The Eighth Sister (Charles Jenkins #1)(69)

Federov’s heart pounded. “Did you see him leave the hotel?”

“I did not. He looked exhausted. I assume he is sleeping.”

“What room?” Federov said.

The man looked again to Alekseyov and placed the brochure on the counter. Federov placed his hand over the brochure before Alekseyov could pick it up, and glared at the clerk. The man got the message. He turned to his computer and quickly typed. Then he picked up a pen and wrote “312” on the back of Jenkins’s photograph.

“I have lost the key to my room and will need another,” Federov said.

The man slid a room key into a machine to activate it, then handed the key, and the photograph inside the brochure, to Federov.

Federov walked to the elevator bank just behind the counter and deposited the brochure in a garbage can. They stepped on board the elevator. When it stopped on the third floor, he nodded for Alekseyov to step off, then he switched off the elevator before he also stepped into the hall. He removed his gun and pressed it against his thigh. Alekseyov mimicked him. The two walked down the hall, considering room numbers on doors. Room 312 was on the left side of the hall, which meant the windows faced the street. Federov hoped Jenkins had not seen them entering, but if he had, and if he had attempted to flee, the other men would know it. He and Alekseyov took up positions on each side of the door, guns now raised.

Federov removed the key from his pocket and slid it through the lock mechanism. The light flashed green. He pressed down on the handle, pushed the door open, and entered quickly, gun in front of him.





39



David Sloane paced the hardwood floor behind his family room couch and shook his head. He repeated himself, one arm raised as if to say, Speak to the hand. “No. No way.”

Music filtered through the room from speakers in the ceiling—loud enough to drown out their voices, in case anyone was listening, but not so loud as to wake CJ, who was sleeping upstairs. Sloane had also lowered the blinds.

He talked to Jake, who stood on the throw rug between the two white leather couches, imploring Sloane to listen to reason.

“Alex can’t go, Dad.” Alex sat on a couch. She looked tired and forlorn. “She’s on bed rest.”

“I’ll go,” Sloane said. “I can go.”

“You can’t go, especially not now,” Jake said. “If Alex was followed here, or to the office, they already know who you are. It would take someone about ten seconds to look up who owns this house, if they haven’t already. Besides, you’re not exactly anonymous, given your career, and Charlie worked for you. If you go, they’ll follow you. They wouldn’t even have to follow you. They’d just look for your name and determine where you were flying and on what airline and what flight.”

“You can’t go, Jake. No. No.”

“I’m twenty-three years old. I’m not a kid. I can handle myself, and I can handle this.”

Sloane continued to shake his head. “Not this you can’t. These people are professionals.”

Alex spoke. “Your father is right, Jake. It’s too dangerous.”

Jake shook his head. “It’s dangerous for anyone, but it’s the least dangerous for me. They aren’t going to expect me.” He turned to Sloane. “I have a different last name than you, and they won’t know it. You can buy a ticket to some other place, South America or Japan—be a decoy—and I’ll get a ticket under the name Jacob Carter.”

Alex turned to Sloane. “He actually makes sense.”

“I don’t care. He’s not going.”

“We can’t just leave Charlie,” Jake said. “We have to do something. I’m the only one—”

“I don’t intend to just leave him,” Sloane said. “And I’m not losing you the way that I lost . . .” Sloane caught himself and took a breath. After several seconds he continued. “If I can’t go, we’ll hire someone to go.”

“Then you put that person at risk. And you heard Charlie—his contact in Mexico City isn’t going to trust just anyone. We can’t even call to confirm he’s still there. Charlie said he doesn’t own a phone, and he would never acknowledge himself to someone over the phone. It has to be in person. If we send just anyone, and this guy, Uncle Frank, says no, the guy will leave. He has no stake in this beyond what you pay him.”

“Why would the guy in Mexico City, if he’s even still alive, trust you?” Sloane said.

“Because Charlie’s my godfather, and I’m young and na?ve and desperate, and I’m not going to take no for an answer.”

Sloane stopped pacing, pulled out a chair, and sat at the kitchen table. He had his hands folded, as if in prayer. After a moment he looked to Alex. “What about someone else who Charlie knows?”

“What are you going to tell them, Dad? That you need them to pick up a package and ‘Oh, by the way, someone might be trying to kill you’?” Jake said. “I’ll be careful. I’ll take a taxi from the airport and I’ll double back to make sure I’m not being followed before I go into the store.”

“And if you are being followed?”

“If I am then I will abort, and we’ll think of something else.”

“How do we stay in touch?”