The Eighth Sister (Charles Jenkins #1)(32)

Jenkins rolled and picked up the broken urinal. A bullet pinged off the porcelain just before he slammed it down on Volkov’s arm, which the Russian had moved to cover his face. Jenkins heard a sickening crack, this time not the porcelain. The Russian’s limbs twitched, then stopped moving.

Breathing heavily, Jenkins grabbed the weapon and struggled to his feet, about to stumble to the door. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, his shirt torn and wet, and his face scratched. He turned back to Volkov and quickly moved the urinal. He yanked off Volkov’s leather coat and slid it on. The coat was tight across the back, and the sleeves ended above his wrists. It would have to do. He shoved Volkov’s gun in the waistband of his pants and held the coat over it. Then he took a deep breath and pulled the door open. Stepping out, he nearly collided with a man, stumbling drunk, about to enter.

“Ya by vospol’zovalsya vannoy na vtorom etazhe-skazal on,” he said. “Kto-to ostavil ogromnuyu kuchu der’ma na polu.” I would use the bathroom down the hall. Someone left a huge pile of shit on the floor of this one.



Viktor Federov stood in the hotel lobby, listening to the desk clerk provide a description of the woman. Federov snapped his fingers and another FSB officer brought him a coat and a scarf. “Is this the coat and scarf?”

“Yes. Definitely.”

Federov tossed the coat back to the second officer. “You said she wore glasses? Describe them.”

“Big. Round. The frames were clear.”

“What color were her eyes?”

“They were a light color . . . blue, I believe. Maybe hazel or green.”

Federov spoke to the man holding the jacket and scarf. “Not likely if her hair was that dark. Probably contact lenses or a wig, maybe both.”

“Do you want a sketch artist?” the second officer asked.

“No point,” Federov said. “It is doubtful the woman still looks anything like the woman this man is describing. Check every trash bin for a wig and glasses.”

As the officer departed, Federov returned his attention to the clerk.

“Tell me what this woman said when she approached you. Exactly, please?”

“She said she had an appointment with Mr. Jenkins and asked for his room number.”

“Anything else?”

The man massaged his temples. “No.”

“Think,” Federov said. “You are sure? Nothing else?”

“No. Just that she wanted his room number.”

“And you gave it to her.”

“Not initially,” the man said. “There were others around. I followed her outside and gave her the room number.”

Federov nodded. “How much did she pay you?”

Beads of sweat marked the man’s forehead and upper lip. “I didn’t—”

“How much?”

“Ten thousand rubles.”

Federov held out his hand. “I must confiscate the bribe. It is now evidence.”

The clerk removed the rubles from his pocket and handed them to Federov, who shoved the bills into his pants pocket.

Federov checked his watch. He’d sent Volkov to the bar twenty minutes earlier to ask those present if they had seen the woman or Jenkins. “Stay here. I may have more questions.” Federov started down the hall and flagged the second FSB officer. “See that the desk clerk does not leave.”

Federov’s shoes slapped the marbled floor as he strode past the elevators and down a set of stairs to the hotel bar, which remained in full swing, men and woman seated at tables and bar stools. He looked for but did not see Volkov. He called Volkov’s cell phone but he did not answer, which was unlike him. Federov stepped to the bar and made eye contact with the bartender.

“I’m looking for a man who was here asking questions about guests of the hotel. Short but very stocky.”

“Yeah. He was just here.”

“Do you know where he went?”

“I saw him go down the steps to the bathroom.”

Federov pulled out the picture of Jenkins. “Have you seen this man?”

The bartender shook his head. “Nyet.”

Federov descended the steps, pushed open the bathroom door, and stepped in. Water splashed beneath his shoes. Volkov lay on the floor in the corner, without his jacket, a broken urinal nearby.

Federov hurried to him. He grabbed Volkov’s wrist. His pulse was weak but he remained alive. He looked for Volkov’s gun but did not see it. From the looks of the bathroom, there had been one hell of a fight. The only logical conclusion was Volkov had stumbled onto Jenkins and Jenkins was now likely armed. Federov stood and exited the bathroom, fishing in his pocket for the picture of Jenkins as he approached the hotel guard standing just inside sliding glass doors.

Federov held up the picture and his FSB credentials. “Did this man leave the hotel?”

“Yes, just a few minutes ago.”

“You recall him?”

“Definitely. He was wearing a black leather coat, but no hat or gloves. He said he left them in his car and was going out to retrieve them. He looked as if he’d been in a fight.”

“Was he with a woman?”

“No. He was alone.”

Federov removed his cell phone from his pocket, punched in numbers, and spoke as he rushed out a second set of sliding doors into the hotel parking lot. His head swiveled left and right, his eyes searching for possible exits, and for the officer he had assigned to watch the back entrance and the parking lot. “I need you to perform a cleanup in the hotel bathroom near the bar,” he said into his phone. “Call an ambulance but be discreet. I do not want any other police agencies involved. Then close the bar and clear it.”