The Silent Sisters (Charles Jenkins #3)(34)

14


Do or Dye Beauty Salon

Moscow, Russia

Jenkins led Petrekova down the narrow staircase to the cramped storage room. Upstairs, Sergei increased the volume of the music. Jenkins turned a dial on what appeared to be an old-fashioned radio on a shelf. It emitted white noise.

“I did not pick up on a tail this afternoon,” Petrekova said, speaking Russian.

“A young woman waiting by the Metro stairs. She followed you this morning on the platform, though she changed her appearance this afternoon. Shorts, a T-shirt, hair pulled back in a ponytail. Black-framed glasses.”

“I spotted the woman this morning at the train, as well as a man. The woman got off the train two stops early.” Petrekova wrapped an arm around her waist. In the basement she had dropped her guard. She looked and sounded frightened. “I have gone back over everything I have done the past six months. I can think of nothing to warrant this attention.”

“When did you first notice that you were being followed?”

“Four days ago I picked up on the tail as I commuted to work. I was not certain, but I saw the same man that afternoon when I left the office. He communicated by cell phone to a woman, the same one as this morning. I did this for several days to be certain before I sent word to my handler.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong.” Jenkins explained the president’s authorization of Operation Herod.

“He’s gone from a rifle to a shotgun then,” Petrekova said.

“I’m afraid so.”

“But I am an elected member of the Duma and have been for twenty years.”

“Your position won’t protect you. In fact, it probably pushed you to the top of the list. You have access to information others do not. They are undoubtedly checking to determine if any such information to which you were privy resulted in an asset or operation being burned.”

“Then I guess this is over, isn’t it? Do you have a plan to get me out?”

Jenkins nodded. “We do.”

“When?”

Jenkins would not disclose any details in case Petrekova was a double agent. “You must be prepared to leave at a moment’s notice.” Petrekova should have known better than to ask, but he chalked it up to nerves. “You can bring nothing with you.” He did not want her to be tempted to take something of sentimental value—a photo album, a piece of jewelry, or other items that would potentially alert authorities to her escape.

Petrekova paced the cramped quarters.

“I know you’re frightened,” Jenkins said. “I know it is hard to leave, but do as I say, when I say it, and everything will be fine.”

Not all spies chose to leave their countries, frightened by an uncertain future in an uncertain country with a different language and different customs and without the support of family or friends. Some spies chose instead to remain and take their chances, retiring and going dormant. The problem with this option, however, had become abundantly clear when two American traitors, Robert Hanssen and Aldrich Ames, compromised hundreds of highly classified CIA assets within the Russian government, including many who had retired. Those assets had been immediately arrested, tortured for information, and executed.

Petrekova shook her head. “I am more afraid not to leave. Since my husband’s death, I go home each night and rattle around in an empty house and an empty bed. I cook gourmet dinners for one, just to pass the hours. Weekends I spend in the yard, when the weather allows, or visit friends. Neither of my two children live in Moscow any longer, tired of the regime and the corruption. My son lives in Berlin with his German wife. My daughter lives in Canada, working for a high-tech company. Both have implored me to retire and to leave the country. It is time. I feel constantly sick, unable to eat or to sleep. This is no life for me—for anyone. I am ready to go.”

Jenkins checked his watch. He had started the stopwatch when they reentered the basement. “You must leave everything in your home as it is—dishes in the sink, a bed unmade, a radio or television on, so as not to arouse any suspicion. Do you have plans on the weekends, things you do routinely?”

“No.”

That would hopefully give them sixty hours before suspicions were raised when Petrekova did not appear at the train platform for her regular Monday morning commute.

“Is your house being watched?”

“I presume so, but I don’t know.”

Jenkins would have to determine this. “Any questions?” he asked. Petrekova shook her head. “It’s time,” he said. “You better get back upstairs.”

She started up the stairs, stopped, and looked down at him. “Are you the man who came before, to stop the American spy divulging the names of the other sisters? The one who got the woman out of Lefortovo?”

Jenkins felt a pang in his stomach, his senses on heightened alert. He would have to be careful. “I know nothing of that operation or that man.”

Petrekova took another step but stopped when chimes rang, indicating the front door had been opened. She glanced back at Jenkins, alarm etched on her face.

Jenkins raised a hand and motioned for her to descend. He ascended the staircase slowly, just enough to look in the mirror on the opposite wall reflecting the front door, and the woman from the Metro stop who had entered the salon.