The Silent Sisters (Charles Jenkins #3)(70)

The three men in the Range Rover were likely Yekaterina Velikaya’s men. The man in the Mercedes was more likely an FSB officer, or had been, given his familiarity with the arrest process. It raised still more pressing questions.

The FSB had sent just one officer for a man and a woman wanted so desperately?

The only logical explanation was, as Arkhip had suspected, to keep this matter quiet. If that were the case, were Arkhip to arrest Jenkins and bring him to Building 38, Petrovka Street, he doubted he would even have the chance to interrogate Jenkins about the fight in the alley that led to Eldar Velikaya’s death, and that was Arkhip’s only real concern. The FSB would snatch Jenkins, and Kulikova for that matter, before Arkhip ever had the chance to open his mouth. As for the presence of Velikaya’s three men in the Range Rover, it proved, once again, that there were more holes at Building 38, Petrovka Street, than a slice of Swiss cheese.

Arkhip would get no answers from the three men or the man he had arrested. They were sophisticated enough to know they didn’t have to answer his questions. The FSB would bail out the Mercedes driver, and Velikaya money would bail out the other three.

And Arkhip’s investigation would be screwed yet again, and he had already been sufficiently screwed this day, thank you very much. He might not get another chance at Jenkins, not if the FSB got a hold of him first.

What he needed was what Charles Jenkins and Maria Kulikova needed, why they had likely perpetrated this scenario. Arkhip needed time.

“Chief Investigator?”

Arkhip removed a business card from his coat pocket and handed it to the officer. He then removed his hat and his sport jacket, and he also handed them over. “Do me a favor,” he said. “Place my hat and jacket on my desk at Building 38, Petrovka.” He provided the man detailed instructions. “You can do this for me, yes?”

“I will take care of it, but—”

“Take the four men to Petrovka. Book them on suspicion of armed robbery and illegal possession of weapons. Keep this one separate from the other three.”

“What are you going to do?” the officer asked.

“I am a chief investigator,” Arkhip said. “I am going to do my job.”





34


Yaroslavsky Rail Terminal

Moscow, Russia

Jenkins and Kulikova kept to side streets and, when possible, alleys. They moved as quickly as they could without looking suspicious. Jenkins checked his watch. They had forty-five minutes to get to the train station and through security. Jenkins had been told that while the Yaroslavsky rail terminal had CCTV cameras, the Trans-Siberian trains did not. Just the same, once on board, he and Kulikova would need to stay within their cabin and mostly out of sight. The ticket purchased for them was for a family of four traveling to Vladivostok, the end of the line. Seven days. Jenkins didn’t expect to ever see the end of the line, however. He expected Lemore would somehow get word to him to get off at a designated location, where alternative travel arrangements were being made for them. How Jenkins was going to retrieve those messages with a water-damaged phone, he had no idea, but he’d solve one problem at a time.

“How much farther?” Jenkins asked, grateful at least that Moscow had awakened, and they could better blend with the crowd emerging on the sidewalks. Buses and cars spewed diesel fumes.

“Not far,” Kulikova said.

“We’ll split up when we get there,” Jenkins said. “But stay within eyesight and meet on board the train. This is what I would suggest when we get to—”

“Mr. Jenkins,” Kulikova interrupted. “I have spent my life hidden, real or imagined. Yaroslavsky is Moscow’s busiest railway station, with many shops in which we can hide until our train departs. Do not worry about me. Worry about yourself. A man of your skin color and height is rare in Moscow. I’m surprised you have survived this long. You must be very good at what you do.”

And lucky, Jenkins thought. “I assume the man in the Mercedes was Zhomov?”

“Yes,” she said. “And I am assuming the three men in the Range Rover were Yekaterina Velikaya’s men. All four will be detained, but not for long. Hopefully long enough for us to get on the train.”

“How are Velikaya’s men getting their information?” Jenkins asked.

“Ordinarily, I would say from FSB officers. Yekaterina pays many, and the pay is more than what they earn as federal employees. But if Sokalov is keeping my betrayal and your return quiet, then Velikaya’s information must be coming from the Moscow police, who have access to the Information Technologies Center.”

“That’s the agency that runs the CCTV cameras?”

“And stores the information collected.”

“Did you recognize the plainclothes officer who approached Zhomov?”

“I did not get a good look at him. I assume he is Moscow police, likely an investigator.”

“Why would an investigator respond to an emergency call of an armed robbery?” Jenkins asked.

“This I do not know.”

They came within sight of Komsomolskaya Square, a bustle of activity with four different train stations and trains departing to dozens of destinations and people walking in all directions. Jenkins and Paulina Ponomayova had caught a train to Saint Petersburg from the Leningradsky station across the square. Jenkins scanned the sidewalks behind them but did not see anyone who appeared to be following them. Then again, he didn’t have a lot of time to watch. A stream of passengers entered and exited the Yaroslavsky rail terminal, enough people, he hoped, for the two of them to become lost. The terminal looked like a cathedral of white stone, with thick columns, narrow windows, and a tall steeple.