The Silent Sisters (Charles Jenkins #3)(57)

“But you’re sure he is Black?” Sokalov asked.

“It is dark, but the man appears to be Black, yes.”

“Can you estimate his size?”

“If the woman is of average height, the man would be about two meters. He is muscular, thick.”

“Charles Jenkins,” Sokalov said.

“Do you want me to see if I can capture his face and run him through the system?”

“No. Do not,” Sokalov said.

The man provided the live feed and Sokalov recognized Jenkins from pictures on file. “I do not want them to be perceived as being together,” he said to Zhomov.

“Then I would suggest we find them, quickly,” Zhomov said.

Kulikova ran past the main building to an expansive courtyard, then disappeared behind trees.

“The coverage there is limited. I cannot see what they are doing,” Sokalov said.

“Hiding while waiting for a ride,” Zhomov said, taking out earphones, inserting one in his ear and attaching the plug to his phone. “I can move faster on my own. Stay here and monitor the feed. Advise me if you see them again or if a car arrives.”

He turned and broke into a run, moving toward the large spire of the central building at the entrance to the campus.





25


Moscow State University

Ramenki District

Moscow Oblast

Jenkins gave the bolt another tap. He had raised it nearly three inches. He set down the rocks and gripped the bolt head, wiggling it back and forth as he applied pressure until it yanked free. He grabbed the grate with both hands and pulled. The bottom edge raised from the concrete but only about six inches.

“The hinges are rusty,” Jenkins said, working the grate back and forth, raising it a fraction higher each time. The hinges emitted a screeching noise. He continued until he had raised it enough for a person to squeeze beneath it.

“Follow me,” Kulikova said. She lay on her belly and shimmied under the grate, then carefully turned and braced her feet against the concrete on the far side so as not to fall down the shaft. She spun again, gripped the top of a metal ladder bolted to the wall, and descended the shaft.

Being considerably bigger, Jenkins had more difficulty wiggling under the grate, then maneuvering in the cramped space. He braced his hands and feet against the wall to turn. The rungs of a rusted ladder descended into darkness—to where, he had no idea. He looked back to the grate, which was open, and was about to reach for it when a man jogged down the path toward the fountain.

Zhomov, Maria had called him.

No time to close the grate. If it made a noise, it would draw Zhomov to him, and Jenkins would literally be the fish about to be shot in the barrel.

He stepped down the ladder rungs, moving as quickly as he dared. The lower he descended into the pitch darkness, the less he could see. He had to be sure his foot found a perch before he let go to reach down to the next rung. He likened it to rock climbing, or what he imagined rock climbing to be, trying to keep three points of contact on the ladder as he descended.

If he slipped and fell, he had no idea how far the drop, or if Kulikova was still beneath him.



Zhomov reached the courtyard in front of the building and slowed his pace, assuming the man who had come for Kulikova, Charles Jenkins, to be armed. He didn’t know Jenkins, but he knew of him from Sokalov. He knew Jenkins had come to and escaped from Russia twice, the second time killing Adam Efimov, “The Brick,” and one of Lubyanka’s best torpedoes. The president had placed Jenkins on a kill list, and Zhomov would have liked nothing better than to appease the president, but Sokalov had been adamant that Jenkins be taken alive, a much more difficult task.

Zhomov removed the pistol from the holster at his back and held the barrel pointed at the ground as he walked and listened. He stopped, allowing his eyes to search the trees and shrubs for natural hiding places and unnatural colors. His ears listened for man-made sounds.

He touched his earpiece. “Anything?”

“No. They have not moved since they entered the courtyard in front of the main building. Do you see them?”

“Nyet.”

“They have to be close by.”

“Yes. They do.”

Zhomov took a step forward. He stopped when he heard a metallic tink. Tink. Tink. He tried to determine its location. He heard it again and stepped toward the sound, treading softly.

“Still—” Sokalov began.

“Do not speak,” Zhomov whispered. He wondered if perhaps the sound was from one of the buildings, a mechanical system, then dismissed the thought. The noise had no pattern, making it likely man-made. It stopped. He heard a creaking noise, again man-made. Again, he moved toward the sound.

He stepped around a row of bushes and trees and came to the southwest courtyard dominated by a central, dry fountain. His eyes searched the shadows and natural hiding places, again seeing no one.

“Anything yet?” he whispered into the headset.

“Nothing,” Sokalov responded.

They had to be here. Somewhere. He moved down a path toward the fountain and proceeded around it clockwise, looking left and right. No one.

Zhomov stopped. Listened. He did not hear anything, but something about one of the grates at the base of the fountain caught his attention. He moved toward it. The grate had been pulled open. A ten-centimeter bolt lay on the concrete. He felt scratch marks under the square head. It explained the tinking noise—someone prying up the bolt to free the grate. Carefully he leaned forward, holding out his phone, and used the light to look down into the darkness at a rusted ladder descending a shaft. His light was not strong enough to reach the bottom.