The Eighth Sister (Charles Jenkins #1)(79)

“You all right?” Jenkins asked.

“Yeah. I’m okay.” Jake started for the taxi stand.

“Do not take a taxi. Get a rental car. Take a right out of the parking lot and follow signs for GR-74. Stay on that road for thirty-five minutes. Don’t speed. The roads in Greece are dangerous and there are few streetlamps.”

“Seriously?” Jake said. “That’s what I’m supposed to be worried about? Because at the moment I would say the lack of streetlamps is the least of my problems.”

Jake heard Charlie laugh. Then he said, “I’ll call you when you get your car and provide you with further instructions. It’s good to hear your voice, Jake.”

“It’s good to hear yours also,” Jake said.



Federov considered his watch. They had waited outside the hotel for nearly an hour but no one had come. It might be another hour. It might not be until the morning. Tired and frustrated, he tossed the butt of a cigarette out the window and stepped from the car. The other officers, not expecting the sudden move, scrambled to catch up.

“What about waiting until he makes contact with Jenkins?” Alekseyov asked.

“If he has Mr. Jenkins’s travel papers I will convince him to tell us where he intends to meet him.”

“He might not be meeting Jenkins. It might just be a drop,” Alekseyov said.

“Then I will have someone Mr. Jenkins does not know make that drop.”

Federov shuffled up the steps to the second-floor landing and made his way to the second-to-last door on the right. Reaching it, he removed his weapon and knocked. When the young man pulled the door open, Federov did not wait for an invitation to enter. He shoved the man backward. The young man started to protest but Federov quickly covered his mouth with his hand and showed him his weapon. “Not a word. Do you understand?”

The young man nodded, his eyes wide.

“Check the luggage,” Federov said to the others.

They rifled through luggage and cut the lining of the young man’s suitcase. Federov lifted the man’s jacket, flicked open a switchblade, and cut the lining. “Search the room,” he said.

“What are you looking for?” the man asked. “Drugs? I don’t have any drugs.”

“Where are the travel papers?” Federov said.

The young man nodded to the dresser. “They’re on the dresser.”

Federov considered them. “Where are the travel papers you are delivering?”

“What?”

“Do not play games. I am in no mood.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Federov stepped closer. “Do not lie to me. I am tired of people lying to me.”

“I’m not lying. Please. I don’t know what you’re looking for.”

Federov looked down at the wet spot forming on the front of the man’s pants. He swore, then nodded for the others to exit. Before leaving the room, Federov said, “We’re going to be watching you very closely. If you tell anyone about this, or attempt to go to the police, we will come back. Do you understand?”

The man nodded.

Federov stepped outside and shut the door. A foreboding feeling enveloped him as he looked out across the blackened waters to the lights of ?e?me. It was possible Mr. Jenkins’s courier had not yet arrived in Chios. He could come tomorrow or the next day or the day after that. Or he could have already arrived and Mr. Jenkins was already well on his way home. Federov also knew the courier could be a man or a woman, young or old, and flying under a United States passport or one from anywhere around the world. His contact had underestimated Charles Jenkins’s skills. So had Federov. His contact could make all the threats he wanted, but they weren’t going to keep Charles Jenkins from getting home.

And then he would no longer be Federov’s problem.

He smiled at that thought, at least, and let out a small chuckle.

“Colonel?” Alekseyov said, looking confused.

“Make arrangements for our return to Moscow tomorrow morning,” Federov said.

“We’re not going to watch the airport tomorrow?” Alekseyov said.

Federov shook his head. “No. Tonight we will go out and have dinner. We will drink vodka and we will toast to Mr. Jenkins. He is no longer our problem.”



Jake approached the painted city of Pyrgi, as Charlie had instructed. Though it was night, the city would have been hard to miss. Black-and-white geometric shapes adorned the exterior walls of nearly every building. The narrow streets and alleys would not accommodate a car, and Jake recalled from a history class that many medieval towns were built this way to defend against attacks. He parked outside the city, grabbed his backpack, and headed for the narrow streets. Despite the brisk temperature, a fair number of people walked the streets and alleys beneath stone arches, and men sat at tables playing backgammon while women crocheted, their voices mixing with Greek music spilling from open doorways.

As Jake passed beneath one of the stone archways, the phone in his pocket vibrated.

“Continue walking into the town square,” Jenkins said when Jake answered it. “Look across it to the north side. Do you see the restaurant with an unopened red table umbrella near the front door?”

Jake looked across a plaza littered with several dozen unoccupied tables and closed beige umbrellas. He saw the red umbrella. “I see it.”