The Eighth Sister (Charles Jenkins #1)(23)

Jenkins sat, once again waiting. At least this time he wasn’t outside, freezing.

With the theater seats nearly full, the house lights dimmed. As if on cue, a part of the rehearsed play, Federov entered the booth. He’d dressed in a dark suit and striped tie. Volkov followed, dressed in jeans, a polo shirt, and winter coat. He also carried a briefcase, which seemed odd given the setting.

Federov looked at Jenkins and said, “Would you mind switching seats?”

Jenkins stood, wondering about the possible reason for the request, but he took the outside seat in the first row. Volkov sat behind him, which again made him think of The Godfather and Peter Clemenza.

“Have you ever seen this play, Mr. Jenkins?” Federov asked, keeping his voice low.

“I don’t believe so,” Jenkins said. “Thank you for the ticket.” The orchestra made a few final noises, then fell silent. Jenkins could see the conductor’s raised arms, poised to begin. “I would wait before you are thanking me,” Federov said. He handed Jenkins a program. “The play was written in 1835 by Mikhail Lermontov. I am told that it is often compared to Shakespeare’s Othello.” The orchestra burst into music, the conductor’s arms frantically waving. Federov leaned closer so Jenkins could hear him. “The hero, Arbenin, is a wealthy middle-aged man with a rebellious spirit. Born into high society, he ends up murdering his wife.”

“So, another uplifting Russian comedy,” Jenkins said.

“Life is not always uplifting or comedic.” Federov sounded resigned. His breath smelled of garlic and beer.

“Nor is it always depressing and humorless,” Jenkins said.

“You should live through the winters here in Russia before you decide. You may have another opinion.”

“I’m sure I would.” A beat passed and Jenkins said, “I didn’t take you as a man of the arts.”

Federov chuckled. “Do you have children, Mr. Jenkins?”

Jenkins did not answer, making it clear that any questions about his family were off the table.

“I have two daughters,” Federov said, picking lint from his slacks. “My oldest, Renata, is in the play tonight—an inconsequential role, one of the servants.”

Jenkins turned his head to see if Federov was being serious. The Russian shrugged. “My ex-wife has seen her now three times. I am the bad parent. I am the parent who is always working late and cannot be here. I have promised my daughter that I would attend on three occasions, and each time I have had to disappoint her. Trust me when I say there is nothing worse than a disappointed daughter and a vindicated ex-wife.”

Jenkins smiled. It was the first bit of humor Federov had displayed. Perhaps the information Jenkins had provided the prior evening was causing Federov to warm to him. “That’s why you wanted the seat by the railing.”

“That is why,” Federov said. “Remaining in character is not Renata’s acting strength. She will invariably look up here to see if I came.”

“And so here we sit,” Jenkins said.

“And so here we sit.” Federov pointed at actors coming on stage. “There. You see the dark-haired woman in the white dress. That is my daughter.”

“She’s beautiful,” Jenkins said. “You must be proud of her.”

Federov shrugged. “The beauty and theater come from my side of the family. My mother sang in the Russian opera.”

“Theater is in your blood.”

“For the amount I have spent on Renata’s training, I could be watching a doctor operate, but I’m told that young people now are not concerned with things like money and living decently. They want to be happy. Everyone wants to be happy. I’m supposed to accept that, while paying the bills, of course.”

“Of course. Still, she’s in a major production in Moscow. That’s something.”

“She stinks, Mr. Jenkins. That she gets from my ex-wife’s side of the family. When my wife sang at home, the neighbors feared she’d sucked the cat into our vacuum cleaner. My daughter’s singing is not much better.”

Jenkins smiled. “How then did she get the part?”

Federov rolled his head toward Jenkins and raised his eyebrows. “She benefits from having a father who knows people who know people, though neither she nor her mother know of this.”

Jenkins chuckled. “And for the briefest of moments, you were starting to sound almost human, Federov.”

Federov shrugged. “We are not so different, Mr. Jenkins. We want our wives and our children to be happy, no? I failed at my marriage. I am trying not to fail with my children.” Moments later, when Federov’s daughter left the stage, the FSB agent stood. “Come,” he said.

“We’re leaving?” Jenkins asked.

“She does not return until the third act. She will not know we have left. Think of it as a reprieve.” Jenkins paused, still uncertain if Federov was joking. “The play is typical of Russian theater,” Federov said. “Far too long and far too depressing. Spoiler alert—the wife dies. Come.”

Jenkins followed Federov from the booth, Volkov trailing them with his briefcase. Jenkins wondered if it contained money. Rather than turn right toward the hall leading to the theater entrance, Federov turned left. They continued down the hall to a back staircase that would, presumably, lead outside. Jenkins followed the Russian FSB officer down a narrow staircase to the bottom floor, but Federov walked past the green exit sign that was over a door.