The Silent Sisters (Charles Jenkins #3)(23)

Still . . .

What had the woman meant? What have you done?

She said the words with such clarity and . . . fear, and despite all the drugs pulsing through her system. Her fear had sobered her like a bucket of ice-cold water tossed on a drunk. The words came out in a haunting whisper, as if she could not accept what her eyes clearly saw and her brain, at least momentarily, registered.

What have you done?

Jenkins had miscalculated the two men’s determination. In his experience and his Krav Maga training, most men, having been disarmed and so quickly incapacitated, would have run, and lived to fight another day. Most would have considered the woman not worth their pain and their suffering.

The big man got the point too late. The punk never did. And the punk was the person calling the shots. The fact that the punk did not stand down indicated he was not used to being confronted, not used to being denied what he wanted, and that he usually got away with such behavior. And that raised the more important question. Who was he?

At least Jenkins had worn the mask. He’d get back to the hotel and discard Charles Wilson forever—

He stopped midstride. He looked at his hands. Shit. He’d taken off the latex gloves. What had he touched? The bar door. The tabletop.

The beer bottle.

He looked back, contemplating if he had time to go back and . . . No. Definitely not. He needed to take his chances. Move forward. He had other masks and disguises.

Jenkins checked his watch; he’d activated the stopwatch as soon as he left the alley. He walked briskly, his hands in the pockets of his jacket. His head turned away from the streetlamps where he’d seen the cameras. He did not run. He did not want to appear guilty. He did not, however, have a lot of time. The police would check the facial recognition cameras and see the confrontation in the alley. They would identify Charles Wilson through his passport photo entered into the system at Sheremetyevo Airport. Once they did, they would follow him from the bar to his hotel—the CCTV cameras, he had been told, were that good.

Even if they weren’t, common sense would lead the police along the same trail, and they would reach the same conclusion. Jenkins had walked to the bar. A good detective would dismiss the possibility Jenkins had ridden a nearby subway or a bus to go to such a dive, especially one the bartender would confirm Jenkins had never before visited. A good detective would theorize Jenkins walked from a nearby motel or hotel for a quick drink and a bite to eat. The bartender would confirm this, and it would eventually lead the police from the bar to the Hotel Imperial, where the clerk had made a copy of Jenkins’s passport. He would provide his guest’s room number.

Charles Wilson was about to have a very short life.

The hotel clerk greeted Jenkins with a tired smile and wished him a good night. “Spokoynoy nochi.”

Jenkins took a moment to talk to the man, to appear calm and rational and undisturbed. He told the clerk he had a pleasant meal and would sleep in tomorrow morning. He asked not to be disturbed. The clerk suggested Jenkins hang the “Do Not Disturb” tag on his hotel room door but said he would be sure to also leave a message for the maid.

In his room, Jenkins left the lights off, searching again for any pinpoints of light. Nothing. He removed his phone and plugged it into a black case that provided him a personal hot spot. He entered three random names that served as his username in the app, then entered a series of random numbers and letters that opened an encrypted chat room with Matt Lemore. He typed, then paused. He was rushing. He needed to think this through. He took a deep breath. He would ditch the hotel and Charles Wilson. He had several other disguises. No need to sound the alarm just yet. He typed.

I have arrived.

He hit “Send.” It took a minute for Lemore to get the message and respond.

Arrival confirmed. Possible change in plans.

Jenkins had been about to type something similar. He decided to let Lemore play it out. He typed. Okay.

Red Gate 2 first.

The second sister, Zenaida Petrekova, would be extracted first. Jenkins typed. Problem?

After a minute Lemore replied. Advised Red One has made contact. Something in play. Proceed to Red Gate 2.

Jenkins considered the information for a moment. Something in play. Kulikova had made contact. It must have been something important for her to break her months-long silence, or could the Russians somehow know that Jenkins had returned and were setting him up? Something in play. Jenkins interpreted Lemore’s text as an indication that exfiltrating Kulikova now could jeopardize whatever was in play or possibly put her in danger of exposure. He typed.

Red Gate 2. Confirmed. Out.

Jenkins checked his watch. It had been nearly half an hour since he left the alley. He disconnected his phone from the hot spot, then went into the bathroom and peeled off the latex mask. He set it, along with Charles Wilson’s passport and other papers, in a burn bin that looked like a common metal water flask. He popped out an oxidizing tablet disguised in a packet of Tums, lit the tablet with a match, dropped it in the flask, and screwed on the lid. The fire would burn without oxygen and emit no smoke.

Back in his room, he lifted the hidden panel on the inside of his suitcase. The panel was lined with a material with a high rate of X-ray absorption that prevented screening by airport technology. He pulled out a second disguise, using the bathroom mirror to apply it methodically as he had been trained. When finished, the reflection of a middle-aged man of Bashkir descent, one of Russia’s most common ethnicities, stared back at him. Zagir Togan had mild Asian features with dark hair and a goatee. Jenkins grabbed the corresponding passport and pulled up the information he had memorized at Langley—Togan’s vitals.