The Silent Sisters (Charles Jenkins #3)(68)

“Kremlin,” he said. Kulikova emerged from the back bedroom.

The delivery driver opened the box and removed articles of clothing. “You didn’t give us much time. We put together what we could.”

He handed Jenkins baggy pants and a sweater. To Kulikova he handed a long skirt and black knit sweater. Ziplock bags contained what looked like grey facial hair and wigs. It was far from the intricate masks and disguises Langley had prepared for them, and the passport photographs would not match their disguises. Jenkins would deal with that later.

Kulikova slipped on her clothing and took the ziplock bag to a mirror in the hall. She tried on several wigs and eventually chose a gray wig that, with the clothing, transformed her into an elderly babushka.

The man pulled out a pair of white coveralls still in its sealed pack and removed the black cap from his head. He handed both to Jenkins. “Extra large. I hope they fit.” He then held out the keys to the van and an 8?-by-11-inch manila envelope. Jenkins reviewed what was inside the envelope as the man spoke. Rubles and four train tickets to board the Trans-Siberian Railway. It was clear the man expected Jenkins to switch places with him and wheel Kulikova in the box back down to the van. This was not likely. Not with the man in the Mercedes watching.

“This is where I must leave you,” the man said. He turned to Kulikova. “Get to the Yaroslavsky rail terminal. It is less than three kilometers directly down—”

“I know where it is,” Kulikova said.

“Ditch the van. Catch the 322 train, which goes all the way to Vladivostok. We have booked you first class, a family of four—in case Lubyanka checks the airports and train stations. After security, go directly to your train. No need to go to the ticket counter. Cut it close so the matrons don’t have time to review your passports too closely. Until then, the less you are seen, the better.” The man moved toward the front door, leaving the box and the dolly. “There is no other way out of the building except the front door. I will ditch my coveralls in the garbage bin and wait until you are gone. Good luck.”

“Hold on,” Jenkins said. With the Mercedes already in place, they couldn’t get out of the building by walking out the front door to the van, which made the van useless to them, except as a decoy. He handed the man back the keys and the hat and put the white coveralls back in the box.

“Take that chair,” he said, pointing. “Put it in the box and wheel the dolly back to the van. Act as if you are transporting heavy cargo.”

“How will you—”

“Do it,” Jenkins said. “When you get to the ground level, wait five minutes before you go out the door.”

The man looked at Jenkins like he was crazy. “All right. Good luck, then,” he said. He lifted the chair and set it in the box, then departed with the box on the dolly.

Jenkins went back to the window. “Get the burner phone,” he said to Kulikova. “You’re going to make a call.” He explained what he wanted her to do as he changed into the clothes, and put on the wig and facial hair.





32


Varsonof’yevskiy Pereulok

Moscow, Russia

Zhomov drove down Varsonof’yevskiy Pereulok, a narrow one-lane road with cars parked on each side of the street that made it more narrow. The apartment buildings were pressed tightly together—the only respite from the concrete and stucco being a small strip of green behind a wrought-iron fence. Zhomov spotted an alley just to the north of the park where he could watch the front door of the yellow sandstone building to which Sokalov had directed him.

Once he was parked, however, a white van pulled to the curb, blocking Sokalov’s view of the front door. A tall man with dark skin exited the van in white coveralls and a black baseball hat. He removed a handcart and used it to wheel a tall cardboard box toward the front door. Unable to see, Zhomov got out of the vehicle and stepped to the building corner. When the deliveryman entered the building, Zhomov almost rushed the door, but he decided to wait. Fifteen minutes passed before the door opened and the man emerged, though Zhomov could not see his face and confirm it was the same man. He wheeled the cardboard box back to the van.

Zhomov approached. He pulled the gun from the holster hidden beneath his coat and held it behind his back. When he was within six feet he said, “Proshu proshcheniya.” Excuse me.

The man ignored him. Zhomov could not get a good look at his face. He stepped closer, bringing the gun down by his leg. “Proshu proshcheniya!”

The man looked over at him. “Are you talking to me?”

“Remove your hat.”

“What for?”

Zhomov raised the gun. “Do it.”

The man raised his hands. “I deliver furniture. I don’t have anything of value.”

Zhomov ripped the hat from the man’s head. Not Charles Jenkins. He looked to the box. “What do you have in the box?”

“A chair to be reupholstered.”

“Open it.”

The man pulled open the box, revealing the chair.

“Freeze!” someone shouted. “Drop your weapon. Drop your weapon.”

Zhomov shifted his gaze to a short man in a sport coat and porkpie hat holding him at gunpoint. In the other hand he held a badge and identification. “Do not move again unless I tell you to do so. I am Arkhip Mishkin, chief investigator, Moscow Criminal Investigation Department. Drop your weapon. Now.”