The Silent Sisters (Charles Jenkins #3)(26)

But Alexei was her father.

And Eldar was her son.

And this was her family.

If another family had seen this as an opportunity and had gunned Eldar down, there would be a war, and she would win. And if it had been the government, killing Eldar like they had killed her father leaving a Moscow restaurant, she would cripple their construction projects with slowdowns, costing them billions of dollars. Someone would pay, in blood or in rubles.

“What of Pavil?” Mily asked.

“Let him mourn with the others for now. Make sure he doesn’t leave the property or talk to anyone else about what happened,” she said. “My son was not a good person in life, but like my father, I will do everything I can to see that he is remembered as one in death. Go. Bring me the information I requested.”





10


Bolshevo Railway Station

Korolyov, Moscow Oblast, Russia

Early the following morning, Jenkins, disguised as Zagir Togan, stood sweating on the Bolshevo train station platform. Meteorologists predicted another sweltering Russian day. He had checked the newspaper that morning and listened to the news, but his confrontation at the Yakimanka Bar had not been reported. The prostitute’s reaction, however, kept running through his head, along with her look of fear.

What have you done?

Jenkins shook the thought. He needed to focus. The matter immediately at hand was Zenaida Petrekova. During his time at Langley, he had memorized both Petrekova’s and Kulikova’s habits and their cues. Each weekday morning, Petrekova walked from her detached, redbrick home to this railway station to take the thirty-minute train ride to the Kazansky railway station in Komsomolskaya Square. From there she crossed the street and took the Metro, exiting at the Okhotnyy Ryad terminal and walking to the State Duma federal building.

When Jenkins got resituated in a new hotel, he had logged into the encrypted chat room using a different access code—it would change daily—and sought additional information on Petrekova. Lemore advised him that Petrekova had performed a Google search on her home computer the night before, looking for Friday’s Moscow weather. She had deliberately misspelled Friday—indicating she desired to communicate. The CIA ran a series of paid advertisements on her weather page, and Petrekova clicked on the one for the Anteka A5 pharmacy, which brought up several ads for common pharmaceutical items. Petrekova clicked on two items, then exited.

Minutes later, she had posted a picture on her Facebook account. She sat in her home kitchen proudly displaying the meal she had cooked for supper—blini, pelmeni, and beef Stroganoff. She had switched on the light above her stove, to simulate the sun, i.e., daytime. The wall clock above the stove read 7:48. The time that she would be at the Anteka A5.

At precisely 7:12 a.m., Petrekova walked down the concrete platform dressed for work in a blouse, skirt, and tennis shoes, her eyes glued to her phone. In her other hand she dangled a cigarette, which she periodically inhaled. Jenkins recognized her from the many photographs he had studied. Midsixties, she blended in seamlessly with the other commuters, though better dressed, befitting her position in the State Duma. Petrekova’s other cue was her scarves. Either she did not wear a scarf, meaning she had nothing to communicate and no need for a meeting with her handler, or if she desired a meeting or had information to pass, she wore a particular colored scarf, coordinated with the particular weekday. Yellow on Monday, red on Tuesday, blue on Wednesday, and so forth. To indicate a problem, she wore a different-colored scarf than the particular day called for. This morning, a Friday, she wore a lightweight blue scarf.

A problem.

Jenkins’s job was to determine the problem, communicate to Petrekova her message had been received and that there was a plan in place to exfiltrate her out of Russia.

Petrekova raised her gaze from her phone and greeted another woman, who approached on the platform from the opposite direction. The two exchanged air kisses and Petrekova put away her phone.

Jenkins put his phone to his ear, simulating a call, but scanned the growing number of commuters gathering on the platform. A minute or two after Petrekova’s arrival, a young woman walked down the platform dressed in business attire, a briefcase slung over her shoulder. But unlike Petrekova and the other women also dressed in business attire, this woman wore heels instead of tennis shoes. She did not regularly commute. Her eyes roamed the platform, as if looking up and down for the approaching train, but each time her head turned, Jenkins noticed the slightest pause when her gaze swept over Petrekova. The woman removed her phone from her coat pocket and considered it. She’d received a text message. She punched the keyboard on her phone, then lowered it. Jenkins watched the other commuters for a reaction. Seconds after the woman sent the message, a man, casually dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt, turned a cell phone over in his hand and read his text. He shoved a cigarette between his lips and blew out smoke, then tapped a reply. Jenkins shifted his attention back to the woman. She turned her phone over. Her partner had also arrived.

Petrekova had been accurate. She had a problem.

When the train arrived, Petrekova and her friend boarded, continuing to chat. Jenkins had to hand it to her. She never broke character, never looked about the platform or gave any indication of concern, though she clearly and rightly suspected she was being followed. The man and the woman entered the car through separate doors. One sat at the front and one at the back. Jenkins stepped onto the car and noticed the CCTV cameras in the ceiling. Big brother. With no seats available, he stood.