The Eighth Sister (Charles Jenkins #1)(90)

“Could that be what’s happening to you—the reason the CIA won’t even acknowledge you were reactivated?” Sloane asked.

“I don’t know,” Jenkins said. “I think what happened to me goes a lot deeper. But from a practical standpoint, the CIA disassociating itself from the officers of the company is a further indication it will not acknowledge me. It means I have no contacts at LSR&C other than the officers being indicted for fraud and corruption.”

“It also means that documents that could prove what you’re telling us are going to be very difficult to get. There wasn’t a scrap of paper in that entire office,” Sloane said.

“What I can’t yet figure out is why Daugherty didn’t just arrest me when I was in his office. Why would he let me walk out?”

“It could be the FBI wanted this news in the public domain to cast doubt on anything you have to say before you have the chance to say it,” Sloane said.

“Guilty until proven innocent,” Jake said.

“I’ve seen it done before,” Sloane said.

“I’m also concerned about Traeger’s comment that there is money missing.”

“Why?” Sloane asked.

“Because if someone was selling secrets to the Russians, they’d need a way to wash that money. I saw it happen in Mexico City. Money paid to Russian double agents was washed through businesses, so it couldn’t be tied to the CIA.”

“Emerson would have known that,” Sloane said.

Jenkins nodded. “If LSR&C was a CIA proprietary, Emerson, or someone else, could have been passing money from the Russians through the company. It would be a rational reason why the company imploded now, after we went to the FBI. The implosion could be someone trying to get rid of documents before the FBI could get ahold of them and confirm there are millions of dollars missing.”

“That would mean the leak worked for LSR&C?” Jake said. “Could it have been Goldstone? Could that be why he’s missing?”

“I don’t think so,” Jenkins said. “But we need to find him and ask him about it. And I need to talk to Traeger and find out what they both knew about any of this. That isn’t going to be easy with the FBI escort watching my every move.”

“If they’re also getting screwed, they might be looking for a way to save themselves,” Sloane said. “And if Goldstone knew LSR&C was a CIA front, and he has any documents to substantiate it, that gives your story of being recruited greater credibility.”

“Which may be why Goldstone is missing,” Jenkins said. “And why I’m likely to be arrested for espionage. Someone is trying to discredit us both, and they’re well on their way to doing so.”





52



The following morning, Jenkins did his best to keep to routine for CJ’s sake. They walked down the rocky beach to the water’s edge with their fishing poles. Jenkins felt groggy from a lack of sleep. He’d been awake most of the night, filling in Alex on what had transpired, and working with David and Jake on what they could do. Jenkins’s further calls to Traeger had gone unanswered. He’d never had a cell number for Goldstone.

Sloane and Jake had both left the office early that morning for Jenkins’s Camano Island home. Jenkins had taped the card with Carl Emerson’s phone number to the inside cover of a first edition of Moby Dick, so the card would not fall out if someone pulled the books from the shelves and fanned the pages. Sloane told Jenkins he also planned to call Daugherty and determine whether the FBI intended to arrest Jenkins. If so, Sloane wanted Jenkins to voluntarily turn himself in. Doing so would avoid the FBI arresting Jenkins in front of CJ and Alex, and it might play better in the news if Jenkins took an early stand that he wanted to vigorously defend himself against any charges.

Puget Sound’s waves lapped against the rocks beneath clear blue skies that stretched above Vashon Island to the distant, snowcapped Olympic Mountains.

“You think today’s our day?” Jenkins asked his son, as he did each day they’d fished. “Is today the day we catch a big salmon?”

“I think so,” CJ said. The boy wasted no time. He clicked the bail open, brought the pole back, and flung his pink Buzz Bomb lure out over the water.

Jenkins brought his pole back over his right shoulder to cast and noticed Chris Daugherty and three men in suits, coats, and sunglasses standing at the railing of the public easement. Daugherty nodded.

“Dad! Dad, I got one,” CJ shouted.

The tip of the boy’s pole had bent in an accentuated arc, and the fishing line was darting across the water’s surface. Jenkins dropped his pole and moved to help his son. “Loosen the drag,” he said. “That’s a big fish. Let him run a bit but keep him away from the boats. You don’t want to get your line tangled around a buoy line.”

For fifteen minutes CJ was the picture of concentration, walking three paces to his left and three to his right, reeling when he dropped the tip of the pole, then gently pulling the tip up high. He’d have the fish close to shore, and it would take off running again, his drag whizzing.

“You’re tiring him out, CJ.”

“Dad, you take him,” the boy said, but Jenkins knew the request wasn’t motivated by fatigue but by fear that he might lose the fight.