The Eighth Sister (Charles Jenkins #1)(2)

“Please, sit,” the man on the couch said. On the coffee table beside his ushanka and fur-lined leather gloves was a bottle of Zarina’s best vodka, which she saved for guests, and the two crystal glasses she’d inherited from her mother. “I hope you don’t mind,” he said, noticing her eyes shift to the table, “but Stolichnaya is almost impossible to afford on a government salary. I’m wondering how it is that a secretary in the ministry of defense can afford such a luxury?”

“It was a gift,” Zarina said, trying not to sound nervous. “Take it with you and leave. I do not drink.”

“Don’t be so hasty. Please. Come. Sit. Allow me to make introductions.”

Zarina remained standing, uncertain what to do. She’d long contemplated the possibility of this day, and had hoped it would never come.

“No? Well then, I am Federov, Viktor Nikolayevich.” He gestured to the refrigerator. “And this is Volkov, Arkady Otochestovich.”

Federov’s formal introductions did not bode well, nor did the fact that he did not bother to show Zarina his FSB credentials. Zarina felt weak in the knees but mustered defiance. “I have many friends in the ministry of defense.” She checked her watch. “One will be here at any moment, a guard.”

“Had,” Federov said.

“Excuse me?”

“You said ‘have.’ I think you meant the past tense, which is ‘had.’ And no one is coming, Ms. Kazakova. We have watched your apartment for several weeks, and no one has yet to come. Why is that? You are single and very good-looking.” Federov reached for and poured himself a shot of vodka. He looked up at her with hardened, dark eyes. “May I?”

“What is it you want?” she asked.

He sat back, glass in hand. “Right to the business. Good. I like that. No wasting of time. Very well.” He raised the glass. “Za tvoyo zdarovye!” He drank, then set the glass down on the table. “Tell me, what do you know of the seven sisters?”

The question perplexed her. “Are you mad?”

Federov smiled. “Let us assume I am not. What do you know of them?”

“I am not a tour guide, and I am not here to amuse you. Buy a book if you want to know. I’m sure there are many.”

“Oh,” Federov said, uncrossing his legs. “You think I am referring to Stalin’s seven buildings. A reasonable mistake. No. I do not wish to know of buildings. I wish to know of the seven sisters, of which you are one, who have spied for the Americans for almost four decades.”

Zarina felt a trickle of sweat roll down her back. The room had become as warm and as humid as the bus. She had never heard the term “the seven sisters” for anything but the buildings. Were there six others like her?

“Is it hot in here?” Federov asked Volkov. “I was a bit cold, though the vodka does help.” He redirected his attention to her. After a long moment, he said, “You see, Ms. Kazakova, the other two women also claimed they, too, did not know of the seven sisters, and do you want to know something?”

A pause. Was he expecting Zarina to answer? No words came to her. Six others like her. My God.

“I believe them.” Federov sat back. “Arkady can be very convincing. I would also like to believe that you, too, do not know the identities of the others, but I cannot leave here without similar assurances. We all have bosses to answer to, don’t we?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Zarina said. “You’ve made a mistake. I am a secretary in the ministry of defense and have been for almost forty years. My credentials have been checked and approved dozens of times. You can confirm this.”

“You deny the existence of the seven sisters?” Federov asked.

“As you have defined them, I certainly do.”

Federov picked up his gloves and hat from the table and stood. He looked grave. “To me, it is a sad song I do not wish to hear. To Arkady, your denial is music to his ears.”





PART I





1



Camano Island, Washington

Charles Jenkins dropped to a knee and picked at the leaves and twigs cluttering the two graves. It had become his routine along his five-mile morning run to visit Lou and Arnold, his two Rhodesian ridgebacks that he’d buried along the creek bed. The wooden crosses had long since been swept away when the creek had overflowed its banks. He hadn’t considered that possibility when he’d hastily buried his two boys.

Max, his mottled female pit bull, scurried from the brush as Jenkins stood from his crouch. “Still got you though, don’t I, girl? You’re the last of the Mohicans.” Max, too, was getting long in the tooth, her coat now more gray than brown. Jenkins couldn’t be sure of her age, having rescued her from a man who had abused her. He guessed she was at least eleven, two years older than his son, CJ. “Come on, girl. Let’s get home and see CJ off to school.”

He picked up his pace down the gravel road, Max doing her best to keep up. He wanted to get another dog. CJ was old enough to learn responsibility by caring for an animal, but Alex was dead set against the idea with a second baby on the way, and Jenkins was smart enough not to argue with a pregnant woman.

He walked the final ten yards, his hands clasped on his head as he sucked in the cool November air. Sweat dripped from beneath his knit cap and heavy blue sweatshirt. He ran three mornings a week—his knees wouldn’t take another day—and lifted weights in his basement. At sixty-four, he could no longer stay in shape just watching his diet. It required blood, sweat, and yes, a few tears, but after a year of intensive and consistent exercise, he was six foot five and once again 235 pounds, just ten pounds heavier than his peak weight when he’d worked as a CIA case officer in Mexico City nearly forty years ago.