The Eighth Sister (Charles Jenkins #1)(62)

Demir sighed. “When I was a young man I had a naval career before coming to work for my father. The fishing was abundant. It was a good life. Now the fishing is not so good. I have seven grandchildren, an eighth on the way. We do what we must for our families.”

Jenkins nodded. “How long before we get to where we are going?”

“We will be in Turkish waters in an hour. We will be in port an hour after that.”

“If you don’t mind the company, I’d like to stay here, keep watch with you.”

“I do not mind,” Demir said.



Federov and Alekseyov boarded the Russian patrol boat from the inflatable. Popov greeted them on deck and wasted little time leading them up a staircase and inside the pilothouse.

“We have picked up something on the radar,” he said, moving to one of the console’s instruments.

“A ship?” Federov asked.

“No, much smaller. A buoy of some type, but not in a location one expects to find a buoy, nor at the frequency we would expect. This appears to be drifting.”

“How close is it from where you boarded the Turkish fishing boat?”

“Maybe half a mile, but given the direction it is drifting, it would have been very close to the fishing boat an hour ago. Do you wish to track it down or try to find the boat?”

“Track down what is transmitting. We will better know whether the boat is culpable or its presence was simply a coincidence. I do not wish to embark on another wild goose chase. If the boat captain proves culpable you can find him?”

“We can find him,” Popov said. “And we will run him down.”

“Good,” Federov said. “Because I would hate to tell your superiors that you allowed him to get away.”

Popov visibly blanched. His cheeks colored a splotchy red. “Yes, Colonel.” He gave the order to lock on to and locate the buoy.

Twenty minutes later, Popov, Federov, and Alekseyov stood on the ship’s deck along with half a dozen seamen. Beams of light crisscrossed the surface of the fog-shrouded water.

“There,” one of the men said, pointing. “There.”

Federov, Popov, and Alekseyov stepped closer to the deck railing. The seaman dropped a grappling hook over the side, snagged a cylindrical red tube with a flashing light, and slowly dragged it out of the water and onto the deck.

“It is a transponder,” Popov said. “It’s used—”

“I know what it is used for,” Federov said. “And what it was used for in this instance. You said you could find the fishing trawler?”

“Yes.”

“Do so.”



In the pilothouse of the fishing boat, Jenkins handed Demir Kaplan a cup of coffee. “Six sugars?” Jenkins asked.

“I do not drink it for the taste,” Demir said. He sipped at the rim and set the cup in a rack to prevent it from tipping over.

“I noticed the boat is named Esma. What does that mean?”

“Esma is my wife, and she has been my wife for forty years. She used to say that I loved the sea more than I loved her, so when I inherited the boat . . .” Kaplan shrugged. “Now I say, ‘I am with you, Esma, even when I am at sea.’ With Allah’s grace we will have many more years together, many more grandchildren.” He looked at his instrument panel. “Not far now from Turkish waters. Twenty minutes.”

“You’re almost home,” Jenkins said.

Demir looked at him and sighed. “But you are a long way from being home, I fear. The FSB has many assets in Turkey, and there are many people who will give you up for very little lira. You are an easy man to remember. You will need to be careful.”

Jenkins heard a beeping noise from the console. Demir turned to the ship’s radar, his eyes studying the glowing green light. “Call my sons,” he said.

“What is it?”

“I do not know. But it is tracking our same coordinates.”

“How close is it?”

“Not far. And moving fast. Too fast for us to make the strait.” Demir pushed down on the throttle and Jenkins felt the boat lurch forward with the increased speed.

“Can you outrun it to Turkish waters?”

“If it is a Russian patrol boat, Turkish waters will not save you. The Russians do not respect territorial waters when they want something, and it appears they want you very much.”

“How would they know?”

“I do not know. Perhaps they found your transponder. We had no choice but to leave it, and now they know why we were there in the first place. Go. Call my sons. If we are smart, we can deceive them. Tonight the fog is a blessing from Allah.”



With Federov’s urging, the Russian patrol boat made good time and had been tracking the Turkish fishing vessel, the Esma, for almost half an hour. The fishing vessel moved at a strong clip and was not changing course. The Esma was taking the shortest and most direct route back to Turkey.

“It has increased speed,” Popov said to Federov. “They know we are coming. The captain is trying to make the Bosphorus strait.”

“That cannot happen,” Federov said.

“He cannot outrun us. We will intercept him in minutes.” Popov paused. Then he said, “We will be in Turkish waters, Colonel.”

Federov ignored the statement. “I want that boat stopped and searched. If it comes down to it, we will say it invaded Russian territorial waters and is smuggling cargo.”