The Eighth Sister (Charles Jenkins #1)(66)

With the phones in the pocket of his coat, Jenkins hurried back to the bus station. Again, he didn’t immediately approach. He watched the people near the station, looking for anyone standing about, trying to look busy. Seeing no one suspicious, he approached the counter and repeated what Yusuf told him to say. The teller took his lira and issued him a ticket, then stood up, speaking Turkish and gesturing emphatically to a bus at the curb. Jenkins deduced from the man’s gesticulations that he had to hurry, and he took the ticket and ran across the street. He reached the bus just as it was about to leave. The driver opened the door, Jenkins stepped up, showed the man his ticket, and took a seat toward the rear of the bus.

He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting, but the bus was surprisingly modern—the interior temperature and the seats comfortable. Jenkins sat back, feeling fatigue settling into his joints. He put his head against the window and closed his eyes, hoping for even a few hours of precious sleep, though conscious of Yusuf’s instructions that he get on and off the bus frequently. Disinformation.



Yusuf stayed away from his home for as long as he dared—enough time, he hoped, for Charles Jenkins to be well on his way out of Istanbul. He returned to Rumeli Kava?i at just after noon, and wound his way along the road above the marina to one of the homes his father had built on the cliffs above the Bosphorus strait. His brother and his father lived in houses down the street. He parked the van, descended the stairs to the gated courtyard, and crossed to his front door. The gate slapped closed and clicked shut behind him.

Yusuf opened the front door but stopped advancing when he saw his wife seated in the living room, the plate-glass window behind her offering a spectacular view of the strait, though that was not the focus of his attention. His father and his brother also stood in the room, along with three men. Yusuf’s three children were, thankfully, at school.

“Ah,” one of the men said. “So good of you to join us, Yusuf. We’ve been awaiting your arrival.”

“Who are you?” Yusuf said. “And what do you want?”

The man smiled. “You know who we are.”

“I know you’re Russian.”

“Yes,” the man said. “We are the Russians who stopped your father’s ship in search of Mr. Jenkins. Mr. Jenkins has committed serious crimes in Russia, including the murder of Russian FSB officers.”

“I know nothing of his crimes,” Yusuf said.

“No?”

“No.”

“But you know where he is?”

Yusuf shook his head. “At the moment I do not.”

The man smiled but it had a tired quality to it. He pulled his gun from his holster and held it to Yusuf’s wife’s head. She cried. “Do you really want to do this?” the man asked.

“No,” Yusuf said. “I do not. But how can I tell you what I do not know?”

“Where did you take Mr. Jenkins?”

“That is a different question. I took him to the bus terminal in Taksim. He told me that is where he wished to go so I took him there.”

“And where is he going?”

Yusuf looked from Federov to his father and his brother. His father nodded.

“He said he intended to leave the country through Greece.”

“More specific, please.”

“I can only assume he is headed to the Turkish coast and will seek to get across the Aegean Sea. I do not know where he intends to go once he is there.”

“And did you help Mr. Jenkins obtain any travel papers to assist him in his efforts?”

“No. I swear. I just drove him to the bus station. That is the last I saw of him.”

The man nodded to the others and they made their way to the door. He lingered near a shelf and picked up a picture of Emir and his family, Yusuf and his family, and his father and his mother. Then he turned to Demir. “You have a beautiful family, Captain. In the future I believe it would be prudent if you were to spend more time with them.”



Jenkins’s head bumped against the bus window, awakening him. He quickly sat up, momentarily disoriented and confused. He looked around the bus, but others also appeared to be sleeping or not paying him any attention. He had no idea how long he had slept or how far they had driven. When the bus slowed and exited the road, Jenkins pulled out a map he’d picked up at the bus terminal from the inside pocket of his jacket and checked his watch to determine how long they had traveled. He ran a finger along the bus route, and concluded they were entering the city of Bursa. Signs soon confirmed his deduction.

The bus pulled into a terminal and stopped with the hiss of air brakes. The driver shouted in Turkish and the passengers made their way to the exits at the front and rear of the bus.

Jenkins stepped off with his eyes scanning the terminal. It appeared to be in the middle of a dirt lot. He made his way to where several taxi drivers stood outside beat-up cabs and approached the first driver in line. “Bursa?” he said.

The man responded in Turkish. Jenkins tried Russian but the man shook his head. Thinking for a moment, he spoke English, unfolded the map, and pointed to Bursa. The taxi driver smiled and nodded. Jenkins jumped into the back seat.

They drove for approximately fifteen minutes, into what Jenkins surmised from the congestion to be downtown Bursa. The man spoke from the front seat, undoubtedly asking Jenkins where he wanted to go. Jenkins saw signs atop buildings for several hotels and pointed to one of the hotels situated on a busy intersection congested with cars, buses, and retail stores. The driver stopped at the entrance. Jenkins checked the fare on the meter and paid the man a generous tip, one he would remember. Then Jenkins stepped out, dodged pedestrians, and went inside the Central Hotel.