The Eighth Sister (Charles Jenkins #1)(24)

“Where are we going?” Jenkins asked.

“Someplace to speak in private,” Federov said.

Somewhere behind him, Jenkins heard the orchestra and singers building to a faint crescendo. Federov stopped and pushed open a door. Jenkins took a step forward before realizing he had stepped into total darkness. Behind him the door slammed shut. He heard Federov, or Volkov, flip a switch. A bright light emanated from a bare bulb hanging from a wire, revealing the room to be a windowless, concrete square. In the center of the room, just beneath the light, someone had placed a lone metal chair.

When younger, and better on his game, Jenkins would have assessed all of this in an instant, and just as quickly disabled both men, but his reactions were no longer what they once had been, and by the time it all registered, he was too late.

He felt a dull blow to the back of his head.





12



The sharp smell of ammonia caused Jenkins to sit up. Blurred images danced and shimmered. When his vision cleared, he saw Federov seated beside Volkov in folding chairs, both sucking on cigarettes. From the haze of smoke above their heads and the collection of crushed butts littering the floor, Jenkins could tell he had been out for a while. He had a throbbing ache at the back of his head where he’d been hit.

“I told Arkady he hit you too hard,” Federov said, voice calm. “He doesn’t seem to understand the word ‘soft.’” Volkov stood and walked to a folding table at the edge of the light. On it, he’d set his briefcase. He clicked it open.

Jenkins felt plastic strips binding his wrists to the bars at the back of the chair. His ankles were likewise bound to each chair leg. His jacket and his shirt had been removed, draped on a hanger hooked to a nail hammered into the wall. The nail appeared to have caused a spiderweb of cracks.

“I removed your jacket and shirt so as not to damage them unnecessarily,” Federov said, following Jenkins’s gaze.

“What the hell is this, Federov?” Jenkins asked, trying to sound more tired than scared. This was an unexpected development—unlike anything he’d experienced in Mexico City. He needed to buy time to determine its purpose. Was it simply to scare and intimidate him, or had he pissed off somebody in Lubyanka?

Volkov unfolded the briefcase on the table. In it, Jenkins saw duct tape, pliers, knives, and a blowtorch.

“I am on a schedule,” Federov said, checking his watch. “If I am not back in the box before the start of the third act, my daughter will know that I left and then . . .” He shrugged. “For me and for you it is not so good.”

“So your daughter is actually in the play?” Jenkins asked, stalling for time.

“Of course,” Federov said. “And I would not want to disappoint her again. You asked, I believe, ‘What is this?’ No?”

“Yeah. What the hell is this?”

Federov took a final pull on his cigarette, dropped the butt to the floor, and stood, crushing the embers beneath the sole of his shoe. Smoke escaped his nostrils and mouth as he spoke. “This is a room several stories beneath the stage. Its history is somewhat uncertain and, I think, embellished. So, hard to say. Some say Catholics used to come here, under the guise of attending the theater, but really to attend mass during communist times. Others say that is a myth, that the room was used only for storage. Still, others say it is one of the hundreds of rooms used by Stalin to interrogate dissidents. They say the blood of those men stains the walls and cannot be covered with paint. Do you see the red tint? It is not so easy in this light.”

“Sounds like the plot of another Russian play,” Jenkins said.

“One doesn’t really know the truth, which, ironically, is also why you are here, Mr. Jenkins.”

Jenkins fought to remain calm. At least with his right hand cuffed to the chair it was not trembling. He kept his voice even and, hopefully, unconcerned. “This is all very theatrical, Federov. You want to try again, this time without the histrionics?”

Federov paced. “You are here, Mr. Jenkins, because I told you once my superiors are not interested in, and will not pay for, the names of dead women. Of which you have provided me.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Federov stepped in front of him. “It means that Uliana Artemyeva died several years ago from natural causes.”

“So?”

“So, you can see my dilemma, no?”

“No, I can’t. How does that diminish the information?”

“Because we have no way to confirm or to disaffirm that Ms. Artemyeva was one of the seven sisters.”

“I told you she was one.”

“Yes, but someone who would betray his country for money is not exactly a bastion of integrity and honesty. Is he?”

At the table, Volkov twisted the nozzle onto the torch, turned the valve, and struck a match. It made a scraping sound on the table. The burner ignited in a blue-and-yellow flame, and Volkov adjusted the nozzle until the flame became a crisp blue triangle.

“Why would I provide you the information if it was inaccurate?”

Federov diverted his attention when he heard the pop of the blue flame, then reconsidered Jenkins. “With which of the fifty thousand reasons would you like for me to start?”

“How about one of the fifty thousand you haven’t paid me? I provided that information in good faith, Federov, with the understanding that I would be compensated. Don’t treat me like some amateur. I’m getting tired of it. You want the information. I’m providing it. I can’t be held responsible if one of the seven sisters had already died of natural causes.”