The Eighth Sister (Charles Jenkins #1)(12)
5
Jenkins positioned his body to block the breeze when he opened his hotel room door and glanced at the carpet. The scrap of paper had moved. He did not let his gaze linger for long. Technology now made it possible to put a camera on the head of a pin, and he would be watched.
He dropped his winter clothing on the bed and checked his watch. Moscow was eleven hours ahead of Seattle. That meant Alex would be in the middle of getting CJ to school and wouldn’t have a lot of time to talk, or to ask questions.
Using his cell phone, he called her at home. Alex answered on the second ring.
“Hey,” she said, sounding rushed.
“Just thought I’d call to let you know I arrived safely and to find out how you’re doing.”
“I’m trying to get CJ out the door.” She yelled, “CJ, let’s go. You’re going to be late again, and if you’re tardy I’m not going to bail you out this time.” Then she said, “Sorry. How are things going?”
“Everything is fine. Listen, remember your blood pressure. Yelling isn’t going to help. If he’s late he can face the consequences. It’s the only way he’s going to learn.”
“Yelling reduces my blood pressure,” she said.
“Just don’t overexert yourself.”
“I have your lunch and your jacket,” he heard her say to CJ. “I’m starting the car.”
“Sounds like you have your hands full. Give CJ a kiss for me.”
“Will do,” she said.
“I love you, Alex.” It wasn’t his nature to tell her he loved her each time he called. He hadn’t been raised that way, and so it never became second nature.
She paused. “I love you too,” she said. “I’m looking forward to you coming home.”
“See you soon.”
Jenkins disconnected, felt suddenly sick, and hurried into the bathroom. He shut the door and turned on the shower. Then he threw up in the sink. After a few minutes he straightened. His reflection in the mirror looked pale, and he felt light-headed and dizzy, and a cold sweat chilled him. He gripped the sink counter to steady himself and took several deep breaths, holding each before exhaling. When he no longer felt light-headed, he quickly undressed and stepped into the shower, allowing the needles of hot water to prick his skin.
He’d accomplished what he’d intended. He’d cast the bait, and Federov had seemingly taken it, but Jenkins knew Federov would be patient. He would be cautious. He would try to manipulate each situation so he’d be in charge. Federov could do so. Jenkins was on Federov’s home turf, and they both knew he could make Jenkins disappear—in an instant.
Forty years ago, in Mexico City, Jenkins had teased the KGB agents. He took pride in being a pain in their side, and he had enjoyed every minute of it. But it had been different back then. He’d had nothing to lose. It was not unlike the feeling he’d experienced in Vietnam, where he’d discovered young men, soldiers, who had stopped caring whether they lived or died, believing death in the jungle to be inevitable. Jenkins swore he would not become like them. He swore he would make it out of that hellhole alive, that he would not forget all the reasons he had to live.
And then he had.
He, too, came to accept death as inevitable, and he, too, had stopped caring.
He’d carried that same attitude with him to Mexico City, and it had allowed him to be fearless in whatever he’d been asked to do.
But this was not that time, and he was no longer that person.
Jenkins lifted his right hand. The shake evidenced how much he cared, and how much he had to lose—a woman he loved and who loved him, a son he adored, and another child on the way. No, he was not dodging bullets in the jungle, but he knew this game he was playing could be every bit as deadly.
6
Jenkins rose the following morning after a fitful night, dressed warmly, and headed out into the Moscow cold. He wanted to collect his thoughts before meeting Federov—if Federov showed. Russian KGB officers had frequently set up meetings and drops with no intention of showing, as a way to exert power over the individual and to control the situation. Jenkins sensed the FSB operated similarly.
He exited the hotel and walked toward the Lubyanka Building. This time, however, he turned right beneath a “50 percent off” sales sign written in English, and proceeded down a cobblestone pedestrian path dusted with a light snow and lined with restaurants and high-end stores such as Giorgio Armani, Saint Laurent, and Bottega Veneta, all decorated for Christmas.
This was definitely not your grandfather’s Moscow.
He paused, as if to look in the store windows, and allowed his eyes to scan the reflections of the people on the street, to determine if his minders were following. He didn’t see them. He continued to Red Square, the Kazan Cathedral on his right, and the GUM department store, decorated with thousands of sparkling Christmas lights, to his left. Across the square, a line of tourists waited in the cold to enter Lenin’s Mausoleum. Jenkins continued past St. Basil’s Cathedral and exited Red Square across from Zaryadye Park on the banks of the Moskva River. The park looked to be a mix of freshly planted trees and lawns along with gleaming glass buildings. Jenkins crossed a busy intersection to a glass-domed building, paid the entrance fee, and obtained a map and brochure in English that touted Zaryadye to be the first public park built in Moscow since 1958, and applauded Putin for this gift to the Moscow people. The brochure omitted any mention of the scandal-ridden saga of the adjacent Zaryadye Hotel. Construction of the hotel had necessitated demolition of a valuable art nouveau building owned by billionaire businessman Dmitry Shumkov. Shumkov resisted the demolition of his building and was subsequently found hanging in his Moscow apartment. Investigators described his death as a “noncriminal” suicide.