The Eighth Sister (Charles Jenkins #1)(47)

“Some,” Matveyev said. “In town.”

“Take us to your office.”



Matveyev’s office was a double-wide trailer situated on a vacant lot at the edge of town. The police chief had obtained the videotape from the convenience store at Federov’s order, and the three men sat around an antiquated desk watching the tape on the computer monitor.

The footage quality was poor, grainy, and in black and white.

“Fast-forward,” Federov said to Matveyev. Matveyev did so. “Stop.”

They watched Jenkins exit the store and get back into the Hyundai. He drove away from the pump, made a U-turn, and drove across the street, stopping a second time. A woman walked out of the store carrying plastic bags and got into the car. Federov assumed it was Ponomayova, though he could not see details at that distance.

“I want any video footage from inside that store and I want to know what she purchased.”

Matveyev shouted at the young officer who had endured the humiliation of having been handcuffed to the bathroom toilet. The man had a split lip and a black eye and looked to be in considerable pain.

“Go!” Matveyev said. “Find out.”

“Play,” Federov said to Matveyev. The tape resumed.

With Ponomayova in the car, Jenkins again made a U-turn, but he did not drive toward M27. He drove east, toward the water. Federov checked his map. “There is a road here, along the water?” he asked.

“No,” Matveyev said, looking over his shoulder and running his finger along the map. “Those are train tracks. They follow the water’s edge to the gas-refining plant. This, here, is a walking path for pedestrians to access the beach.”

“How do the people who live in these homes access them?”

“There is a road.” Matveyev turned the map, studied it. “Your map does not show it, but the road follows the beach to this point, then turns left, providing access to these homes and eventually intersecting with M27, here. You see?”

Federov sat back, thinking. Jenkins did not know the area. He would have been following directions, likely provided by Ponomayova. If their intent had been to gain access to M27 and beat a hasty retreat, Jenkins could have driven north after picking up Ponomayova from the store. He hadn’t done that. In fact, he’d made a deliberate move not to do that. He’d made a U-turn and drove toward the beach. Federov put himself in Jenkins’s position. Jenkins had clearly deduced the police officer had identified the car. He would have also known, therefore, that it would be dangerous to continue driving. That meant he had either hidden the car and found another, or he and Ponomayova had no intention of leaving Vishnevka, at least not immediately, and remained in hiding somewhere close by, perhaps waiting for transportation. Jenkins, as a trained CIA officer, would also know Federov had access to satellites that could focus on this area and identify the car, though not with this current weather. Still, Jenkins would not take the risk of the car being again spotted. Fog or no fog, Jenkins would have hidden the car under cover.

“Find out if anyone has reported a stolen car within the last few hours,” Federov said to Matveyev. “I want to know of any such report immediately.”

Matveyev stepped to a nearby desk. Federov accessed the Internet and pulled up Google Earth. A few more strikes of the keyboard and he was looking at a picture of the Russian coast along the Black Sea. He pinpointed Vishnevka and zoomed in to better see the access road Matveyev had showed him, but which was not on his map. He saw how it turned to the left, away from the water, and continued past no more than twenty homes before intersecting the M27.

“These homes,” he said, speaking over his shoulder. “Is it safe for me to assume they are used primarily in the summer months?”

“Yes,” Matveyev said. “Though not every home.”

“I need to borrow your car,” he said.





26



Jenkins stared at the scuba equipment and immediately felt his anxiety level rise. He stepped away from the locker, suddenly short of breath. Fearing the onset of a full-blown panic attack, he hurried into the living room and grabbed his medications from his backpack, dry swallowing a propranolol.

“Are you all right?” Anna asked, entering the room.

Jenkins closed his eyes. Though it was cold in the house, he felt himself perspiring.

“Mr. Jenkins?”

“I just need a minute.”

She stepped closer. “You are not all right.”

“I’m fine. It’s a panic attack,” he said. “Anxiety.”

“About the scuba dive?”

He nodded. “I’m also a bit claustrophobic. Is there any other way to reach this ship?”

She shook her head. “He will already be violating international treaties by being in Russian waters. He cannot come to shore, and we have no boat to meet him. It is the only way. We cannot delay. As you said, the FSB will eventually find us.”

“What kind of cover does he have, to be out on the water? What will he tell the coast guard if they find him?”

“He is a commercial fisherman in Turkey. If he is stopped, he will tell them he must have drifted, that his GPS has been on the blinking . . . is not working.”

“How far out do we need to swim to meet him?”

“I will have to check the coordinates, but a minimum of three hundred meters.”