The Eighth Sister (Charles Jenkins #1)(19)

“I highly doubt it,” Emerson said, “given that her involvement with the agency only began ten years ago. But the Russians don’t know when her involvement began, she is the same age as the other three sisters they’ve already identified, and the information she provided is similar in nature to the information provided by the other three.”

“They’ll assume she was one of the seven,” Jenkins said.

“They may doubt you, but they will have no means to prove or disprove what you tell them. This information will get you one step closer to meeting and identifying the eighth sister.”

“Will you attempt to get the other four sisters out of Russia?”

“That decision is above me. Remember, though, that the other sisters do not believe they are in any danger because they do not know the three women killed were three of seven.”

Jenkins shook his head.

“Something else bothering you?” Emerson asked.

Jenkins couldn’t precisely pinpoint the nature of his concern. “Where did the eighth sister get her information on the other three?”

“I suspect you will know soon enough. You will have provided Federov with too much information for him to ignore. He’ll make contact. When he does, tell him you are returning to Russia.”

“Did he at least pay the fifty thousand dollars I demanded?”

Emerson smiled. “Of course not. He’s Russian. After eighty years of communist rule, Russians never pay for anything they can steal or get through blackmail. But he will pay when you disclose that information.” He nodded to the envelope. “He can’t afford not to.”





10



The telephone call from Federov came just after the new year. The conversation was brief. Federov invited Jenkins to return to Russia. Jenkins asked if Federov’s superiors had agreed to his financial demands—mainly just to tweak him. Federov assured, “All matters discussed are being handled.”

Until that was actually the case, Emerson was reimbursing Jenkins cash for his expenses.

The second week of January, Jenkins left the rain on Camano Island for Russia’s snow and bitter cold. He told Alex he had to return to London to check on the progress of his security team at LSR&C’s new office in advance of a visit from two English billionaires. That part of the story was true. He also said he would travel to Paris, a possible expansion site for LSR&C, to scout potential office locations. That part was not true.

He didn’t like lying to her, but his purpose in doing so was twofold. The less a spouse knew of the case officer’s work, the less she could ever divulge in an interrogation—by either side. More practically, he didn’t want to worry her, knowing that worry could be harmful to her and to the baby.

This time, when his flight from Heathrow to Sheremetyevo International Airport landed, Jenkins had no problem with customs officials. He met Uri at baggage claim. Jenkins had called the office to ask for a ride—to not do so would have looked suspicious—and Uri had been more than happy to oblige him. Uri dressed in a black turtleneck and black leather jacket. He looked like a Russian mobster. For all Jenkins knew, he might be.

“Good that you are back, Boss.” He grabbed Jenkins’s bag and bulldozed a path through people scrambling to find luggage.

When they arrived at the Metropol, Jenkins presented himself at the registration desk, and the smiling clerk greeted him by name. Jenkins doubted the man’s memory was that good, even if six-foot-five black men were not the norm in Moscow. The clerk also provided Jenkins with a room key card without asking for a credit card. The room would be free, but it also meant there would be no record of Jenkins having stayed at the hotel on this occasion. Federov had spoken to the hotel, it seemed. Jenkins was uncertain what to make of this.

Jenkins made his way to room 613, tossed his bag onto the bed, and considered an expensive bottle of champagne wrapped in a towel and plunged into a bucket of ice. On the counter was a three-by-five white envelope and in it, a card with a message welcoming Jenkins back to the Metropol and confirming that his car service would pick him up in the courtyard at the rear of the hotel at eight fifteen that evening.

That gave Jenkins twelve hours to catch up on sleep, though not in this room. He picked up the phone and called the front desk.

“Yes, Mr. Jenkins?”

“Mne ne nravitsysa moya komnata. Ya by predpochel druguyu.” I don’t like my room. I’d prefer another.

“Did you receive the bottle of champagne?” the flustered clerk asked.

“I did, thank you,” Jenkins said. “But it didn’t improve the room.”

“Is there something specific then, Mr. Jenkins?”

“I’d prefer the opposite side of the hotel,” Jenkins said. He wanted to be able to see the front entrance. At present he was looking at the wall of an adjacent building.

“I meant is there something specific about your room?”

“Not unless you can move it to the opposite side of the hotel,” Jenkins said.

“I’m sorry,” the clerk said. “I’m afraid those rooms have all been reserved for the evening. We’re full.”

“A higher floor, perhaps.”

“I’m sorry,” the clerk said again, clicking computer keys before responding. “We don’t have any open rooms.”