The Silent Sisters (Charles Jenkins #3)(73)

“That is what I have been trying to figure out these last several hours.”

“It looks like you’ve been drinking,” Zhomov said.

“Yes, a fair amount of that also.”

“So . . . What have you learned?”

Sokalov told Zhomov how Charles Jenkins’s fingerprint came up on a beer bottle in the Yakimanka Bar where Eldar Velikaya was killed, and he didn’t think it could be a coincidence.

“It appears Yekaterina used her influence to have the CCTV tape outside the bar expunged, and the prostitute and the bodyguard have been killed.”

“The bartender?”

“Is no longer talking.”

“Who is the investigator who arrested me?”

“Arkhip Mishkin,” Sokalov said. He opened a folder on his desk and tossed an eight-by-ten photograph across the table at Zhomov.

Zhomov nodded. “How did he know Jenkins was at the apartment?”

“I don’t know. I can only assume someone advised him when Jenkins was spotted on the CCTV cameras.”

“You have a leak.”

“I will deal with that after you find Jenkins and Kulikova.”

Zhomov smiled. “So Jenkins has the Moscow police and the Velikayas after him, as well as the FSB. One could end our problem for us.”

“No. They will make it worse. If the Moscow police arrest them, word of Kulikova being a spy will spread too fast for us to stop it. And Yekaterina Velikaya’s interest is directly contrary to mine. She holds a grudge from the killing of her father, and Kulikova possesses the kind of information to destroy me. Yekaterina will kill Jenkins for his role in her son’s death, and we . . . I will lose the opportunity to use Jenkins as I must. I need Kulikova dead and Jenkins alive. I need you to find them first.”

If Zhomov could pull off both, Sokalov’s position as chairman and his seat at the Kremlin table awaited him. It would arm Sokalov in his battle with his father-in-law, should the general ever learn of the affair with Kulikova. With Sokalov as chairman of the National Antiterrorist Committee, his father-in-law would tell his daughter to forgive and forget—for the sake of their children, but really for the general’s sake. Having someone so high up in the government would allow him to gain favors not currently within his reach, and while General Roman Portnov loved his daughter, he also loved the luxuries his title could accord him.

“Do we know where Jenkins and Kulikova have gone?” Zhomov asked.

“The Information Technologies Center says they are working on it. We have to assume what they learn will be passed on to the Velikayas also, maybe before it is passed on to us.”

“What do you want me to do, then?”

“Stand by,” Sokalov said. “I also have men watching the Velikayas. They may have some value yet. They will go after Jenkins. When they do, I will notify you.”





37


Yaroslavsky Rail Terminal

Moscow, Russia

The train to Vladivostok wasn’t one of the sleek, white bullet trains that sped between Moscow and Saint Petersburg, among other places. These cars were significantly older, with years under their belt, and slower. This train wasn’t about getting from one place to the next as quickly as possible; it was about the experience, about the journey. The cars were painted bright colors—dark blue, bright red, a vibrant yellow, and a pea-soup green. Jenkins hoped the train choice would throw off those searching for him and Kulikova, that they would focus on quicker means of getting out of Russia and not think two people in a hurry would travel for days on a train.

Jenkins walked behind the kiosk and removed his sweatshirt and ball cap, shoving them into the backpack and exchanging them for the blue beret and scarf. He looked across the platform. Kulikova did not change her clothes or her appearance. Her disguise was more elaborate, and its success was premised on the man and his two small children welcoming her presence, looking like a family about to take a trip on the historic railway. Kulikova approached one of two provodnitsas, who checked passenger tickets before boarding. The provodnitsa did not ask to see a passport, a good sign.

Jenkins walked to the other end of the car and mingled with another group of passengers, keeping his face turned away from the CCTV cameras and slouching as much as he could. A male attendant, a provodnik, was not as easygoing as the two women, asking passengers for their passports and slowing Jenkins’s progress. Jenkins reached into his bag and retrieved a passport prepared at Langley. In his photograph, he was a Black man from Germany with facial hair.

The provodnik took Jenkins’s passport and ticket, considered both from behind round glasses, then held the photograph up to better compare it with Jenkins.

“Vy pobrilis’.” You shaved.

Jenkins squinted as if he didn’t understand Russian.

“I said, ‘You shaved.’” The provodnik spoke in heavily accented English and rubbed a hand over her chin.

“My wife did not like the beard. For her, I shaved,” Jenkins said in broken English but with a German accent.

“Where is the rest of your party?” The provodnik looked past Jenkins, presumably for his fictitious wife and their two children—or grandchildren.

“There.” Jenkins pointed down the platform to where Kulikova stepped onto the train after two small children. “I stopped to pick up souvenirs.”