The Eighth Sister (Charles Jenkins #1)(77)

Federov realized he had just made a deduction about the two men based upon unconfirmed information, which was exactly what he was doing with respect to Charles Jenkins. He’d deduced, based on Jenkins’s excursion to Bursa, and the lack of any sighting of him by any of the bus drivers arriving in ?e?me, that Jenkins had abandoned plans to get to ?e?me and to get across the Aegean Sea to Greece. If Federov was on the run, he, too, would create just as much uncertainty by putting out as much misinformation as he could about his intentions.

“The two men talking down at the dock, did you speak to both men, or just the one?”

“I didn’t see the other man.”

“They appear to know one another.”

“What does it matter?”

“The information regarding the carrier has been made readily available to us, hasn’t it?” Federov asked.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that this carrier”—he pulled out a notepad—“has used his own name to purchase his tickets, and to make a hotel reservation. Much the way Charles Jenkins made his intentions regarding the hotel in Bursa easy for us to follow.”

“You think it is to focus our attention on the wrong place again.”

“Or the wrong man. If you were seeking to escape, and you knew we would learn of your travel plans from the fishermen, what would you do?”

“I’d change the plans,” Alekseyov said.

Federov smiled. “No, you would make us believe you changed the plans. Then when we learned of your supposed new plans, we would think we had outsmarted you, but maybe in so doing, you outsmarted us.”

“You think Charles Jenkins could be here in ?e?me? But no one has seen him. He was not on any of the buses. We’ve asked the drivers here and at stops along the way.”

Federov looked again to the two men at the end of the pier. The one Alekseyov had not spoken with was making his way back to a boat. If Jenkins was in ?e?me, and he was seeking passage to Chios, he would come to the marina to hire a boat, or to find out where he could do so.

Federov started walking down the pier toward the man.

“Colonel?” Alekseyov said.

“Do not call anyone . . . yet.”

Fifteen minutes later, Federov hurried up the marina’s dock. “Jenkins is here,” he said to Alekseyov. “Tell our assets to concentrate on Chios. Tell them I want the travel itineraries of any passengers flying from Seattle, Washington, to Athens and . . . No.” He stopped. “Tell them I want the identities of any passengers flying to Chios from the United States, or flying under an American passport. Provide every agent with Mr. Jenkins’s photograph. I suspect this has been intended to be, what do the American’s say . . . a false trail? Whatever. I do not intend to fall for it again.”





46



Exhausted, bleary-eyed from a lack of sleep, and sick to his stomach, Jake looked out the window as his flight approached the kidney-shaped island of Chios. The landmass rose from the Aegean Sea’s crystal-blue waters to a ridge of lush vegetation. Houses with red tile roofs descended down from that ridge to hotels and shops along the shoreline, where the water was tinted a neon green, and gentle waves lapped against a sandy coastline. The view reminded Jake of the trips he’d taken to Hawaii with David and his mother, back when she’d been alive. It looked like paradise, and under other conditions it might very well have been.

But not for him. Not this trip.

Across the sea, which he assumed Charlie had now crossed, Jake could see Turkey. No one had told Jake any of the specifics of Charlie’s efforts to get out of Russia or Turkey, and he knew that had been purposeful. He also knew why. If caught and interrogated, Jake could not tell those questioning him anything of substance. How long it would take such men to reach that conclusion, however, and what they might do to ensure Jake told the truth, was both sobering and frightening.

Jake had spoken to Charlie before getting on the plane in Athens—by way of Frankfurt, Germany. Charlie told Jake to deplane as if he were a college student visiting the island as a tourist. When entering the terminal, Jake was not to look for him. When satisfied Jake was not being followed, Charlie would contact Jake and tell him where to go and what to do.

In keeping with the tourist theme, Jake wore shorts, Teva sandals, and his jacket over a T-shirt, though the January temperature in Chios wasn’t exactly balmy. Just before they landed, the pilot announced that daytime temperatures had reached an afternoon high that he calculated to be sixty-one degrees Fahrenheit. When the plane’s wheels touched down at just after 6:00 p.m., dusk had descended over the island. Jake grabbed his bag from the overhead compartment along with the wide-brimmed hat he’d bought in Mexico, and he tried to match the other passengers’ demeanor and enthusiasm as he walked down the stairs to the tarmac. He hoped it was convincing.



Viktor Federov waited inside the terminal building at Chios Island National Airport with three other FSB officers, including Simon Alekseyov. Each was stationed with a view of the airport’s two gates. They had stood in the same locations the day before, the same locations at which they would stand tomorrow, if necessary. The men dressed as locals awaiting arriving passengers—shorts or jeans, sandals, and lightweight shirts, with windbreakers to conceal their firearms. The tiny airport accommodated only eighteen to twenty arriving flights per day, all of them from larger airports within Greece.