The Eighth Sister (Charles Jenkins #1)(16)

“And what then would motivate such a person?”

“My motive is not complicated, nor is it altruistic or patriotic. It is strictly financial,” Jenkins said. “My business is failing and I am financially tapped out. I can’t meet my payroll expenses and I’m about to lose everything I have worked so hard to achieve. I’ve signed personal guarantees on business loans, which puts my home and everything else I own at risk.”

“You have a family?”

“That is not relevant,” Jenkins said. He sat back. “Besides, you checked with your superiors and you confirmed my identity. Leave it at that. Now check with your superiors regarding the three women, whom I believe your agency refers to as three of ‘the seven sisters.’”

Federov paused. “And you can provide the names of the other four sisters?”

This was where things got dicey. If Jenkins said yes, there was very little preventing Federov from taking him immediately and seeking to extract the information, perhaps in one of the remodeled cells inside Lubyanka.

“No. Not at present.”

“But you have access to this information?”

Jenkins shrugged. It should have been obvious that he did.

“What is it you are proposing, Mr. Jenkins?”

“I want fifty thousand dollars as a sign of good faith.”

Federov smirked. “For information we already possessed? I don’t think so.”

“Consider it a down payment. Any further information will cost an additional fifty thousand. Prior to my delivery of the seventh and final name, you will pay me a bonus of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

“Five hundred thousand dollars,” Federov said, doing the math.

“Consider it a deal.” Jenkins removed a sheet of paper with a bank account number on it and handed it to Federov. The number, again, had been provided by Carl Emerson. “The down payment will be wired to this bank before I leave tomorrow morning to catch my flight home. If it is not, I will assume your superiors are not interested. If it is, you can call the number you called earlier and simply say ‘The down payment has been completed.’”

The waiter returned, carrying trays of food and set them on the table. When he’d finished, Federov dismissed him. “I believe that my superiors will pay your initial expenses, Mr. Jenkins, but I see no basis—”

“My terms are nonnegotiable,” Jenkins said, eating one of the mushrooms and issuing Federov his first challenge.

“Then I will be discussing your terms with my superiors,” Federov said, offering no commitment. He took a piece of the veal and buried it under onions. As he cut his meat he said, “And I wish to provide you with information.”

Jenkins nodded but he had not expected this.

“Chekovsky, Nikolay Mikhail,” Federov said.

“Who is Nikolay Chekovsky?” Jenkins asked, certain this was a test, though not yet certain of the purpose.

“A name for you to remember. But do not disclose this name . . . to anyone.” Federov smiled but kept his eyes focused on his plate as he cut into his veal. “You are seeking a lot of money, Mr. Jenkins. My superiors wish to be sure you are not, how shall we say . . . playing us.” He took another bite, set down his utensils, and raised his cocktail glass. “Za tvoyo zdarovye,” he said. To our health.

Jenkins raised his glass in his left hand. Beneath the table, he felt his right hand quiver.





8



Christmas morning, less than a month after his trip to Russia, Jenkins sat in his leather chair, sipping coffee and considering the array of empty boxes and wrapping paper strewn across the family room floor. CJ sat on the floor assembling an app-enabled droid that looked like something from a Star Wars movie—a rolling black ball. In the fireplace insert, pine and maple burned a bright red-orange, and the fan pushed out warm air. He could smell Alex’s cinnamon rolls baking in the kitchen and hear Max gnawing on a massive turkey bone—her annual Christmas present—beneath the dining room table.

Jenkins had awoken at just after 4:30 a.m., which had become his routine since his return from Russia. Initially, he’d related his inability to sleep to jet lag, but his insomnia had persisted. He’d awake with his mind churning over the minutiae of the security work, and of Russia and the operation.

Unlike in his younger days, he could not compartmentalize his job, could not separate his work from his personal life. Though he was home on Camano, Russia remained on his mind, as did the ramifications of everything that could go wrong. He used his left hand to steady the mug and sipped his coffee. His restlessness would escalate until he got up to run, or to do enough push-ups, pull-ups, and sit-ups that his muscles ached and he was gasping for air. When he had finally exhausted his body and cleared his mind, he’d grab a book and a blanket and lie on the couch in the family room. Most mornings sleep still didn’t come, despite his growing fatigue.

He couldn’t hide this from Alex. When she asked, he told her he was worried about the business, got up because he didn’t want to disrupt her sleep, and said he’d get through it. Alex didn’t buy it. A psychiatrist diagnosed Jenkins with panic attacks and generalized anxiety, and related both to what Jenkins had told her—worry about his business failing, and the uncertainty of becoming a parent, again, at sixty-four years of age. The psychiatrist said the attacks could get better when the issues resolved. In the interim, she prescribed mirtazapine, which Jenkins took at night to help him sleep, and propranolol for attacks during the day.