The Eighth Sister (Charles Jenkins #1)(63)

“And if the boat will not heed our warnings?” Popov asked.

“Then you will sink it,” Federov said, “and take on board anyone who lives.”

The patrol boat quickly closed the distance. The radar image, despite the thick fog complicating satellite communications, projected clearly what was most certainly the Turkish fishing trawler.

“I am picking up other ships, closer to the Turkish shore,” Popov said.

“Turkey is filled with too many fishing boats,” Federov said. “Ignore them. Stay on the trawler.”

“I am going to try to hail him,” Popov said.

“No,” Federov said. “You will not.”

“The Esma has radar,” Popov said. “We are not a surprise to them.”

“Then there is no point hailing them,” Federov said.

“The boat is two hundred yards off our starboard side,” a technician said.

“Slow your speed,” Popov said, “but stay on course.”

Another minute and the fishing trawler appeared, shrouded in the gray mist, still running hard.

“I must hail it,” Popov said. “To not do so is to risk a collision.”

“Issue a warning shot across its bow,” Federov said without hesitation. He wanted the captain to understand the ramifications of his continued actions, that he was putting himself, his men, and his boat and livelihood at risk. Federov suspected the trawler captain to be nothing more than a well-paid courier who would feel no kinship to Jenkins. He had somehow fooled Popov, but he was not about to fool Federov.

Popov nodded to his men. The order given, a large echo exploded from a gun on the deck of the ship. Seconds later, Popov said, “It has slowed.”

Federov nodded. “Now that the captain knows you are serious, you may hail him and advise him to stop his engines immediately. Tell him we wish to board his vessel.”

Popov did as Federov instructed, and the fishing boat stopped. Federov pulled open the door and walked onto the deck. The temperature had warmed, though not much. He shoved his hands into his coat pockets as he descended the stairs and waited for the men to lower the Zodiac inflatable. When they had, he climbed down a ladder, along with Popov and two armed guards. Within seconds the skiff had crossed between the two vessels, and Federov was assisted onto the deck of the Esma by the captain and his son.

“You are the captain?” Federov spoke Russian to a stout man with a salt-and-pepper beard.

The captain looked at him as if confused, then looked to Popov, who repeated the question in Turkish.

“As I was several hours ago when you boarded my ship,” the captain said. “Did you think things would change?”

“Search the ship, thoroughly,” Federov said to the armed guards. Then he said, “For your sake, Captain, I hope things have not changed. I am Colonel Viktor Federov of the Russian Federal Security Service. Tell me, what were you doing in Russian waters?” Federov asked.

Again, Popov translated.

“I told the captain that our nets became tangled and we were working to untangle them.”

“And you drifted all that way? Nearly to the Russian shoreline? On a calm night such as this? I find that difficult to comprehend,” Federov said. Popov began to translate. “Enough,” Federov said, eyeing the captain. “This man has played you for a fool. He understands every word I am saying. He could not have fished the Black Sea for so long and not have learned Russian. He chooses not to acknowledge you.”

Federov turned to one of the guards. The man handed him the transponder. “What is even more perplexing is that this transponder was found and calculated to have been in the exact area that your vessel was initially boarded.”

“It is not mine,” the captain said, still speaking Turkish. “Though I thank you for retrieving it and being so determined to return it.”

Popov translated.

“You were following this transponder’s signal because it was leading you to your pickup.”

“I was not following anything,” the captain said, “and I do not pick up things out of the water unless they are fish.”

“Where is your other son?” Popov asked.

“What?” the captain said.

“Where is your other son? There were three on board. Where is he?”

Kaplan did not answer.

“Find the other man,” Federov said to the guards, then redirected his attention to the captain. “Do not play games with me, old man. My patience is waning and I am in no mood for your games.”

After almost ten minutes the two guards returned from searching the ship. Both shook their heads. “There is no one else on board.”

Federov continued to stare down the captain. “You will tell me where your son and Mr. Jenkins have gone, Captain, or I will order the patrol boat to sink your ship.”

Kaplan spoke Turkish. “I do not think that would be wise.”

“No?” Federov said, smiling at the man’s hubris.

“No. We are in Turkish waters and tensions between our two countries have been high since the war in Syria, when your Mr. Putin called us Turks terrorists.”

Federov looked to Popov, who translated. “Good point,” Federov said. “So, maybe we will not fire upon you, Captain. Maybe we will simply ram your boat and blame this damn fog. A tragic accident.”