The Silent Sisters (Charles Jenkins #3)(67)

Don’t question the motivation for the act, Arkhip, just accept the act as one driven by motivation.

Yes, Lada.

He opened the manila file folder on the desk and found an official-looking photo of Charles Jenkins, along with his vitals and the various crimes he had supposedly committed inside Russia justifying the Kremlin seeking a red notice from the National Crime Agency, and making his apprehension of the highest priority. It was all very interesting, but perhaps not as interesting as the fact that Adrian Zima said his friend who had provided the information on Charles Jenkins’s return to Russia was now missing.

It could not be a simple coincidence, but who would want to kill an FSB officer? And why?

Arkhip set aside the photograph and found another, this of a beautiful woman, that gave him pause. The only other woman to cause this type of visceral reaction had been Lada. This woman was well put together. Her auburn hair had been cut and styled and fell to just above her shoulders. Her face practically levitated off the page. Straight white teeth, fine features, and inviting green eyes behind thick lashes. Arkhip looked to her vitals, her most important feature—her height. Five feet seven inches.

Maria Kulikova. Sixty-three years of age.

“Hmm.”

He read more about her. His mind churned. Kulikova was director of the Secretariat within the Counterintelligence Directorate. Another coincidence? Unlikely. Arkhip knew enough about Lubyanka and the FSB to know the Counterintelligence Directorate belonged to Dmitry Sokalov, and he knew Sokalov to be one of many elevated to a high place within the government because he grew up with the president in Saint Petersburg.

Arkhip hit “Play.” Jenkins and Kulikova walked the streets of Moscow. They looked like they had just stepped from a shower, their clothes wrinkled and wet, Kulikova’s hair straight and flat. Jenkins did not appear to be forcibly taking Kulikova anywhere. Arkhip reasoned what that could mean.

Arkhip would double-check to be sure, but he had not seen any bulletin seeking the arrest of either Jenkins or Kulikova. Why not? Could it just be too big an embarrassment for Sokalov and Lubyanka? Was Sokalov seeking to suppress this matter and handle the discipline internally?

This sounded very much like someone, or some persons, working hard to cover their asses. Or maybe Arkhip was just predisposed to think such a thing because it seemed to be a genetic trait found in all political figures. Or maybe it was because Arkhip was in the middle of an investigation in which everyone seemed to be covering their asses.

Jenkins and Kulikova turned the corner. The video coverage ended. Again, an oddity, but in a case filled with oddities, perfectly fitting.

Still, it was something.

And something was better than what Arkhip had before, which had been nothing.

He walked away from the video to the door. He’d do what he’d always done. He’d follow this lead and see where it took him.





31


Varsonof’yevskiy Pereulok

Moscow, Russia

Charles Jenkins leaned against the wall and peeked from behind the window curtain. A white van had parked at the front entrance to the building, and a man got out wearing white coveralls and a black baseball-style cap pulled low on his brow. He was tall—Jenkins estimated several inches over six feet—and dark skinned. The man moved to the back of the van and opened the doors, removing a handcart. He put a large cardboard box on the cart and wheeled it to the front door beneath the pergola.

The buzzer on the intercom rang. At the front door Jenkins pressed the button. “Hello.”

“Mogu ya uvidet’ Nikolaya?” Is Nicholas in?

“Spasibo,” Jenkins responded, and buzzed the man in.

He turned to tell Kulikova to hide in the back room until he was certain the man was legitimate. Kulikova, in the doorframe between the hall and the living room, held a gun, the barrel pointed at Jenkins.

Jenkins froze.

“Just to be sure,” she said.

“Where did you get that?”

“I’ve hidden it here in the apartment for many years. I can’t tell you the number of times I wanted to shoot Sokalov with it.”

Jenkins let out a held breath. “Hide in the bedroom in back. If you hear me say ‘Kremlin,’ come out. If I say ‘Saint Basil’s,’ do not.”

Kulikova stepped back into the shadows.

Someone rapped three times on the apartment door. Jenkins opened the door an inch, keeping his foot braced behind it.

“Nicholas?” the man said.

“Spasibo.” Jenkins looked behind the man to be certain he was alone before opening the door and letting him inside the apartment.

The delivery driver wheeled in the box and set it beside the coffee table in the living room. “There is a man in a black Mercedes parked in the alley across the street,” the driver said in heavily accented English. “I blocked the front door to obstruct his view. You may be able to go from the front door of the building to the van.”

Jenkins walked to the front window as the man spoke. He stepped to the side and peered down, seeing the grill and hood of the Mercedes. He scanned up and down the block. His gaze fixed on a second, expensive black car, a Range Rover, parked on the same side of the street as the building. Jenkins detected movement inside the car’s tinted windshield, and a stream of cigarette smoke spiraled from the tiny opening on the driver’s side.