The Eighth Sister (Charles Jenkins #1)(54)

Federov accelerated and braked into the next turn. When the road straightened he picked up speed, honking the horn and flashing his lights as he passed another vehicle. This continued for several miles, until Federov began to wonder if Jenkins and Ponomayova had evaded him, perhaps hiding out on a cross street. Just as he had that thought, however, he came around another bend and saw red taillights. Federov quickly closed the distance. The Hyundai drove well below the speed limit, smoke spewing from beneath its hood.

Finally, he’d caught a break.

Federov hit the accelerator and slammed into the back bumper. The Hyundai swerved, but the driver corrected. Federov steered to his right and tapped the rear bumper, a move favored by police. The Hyundai spun. This time the driver could not correct. The car slid across the center white line and the adjacent lane before it slammed into the trunk of a tree, coming to a violent and certain stop.

Federov hit his brakes and spun a U-turn. He parked ten meters back from the car, considering the windows for any movement. Seeing none, he removed his gun and got out, using the door as a shield. He took aim at the back window.

“Vyydite iz mashiny, podnyav ruki na golovu!” Get out of the car with your hands on top of your head.

There was no response. Smoke rose from the shattered engine.

Federov repeated the order.

Again, he got no response.

He raised up from behind the door and shuffle-stepped forward, finger on the trigger. He moved deliberately to the driver’s side and used his left hand to yank on the door handle. It opened with a metallic crunching noise. The woman, Ponomayova, lay draped over the steering wheel. Federov looked across the seat, then to the back of the car. He did not see Jenkins. Infuriated, Federov grabbed Ponomayova by the neck and yanked her backward. Blood streamed down her face from a cut on her forehead.

“Gde on?” he shouted. “Gde on?” Where is he?

Ponomayova’s eyes cleared momentarily and she smiled, her teeth red from the blood. “Ty opozdal. On davno ushel,” she said, voice a whisper. You’re too late. He is long gone.

Federov stuck the barrel of the gun to her temple. “Tell me where he is. Where did he go?”

She laughed and spit up more blood. “So very Russian of you to threaten to kill a dying woman,” she said, speaking through clenched teeth.

“Where is he?”

She smiled again, this one purposeful, and this time Federov saw the white capsule wedged between her teeth.

“For Ivan. May those of you who killed him rot in hell,” she said. She bit down on the capsule.





31



Jenkins swam into darkness, the blue glow of his compass his only spark of light. Tucked tightly in his dry suit, the mask pressed to his face, he fought against his claustrophobia and anxiety, and focused on that light and his struggle to keep the degree heading aligned with the lubber line. Whenever he lost focus, or found himself starting to panic, he thought of Paulina, knowing she had given her life for him to have this opportunity, one he would not waste.

Let me do this, for Paulina, for Alex and CJ and my unborn child.

He told himself to relax and to kick in long, languid strokes, not to exert himself or breathe too deeply. Paulina said the swim would take roughly thirty minutes. He checked the dive watch frequently. He’d been swimming for nearly half that time. When he wasn’t watching the compass, he looked up to search for a light in the water, not seeing one. Miss that light, and he knew he would not have enough air to get back to shore and, even if he did make it back, somehow, he would have nowhere to go.

He checked his depth gauge. In the darkness, it was difficult to read, but he saw enough to know that he remained three meters below the surface, just deep enough that he could see the distinction in the color of the water. He propelled himself forward. Though Paulina had told him the Black Sea did not have any appreciable current, he felt a pull, and he had to fight against it to maintain his course.

Another ten minutes of kicking and he sensed he was getting close, but to what? He did not see a light. He checked his submersible pressure gauge, thankful that the equipment was American made and he could at least understand what he was reading. The SPG had started at four hundred pounds per square inch. It was now down to 100 psi. When the gauge reached 50 psi, his remaining compressed air would be in the red, the tank close to empty.

He swam another three minutes and checked the compass. He was in position. He looked for a light, didn’t see one. He checked his watch: 6:35 p.m.

He was on time. He was in position.

The boat, however, wasn’t there.



Federov pulled out his cell phone as he rushed back to his car and called Alekseyov. Ponomayova and Jenkins had split up. Her sacrifice had clearly been to lead Federov and his team away from Jenkins. With M4 being watched, he doubted Jenkins would try to get to the border. That left the water.

“Jenkins is heading to the water,” he said when Alekseyov answered. “Get a car and get to the water. Look for a boat and any vessel anchored offshore. And call the coast guard. Tell them to intercept any ship in Russia’s territorial waters.”

He disconnected, considering Paulina Ponomayova and what she had said to him. He had studied her dossier. He knew “Ivan” had been Ponomayova’s brother, and that he had committed suicide by jumping from the roof of the Bolshoi Theatre. Ponomayova’s comment indicated she held the Russian state responsible for her brother’s death. Her anger had likely been the reason for her treason and also the likely reason she had done what she had done, directing their attention away from Jenkins so that he might slip away. Whatever the extent of her betrayal, she must have seen this moment as a fitting ending.