The Eighth Sister (Charles Jenkins #1)(36)

“Olga Artamonova.”

She sat back, seeming to ponder this.

“Who do you work for at the CIA?” Jenkins asked.

“If you are a case officer then you know I cannot tell you that,” she said. “If you are not, then, Mr. Jenkins, it is better for all concerned if I do not tell you about myself or my handler. But let me ask, how well do you know this contact of yours?”

Jenkins blew on the surface of his tea before sipping again. “I worked for him years ago when I was a new agent. But I haven’t worked as a case officer for many years.”

She looked to be considering this, then asked, “Why then did he choose you?”

Jenkins gave her question some thought. “I speak Russian. And I had a built-in cover for coming to Russia. My business provides security for an investment company with a branch office in Moscow. And I’ve had experience with the KGB. I was tactically trained and could start immediately.”

“If you have not been a case officer for many years, why did you agree to do this?”

Soft music, the strings of a violin, came from the radio on the counter. Jenkins thought of Alex and CJ and his unborn child and explained his situation. “Ordinarily I’m not a man motivated by money. Never have been. But things have changed.”

“You had a pressing need.”

“Yes,” he said. “I do.”

She looked to a clock on the wall. “If we are going to do anything, we need to move now. By this time tomorrow I suspect your face and name will be all over Moscow television and newspapers. And you are not exactly hard to miss.”

Jenkins shook his head. “Federov won’t do that. He won’t want to be embarrassed that I’ve gotten away. He was very concerned that I was trying to make him look like a fool to his superiors. I suspect the FSB will keep this quiet and try to find me some other way.”

“Even so, the FSB oversees border security, so you can expect that your picture will be sent to all border guards and customs officials by morning, if not already. Getting you out of Russia will not be easy.”

Another thought chilled him. If he had been set up, and that now seemed likely, whoever was responsible would learn he had gotten away and possibly go after the people Jenkins loved the most. “My wife and son,” he said, standing.

She stood. “Wherever they are, it would be best if they left quickly.”





17



Viktor Federov was in no mood for half answers or ambiguities. His best suit was torn in the knees and soiled from the snow and dirty water in the alley. His left knee had swollen and was painful to the touch where the car had clipped him. He had an assortment of other aches and bruises—the largest was to his ego. Charles Jenkins was gone, very likely with the help of the woman who had come to his hotel room. The pressing question at the moment was, Who was she? Federov’s contact in the United States said Jenkins had been sent to Russia not to disclose names, but to determine the name of the woman hunting for the leak that was providing the FSB with the identities of the seven sisters. Had that been the woman who came to Jenkins’s hotel? But if so, why would the woman have helped Jenkins to escape? Wouldn’t she have believed Jenkins was the leak? Wouldn’t she have killed him?

Something had not gone according to script, and Federov’s contact within the CIA was more than upset it had not. Federov was told, quite adamantly, that neither Jenkins nor the woman was to leave Russia, otherwise Federov’s contact would “disappear” without providing the names of the remaining four sisters, leaving Federov to explain to his superiors how that had happened. As much as Federov’s reputation had risen in the past two years, his fall would be significantly farther.

Federov limped back to the hotel parking lot. Two of his colleagues stood in the cold, speaking to the valet, their words punctuated by white puffs of breath. The younger officer, Simon Alekseyov, broke away from the conversation as Federov approached. “Colonel, are you all right?”

Federov dismissed the question. “I’m fine. What have you learned?”

“We have the hotel security staff pulling video for the past two hours,” Alekseyov said.

“Did you find the woman’s glasses and the black wig anywhere in the hotel?”

“Not yet. No.”

“Unless you do, the security video will be of no more use in identifying the woman than the interview I already conducted of the reception desk clerk. The woman disguised her appearance.”

“Colonel?” The second officer stepped toward them. “I think you should hear what the valet has to say.”

“I’ve already spoken to him.”

“Yes, well, he remembered something. I think it could be important.”

Federov motioned for the officer to lead the way. The valet stood outside the wooden shack, smoking a cigarette and otherwise looking cold and nervous.

“You remembered something?” Federov said, dispensing with formalities.

“Yes.”

“Well? Do you intend for us to stand here in the cold guessing? What is it?”

“It’s about the woman. I remembered that she had dark hair and round glasses.”

“We know this already.” Federov turned to the second officer, not trying to hide his displeasure. “We know this already. Why are you wasting my time?”