The Eighth Sister (Charles Jenkins #1)(60)

“The Russians must want you very badly,” Demir said from the wheel of the boat. “For them to alert the coast guard is a serious matter.”

“Who do you work for?” Jenkins asked. He began to feel his hands and his feet, but with that return of feeling came more of the stabbing needle pain.

“For myself,” Demir said.

“You’re not with Turkish intelligence?”

“I am a fisherman who works when called upon. My reasons for doing so are my reasons. I was told to find you and to bring you back to Turkey, to Istanbul. I do not care to know the details.”

“I’m grateful you came back,” Jenkins said. He pulled his hands from the brother’s grasp and flexed his fingers. They felt thick and swollen, but he slowly regained dexterity. Emir handed him the mug. He cradled the warmth in his hands, sipping at the hot and very thick Turkish coffee while Yusuf used sharp scissors to cut him out of the dry suit.

“Emir will take you to change into dry clothes, though that will be a challenge given your size—and to get you something to eat,” Demir Kaplan said. “He can also show you to a bunk to lie down and sleep. You must be very tired.”

Jenkins stood, his legs weak, and followed Emir to a narrow interior doorway. He stopped and looked back. “Thank you,” he said.

“Do not thank me yet,” Demir said. “It is a long way to Istanbul and I suspect the Russians will not give you up so easily.”





35



Viktor Federov stepped into the run-down beach house; the interior cold, the air musty and carrying a strong odor of mildew. His men had been going door-to-door, finding most of the beach homes empty and no sign anyone had been there. This one, too, was empty, but it had not been for long. Bags of groceries remained unpacked on the kitchen counter, a box of crackers open. Inside the bags Federov also found juice and bottled water, cheese, and chocolate bars. He grabbed the box of crackers from the counter and took it with him into the living room, eating them. The crackers tasted better than he anticipated, or maybe he was just that hungry. He could not even recall his last meal.

He considered the articles of men’s clothing strewn across the furniture. On the floor lay scuba equipment, though just one set—a buoyancy vest and a tank, full from the weight of it, a mask, fins, and a dry suit—a woman’s.

His men had rifled through the clothing but did not find any identification. Federov did not need any. He knew whom the clothes belonged to and who had intended to use the equipment.

Paulina Ponomayova had clearly given her life so that Jenkins could get away, and that raised further questions regarding the importance of this man and his mission. Federov wiped his fingers on his pants, handed the box of crackers to one of the other men, and spoke to Simon Alekseyov.

“A man scuba diving without propulsion can get approximately forty minutes of air from a full tank. Jenkins is a big man, so perhaps less, say thirty minutes—unless he is well trained, which we must now assume to be so. Calculate roughly three hundred to three hundred and fifty meters on a calm night such as this. Call the coast guard. Tell them we are looking for a diver. Give them the coordinates. Have them call me without delay if they encounter any boats in the area.”

Alekseyov pulled out his cell phone to make the call. Federov walked outside and crossed the yard. He could not see the beach, but he could see the blackened waters engulfed in fog. Minutes later, he turned to find Alekseyov hurrying across the yard with a look of purpose.

“The coast guard stopped a Turkish fishing boat roughly three hundred meters offshore. The captain of the vessel said he had been fishing when his nets became tangled, and his crew was working to free them. Colonel?”

Federov had looked back to the blackened horizon, thinking. There was no way a man could meet a ship in that fog, in the dark—even with coordinates. He would need a way to transmit his location to the boat, something small—like the kind used on buoys to alert captains to rock croppings, or other underwater perils. “Get the person you spoke with immediately on the phone. Tell him I want to speak to the officer of the coast guard vessel who boarded the fishing boat.”

Alekseyov dialed the number as Federov moved toward the water. Within a minute, Alekseyov handed Federov the phone.

“Yes. What is your name?” Federov asked.

On the other end of the call, the man said, “I am Captain Popov.”

“I understand you came upon a Turkish fishing vessel a short time ago?” Federov said.

“Yes, maybe an hour ago.”

“What was the ship doing here?”

“He said he had been fishing when his nets became tangled. He was working to free them. In the process he drifted into Russian waters.”

“This far?” Federov asked. “Did you search his ship?”

“Personally. His papers were in order.”

Federov didn’t give a damn about the boat’s papers. “How many men?”

“Three. A father and two sons.”

“You did not find anyone else?”

“No.”

Federov had his doubts as to how thoroughly Popov had searched the ship. Smuggling vessels were known to contain hiding places in which to conceal illicit drugs, weapons, and people.

“How did you locate this boat in this fog?”

“It appeared on radar.”