The Eighth Sister (Charles Jenkins #1)(83)

“Well, you failed.” She pulled up the covers. Jenkins handed her a glass of water and sat on the edge of the bed.

“I won’t push this, if that’s what you want,” he said. “I’ll let it go.”

She shook her head, speaking softly, fighting back tears. “I know you can’t,” she said. “And I know it’s the right thing to do, to try and save those women. I just wish it wasn’t you who had to do it. Promise me you’ll watch your back. I know you didn’t want to say it in front of David and Jake, but we both know someone went to great lengths to keep you from coming home, to silence you. If you start talking, that person, whoever he is, will have to respond.”





48



The following day, Jenkins drove from Three Tree Point to Sloane’s offices in the SoDo district, a term that had originally meant South of the Dome, before demolition of the Kingdome stadium. It now meant South of Downtown. Until the construction of billion-dollar baseball and football stadiums, the area had been primarily industrial. Paul Allen, the Microsoft billionaire, owned one of those stadiums and, sensing an opportunity, spurred redevelopment. Warehouses had been demolished or converted to office buildings, condominiums, nightclubs, restaurants, even distilleries. Sloane’s building, a converted warehouse, was one of those.

Jenkins met Sloane in the large conference room behind reception. He knew Sloane sought tangible evidence to support Jenkins’s story, to make it credible. Unfortunately, Jenkins did not have a lot to offer.

At noon, Carolyn walked in with a bag of sandwiches. Sloane’s secretary and Jenkins had always had a love-hate relationship. “Who gets the pastrami?” she said to Sloane. “You or the Jolly Green Giant?”

“That’s mine,” Sloane said.

Carolyn looked to Jenkins. “Turkey, plain. You really need to put some spice in your life.”

“I’ve had enough spice to last a lifetime,” Jenkins said.

“I got the Reader’s Digest version.” Carolyn paused. “Glad you made it back.”

“Was that a civil comment?” Jenkins looked to Sloane. “That was, wasn’t it?”

“Don’t get used to it,” Carolyn said.

After Carolyn left, Sloane said, “I thought a lot about what you said last night, about not being able to go to the CIA, and not being able to go public with what happened. I’ve got another thought.”

“Okay.” Jenkins set down his sandwich.

“What if we tell another federal agency about what happened, and let them do the investigation for us?”

“Who’d you have in mind?”

“I have a connection in the FBI’s office,” Sloane said. “He’s not a friend, but he respects me. What if you explain to him, without mentioning a specific operation by name, what happened? You could ask him to follow up with the CIA to confirm you were reactivated and to get further details. It would let the CIA know they either have a mole, or a leak selling classified information to Russia. Even allegations, I would think, would spur some type of investigation.”

Jenkins gave the idea some thought. It had merit. The FBI operated within the United States and would have jurisdiction. “Is he dogged?” Jenkins asked. “If I give him bits of information, will he work to verify what I tell him and try to find more?”

“I would think he would—if we give him a reason to. If we tell him the CIA has a mole, or a leak, I would think that would be reason enough,” Sloane said.

Jenkins considered his options, limited as they were. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s do it.”



Sloane made the call to Christopher Daugherty, at the FBI’s field office on Third Avenue in downtown Seattle. After reacquainting himself, he told Daugherty he had a client who wanted to talk. When Sloane mentioned the CIA, Daugherty said he’d be in Sloane’s office within the hour.

For the better part of the afternoon, Jenkins spoke cautiously to Daugherty about CJ Security’s relationship to LSR&C, the financial difficulties his company experienced because LSR&C had been late in making payments, and Carl Emerson’s timely visit to his Camano farm. He told Daugherty of his two trips to Russia without ever mentioning the seven sisters.

“I can’t mention the operation,” he said. “It’s still in play.”

He told Daugherty he’d met with Viktor Federov and, as authorized by Emerson, disclosed the name Alexei Sukurov and the name of the operation, Graystone. He said he later disclosed the name of the Russian nuclear scientist Uliana Artemyeva. Daugherty listened, asked few questions, but took notes—a good sign, Jenkins thought.

When Jenkins had finished, Daugherty rocked back in his chair. “Let me see if I understand this. You received a fifty-thousand-dollar payment to disclose the information?”

“No. The fifty-thousand-dollar payment was part of my fee.”

“And you used that money to pay CJ Security’s debts and payroll.”

“Yes. To keep the business afloat until LSR&C could get caught up.”

“Did the Russians ever pay you?”

“No.”

“And this man . . .” Daugherty looked at his notes. “Carl Emerson. He was your station chief in Mexico City when you were a field operative?”