel. Maureen is a lovely lady nothing like the cantankerous waitress in my novel. I’m always pleased when my novels can be used for such worthwhile projects as a new library.
Thank you to Meg Ruley, Rebecca Scherer, and the entire Jane Rotrosen Agency. Talk about a one-stop shop! They negotiate my contracts, read and comment on the drafts of my novels, analyze my royalties, and handle just about everything else book related. Recently Meg and Rebecca traveled from New York to Seattle for a single night—to celebrate a milestone at a party thrown by Amazon Publishing in my honor. Talk about dedication and kindness. I am so very grateful to you both.
Thank you to agent Angela Cheng Caplan, who has been nothing short of spectacular. Angela negotiated the sale of The Eighth Sister and The Last Agent to Roadside Productions for development into a major television series. I’m excited to see Charles Jenkins and the crew come to life on the screen.
Special thanks also to the team at Amazon Publishing. From the moment I first met the team at APub, they have treated me as a professional writer. They go to great lengths to ensure that I am treated with respect and dignity, and that everything that can be done is done to ensure the success of my novels. Thank you to my developmental editor, Charlotte Herscher. We’ve collaborated now on a dozen novels, and Charlotte is remarkable for making sure everything makes sense, and that the tension and suspense remain a priority throughout the pages.
Thank you to my copyeditor, Scott Calamar, who has also worked with me on many of my novels and no doubt has scratched his head at some of my punctuation. I’m always happy to thank those who make me look smart.
Thank you to publisher Mikyla Bruder; Jeff Belle, vice president of Amazon Publishing; associate publishers Hai-Yen Mura and Galen Maynard; and everyone on the Amazon Publishing team. I’m grateful to call Amazon Publishing my home, and it was kind of each of you to put busy lives on hold to help me celebrate the recent milestone. I’ve enjoyed getting to know each of you.
Thank you to Dennelle Catlett, publicist, for the tireless promotion of me and my work. Special thanks for handling the many requests for the use of my novels for charitable purposes.
Thank you to Laura Constantino, Lindsey Bragg, and Kyla Pigoni, the marketing team that works to keep me and my novels relevant. And a special thanks to Sarah Shaw for all the fabulous parties and fabulous gifts that bring my family wonderful surprises and memories.
Thank you to Sean Baker, head of production; Laura Barrett, production manager; and Oisin O’Malley, art director, who oversees the design of the amazing covers, including those for The Eighth Sister and The Last Agent. Each time I get to see the cover, I’m stunned at the depth to which he understands the novel and can make it come to life. This cover was simply amazing.
Most importantly, thank you to Gracie Doyle, my editor at Thomas & Mercer. Writing can be a lonely profession, but I’m blessed to have an editor who keeps me on the move for signings and events, and who has become a dear friend. Thanks for everything you do, from the initial editing of my novels to responding to each of my many questions, not to mention making this about as fun a job as anyone could ever hope for. I look forward to placing many more books in your capable hands, and to our Christmas celebrations.
Thank you to Tami Taylor, who runs my website, creates my newsletters, and keeps me alive on the Internet. Thank you to Pam Binder, president of the Pacific Northwest Writers Association, for her support of my work.
I dedicated this novel to my friend Martin Bantle. Like me, Martin was a San Francisco Bay Area kid with a lot of friends, but he moved to Seattle to be with the woman he loved. In the 1980s, Martin and I spent a memorable week in Hawaii with two other friends. We traveled the same month that the movie The Dream Team came out, and youthful hubris being at a peak, we immediately dubbed ourselves “The Dream Team.” It remains one of the best trips I have ever taken. I will fondly remember Martin’s classic smile and sharp wit. Though busy with family in Seattle, including his lovely wife and two supremely athletic and intelligent children, Martin always found the time to include me and my family in celebrations. I only wish there were many more such celebrations.
Martin’s sudden passing is another reminder that none of us is promised a tomorrow. So, I say yes to today, even when the yes is inconvenient or impractical or I just don’t have the time. Saying yes has taken me to China, Cuba, Cabo, Africa, and many other places. It has helped me to make friends with people I would have never otherwise met. It has given me the courage to golf with strangers, and to finally break 100 on my scorecard—and no, that is not nine holes! I go to lunch with friends when I don’t think I have the time, and I spend a moment with others just to be present, because I know I will need their presence someday. Most importantly, saying yes has taught me to cherish each moment, and to treat getting old—and the inevitable difficulties that come with aging—as a gift, and never as a burden. Thank you for that gift, Martin.
My mother, who gave me my love of reading and writing, is eighty-seven years old. She can no longer read this print, but she can hear the narration. I should be so blessed to reach the same milestone. You remain an inspiration to me.
I’m blessed to share today with a wife I love, a truly remarkable woman in so many ways it would be impossible to list them all here. She gave me two children who have grown to
be two of the finest people I know. I’m proud to be their father. I love you all. Thanks for putting up with my imaginary friends, my mood swings, the long hours I spend at the computer, and the times when I’ve been away to promote my novels.
No man could be any richer or more blessed.
Until our next adventure, faithful readers, wherever it takes us, thank you for making my todays.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo © 2018 Douglas Sonderss
Robert Dugoni is the New York Times, Wall Street Journal, Washington Post, and Amazon Charts bestselling author of the Tracy Crosswhite series, which has sold more than five million books worldwide; the David Sloane series; The Eighth Sister, the first book in the Charles Jenkins series; the stand-alone novels The 7th Canon, Damage Control, and The Extraordinary Life of Sam Hell, for which he won an AudioFile Earphones Award for the narration; and the nonfiction exposé The Cyanide Canary, a Washington Post Best Book of the Year. He is the recipient of the Nancy Pearl Book Award for fiction and the Friends of Mystery Spotted Owl Award. He is a two-time finalist for the International Thriller Award, the Harper Lee Prize for legal fiction, the Silver Falchion Award for mystery, and the Mystery Writers of America Edgar Award. His books are sold in more than twenty-five countries and have been translated into more than two dozen languages. Visit his website at www.robertdugoni.com.
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