The Eighth Sister (Charles Jenkins #1)(81)

“Charlie?” David Sloane said.

Jenkins looked at Sloane, uncertain how long he had checked out, but sensing from the concerned looks on the faces seated around the table that it hadn’t been for just a moment.

“You okay?” Sloane asked.

“Just tired,” he said.

Music emanated from the Echo on Sloane’s kitchen counter, a country-western station. Jenkins remained concerned someone could be using directional microphones to listen to their conversations. Since his return, he’d spent four two-hour shifts—the limit of his ability to concentrate—explaining what had led him to Russia, what had transpired there, and why he had ended up running for his life. Now they sought to determine what, if anything, they could do.

“Is there any way to get this information of a leak to the people who might be able to do something about it?” Sloane asked.

“It’s not going to be that simple,” Jenkins said. “A field officer knows that if an operation is aborted, he is supposed to disappear. He is never to try to contact his case officer.”

“Why not?” Sloane asked. He, too, looked tired. Dark bags sagged beneath his eyes, and gray strands now flecked his hair. He no longer had the boyish looks that had so easily charmed juries.

Jenkins started to speak, cleared his throat, and began again. “I was told by Carl Emerson that if the operation went sideways the agency would not publicly acknowledge it, that to do so would be to acknowledge that the seven sisters exist, and possibly put them in greater danger.”

“What about going to this guy Emerson?” Sloane said. “Can he be trusted?”

Jenkins blew out a breath. He’d given this question a lot of thought the past few days. “I don’t know. Things were certainly not as he represented, but someone could also have been using Emerson.” He looked to Alex. “He had a lot of contact with the KGB in Mexico City. We all did.”

“You think he could have turned back then?” Alex asked.

“I think anything is possible.”

“What do you mean, ‘turned’?” Jake said.

“Began to work for the KGB,” Jenkins said. “A double agent.” He sipped his coffee. He’d also had a lot of time to contemplate this possibility while on the run. “But I think it’s more likely that whoever it is—maybe Emerson, maybe someone above him—that person saw an opportunity to sell the names of the seven sisters and took it.” He looked at Alex. “I think that’s more likely than a Russian mole acting undetected within the CIA for years, maybe decades.”

“It’s happened before,” Alex said.

“It has,” Jenkins agreed.

“Why would a well-entrenched mole wait so many years to divulge the names?” Sloane asked.

“Emerson said the names of the seven sisters were known only to a select few at the agency,” Jenkins said. “This person might not have known the names until recently, or his circumstances might have changed.”

“But if a mole knew the names, why wouldn’t he give them all up at once?” Jake asked.

“Again,” Jenkins said, “he might not have known them all. Someone could have been feeding him the information one name at a time, which would make this a crime of opportunity—the person is selling the names individually to get the best price for each name. I’m just not certain who that person is—Emerson, someone above him. And I’m not sure how to discreetly find out. If I make the wrong choice I could be alerting the leak, and that could give the person further time to cover their tracks and flee.”

“And to come after you,” Alex said.

“Possibly,” he said, not elaborating on what they both knew—Jenkins was home, but not necessarily safe.

“Did you try calling Emerson?” Sloane asked.

Jenkins nodded. “The number he gave me is no longer in service.”

“He gave you the number or something with the number on it?” Sloane asked.

“Just a number on a business card. I’m assuming it’s a cell phone.”

“Do you still have that card?”

“Not on me.”

“Where is it?” Sloane sat up in his chair, clearly interested. “A card is tangible proof of contact, which could be important if Emerson was to deny your operation for some reason.”

“It’s in my home office,” Jenkins said. “But it’s just as likely the number will come back registered to some unknown person or unknown company.”

“What if we wait and see if Emerson calls?” Jake said. “Seems that if he contacts you, it would be an indication he isn’t the leak, wouldn’t it?”

“Maybe,” Jenkins said. “But it’s rare for a handler to call a case officer when a mission has gone sideways, so his keeping quiet isn’t indicative of guilt.”

“And if he is the leak, a phone call might be to protect himself—to find out how much Charlie knows or to throw him off,” Alex said.

“What about going to a reporter,” Jake said, “and forcing the CIA to search for the leak internally?”

Jenkins leaned his elbows on the table. “That raises an entirely different set of problems. First, you all had a tough time believing the story when I told it to you, and you know me. A reporter isn’t going to believe what I say just because I say it. He’ll want confirmation, and I don’t have any. An allegation won’t get me very far. Not if I can’t prove it.”