The Eighth Sister (Charles Jenkins #1)(26)

13



The clerk at the Metropol Hotel reception desk gave Jenkins a quizzical stare, as if seeing a ghost. He walked out from behind the counter.

“Are you not well, Mr. Jenkins?” he asked over the sound of the harp strings being played in the lobby.

Truth was, Jenkins felt sick and probably did not look well. He’d talked his way out of Volkov using his body as an ashtray, or maybe snipping off a couple fingers, but he didn’t feel clever or vindicated, as he had in Mexico City when he’d outfoxed a KGB agent. “I think I might have overdone it at dinner,” Jenkins said.

“Is there anything I can get you? Some aspirin perhaps?”

“No. Thank you. I’ll just head up to my room and lie down.”

He entered the elevator feeling drained and exhausted. As the doors closed, a hand knifed between them. Jenkins jumped back and instinctively raised his hands. The doors opened and the bellboy, the one Jenkins had given the champagne and the twenty-dollar tip, stepped into the car. He nodded before he hit the “Close” button multiple times. When the doors closed he turned to Jenkins.

“A woman came to the desk asking for you. She said she was a friend of yours. The desk clerk would not provide her with your room number, but this is Russia, Mr. Jenkins, and everything can be bought for a price.”

“What did she look like?” Jenkins asked.

“I would guess mid-to-late forties, but it was hard to tell. She wore large glasses and had much hair.”

“What was the color of her hair?”

“Dark. Almost black. The glasses were big, oval shaped.”

“What about her clothes? Do you remember anything?”

“She wore a long winter coat with a fur collar and a scarf.”

The coat and the scarf, along with the glasses, could be easily and quickly discarded, giving the woman a completely different appearance, if necessary. The more perplexing question was why the woman had gone to the clerk asking for Jenkins. The clerk certainly would have told Federov that Jenkins had switched rooms when he checked in, and Federov would have told the woman, if she was the eighth sister. Only two scenarios came to mind. Either Federov did not know the eighth sister, or the woman was not the eighth sister. If not, then who was she? If Federov had not sent the woman, Jenkins had to assume the desk clerk would have alerted him by now that someone had come to the hotel asking about him—though Federov had gone back to the play to watch his daughter in the third act and may not yet have received that message.

“Did she say anything else?” he asked.

“No. When the clerk told her he could not confirm a guest’s presence at the hotel or provide a room number, she left. But as I said, Mr. Jenkins, in Russia, everything has a price.”

“Spasibo.” Jenkins reached into his pocket for additional cash.

“No.” The young man raised a hand. “Now we are . . . even. Yes?” He pushed the button for the next floor. When the elevator stopped, he stepped off. “Good luck to you, Mr. Jenkins . . . whatever it is that you are doing.”

Jenkins rode the elevator to the eighth floor. Trays with empty plates, glasses, and discarded napkins and cutlery littered the carpet. Jenkins checked the trays as he walked to his room, looking for anything he might use as a weapon if, as the bellboy had implied, the woman had been able to bribe someone and get a key to his room. He spotted a steak knife and picked it up, along with the napkin. He cleaned the blade and fit the handle of the knife up the sleeve of his shirt.

At the door to his room he removed the “Do Not Disturb” sign he’d hung on the handle, and swiped his card key, hearing the mechanism engage and unlock. He dropped to a knee, not wanting to take a bullet to the forehead if the woman was inside, pulled down on the handle, and gently shoved open the door three to four inches. The scrap of paper remained on the carpet where he had placed it.

He let out a sigh, stood and entered his room. Inside, he removed his coat, and tossed it, along with his hat and the steak knife, on the bed. The events of the evening hit him hard. He felt a panic attack continuing to gain traction. In the bathroom, he shook out one of the green pills and washed it down with water, then took deep, slow breaths to calm himself. In the mirror he looked as gray as the Moscow winter night. He turned on the cold water, lowered his head, and splashed water on his face. His wrists burned where the cuffs had bit into his skin, leaving red abrasions.

In minutes his breathing slowed and his anxiety eased. Whatever the reason for Federov’s test tonight, Jenkins had seemingly passed—though one never knew with the KGB and, he assumed, the FSB. He hoped the bellboy’s news of a woman seeking his room number was further proof of his conclusion.

As he calmed, Jenkins felt pangs of hunger and considered his watch. Room service would be his best option. He dried his hands, exited the bathroom, and walked to the antique desk. Out the windows he saw the fountain in Teatralnaya Square and, across it, the columned entrance to the Bolshoi Theatre with the statue of Apollo crowning the peaked fa?ade. To his right, down the street, the squat Lubyanka Building was ablaze with lights, a subtle reminder that the FSB never slept.

Jenkins picked up the amenities binder from the desk and flipped to the tab for in-room dining, then punched in the three-digit code on the desk phone. His gaze drifted to his left, to the gap in the open closet door, which remained as he had positioned it. His focus then shifted to the gold hinge.