The Eighth Sister (Charles Jenkins #1)(13)

Following the brochure map, Jenkins crossed the floating bridge and walked past curvaceous structures seemingly carved into the sloping grass lawns until he came to the Media Center. He paid an admittance fee and searched for the room showing the fire of Moscow in 1812.

Jenkins suspected that Federov’s choice in films had a purpose. He’d studied Russian history as part of his training and knew that the 1812 fire had been deliberately set by retreating Russian forces, leaving Napoleon’s invading French army without food, shelter, or people to rule. Napoleon had ridden into Moscow victorious but had no choice but to flee the city or starve and freeze to death.

Russia would not be dominated.

As instructed, Jenkins took a seat one row from the rear among a sparse crowd.

At eleven fifteen, with no sign of Federov, Jenkins concluded this had been another FSB test. He gathered his coat and belongings, about to leave, when he noted two men entering the darkened theater and moving purposely toward him, the first being Federov. The FSB agent sat in the seat beside Jenkins. A second man, this one built like a block of cement, took the seat directly behind them, which made Jenkins think of Peter Clemenza from the Godfather movies, specifically the scene when Clemenza sat in the back seat of a car so he could strangle Talia Shire’s husband in the front passenger seat.

“You wish to speak?” Federov said in English.

Jenkins nodded. “I do.”

“All right, but if you want us to cooperate, you’ll have to come to Lubyanka,” Federov said, trying to sound disinterested. “You’re the person making the proposal. We’re willing to listen, but if you want to talk to us, you must come over.”

“Ya dumayu, chto ya dostatochno blizko. Krome togo, korotkaya progulka po russkomu kholodu khorosha diya zdorovya, net?” Jenkins said, deliberately speaking Russian. Ordinarily he never would have divulged how much Russian he knew or understood, but he wanted Federov to believe he controlled this meeting. I think I am close enough. Besides, a short walk in the Russian cold is good for the health, no?

Federov glanced at him, and the two men held one another’s gaze. Saving face—projected strength—meant everything to Russian men. Jenkins purposefully broke eye contact first.

“Besides, the noise in here makes it next to impossible that anyone could hear us or record our conversation,” Jenkins said in English. “I think that is best to suit our purposes this morning. I assume you do also, which is why we’re here.”

Federov stared at the screen. “Perhaps we should start with your purpose?” he said.

“Fair enough. As I said on the phone, I’m an American businessman with information I think the Russian government would appreciate.”

“What kind of business?”

“Security.”

A grin inched across Federov’s lips. “In Russia, some would say we have enough security, maybe too much.”

“And in the United States, some would say we don’t have enough to protect us from those who seek to harm us.” He sighed. “My job is a convenience for my presence in your country.”

“Why don’t you tell me why you are here.”

“Have you ever visited Mexico City?” Jenkins asked.

Federov’s eyebrows inched closer together. “No. I have not.”

“You’re too young.” Jenkins estimated Federov to be midforties. “In my day, you couldn’t throw a rock without hitting a Russian KGB officer in Mexico City.”

“And what was your business in Mexico City?”

Jenkins smiled. “Throwing rocks at Russian KGB officers.”

Federov glanced at Jenkins for a moment, then laughed.

“Yo era un turista estadounidense en México,” Jenkins said in Spanish. I was an American tourist in Mexico.

“I see. So tell me, what then is the nature of your information?”

“The names of Russian KGB officers I hit with those rocks.”

“I do not understand.”

“Stones that found their mark.”

“Russian KGB officers who defected?”

“No. Those who stayed.”

“I see.” Federov was clearly intrigued but would not show it. He shrugged. “This was many years ago. The Soviet Union is no more. What makes you think we would still be interested?”

“Yes, I’ve read all about glasnost and perestroika. So perhaps I am wrong in my assumption that someone like me would have anything of value to offer this new Russia.”

“Perhaps not,” Federov said, but then added, “one can only try.”

Jenkins nodded. It was time to boat the fish. “Alexei Sukurov. I believe he was a former colonel in your KGB, and for forty years he provided the United States with valuable information regarding Soviet weapons technology. The operation went by the code name Graystone.”

“I have not heard of this man.”

Jenkins smiled. “Because he would be an embarrassment to your country. Look him up, Mr. Federov. If he interests you, let me know.”

“How long will you be in Moscow, Mr. Jenkins?”

“One never knows,” Jenkins said, noting that Federov had not asked where he was staying.

“And if this man is of interest, what is it that you would want in return?”

“What every American wants,” Jenkins said. “What every Russian wants, at least from what I saw on my brief walk this morning. We’re all capitalists now, aren’t we?”