The Eighth Sister (Charles Jenkins #1)(76)

Upon his early morning arrival in Chios, Charles Jenkins found an isolated hotel with a vacancy up the street from the beach where the fisherman had dropped him—away from the marina and shops, and close to the airport. To the left of the hotel he entered a vacant lot of scrub brush, removed the burka from his backpack, and pulled it on before walking into the hotel to secure a room.

Inside his room, he crashed for the first time in days and did not wake until nearly five in the afternoon. He called Alex, no longer cognizant of the time delay, and awoke her.

“You’re safe?” she asked.

“I’m safe.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m in a hotel in Chios, not far from the airport. Have you heard from Mexico City?”

“Your papers should be completed late this afternoon. Mexico City has a flight leaving at nine p.m. through Athens. It arrives in Chios at six p.m. the day after tomorrow, Greek time. What’s your situation?”

“I’ve left a trail of misinformation, and at present I’m not picking up any surveillance. I’m hoping they’ve come to the conclusion that I changed the travel plans I’d been given and that I’m already gone, but the Russian FSB agent is dogged and intuitive. He won’t give up easily.”

“And you don’t exactly blend in.”

“Maybe not in America, but I’ve been wearing a burka when in public. So far it seems to be working.”

“For how long, though? How many six-foot-five-inch women dressed in burkas in Greece?”

“Hopefully more than one. Have you heard from David?”

“He landed in Costa Rica a couple of hours ago and picked up a tail at a travel agency. Tomorrow afternoon he’s going back to the agency. Hopefully whoever is following will think he’s picked up your travel papers and is bringing them to you.”

“Where’s he flying to?”

“Cyprus.”

“Makes sense.”

“I thought so. If you had abandoned the fisherman’s plans in Bursa you would have taken a bus to the Turkish coast, then across the Mediterranean Sea to Cyprus and from Cyprus into Israel.”

“I hope he has frequent flier miles,” Jenkins said. He paused. He felt guilt for having lied to Alex and for worrying her. He knew the strain she was under. “How are you holding up?”

“I’m okay as long as I stay busy and keep my mind occupied.”

“I’m sorry, Alex. I’m sorry to be putting you through this. I—”

“Don’t start apologizing,” she said. “Just get home. We’ll all be waiting for you here.”

He knew she was projecting strength so he would also. Stay on mission. “I’m changing cell phones,” he said. “You have the second number?”

“I’m changing on my end as well. I’ll give Jake the new numbers when he calls.”

“I’m going to go out after dark and see if I can scout out a place where Jake and I can meet.”

This time she paused. He heard her voice catch. “Be careful, Charlie. Make sure Jake is careful.”

“He makes the drop and heads straight back. Hopefully I’ll be right behind him.”

“I love you, Charlie. Come home to me.”

“I will.”

He disconnected and walked to the window. At an angle he had a sliver of a view of the Aegean Sea, and across it to ?e?me. He wondered whether Federov stood there on the other side, perhaps at the marina, looking back across the strait, also wondering.



Federov disconnected the call and went to retrieve Alekseyov, who he had instructed to show Jenkins’s photograph around the marina in the unlikely event anyone had seen the American. As he reached the dock, he saw Alekseyov finishing a conversation with a man near a fuel pump.

“Nothing,” Alekseyov said when he reached Federov. “No one has seen him.”

“Because he’s not here in ?e?me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I just got off the phone with my contact in America. Mr. Jenkins’s likely carrier landed in San José, Costa Rica, and went to a travel agency just before it closed. Surveillance picked him up again when he exited the agency and walked to a nearby hotel.”

“Which would make it convenient to walk back in the morning and pick up papers,” Alekseyov said.

“Shortly after Mr. Sloane checked into his hotel he made travel arrangements to fly to Cyprus tomorrow afternoon.”

“Jenkins took a different bus in Bursa, as you suspected,” Alekseyov said.

“That would seem to be the logical conclusion. Alert our assets in Cyprus but tell them to forget the marinas. Mr. Jenkins would have arrived by now. Tell them to get eyes on the airport in Paphos where the carrier is arriving.”

“Jenkins could seek to cross to Israel by boat,” Alekseyov said.

“Which is why we need to end this in Cyprus.”

As they made their way back toward the street, Federov noticed the man at the fuel pump talking to a second man dressed in shorts, flip-flops, and a fleece jacket—a boat owner perhaps. The man at the pump pointed to Federov and Alekseyov, and Federov deduced he was telling the boat owner of his interaction with Alekseyov.

Federov stopped.

“Something wrong?” Alekseyov asked.