The Eighth Sister (Charles Jenkins #1)(73)

“Now what?” he said to his reflection.

He checked his watch, which was still set to Seattle time. It was seven thirty in the morning. He’d call Alex and tell her they needed another option. He pulled open the door and walked back into the café. The woman stood behind the counter looking at him with an odd expression. As Jake neared his table he noted only one pastry on his plate and no coffee.

He looked to the woman, using hand gestures. “?Dónde está?” he said. “Café. Dos.”

The woman pointed to the door. “El hombre lo tomó.”

“El hombre?”

“Sí. Carlos.”

Jake looked to the door and felt an adrenaline rush. Had he been followed after all? “Carlos? Quién es Carlos?”

She pointed to the door, smiling. “Carlos. Antigüedades y tesoros.”

His mind churned. “Habló . . . anything? Carlos habló?”

“Sí. Dijo que no le gusta el whisky tan temprano en la ma?ana, pero que le encantaría una taza de café.”

Jake didn’t understand. He took out his phone and opened a Spanish-to-English translation app he’d downloaded before leaving Seattle. “Repetir?” He held his phone out to the woman, and she repeated what she had said into his phone. The app translated to English. “He doesn’t like Scotch this early, but he would love coffee and a pastry.” Jake looked to the woman and she again pointed to the door. “Antigüedades y tesoros.”

“Gracias, se?orita. Gracias.” Jake gathered his backpack.

“Se?or.” The woman stepped out from behind the counter holding a coffee cup to go and a white bag. “Dos.”





42



Jenkins rose at four thirty the following morning after another long night with only a couple of hours of fitful sleep. He’d found a hotel room on a hillside above the second marina and headed out the door, hoping people in ?e?me fished as early as people in the United States.

The morning air felt not far above freezing, and he put his hands in his pockets as he walked. Along the coastlines of both ?e?me and Chios, lights sparkled in homes and hotels. Jenkins watched the flashing red lights of an airplane as it approached the Chios airport along the water’s edge.

Jenkins found a gap between two buildings terraced above the coast that provided a view of the marina and the parking lot adjacent to it. He searched for signs of someone sitting in a car—the yellow burst of a struck match or a flicked cigarette lighter, the red ember of a cigarette tip, the luminous glow of a cell phone. He also searched the shadows around the marina, looking for anyone standing about and seemingly not having a purpose there. He saw no one.

Headlights approached on the road at the bottom of the hill. The car slowed and turned into the parking lot, stopping in front of garbage bins. A man got out, tossed his cigarette across the ground, and walked to the back of his car. He opened the trunk and unloaded what looked to be a cooler and other items Jenkins could not see from that distance. He closed the trunk and walked to the marina dock to one of the boat slips.

Jenkins hurried down the hill. As he approached the marina he kept his attention on the parked cars and the shadows, seeing no one. When he reached the marina’s dock he slowed his approach, not wanting to frighten the man, who had stepped inside a boat’s cabin. An African American man of Jenkins’s size could cause fear simply by his presence, at least in the United States. Jenkins waited until the man exited the cabin and made eye contact.

“Affedersiniz. Günaydin,” he said. Excuse me. Good morning. He had practiced these words during the hours in his hotel room.

“Günaydin,” the man responded, sounding cautious.

“Balik tutmak i?in ariyorum.” I am looking to go fishing. Jenkins removed lira from his pocket. “Lira?” he said.

The man was not small and he did not appear intimidated. He also did not look interested. He looked at the money, then again at Jenkins. Jenkins could tell the man was about to turn him down.

“Sakiz gezisi yapmak belki o zaman . . . ,” Jenkins said. Perhaps a ride to Chios then . . .

This, too, gave the man pause. He looked across the narrow channel. The lights on Chios seemed close enough to touch, no more than a twenty-minute ride. “Chios?”

“Yes,” Jenkins said. “Sadece bir gezinti.” Just a ride.

“Ne kadar?” the man said, rubbing his thumb and fingers together. How much?

A good sign, Jenkins thought. “Be? yüz ?imdi,” he said. Five hundred lira now. It should have been more than enough to make the deal, especially if the man was going out anyway. “Biz indi?imizde be? yüz daha,” Jenkins said, hoping to seal the deal. Five hundred more when we land.

The man looked again to the island, but distrust lingered in his eyes. “Kimi ka?iyorsun?”

Jenkins shook his head to indicate he didn’t understand what the man was asking. The man pointed to Jenkins, then used two fingers to indicate someone running. “Kimi ka?iyorsun?” he said again.

If Jenkins said he was running from Russians, he’d scare the man into rejecting his request.

Jenkins nodded. “Evet.”

“Kim?” the man said, and Jenkins deduced he was again asking who Jenkins was running from.