The Silent Sisters (Charles Jenkins #3)(105)

“He must have been very wise, your father. I like that sentiment. I like that very much.”

The car pulled off the main strip of asphalt road and took a detour on dirt and gravel cut through a thick grove of trees. Though the expensive car was heavy and absorbed many of the bumps and rattles, Jenkins felt each one in his aching ribs. He leaned forward and spoke over the front seat to the driver and the second guard. “Pochemu my svernuli? Kuda my yedem?” Why have we turned off? Where are we going?

“My pochti na meste. Skoro uvidite.” We are almost there. You will see soon enough.

Minutes later they came to a bend in the road, then to a clearing with what looked like a dirt landing strip, no doubt for the planes Vasin used to transport his heroin. A plane sat parked at one end of the runway, a Cessna from the looks of it, above it an inviting azure sky with thin white cloud streaks. Lemore had pulled some strings.

As the car came to a stop, a man exited the plane and walked down the airstairs. He was not tall, no more than five foot eight, but he had a presence about him. He wore a worn ball cap, his eyes hidden behind fighter-pilot, reflective sunglasses. It took just a moment for Jenkins to recognize the cocksure stride of the man’s walk, one no doubt gained during flights Rod Studebaker had not just survived but enjoyed, like landing his wounded Cessna, with just one ski, on a frozen lake in Finland to deliver Jenkins and Paulina Ponomayova to safety. Studebaker removed the sunglasses and grinned as Jenkins exited the car and approached the stairs.

“Man, who hit you with the ugly stick?” Studebaker extended his hand.

“It’s good to see you too, Rod.”

Studebaker admired the plane behind him. “This should be a hell of a lot more comfortable than the last time we flew together.”

Jenkins laughed at the recollection. “Let’s just hope it lands a little more smoothly. Are you going to be bored without Russian helicopters and planes chasing us?”

“I’m older now,” Studebaker said. “I’m starting to like the mundane. But it would get the juices flowing.” He turned to Maria, who came around the back of the car. “You are anything but mundane. Good Lord, where did Mr. Jenkins find a beauty like you?”

She looked to Jenkins, not fully understanding Studebaker’s comment.

“On govorit, chto ty krasivaya,” Jenkins said. He thinks you’re beautiful.

“Thank you,” Maria said.

“The pleasure is all mine. The name is Studebaker, like the car, but you can call me ‘Hot Rod.’”

Again, Maria looked to Jenkins, uncertain.

“Mashina yemu tozhe nravitsya,” Jenkins said. He likes the car also.

“Have either of you ever flown on a bird this beautiful?”

Jenkins shook his head. “It isn’t really English,” he said to Maria in reference to Studebaker’s slang. “But you’ll get used to it soon enough.”

“Somebody at home must like the two of you,” Studebaker continued. “It’s outfitted with food, drinks, and a place to lie down and sleep.”

“Is it fast?” Jenkins said. “I’m just looking to get home.”

“Then you are in for a real treat,” Studebaker said. “This baby will really light your fire.”

“He’s quoting a song by the Doors, an American band,” Jenkins explained to Maria. “It means the plane is very fast.”

Maria nodded to Studebaker that she understood. “Yes. Then ‘I’m on fire,’” she said. When neither Jenkins nor Studebaker responded, she added, “That is Bruce Springsteen. Yes? Born in the USA. ‘I’m on Fire.’”

Jenkins laughed. “The Boss. I think you’re going to do just fine in America, Maria. I think you’re going to fit in in no time.”

“Then let us go, Mr. Jenkins, and do like your mother says. Let us turn the page and see what happens next.”





Epilogue


Camano Island

Washington State

Jenkins spent a week at Langley, just long enough for his pain to lessen considerably and his appearance to further improve. Langley doctors checked him over from head to toe and generally were impressed with the medical attention he had received in Irkutsk. Before departing he also spent time in the disguise department with a makeup specialist who showed him how to minimize his bruising, so he wouldn’t scare his children. The makeup wouldn’t fool Alex, however, though it might cause her to raise an eyebrow.

Jenkins had the chance to meet Zenaida Petrekova at a safe house near Langley. She was going through the process of debriefing, but also being educated on her new home. She remained distressed that she would not be able to see her son or her daughter or her grandchildren in person, at least not for a considerable time. If Russia searched for her, her children would be the first persons they put under surveillance. Langley had arranged for an encrypted call, and she had FaceTimed them, advised them that she was well, but provided no further details about her work on behalf of the CIA or her current whereabouts.

“Do you think they know of your spying?”

“They are smart. I’m sure they have figured some things out on their own and are coming to terms with it. My son says now he knows why he could never get away with anything.” She smiled. “I miss them. I will miss them.”