The Silent Sisters (Charles Jenkins #3)(103)
So he waited, impatiently.
Over the five days, Vasin had medical experts brought in to fix Jenkins’s nose, stitch cuts, cap his broken teeth, wrap his ribs, and otherwise heal his battered body—all of it paid for by the CIA. Jenkins had six cracked ribs, but he had not punctured a lung. For days, he had blood in his urine, but by the fifth day it had cleared; his bruises were better. He felt up for travel and was eager to get out of Russia. He knew he would have to spend time in Washington, DC, debriefing Lemore and getting Maria situated. He did not want to just abandon her, not when she was anxious about her new beginning. Jenkins also wanted to check in on Zenaida Petrekova, who Lemore said was going through the process but having difficulty with the fact that she could not see her son or her daughter, or her grandchildren, at least not until they were confident such a meeting could be done without endangering her life. It was another reminder to Jenkins of the sacrifices the seven sisters had made, and those sacrifices became even more prominent when Jenkins spoke to Alex and CJ and Lizzie on the telephone.
During his calls, Jenkins assured Alex he was fine, that while there had been a few setbacks, he was safe and preparing for his return. He knew his wife, however, and he knew she suspected there was more to the story when Jenkins declined to do the calls by FaceTime so the kids could see him.
Federov made travel arrangements to take them from Irkutsk by car to an airstrip in Mongolia. It was one of the Vasins’ regular heroin runs, and Jenkins and Maria would be well protected on the drive. As they prepared to leave Plato Vasin’s estate with their armed guards, the Fly called Jenkins into an opulent office on the ground floor. As with the other rooms, a colorful fly painted on the wall behind the Fly’s desk dominated the décor.
“Vam u nas ponravilos’?” You have enjoyed your stay? Vasin’s English was not so limited that he couldn’t carry on a conversation. This was his subtle reminder that they were in Russia and Jenkins was his guest.
“Dazhe ochen’,” Jenkins replied. Very much so.
“You will tell your bosses about my hospitality, then.”
“I have done so,” Jenkins said. “And they are appreciative.”
Vasin nodded but was not so easily placated. “The CIA has from time to time disrupted my shipments. This should no longer be a problem. Should it?”
Jenkins chose his words carefully. “My bosses are aware that I am alive because of you, and that you are transporting me and Ms. Kulikova out of Russia.” For which Vasin had been paid well, Jenkins thought, but did not say. “I will emphasize this to them again when I am stateside.”
“Khorosho.” Good. “I believe we can have a mutually beneficial relationship. My contacts in this region of the world are numerous and widespread. You would be surprised how widespread. Viktor speaks highly of you, Mr. Jenkins. Because he does so, I will think highly of you. Do not disappoint me.”
Jenkins nodded but did not verbally respond, and Vasin dismissed him.
Jenkins found Federov waiting in the roundabout at the front of the estate. Maria was not yet out of the mansion.
“This is where I must leave you, Charlie. I must say, you do add excitement to my otherwise carefree life. I am thinking now that I am too young to retire. There are only so many fine hotels, dinners, and golf courses one can frequent.”
“I’d love to find out for myself. Care to switch? I didn’t take you as a golfer.”
“I stink. But I have learned that all golfers stink. It is just to different degrees.” Jenkins laughed and looked about the estate. Upon his arrival he had marveled at the wealth—the house, the yard, the pool, the food. Plato Vasin could afford anything he wanted anytime he wanted it, but he was also as much a prisoner as Federov, maybe more so. Jenkins surmised from the armed guards that Vasin’s life was fragile. Federov must have felt similarly at times, living large but alone in Europe’s finest hotels and restaurants and on its golf courses. No doubt he filled that time with high-end escorts, but they, too, would eventually cease to be fulfilling. Jenkins wouldn’t give up his home on Camano Island for five of these estates, and he wouldn’t give up his family for all the hotels, meals, golf, and escorts in the world. He suspected Viktor Federov, a complex man for certain, felt the same, though he’d never admit it. It reminded Jenkins of something his father had once said: When you can have everything, you appreciate nothing.
“What are you going to do, Viktor?”
“I am thinking perhaps that what I do may depend on what you do.”
Jenkins’s eyes narrowed behind his dark sunglasses. “I don’t follow.”
“You seem to need help . . . often.” Federov gave that Cheshire cat grin and raised his eyebrows. “I can provide that help, along with other resources. The Vasin reach, for example, is far and wide.”
“I’ve been told. I’m not certain the CIA would look favorably on working with the Irkutsk mafiya.”
“Don’t be hypocrite. Your CIA is responsible for the deaths of many and engaged in affairs that would make the Fly pale, I am certain. Besides, if it was not for Plato and Peanut, you would be on someone’s dinner plate.”
“No doubt,” Jenkins said. “And they were paid handsomely.”
“And don’t be na?ve. Plato needs more money like the ocean needs more water. He did what he did because I asked him to . . . because I told him you were a friend of mine.”