The Silent Sisters (Charles Jenkins #3)(72)

“Yes, Officer. What do you have for me?”

“Well, nothing, I’m afraid.”

“Nothing?”

“The man’s name is Zhomov. Alexander Zhomov. But when I ran his name through the customary databases on my car’s computer, I came up with nothing. His file has been sealed.”

So it wasn’t nothing. It was very much something. “On whose authority was his file sealed?” Arkhip asked, though he suspected he knew the answer.

“Lubyanka. My inquiry produced a telephone number for us to immediately call.”

“Have you made that call?”

“I thought it best to call you, as instructed.”

“I will make the call, Officer Orlov. If a head is to roll, I would prefer it be mine. I’m close to retirement, anyway.”

“Thank you, Chief Investigator.” He could hear the relief in the officer’s voice.

“Take Mr. Zhomov to Petrovka and detain him as I advised until you hear back from me. Do not let him make any telephone calls until then.”

Arkhip disconnected, slipped his phone back in the pocket of his slacks, and smiled. What were they going to do to him if he didn’t call? Fire him?

He drew closer to Jenkins and Kulikova but continued to maintain a comfortable distance. Cars and buses filled the streets with the smell of diesel and the sounds of the awakening city. They neared Komsomolskaya Square. The trains. Of course. Moscow had more than nine terminals with a multitude of different platforms at each. If Jenkins and Kulikova could avoid CCTV detection and get on one of the trains, they could get a long way from Moscow, and there were far fewer, if any, cameras. Arkhip paused when the two stopped. Jenkins bent down. From his angle, Arkhip could not tell why. Just as quickly Jenkins rose, and he and Kulikova entered Yaroslavsky rail terminal. Here, Arkhip could not delay. If he lost them inside the station, he would not know the train they boarded, and he doubted Stepanov would again be so charitable, or that cameras would be available in the smaller towns where Jenkins and Kulikova might be headed.

He used his identification to move past the line and enter the railway terminal. He didn’t immediately see either Jenkins or Kulikova, then spotted the old man he presumed to be Jenkins passing through one of the metal detectors. He spotted Kulikova at a different machine, still in disguise. They had split up. A smart move. He decided to follow Jenkins, since he was Arkhip’s person of interest. He again flashed his badge and stepped past the metal detectors. Jenkins had entered a store within the terminal. Arkhip sat on a bench near lockers and waited for him to emerge. Jenkins remained in the store for about five minutes. He exited carrying a large plastic bag and went into the restroom on the other side of the terminal.

Arkhip watched the door. Men came and went, but he did not see Jenkins, the old man, emerge. What would be the purpose of the bathroom—the usual, of course, but then why go into the store and what would he buy? Other disguises?

He looked about the terminal and noted a man at the doors leading to the platform studying his ticket. He wore a red sweatshirt with the hood pulled over a baseball cap, obscuring much of his face, and a backpack. It was not just the hood and the hat that concealed Jenkins; if this was Jenkins, he had seemingly transformed his whole persona—the way he stood and, when he pushed open the door and moved to the platform, the way he walked: quicker, shoulders slumped, head down. He appeared much younger, a man rushing to catch his train.

Arkhip followed. The man crossed to a kiosk in the middle of the platform and moved to the far side. Arkhip looked back and gazed up at the CCTV cameras on the light stanchion. The man sought refuge from the cameras. On the other side of the kiosk, he seemed to be looking to the terminal doors, as if searching for someone. Arkhip could not get a clear look at his face.

Minutes later the man stood in line to board a train car while the provodnitsas, female attendants in red berets and dark-blue uniforms, checked tickets and passports. This time Arkhip got a look at his face. Jenkins.

Arkhip went to the ticket counter and flashed his badge. “Where does the train on platform eighteen go?”

“The end of the line is Vladivostok.”

“I will need a private cabin,” Arkhip said. He’d never ridden on the Trans-Siberian Railway, though he had read about it. Like most Muscovites, it was one of those bucket-list items he and Lada never got around to accomplishing. He’d do so now, using his expense budget. While he still had one.

No sense wasting his retirement funds. Not just yet.





36


Lubyanka

Moscow, Russia

Dmitry Sokalov stood at the windows of his office staring across Moscow to the Kremlin and ignoring the ringing of his cell phone. He sipped heavily on a glass of vodka and turned to the sound of his office door opening. Zhomov stepped in. He had spent most of the morning at the Moscow police station. The arresting officer had apparently refused to allow him to make a phone call or to even enter his name into the computer. Had he done so, a prompt would have informed the officer to release Zhomov without any questions. Zhomov had apparently said enough buzzwords to finally reach a captain in the Criminal Investigation Department and get him to run a background check. When he did, Zhomov was released immediately. “We are going to have a problem,” Zhomov said.

“Just one?” Sokalov asked.

“The three men arrested work for Yekaterina Velikaya,” Zhomov said. “What is their interest in this?”