The Eighth Sister (Charles Jenkins #1)(14)

7



The call to Jenkins’s burner phone came the following afternoon, as Jenkins hurried up the carpeted runner into the Metropol Hotel’s marbled lobby after another round of largely unnecessary meetings with LSR&C’s Moscow office. He’d scheduled the meetings only because he wanted to give Federov time to do his due diligence on Alexei Sukurov. According to Emerson, Sukurov, a high-ranking KGB officer, had for years provided the United States with detailed information on Soviet technology before his death. His name itself was, therefore, inconsequential. The hope was Federov would be curious about whether Jenkins had access to more relevant but equally sensitive information.

The call confirmed Federov was curious.

The FSB officer again requested that Jenkins come to the Lubyanka Building. Again, Jenkins declined. He suggested instead that they meet in a restaurant. In an effort to soothe Federov’s ego, Jenkins further suggested that Federov pick him up at the hotel, then drive until satisfied Jenkins was not being followed by any CIA case officers—a procedure which, in Jenkins’s day, had been called “dry cleaning.”

An hour later, Jenkins walked down the steps outside the back of the hotel. While he waited, heavy snowflakes drifted on a light breeze before settling on the paved courtyard like fall leaves, tempering sound and giving Moscow a tranquil feeling.

A black Mercedes pulled into the courtyard and stopped at the base of the stairs. Federov sat in the passenger seat, staring out the windshield. Jenkins heard the click of the door locks disengage, and the valet pulled open the rear door. Jenkins slid into the back seat behind Federov. The block of cement drove. They did not exchange pleasantries.

The driver merged onto surface streets. Jenkins noticed both men checking mirrors for a tail.

The driver made a sudden and sharp right turn, forcing Jenkins to grab the ceiling handle and fight against the centrifugal force threatening to throw him across the back seat. The bottom of the car scraped concrete. The wheels bounced. When they stopped, the headlights illuminated a narrow brick alley, barely the width of the car. The driver shut off the ignition and killed the lights. Then he and Federov quickly exited the car. Federov opened the back door.

“Step out, please.”

Jenkins stepped out, hoping this was not their final stop. The alley reeked of the sour scent of garbage.

The driver patted down Jenkins from his head to his feet. When he’d finished, he nodded to Federov, who gave a hand signal down the alley. Headlights from a second car, parked in an arched tunnel, illuminated the alley. The car inched forward from its hiding place. Three men, one as tall as Jenkins, emerged from a red Audi and walked quickly and silently to the black Mercedes. The tallest sat in the back. The new driver drove down the alley, turning right on the intersecting street.

Jenkins followed Federov and his driver to the Audi and climbed into the back seat. They exited the alley in the direction they had entered. The block of cement resumed making unexpected turns and slowing and accelerating to time traffic signal lights. When satisfied no one followed, the driver pulled to a stop on Tverskoy Boulevard in front of a Baroque-style building with a gold plaque bearing the name Café Pushkin.

Jenkins followed Federov and the driver into the restaurant, passing through a modest crowd seated in the bar. They climbed a narrow staircase to the second floor, where the ma?tre d’ waited, as if expecting them. He led them through what looked to be an elaborate personal library, with dining tables tucked behind ornately carved bookshelves displaying the gold spines of antique books. Tiny lamps with shades hung from the ends of bookcases. With dark mahogany wood, arched windows, and hunter-green tablecloths, the room had the look and the feel of one described in the Harry Potter novels Jenkins read each night to CJ.

On a snowy weeknight, the room was sparsely populated, though Jenkins heard soft voices speaking Russian and the clink and ping of silverware and glasses. The smells emanating from the kitchen made his mouth water, and he realized that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. The ma?tre d’ maneuvered his way around another bookshelf and gestured to a table positioned in the corner. Two drinks—vodka from the look of it—had been placed on the table. A waiter in a white shirt, red vest, and an apron that extended below his knees offered menus. Federov declined, ordering on the spot. Jenkins struggled to understand what was being ordered but deciphered sparkling water, champagne, caviar, and veal cutlets with fried onions.

Either the Kremlin had really liked Jenkins’s information, or Federov, like many American government employees, saw an opportunity to expense a meal and decided to do it right.

“Your agency must pay you well. Far better than in the United States,” Jenkins said, looking about the room after the waiter had departed.

Federov said, “I’m sorry for the theatrics, Mr. Jenkins, but one cannot be too certain when first meeting.”

“I take that to mean that you verified Alexei Sukurov?”

“Mr. Sukurov is deceased,” Federov said.

“Natural causes?” Jenkins asked.

Federov picked up his drink. The second drink sat on the table before Jenkins. He poked his thumb in the direction of the block of cement. “He’s not drinking?”

“Arkady Volkov,” Federov said. “And no, he is not drinking. He’s driving. It would be irresponsible.” Federov raised his cocktail glass. “Za fstrye-tchoo.” To our meeting.