The Eighth Sister (Charles Jenkins #1)(33)

He disconnected. When he did not see the officer, he ran toward a valet seated inside a wooden shack. A couple stood outside the shack waiting to retrieve their car. Federov stepped to the front of the line and banged on the door. The young man quickly slid it open. Federov held up the picture of Jenkins and his FSB credentials. “Did you see this man leave?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Then think more clearly. Did you see him?”

“I didn’t see him,” the valet said. “But I’ve been running to and from cars, with the Bolshoi just getting out.”

“What about a woman?”

The young man frowned. “There have been a lot of women. What did she look like?”

Federov turned toward the sound of a woman’s scream. He hurried across the lot to where a woman stood beside a man, both bundled in winter clothing, both staring at a body on the ground.

“I nearly stepped on him when I got out of the car,” the man said to Federov. “I thought maybe he was homeless and had frozen to death.”

Federov shoved the man aside and looked down at the FSB officer. He’d been shot in the forehead, a kill shot, the hole no larger than a nickel and the amount of blood minimal given the cold evening temperature.

“Go inside and speak to the front desk,” he said to the man and woman. “Tell the man in the dark suit there’s a dead man in the parking lot. Go! Go!”

The couple hurried across the lot to the back entrance of the hotel.

Federov ran to the sidewalk and looked up and down the street, then across it to the plaza and the fountain. Behind it, people streamed out the doors of the Bolshoi. Jenkins could not have gone far. And he would seek a crowd to get lost in. Federov looked again to the Bolshoi’s exiting patrons.



Charles Jenkins jogged across the street to the fountain. His confrontation with Volkov had left him several minutes behind schedule. Would the woman wait for him? Had she ever intended to wait for him?

Couples bundled in winter clothing took selfies beside a fountain, but they quickly moved when he approached, no doubt deducing from his tattered and bloody appearance, and his lack of winter clothes, that he had to be insane. So much for blending in. Getting lost in a crowd would not be easy, nor would getting inside the Bolshoi.

He hurried to the front entrance, holding the coat closed to hide his torn shirt. Most of the men exiting wore long wool coats over tuxedos or expensive suits. Jenkins looked like a homeless vagrant. He dodged and weaved his way through the crowd to one of the doors. A middle-aged man in a black vest and matching bow tie stood just inside the doorway, thanking patrons for coming and wishing them a good night.

“Izvinite,” Jenkins said. “Ya ostavil svoi veshchi s proverkoy pal’to.” Excuse me. I left my belongings with coat check.

The man considered Jenkins from head to foot and quickly dismissed him. “Nyet,” he said.

“I left my hat and gloves at the coat check,” Jenkins said again in Russian. “I need to retrieve them.”

The man looked repulsed. “Where is your ticket for your belongings?” he said.

“I’ve misplaced it,” Jenkins said.

“Then show me your ticket for tonight’s performance.”

“Please. It will only take a moment.”

The man shook his head. “Very convenient, but no.”

“Then let me describe my belongings and you can get them for me.” He needed to get the man away from the door.

“I am not your valet. Go away or I will summon the police.”

Jenkins stepped back, hoping to find another door either unattended or with a less diligent doorman. If he had to, he’d go around the building and see if he could find the alley. He glanced at the crowd in the plaza, the Bolshoi patrons streaming away from the front of the building—everyone except one man, who was charging forward.

Federov.



Federov looked above the heads in the crowd. At six foot five, Charles Jenkins was seven inches taller than the average Russian male. As he surveyed the crowd, Federov heard people shouting and turned toward the noise. A commotion appeared to have broken out at one of the doors to the building. He rushed toward it. Several people lay on the ground. He pushed and shoved and stepped over the bodies, drawing protests and some resistance.

“Police business!” Federov shouted. He held up his credentials to get people to back away. “Police business!”

He helped a man in a black vest and tie to his feet. The man looked flustered but unharmed. “He ran into the building,” the man said. “He said he left his hat and gloves. A vagrant.”

“What did he look like?” Federov rushed, fumbling in his pocket for the photograph.

“Black,” the man said. “He was black and very big.”

Federov didn’t bother with the picture. “Which way?” he said.

“That way.” The man pointed. “He said he was going to the coat check.”

Federov entered the building and hurried down the hall, avoiding those people he could, knocking others to the side. Farther down the hall, he saw people being similarly knocked aside, like bowling pins in an alley. Then he saw a head above the others. Charles Jenkins turned and looked over his shoulder. The two men made eye contact. Jenkins took off.

Federov stepped over and around the people Jenkins had strewn on the floor, following signs for the coat check. A crowd had gathered around the desk, clerks taking tickets and retrieving coats, fur hats, and gloves. Federov leapt up and down, like a man on a pogo stick, trying to see above the crowd. To the far left he saw a door open and shut.