The Silent Sisters (Charles Jenkins #3)(44)

“Equal to the odds of Russian illegals placed in the United States and raised from birth to be spies.”

Vinchenko shook his head. “You are comparing apples to oranges. Russian illegals have long existed, and patience is part of the Russian way of life. Americans have never had that same strength. They are a consumer society. They want everything yesterday.”

“But the women are not American. They are Russian.”

Vinchenko opened his mouth as if to respond, then paused. Chernoff had made her point. After a beat he said, “Maybe, but the Americans elect a new government every four years. They lose focus and interest. Here, we have the same people in power . . . maybe for decades; it allows for continuity and long-term strategic planning.”

Vinchenko’s phone rang. He answered, listened for a few moments, grunted a reply, and clicked off. “She is coming. Nothing of interest. They have broken off their tail. It’s just the two of us tonight.”

“There.” Chernoff pointed and raised the binoculars, watching Zenaida Petrekova walk down the dirt road to her home. Petrekova unlocked the door in the metal gate that allowed a car ingress and egress and stepped inside.

“What I wouldn’t do for a detached home,” Vinchenko said. He set his seat back. “Get ready for a long night of nothing.”



Jenkins waited in Zenaida Petrekova’s modest kitchen listening to each tick of the wall clock. He continued to wear the old-man disguise he’d worn earlier in the day and sat at a table pushed up against the wall and positioned beneath a ubiquitous picture of fruit on a tray with a darkened background. The setup seemed a sad commentary on the solitude of Petrekova’s life. Meals at his home on Camano Island with Alex, CJ, and little Lizzie were lively affairs filled with laughter—most aimed at some Lizzie antic. His daughter was old enough to perform, and their laughter only encouraged her.

A window above the sink provided a view of a small but well-maintained yard with cared-for plants and flowers, though Jenkins had drawn the shade to prevent anyone from seeing in. A redbrick fence with a metal gate surrounded the yard. Each home on the street, which resembled more of an alley than a road in the United States—with no sidewalks—was surrounded by a fence of some type: corrugated metal, wood, even barbed wire. It reminded Jenkins of the road and the houses in Vishnevka on the Black Sea coast where he had departed Russia the first time.

He had provided Matt Lemore with an update through the designated chat room, and he advised that everything depended on timing. If things went as planned, Zenaida Petrekova would be out of Russia tonight and long gone before Monday morning.

If things did not go as planned, it could be fatal for them both.

The front door opened and closed. Jenkins moved to the wall behind the archway leading into the kitchen. Someone dropped things on the table on the opposite side of the wall. When Petrekova stepped to the archway she came to a halt, staring at the unfamiliar suitcase beside her kitchen table. When she stepped in farther, Jenkins put a hand over her mouth to keep her from screaming. She jumped, startled, but she did not scream. Her eyes widened like someone who had the wind knocked out of them. Jenkins slowly removed his hand from her mouth. He had not wanted to scare her, particularly not after what she had endured the past four days, but it couldn’t be helped. He let her catch her breath.

Using hand signals, he directed Petrekova to turn on the television. She walked into the main room of the house, which contained two comfortable chairs and a sofa, and did so. Jenkins then indicated she should shut the blinds to her windows in the rest of the rooms on the ground floor. When she had finished, he invited her to take a seat at the kitchen table beneath the lamp.

She looked nervous, uncertain, and concerned. He smiled, hoping it would help her relax, then clicked open the suitcase. From the false bottom he removed Petrekova’s mask and her clothing, as well as the makeup kit. The CIA disguise team and her Moscow handlers had done a masterful job preparing for this moment. Jenkins hoped he didn’t screw it up.

He reached out with the makeup sponge and Petrekova nodded her consent. Something said on the television caught his attention. He slid back his chair and stepped into the front room. A reporter for the state media spoke of the shooting in the Yakimanka Bar, then put a picture up of the punk. Eldar Velikaya.

“Velikaya is the only child of Yekaterina Velikaya, long considered the head of the most powerful crime family in Moscow.”

Jenkins felt his stomach drop. In his mind he saw and heard the prostitute. What have you done?

“Russia’s Investigative Committee said the police are searching for this man.” Charles Wilson’s passport photograph appeared on the television along with his name, height in meters, and weight in kilograms. “Charles Wilson is a British industrialist who entered the country through customs at Sheremetyevo Airport yesterday evening. The Investigative Committee said facial recognition cameras identified Wilson at the airport and again entering the Yakimanka Bar. Wilson checked out of the Hotel Imperial in the Yakimanka District sometime after the shooting, and his current whereabouts are unknown. The Investigative Committee said Wilson is a person of interest wanted in connection with the shooting. Anyone with information on Wilson or his whereabouts should call the number at the bottom of your screen.”

The reporter moved on to another story.

What have you done?

Jenkins now understood the prostitute’s fear. This was going to complicate things, though he was not yet certain how. Charles Wilson no longer existed and never would again. He needed to take matters one at a time.