The Eighth Sister (Charles Jenkins #1)(61)

“Did anything else appear on your radar?”

“No,” Popov said.

“Nothing?”

“No,” he said again. Then, after a pause, “I don’t think this is important, but when we boarded the Turkish ship its radar did pick up a signal.”

“What kind of signal?”

“A stationary green light. I inquired about it and the captain said it was the ship’s radar detecting our presence.”

Federov felt his knees weaken. “Could it have been a transponder, Captain?”

“I . . .” Popov began to answer, then caught himself.

It was a sufficient enough answer for Federov. The captain had not considered the possibility.

“Where are you now?”

“Still on patrol, in roughly the same area.”

“I want you to scan the entire range of your radar frequencies. Call me back and advise whether you get any other hits. Then return to Anapa and meet me there.”

Federov hung up the phone. “Get the helicopter ready. We’re going to Anapa.”

Alekseyov shook his head. “It is not possible, Colonel. The fog is too thick to fly.”

Federov cursed. “How long is the drive from here?”

“I do not know exactly, but at least several hours under good conditions. Tonight, it could be much longer.”

Several hours would put the Turkish fishing vessel close to Turkish waters, perhaps too late to intercept. Federov could not take that chance. He redialed the previous number. “Captain Popov, this is Colonel Federov. You said you remain close to Vishnevka?”

“Relatively, yes.”

“And you have an inflatable you used to board the fishing trawler, no?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Return to Vishnevka and send your inflatable to shore. Look for flashing lights. I’m coming aboard.”



With a change into dry clothes nearly large enough to accommodate him—he didn’t button the top two buttons of the shirt or his pants, which also stopped a couple inches above a pair of work boots—Jenkins was once again warm. After changing, Jenkins followed Yusuf to the ship’s galley. The Turkish coffee, so dark and thick a spoon almost stood upright, made his limbs buzz and placed him on full alert, despite not having slept much the past seventy-two hours. Food had helped to temper the effect of the coffee, and it had never tasted so good. They served him lamb with rice, scrambled eggs with onions and pepper, and bread. After they finished eating, Yusuf and Emir went to rest. They, too, had endured a stressful evening.

Jenkins walked back into the darkened pilothouse where Demir Kaplan stood watch. The lights of the console reflected under his bearded chin, casting his face in a blue-gray light. Demir looked like his sons, though he had the weathered skin of a man who’d spent his life at sea, or had seen too many tragedies. Deep depressions migrated like rivulets from the corners of his eyes. He stood with his shoulders hunched from too many years standing at the helm, and his chest and arms were thick from manual labor. He turned his head as Jenkins ducked through the interior doorway and stepped into the pilothouse. A space heater beneath the console warmed the room to a comfortable temperature.

“You should be sleeping,” Demir said. “Too much worry?”

“Too much coffee,” Jenkins said.

Demir grunted and said, “We Turks like our coffee as we like our women.”

“Black?” Jenkins said, smiling.

Demir glanced at him, his lips inching into a grin. “Thick and full of energy.”

Jenkins laughed. Then he stuck out his hand and said, “Thank you for coming back. You saved my life.”

“Do not make this personal, Mr. Jenkins. You are nothing more than cargo that I am transmitting to Turkey.”

“I understand. I just wanted to say it.”

Demir shook the hand. “You’re welcome.”

They traveled in silence, listening to the hum of the boat’s engine and feeling the bow rise and fall with each wave. After several minutes, Demir’s curiosity got the better of him. “Whoever you are, you must be very valuable to your country and very dangerous to the Russians.”

“I’m not so sure anymore,” Jenkins said. “Things have become much more complicated than I anticipated.”

“As they always do,” Demir said.

“The other two—they are your sons?”

“Yes, although both are better looking than me. They have their mother in them. Me, I have the sea in me.”

“They’re good men,” Jenkins said.

“Money can buy much, but it can’t buy blood. Not Kaplan blood. Do you have children, Mr. Jenkins?”

“A nine-year-old son,” Jenkins said. “And another baby on the way.”

Demir considered him while rubbing his beard. He nodded. “Good for you.”

“I got started late in life.”

“Because of your career?”

“For some time, yeah, that was the reason. Then I just never really had the chance.”

Demir glanced at him. “And now you have much to lose.”

“Too much.”

“Then why do you do it?”

“I had to support my family, and I thought I was serving my country. I’m no longer sure that is the case.”