The Silent Sisters (Charles Jenkins #3)(63)

“Pull up the CCTV feeds from cameras in this area and along the streets surrounding it,” he said, drawing a circle on the map. “Go back one hour and have the cameras search for the photographs you have been provided. With few people on the street at that hour this should not take long, if my calculations are correct.”

Zhomov stepped back and the technician went to work. Zhomov motioned Sokalov over to one of the tables, where he set the map. “They climbed up a level to Metro-2,” he said, keeping his voice low and using a finger to draw lines on the map of the underground. “I was close, but a train came and they disappeared down a storm drain cover.” He pointed to a winding waterway.

“The Neglinnaya,” Sokalov said. “Could they have drowned?”

“Maybe,” Zhomov said. “The river empties into the Moskva River here, here, and here. It is also possible they survived and are in this general area. They will not ride public transportation because of the cameras. More likely they will walk or take a taxi. Kulikova will not return home. It is too risky. They will not go to a hotel because their clothes, wet and soiled, will draw too much attention. They need to go to a place that provides privacy. No cameras.”

As Zhomov spoke, Sokalov felt a sick burning in his stomach. The apartment he kept for his trysts with Kulikova was on Varsonof’yevskiy, within walking distance of the park. Kulikova also knew Sokalov had the camera on that street removed to provide secrecy. Revealing the existence of the apartment was not his concern, though. His concern was the contents of the apartment, what Zhomov would find upon entering it.

Zhomov stared at him, his eyes no doubt reading Sokalov’s facial expressions. “You know where she went?” Zhomov asked.

Sokalov nodded. “If she exited at the park then yes. Most likely to an apartment, but, Alexander, there are things in that apartment—”

“I don’t give a shit about what you may have done there, Dmitry, or about any of your prurient interests. That is your business. You are paying me to do mine. Where did she go?”

“An apartment on Varsonof’yevskiy.”

“Give me the address. Then stay here. Call me if and when they are spotted on the cameras.”





28


Varsonof’yevskiy Pereulok

Moscow, Russia

Kulikova punched in an access code on the keypad mounted to the right of the thick wooden exterior door. The entrance to the apartment building was beneath a small iron pergola. The buildings on this block were high-end, built before the rise of communism and its cheap, box-shaped, uniform construction. Each had a stone fa?ade with ornamental details—sconces, alcoves, small balconies surrounded by wrought iron, and modern, white vinyl windows. At this hour of the morning, the sidewalks were devoid of people and only a few cars passed on the streets. A man walked a dog on a leash in a small park surrounded by a six-foot fence, a place to take children to get outdoors and for a dog to relieve itself.

Kulikova and Jenkins stepped into a central courtyard reminiscent of apartment buildings in France and climbed an interior stairwell to the third floor. Kulikova pressed the buttons on another keypad and entered the apartment through a dark wood door. She paused in the entry. She looked pained.

“Are you okay?” Jenkins asked.

“What you are about to see, Mr. Jenkins, is not Maria Kulikova. What you are about to see is the personality I had to become to do what I had to do.” She looked up at him, eyes watery but jaw set. “Do you understand?”

“I’m not here to judge you,” he said. “I’m here to get you out.”

Jenkins followed her inside a small entry to a well-decorated front room that spilled into a kitchen modest in size but with high-end appliances. “Wait here,” she said and departed down a dark hallway.

The apartment had a peculiar smell to it. It didn’t smell lived in. Jenkins did not detect the odor of food or cigarettes or even perfume. It had a musty smell to it, like a cabin that needed to be aired out after a long winter. On the coffee table Jenkins noticed magazines of hard-core pornography, mostly sadomasochism. He wondered if the odor he had detected was human perspiration, perhaps lotions.

When Jenkins looked up, Kulikova stood in the hall wearing a plush robe and holding another. She looked embarrassed, and he was embarrassed for her. She handed him the robe. “Give me your clothes. I will put them in the dryer.” Jenkins took the robe and stepped from his clothes.

He pulled the plastic ziplock bag from his coat and checked their passports, credit cards, rubles, and American dollars. They were dry. His phone, however, which had been in his pocket when he fell into the Neglinnaya River, had shut off, likely for good.

Kulikova returned, using a towel to dry her hair. Down the hall, Jenkins could hear clothes tumbling in a dryer. It was the first chance Jenkins had to really see her. An attractive woman, Kulikova had auburn hair, Slavic features, and a full figure she no doubt kept in shape given the rigors they had just endured.

“Phone’s dead,” Jenkins said.

Kulikova stepped past him and into the kitchen. She pulled open a drawer and handed him what looked like an old-fashioned flip phone. “Burner phone,” she said. “It has an app that redirects the contact information to a random phone number in Moscow so it cannot be traced. Sokalov insisted we use these phones in case one of us was detained or could not make an arranged meeting.”