The Silent Sisters (Charles Jenkins #3)(61)

This had to be Metro-2, the tunnel Kulikova said was used to transport those in authority. He hoped the trains were infrequent.

The tunnel was decidedly narrower than the lavish Metro system that transported millions of Russian commuters each day. Jenkins searched for a way out, a door or a ladder. With Zhomov armed and in pursuit, and with nowhere to run except straight ahead, it was just a matter of time before one of his bullets found its mark, or they reached a tunnel that had been sealed off. Dead end.

At a Y they took the tunnel to the left. From the condition of the rails, it looked to be older, the walls dingy and not as bright. He kept Kulikova in front of him, running behind her. He had to give her credit. She just kept motoring.

He looked behind. Zhomov emerged at the Y, paused, then started down the right tunnel. Maybe it would give them a reprieve. They continued for another minute until Jenkins reached out and grabbed Kulikova by the shoulder, stopping her. He bent over, hands on knees. Condensation clouded their faces with each breath.

“I think we might have lost him,” Jenkins said in between breaths. He looked up at Kulikova, then past her, seeing a bright light on the wall of the tunnel just before feeling a sudden rush of wind. Kulikova turned, eyes wide.

An advancing train.

Jenkins searched the tunnel walls for a doorway or cutout in the stone, anyplace where they could press their bodies.

He saw none.

With no time to consider, and no options, he grabbed Kulikova and started sprinting back toward the Y. Halfway there, he stopped. Zhomov appeared at the far end, searching. Two steps ahead, Jenkins noticed a manhole cover with holes in it. The wind behind them increased in intensity. The lights brightened on the tunnel wall. Jenkins dropped to a knee. So, too, did Zhomov. Jenkins shoved Kulikova down onto the tracks and reached into the manhole cover holes, gripping the metal disc. It lifted, then slipped back into place. Jenkins couldn’t duck to avoid Zhomov’s bullets. He needed to remain upright for the leverage. The first bullet whizzed over his head. No matter how good a shot, Zhomov was firing a pistol from a considerable distance. He would, however, adjust.

Jenkins pulled again. This time the disc budged, and he yanked it to the side so it wouldn’t slip back to its original place.

Another bullet grazed the shoulder of his leather jacket. Zhomov had risen and rushed toward them. With each step closer, his aim would become more accurate.

Jenkins wedged his fingers into the small gap on the right side of the disc and shoved it to the side, revealing a hole two feet in diameter. He strained to lift the disc on one end and use it as a shield. Behind Kulikova the train lights brightened. The wind increased. Another bullet hit the metal disc.

Jenkins peered down the hole into darkness. He had no idea how far the fall.

The train came around the corner.

Lights shined directly on them.

Wind blew back Kulikova’s hair.

He assumed Zhomov was running back to the Y, though he had no time to look.

Kulikova wasn’t waiting. She moved to the hole, dropping through. With the wind intensity, Jenkins didn’t hear her land. It was like being inside a vacuum.

The train lights aimed directly at him. Jenkins fit his legs into the hole and dropped just before the subway train passed overhead. Falling felt like minutes but was certainly only a few seconds. He braced for an impact that never came. He hit water, splashed, and plunged beneath the surface. The freezing water caused him to gasp and open his mouth. He sucked in water.

Instinct took over. He kicked to the surface, gasping and choking. The water current shoved and pushed him, a torrent not unlike rafting rapids. He lifted his head, gulped for air, and tried to get his heels pointed downcurrent.

Up ahead, Kulikova screamed, piercing and sharp.

A second later, Jenkins felt himself free-falling, as if shot from a cannon. He again plunged beneath the water. This time, when he reached the surface, he felt no current. The lights of downtown Moscow lit up the sky and reflected on the surface of what must be the Moskva River. The Kremlin, St. Basil’s, and other landmarks oriented him. He put his head down and swam toward Kulikova, who had reached a ladder attached to a concrete embankment.

They stumbled across the embankment to a park and fell to their knees, retching and coughing up water. Eventually Jenkins caught his breath long enough to ask, “What the hell was that?”

“The Neglinnaya River.” Kulikova struggled to suck in air.

“A river under the city?”

“Covered over many years ago,” she said. “It passes beneath Moscow, under Red Square, and empties into the Moskva.”

“Well, thank God it does.”

“Zhomov?” she said.

Jenkins shook his head. “I don’t know. But we can’t stay here. It’s a little too close to the Kremlin and Lubyanka for my tastes.”

“I know of a place,” she said. “It is a risk. Sokalov and I used to go there. And you will have to get even closer to Lubyanka.”

“As long as I don’t have to go inside the building,” he said. “Lead the way.”





27


Department of Information Technologies Center

Moscow, Russia

Early morning, Sokalov paced the carpet of a darkened room at the Moscow Department of Information Technologies control center on Zhitnaya Street. He drank coffee from a Styrofoam cup and spoke on his personal cell phone, talking his wife off a ledge.