The Eighth Sister (Charles Jenkins #1)(74)

Jenkins nodded and smiled. Then he took out his phone and found the translation he was looking for. “Karim,” he said. My wife.

Initially, the man looked taken aback. Then he grinned and waved Jenkins aboard. “Belki de seninle gitmeliyim,” he said. Maybe I should go with you.





43



Viktor Federov stood outside the central bus stop in ?e?me, waiting for the next round of buses to arrive. After the debacle in Bursa, Federov had contemplated two possibilities—that the fishermen had lied to him about Jenkins’s intention to take a bus to the Turkish coast and attempt to flee to Greece, or, Jenkins, knowing Federov remained in close pursuit, had supplanted those plans with new ones.

Federov dismissed the first possibility as highly unlikely. The fishermen had been paid a price to transport Jenkins across the Black Sea. They owed him nothing more, certainly not their lives or the lives of those they loved. Second, their story made the most sense. The shortest distance out of Turkey was through Greece, where there existed dozens of islands Jenkins could hide on before flying out or taking a ship. That analysis left the latter possibility, that Jenkins, aware that Federov was in pursuit, had changed his plans when he arrived in Bursa, or he wanted Federov to believe he had. In hindsight, Jenkins’s cab ride to the hotel had been purposefully easy to trace—Jenkins having spoken English and leaving a large tip to make him memorable. He had clearly intended to lure Federov and his men to that hotel. Jenkins could have then slipped out of Bursa on a bus headed in any of a number of directions. And if that was the case, he could be nearly anywhere by now.

Or . . . that could be precisely what Jenkins wanted Federov to believe, which improved his chances of escaping through ?e?me, as originally planned.

The latter possibility was one of the reasons Federov sat at the bus terminal waiting for the next round of buses to arrive—so he and Alekseyov could ask each driver if he recalled the large American. So far, none had. The other reason was equally as practical. What else was Federov to do? If Jenkins had taken an alternative route out of Turkey, Federov could do little until Jenkins’s passport triggered a notice, an asset saw and recognized him, or they learned more about Jenkins’s attempts to contact friends in the United States to obtain travel documents.

Alekseyov stepped off the last bus and approached Federov in the courtyard. He’d ditched his suit and dressed as a Turkish tourist in shorts, a colorful shirt, black socks above tennis shoes, and sunglasses. Federov wore slacks, a blue polo shirt, and sandals.

“Nyet,” Alekseyov said, shaking his head. “It appears Mr. Jenkins did not come to ?e?me.”

“You may be right,” Federov said. He had called his contact in the United States, who said it was possible Jenkins was attempting to get travel documents from a source who had boarded a plane to Costa Rica. They were monitoring the man’s movements.

Federov turned and peered at the blue-green water of the Aegean Sea and at the boats in the marina’s slips, just one of many marinas tucked within the coves and the spits of irregular-shaped land masses of the popular Turkish town. And that did not even account for the many pleasure boats, or the fishermen who could drop anchor in the shallow, calm waters and come into ?e?me for just the day. Jenkins had any number of people he could bribe if he had come to ?e?me for a ride to Greece.

“What should we do?” Alekseyov asked.

Federov took out a roll of Tums and popped two in his mouth, cringing at the chalky taste. “When do the next buses arrive?”

“Not until after five o’clock.”

Federov looked at his watch, then at the red tile roofs of the buildings on what had become a gorgeous day of sunshine and pleasant temperatures. There was little more they could do. “We’ll eat before the next round of buses. It will give me time to call in and determine if anyone has any further information.”





44



Jake pushed open the glass door to Antigüedades y tesoros and stepped inside, carrying the white cup of coffee and a bag with two pastries. He crossed the wood-plank floor to the counter where earlier the man had sat cleaning the piece of silver. The pot sat on a tray, along with the red rag and the lingering chemical smell. Behind the counter stood a woman no more than five feet tall with long, straight, black hair. She glanced at the coffee in Jake’s hand, and for a moment he thought she would tell him he could not drink or eat inside the store. Then she smiled.

Before Jake could ask about Carlos, the woman walked around the counter and crossed to the front of the store. She turned a sign in the window and locked the door with a click. Then she nodded for Jake to follow her, leading him through a maze of haphazard paths between dressers, tables, bed frames, armoires, and stacks of magazines. She opened a door at the back of the store and stepped to the side. Jake looked down a steep staircase that descended to a dull yellow light.

Jake pointed to the stairs. “Carlos aquí?”

The woman smiled and nodded but said nothing.

Jake descended slowly, unsure what to expect. The woman closed the door behind him. He stopped when he heard a click. “Not good,” he said. “Not good.”

The stairs shook and creaked beneath his weight. As he descended, machines on cobblestones came into view—several copiers, a printing press, and a machine that, he suspected from the clear plastic beside it, laminated cards.