The Eighth Sister (Charles Jenkins #1)(46)

“No,” she said. “It was tight, but it will work.”

“The question is for how long. Federov will go house to house if he thinks we’re here, and he’ll check every hiding place for your car. From what I can see, there aren’t a lot of either.”

“Then we will not be here long.”

She moved past him and lifted a rock in a patch of overgrown weeds, revealing a key, stepped up three wooden steps, and unlocked the back door. The glass pane rattled when she pushed the door open.

They entered what looked to be a mudroom off the kitchen, which had lime-green countertops and dark-brown cabinets. The house smelled musty and the air stale. “Keep the lights off,” Anna said. “And the drapes and blinds closed. I’ll open a back window to get some fresh air.”

Jenkins put the plastic bags on the counter and opened the refrigerator. The light did not go on. He heard Anna go upstairs, footsteps on the floor. He shut the door and flipped the switch on the wall quickly to test for power.

“The power is turned off,” he said when Anna returned.

“Good,” she said, taking two plastic bottles of water and tossing one to Jenkins. She led him from the kitchen to a sitting room with a couch and two recliner chairs. When Jenkins sat, the chair emitted a puff of dust. Anna collapsed on the couch.

“When’s the last time anyone was here?” Jenkins asked.

“I don’t know,” she said.

“If the power is off, I’m assuming there is also no heat.”

“I’m sure everything was shut off for the winter, including the water.”

Jenkins was worried about possible connections that could lead Federov to the house. “Who owns the property? Does the person have any connection to you? Any ties of any kind?”

“No,” she said. “None.”

“We can’t drive out of here. Not unless we can find another car.”

“We must also assume Federov will have boats at his command, since the Russian Coast Guard patrols the Black Sea,” she said. “That will complicate things.”

“Your contact will come by boat?”

“Yes,” she said. “The second-story window faces the sea. I put a red card in the window. At night, I flash a beam of light and look for a beam in return. One flash and we go. Two and we wait another day.”

“How does he get to us?”

“He does not,” she said. “It is too risky to come to shore, especially if the coast guard is patrolling the coast line. We must go to him.”

“You have a boat?” Jenkins asked.

Anna stood from the couch. “Come.”

Jenkins followed her into a room at the back of the kitchen and saw two large storage boxes. Anna bent and opened one of the boxes, revealing diving equipment.





25



The helicopter touched down in a red circle in the center of a high school’s green Astroturf soccer field. Federov and Simon Alekseyov ducked as they departed the bird, the wind from the spinning blades causing Federov’s suit jacket and coat to flap as they crossed the turf to an awaiting police officer. Students stood outside the school buildings, watching with their hands raised against the wind, observing this unusual break in their routine.

“Colonel Federov?” The police officer shouted over the thumping blades and extended his free hand. His other hand held the police hat on top of his head.

Federov gave the hand a perfunctory shake. He’d received a call that Paulina Ponomayova’s car had been located at a gas station in the town of Vishnevka, and he told Alekseyov to make arrangements to get them there as quickly as possible.

“I’m Chief of Police Timur Matveyev. Please,” Matveyev said, still shouting and gesturing to a waiting police car.

Matveyev removed his hat and put it on the car’s dash as he slid behind the wheel. Federov climbed into the passenger seat. Alekseyov sat in the back.

“I understand you’ve located the car,” Federov said as soon as he’d shut the door and muffled the thumping blades.

“Yes,” Matveyev said. “We believe so.”

“Where is it?” Federov asked.

“That’s the problem,” Matveyev said. He recounted what had happened to his young officer.

“My instructions were very simple and clear,” Federov said, seething. “The car was to be identified but not approached.”

“The officer is young and inexperienced,” Matveyev said. “It is a mistake.”

“It’s more than a mistake,” Federov said. “It could result in a breach of national security. You do not have the car?”

“No,” Matveyev said. “But it can’t be far.”

“You do not know its current location?”

“Not at this time,” Matveyev said, then rushed to add, “but we know that it was here, at the gas station, very recently.”

Federov suppressed his anger, knowing that it would do no good. He reached into his pocket and unfolded the map he’d brought with him. The M27 motorway ran along the coast from Novorossiysk to Russia’s border with Abkhazia, the region that Russia took from Georgia. A handful of roads intersected M27, leading into Russia’s interior, but Federov dismissed those, convinced Jenkins and the woman were attempting to flee the country, either southeast to Georgia, northwest to the Ukraine, or across the Black Sea. Federov did the math in his head, calculating the approximate distance to each border and the likely speed of the car. He spoke out loud. “If the car was in Vishnevka at approximately 8:30 this morning, then they’ve had little more than an hour to drive north or south. Given the terrain, the winding road, and this fog, that’s roughly forty to fifty kilometers in either direction,” he said to Alekseyov, who leaned forward, between the seats. “Get an alert issued to police departments in the towns along M27. I want to know if that car is spotted. Tell them to check traffic film as far back as an hour ago. And alert the border service that Jenkins may try to cross.” He turned to Matveyev. “Do you have traffic cameras?”