The Eighth Sister (Charles Jenkins #1)(6)

“Unfortunately, pulling them out might expose them, and recent events in Britain have proven that pulling them would not protect them from Putin’s wrath. We’d also lose a link to vital information at a time when we cannot afford to do so. Putin has never hidden his nostalgia for the Soviet Union. He restored lyrics chosen by Stalin to the Russian national anthem, marshaled Soviet-style military parades in Moscow, and restarted a national fitness program Stalin first began in 1931.”

“Maybe he thinks he’s Jack LaLanne.”

Emerson smiled, but it waned. “With his intervention in Ukraine and his annexation of Crimea, not to mention Russia’s role in Syria, in the 2016 election, and the nerve agent attack in Britain, the days of the Soviet Union seem to once again be upon us.”

Jenkins stood and paced. “I walked away decades ago and did so for a reason.”

“Which is what makes you an asset now. What happened in the past was a mistake, Charlie.”

Jenkins could still see the Mexican village, men and women lying dead on the ground, and the attack based on reports he had filed. “A mistake? That’s an interesting way to describe it.”

“The attack was based in part on your intelligence.”

He grew angry. “And I’ve had to live with that. That’s been my punishment.” Jenkins checked his emotions. He’d buried the past. He’d never forgotten it. “I don’t have any desire to get involved again. I have a wife and a child, and a second on the way. Find someone else.”

“There is no one who has your unique skill set who could be quickly activated and believed.”

“I could go into Russia a dozen times and come up empty, Carl. What makes you think I would have any more success finding this eighth sister than anyone else?”

“The moment you discussed the seven sisters, you wouldn’t have to find the eighth sister. She would find you.”

Jenkins had loved that life in Mexico City. The job had given him a sense of purpose, a team intent on doing something important. He’d loved the games he’d played with the KGB officers, and he’d been good at it, better than good. His career had been fast-tracked, before the slaughter in the Oaxacan village changed his perspective.

“I’m not that guy anymore, Carl.”

Emerson stood, reached into his suit coat, and pulled out a small business card. “My number, in case you change your mind.”

Jenkins didn’t reach for it. “I won’t.”

Emerson placed the card on the mantel and walked from the room.

Jenkins did not follow.

After Emerson had left, Jenkins crossed to the mantel and picked up the card, considering the number. He carried the card with him to the plate glass window, and stared out at what had once been a productive dairy, but which had been left to go fallow, despite its potential.





3



It had been a week since Jenkins’s deadline to LSR&C, and despite Randy Traeger’s assurances the company would come current on CJ Security’s outstanding bills, LSR&C had made a payment of just $10,000. It had not been enough to make full payroll. Jenkins had security contractors threatening to quit, and vendors and creditors discussing legal actions. Worse, because of a personal guarantee Jenkins had to sign to obtain his business loan, his own assets were also at risk. He stood to lose everything, including the family farm, if the bank called in the loan.

He’d told Alex that LSR&C had made a payment and had promised another, but she knew the severity of their situation.

Jenkins paced his home office. He’d been unable to reach Traeger for two days, and he was quickly running out of options. Even if he sued and won, payment would take months, maybe years, if there was anything to recover. By then he would have lost everything. He’d be bankrupt and homeless with a wife and two children. For the third time that morning, Jenkins opened his desk drawer and took out the card Carl Emerson had left on his mantel, flipping it between his fingers. There was no business identified, no name or title, no address, just a ten-digit number.



At noon, Jenkins walked the cobblestone street of the Pike Place Market, hearing fish hawkers call out and hungry seagulls caw. Many of the restaurants and shops had already been decorated for Christmas, though Thanksgiving was still a few days away.

Radiator Whiskey, a restaurant inside the two-story building at the mouth of the market, had an open floor plan. Ductwork, exhaust fans, and light fixtures hung between wood beams. Pots and pans dangled from a center rack over a noisy kitchen, and bottles of whiskey and aged wooden barrels lined a back wall. The space was flooded with natural light, streaming in through the multipane arched windows, which looked out at the iconic, red Public Market Center neon sign and clock.

Carl Emerson sat at a table near the window. A chalkboard displaying a handwritten daily menu hung on the wall.

“How’d you find this place?” Jenkins removed his black leather coat and draped it over the back of a chair.

“A friend recommended it,” Emerson said. “She said it had a retro feel and good food.” A waitress approached the table. “Can I get you a drink?” Emerson asked.

Emerson had a glass of Scotch over ice. His choice in alcohol hadn’t changed.

“Just water,” Jenkins said.

The waitress departed. “I’m told the pork shank is excellent,” Emerson said, handing Jenkins the menu.