The Silent Sisters (Charles Jenkins #3)(77)

“No,” Maria said. “It certainly does not.”

Arkhip turned a chair and waited for Maria to sit, then turned a second chair to face her. “I hope you did not think of me as too forward,” he said.

“No. I just misunderstood you.”

Arkhip sipped his coffee. “Where are you heading, Maria? All the way to the end? Vladivostok?”

“One doesn’t know,” she said, deliberately vague. “And you?” She lied easily and without remorse, and she was a quick judge of character. She could quickly assess what someone wanted, especially men. She did not get the sense Arkhip wanted anything but a little companionship. If he were FSB, unlikely, or a Velikaya, even more unlikely, she got no such sense.

“To the end, of course,” he said. “My first time riding the Trans-Siberian. I may not get to do it again. I am no spring chicken.”

“How old are you, Arkhip?”

“Sixty-four. I will retire shortly.”

“What is it that you do?”

“I work security for an industrial firm in Moscow. And you?”

“I am a secretary.”

He pointed to her finger. “I see that you are married.”

She, too, pointed. “And you as well.”

“No,” he said, spinning the ring on his finger. “Not anymore. I am widowed.”

“I’m sorry. Was it recent?”

He seemed to give her question some thought. “To me, yes. Two years.”

“You must have loved your wife very much.”

“More than breathing,” he said. Then he smiled and sipped his tea.

“That’s nice,” she said. “A nice sentiment to love someone so much.”

“Yes, though it makes it all the more painful to lose them, I suppose.”

“You still wear your ring?”

“Yes.” He cleared his throat. “Your husband has no trouble sleeping then?”

He had changed the painful subject. “No, he does not. He snores like a bull.” She kept guarded about her personal life, but they spoke on a variety of subjects: Russian politics, travel, hobbies, the world. Maria relaxed. She found herself enjoying the conversation, though she remained on guard. Arkhip sounded very much like his work had become his life, especially since his wife’s death from breast cancer. He expressed several times that he had been a fool to put off until tomorrow what they could have done today.

They spoke until Maria’s remaining tea had turned cold. “I should be getting back—in case my husband wakes and wonders where I am.”

Arkhip rose and gave a slight bow. “Thank you for indulging me and my poor humor.”

Maria smiled. “Thank you for not taking offense at my response.”

“None taken. I’m sure you are asked quite a bit.”

“By men far less kind than you,” she said. She started back to her carriage.

“I would enjoy the chance to meet your husband, Maria,” Arkhip said.

She didn’t answer. She just smiled.



A click awoke him. The door to the adjacent cabin opened. Jenkins startled, sat up quickly, and hit his head on the luggage rack over the bed. He fell back. Stars flittered in and out of his vision and he tried to shake them away. Maria Kulikova entered the compartment. He exhaled a held breath, wincing in pain.

“Where did you go?” he asked.

“Tea,” she said, holding the paper cup. “I could not sleep.”

“Did you see anyone?”

“Just a lonely widower unable to sleep.”

Jenkins let out another held breath and rubbed the top of his head. Under the circumstances he figured this was as good a time as any to leave the cabin.

“Are you hurt?” she asked.

“Only my pride.” He pulled a timetable from the unused bed and studied it. “We will arrive in Perm tomorrow and then Yekaterinburg. I will get off at each stop in case someone is trying to pass us a message, and to try to get an Internet connection on the platform. Hopefully, I’ll get more information and we’ll both know what to expect going forward. I don’t like traveling blind like this.”

“At least, Charlie, we are traveling. It could be much worse.”





40


Velikaya Estate

Novorizhskoye, Moscow

Two days after they lost Jenkins and Kulikova, Mily stepped into Yekaterina’s darkened study. He smelled cigarette smoke. A cigarette burned in an ashtray alongside several spent butts, the smoke spiraling languidly toward the ceiling. Yekaterina sat behind her desk, spotlit in one incandescent circle of light as she spoke on a cell phone, one of many burner phones she used and frequently discarded. The shades had been pulled across the two arched windows, the air inside the room so still Mily could hear the static in his ears.

Yekaterina picked up the cigarette and inhaled deeply, like giving a hug to an old friend after a long absence. She had stopped smoking when information on the correlation between smoking and cancer could no longer be refuted. She’d simply removed the cigarettes from the house, forbade anyone from smoking in her presence, brought in cleaners who sprayed various aromas to remove or mask the smell, and quit cold turkey. Because he spent so much of his time in her presence, Mily, too, had to quit, though not as easily. He still occasionally smoked at home.