The Eighth Sister (Charles Jenkins #1)(71)

Outside, he slid behind temporary fencing for a development under construction and quickly pulled off the headdress and long black dress. The cool air against his perspiring skin felt refreshing. He rolled the clothes into a ball and tucked them into the backpack. Then he tugged the bright-red ball cap low on his head, slid on sunglasses, and made his way out from behind the fence, eventually returning to the marina.

He was immediately discouraged. Most of the vessels were not fishing boats, but pleasure yachts, and clearly owned by people wealthy enough to decline a bribe to take him to Chios, which he could see just across the Aegean Sea. He walked the pier, trying to look like a tourist admiring the impressive boats. He stopped when he saw a man dressed in shorts, despite the brisk temperature, hosing off the deck of a yacht. The man smiled as Jenkins neared, and he held the hose to the side so as not to spray him.

Jenkins asked the man if he spoke English. The man responded with a universal sign, two fingers an inch apart—a little. Jenkins asked if he spoke Russian. The man shook his head and gave an emphatic “No.”

“Espa?ol?” Jenkins asked.

A shrug. “Un poco.”

“Es este tu barco?” Is this your boat? Jenkins asked, pointing to the yacht.

The man laughed. “Ya me gustaría.” I wish. In broken Spanish and some English, he told Jenkins he worked at the marina—a good sign—and that the owners came mostly in the spring and summer.

“Espero ir a pescar ma?ana. ?Conoces algún barco que me pueda llevar?” I’m looking to go fishing tomorrow. Do you know of any boats that will take me?

“Here? No,” the man said in English.

It was as Jenkins suspected.

The man pointed north. “Por la calle.” Down the street.

“Por la calle?” Jenkins asked.

“Sí. Por la calle. Fishing.”

Jenkins looked in the direction of the man’s outstretched hand. Down the street, perhaps half a mile, he could see boats moored in a much smaller marina.

“Early,” the man said in accented English. He pointed at the sky. “Karanlik . . . dark.”

“Dark,” Jenkins repeated, then understood. “Sí. Ma?ana. Early. When it is still dark. Muchas gracias.”





41



Jake stepped from his plane into the terminal at Benito Juárez International Airport in Mexico City after a night without sleep. He was running on adrenaline. It had been forty-two degrees when he left Seattle. Early morning in Mexico City, the terminal already felt warm. Still, he didn’t dare take off his jacket. Alex had sewn a packet of documents into the lining. She’d also sewn $5,000 into the bottom of his backpack, which Jake would use if he could find the man Charlie referred to as “Uncle Frank.”

He followed terminal signs to immigration and customs, had his passport stamped, and located an exchange service. Alex said American dollars were widely accepted in Mexico City, but it would be less conspicuous if Jake used pesos. He then found a duty-free shop and purchased a bottle of Johnny Walker Blue Label Scotch, which Jenkins said had been Uncle Frank’s favorite drink. Given the price, it would be anyone’s favorite drink.

They had booked David on a fourteen-hour slog from Seattle to Costa Rica with a five-hour layover in Charlotte, North Carolina, hoping to give Jake a several-hour head start. At least that had been the plan.

Jake slung the backpack over his shoulder and, speaking a combination of broken English and even more broken Spanish, he hailed a brown-and-tan taxi outside the terminal. Alex had written down several key phrases and addresses. Having lived in Mexico City, she was familiar with its neighborhoods. Her intent was to send Jake from one side of the city to the other. In each instance, Jake was to walk the neighborhood using the techniques Alex had quickly taught him. She told him to window-shop, focusing on the reflections across the street to determine if he was being followed. She further told him that he should go into and out of stores frequently to determine if anyone paralleled his movements. After ten to fifteen minutes, he’d get into another cab, go to the next destination, and repeat the process.

He did this four times, seeing no one suspicious. At just before 9:00 a.m., he made his way to what the Internet confirmed to still be Antigüedades y tesoros in the historic center of Mexico City.

The area reminded Jake a bit of Seattle’s Pioneer Square, with low-level brick-and-stone buildings, retail stores, and mature trees in the sidewalks. Jake exited the cab across the street from a stone-and-brick building. With wrought-iron railing across second-floor balconies, it looked like a jail from the Old West. He walked across the street and confirmed the name inscribed on the glass door in antique script: Antigüedades y tesoros. Jake breathed his first sigh of relief. Still in business. Hopefully, Uncle Frank was also.

Rather than immediately enter, he strolled the sidewalk. He couldn’t window-shop. There were no store windows. The proprietors rolled up metal gates and set out fruits and vegetables in sidewalk stands. They hung T-shirts, hammocks, and other trinkets to attract tourists, then swept their sidewalks with odd-looking brooms while shouting to one another. At the end of the block Jake crossed the street, turned quickly down an alley, and doubled back around the block. No one appeared to be following him or paying him any attention.

He walked back up the far side of the street and entered Antigüedades y tesoros. A buzzer announced his entry. Alex had told Jake to be sure no one else came into the store after him—what she had described as an intended coincidence. No one did.