The Eighth Sister (Charles Jenkins #1)(21)

“You’ve read it,” Jenkins said.

“I read everything about Russia.”

“I didn’t take you to be much of a reader.”

“You’ve misjudged me,” Federov said. “Though I prefer Russian writers. Dostoyevsky and Tolstoy.”

“Crime and Punishment?”

“A masterpiece,” Federov said. He removed a crumpled pack of cigarettes from a coat pocket, tapped the pack against his palm and withdrew a cigarette with his lips, then offered the pack to Jenkins, who declined.

“You Americans.” Federov shook his head. “You don’t smoke. You don’t drink. You work out every day. Something must kill you; it might as well be enjoyable.” He flicked his lighter and touched the blue flame to the tip of the cigarette. The tobacco burned red as Federov inhaled, seeming to savor the taste. When he exhaled, the tendril of smoke lingered, as if trapped by the oppressively thick air. “I wished for you to be comfortable for our meeting. Someplace in Moscow perhaps you are familiar with, no?”

“I read it many years ago,” Jenkins said, feeling the cold seeping through every seam in his clothes. Comfortable my ass. “I’m afraid I don’t remember all of the details.”

“No? Inspector Arkady Renko?” Federov pointed to a spot to his right. “Three bodies shot and mutilated and left buried in the snow. A—how do you say . . . murder mystery? No? They didn’t find the bodies until the melt in April.”

“Gruesome,” Jenkins said, wondering if Federov’s point had been to intimidate. “Did you know it almost wasn’t published?”

“Gorky Park? No?” Federov said.

“The publisher didn’t think a book involving a Russian detective would sell, that Americans wouldn’t be interested.”

“Look around you—Russia is a very interesting country,” Federov said. “I believe the killer was an American, though, yes?”

“Spoiler alert.”

“Izvinite?”

“It means you gave away the ending of the book. You spoiled it.”

“You Americans are odd.” Federov took another drag on his cigarette, speaking as the smoke filtered out his nose and mouth. “You said you have additional information?”

“I also said I had financial demands.”

“My superiors were not impressed with the information provided. Perhaps this will be more impressive.”

“I’m not sure we’ll find out.”

“No?”

“No.”

“You read of Nikolay Chekovsky?” Federov asked, right on cue.

“Yes,” Jenkins said. “I did.”

“A shame a man so talented must die.”

“As you said, something must kill you.”

“Yes, something.” Federov dropped the butt of the cigarette and ground it out with the toe of his shoe. “You could have saved him.”

“I doubt it.”

“No?”

“I assume you had him under surveillance long before you told me his name. So, even if I had been inclined to tell the agency his name, which I wasn’t, what really could have been done?”

“No daring American rescue like your adventure novels?”

Jenkins gave a thin smile. “Not likely.”

“But the fact remains that you did know his name, and yet you did nothing to warn your superiors. How do you believe they will respond if they were to learn of this?”

“Who would tell them?”

Federov smiled.

“I want fifty thousand dollars deposited by the end of the week or I get on a plane and I don’t return.”

Federov gravely shook his head. “That is a lot of money, Mr. Jenkins. Perhaps you have not been following the news. Oil prices are falling each day. Russia’s economy is in recession.”

“I’m sure your bosses can scrape up the money. Perhaps one of the Russian oligarchs is a patriot.” He smiled again. “That was the deal.”

“Yes,” Federov said. “In principle, certainly. But my superiors would be more inclined to pay once they have this additional information.”

Jenkins paused, though only for effect. He wanted Federov to think he had Jenkins over a barrel and that Jenkins knew this. Jenkins said, “You are searching for four of the remaining seven sisters.”

“We have had this discussion.”

“Number four,” Jenkins said.

“You know the identity—”

“Uliana Artemyeva,” Jenkins said. He watched Federov’s eyes shift to Volkov as he provided the details of Artemyeva’s betrayal and the CIA’s use of that information to undermine Putin’s nuclear industry sector. Jenkins was being recorded, likely filmed.

Jenkins reached into the interior pocket of his jacket and produced the manila envelope Carl Emerson had given him. He handed it to Federov. Then he said, “Fifty thousand in the account I gave you. Otherwise, our conversations, much as I have enjoyed them, will come to an end.” Jenkins turned and started up the path.

“You will freeze to death walking in this cold,” Federov said.

Jenkins turned back and smiled. “Something must kill us.”





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