The Silent Sisters (Charles Jenkins #3)(82)

“You’ll be free,” he said.

“To do what?” She asked a simple question, though Jenkins realized it was anything but. She had never been free. She’d always been trapped within the confines of her spying. It had occupied her every waking moment and thought.

“Whatever you want,” he said.

“I wish I knew, Mr. Jenkins. For years my day was predetermined to the minute, and many of my nights as well. When I wasn’t working, I thought of work, of the things I had done, and that I would have to do. I prepared for the possibility that each day would be my last. I fear I won’t know what to do without that burden that took up so much of my life, that filled my every waking hour.”

He wanted to tell her he had lived for many years just as she had lived, alone with his guilt. He wanted to tell her how Alex had popped into his life and changed everything. He wanted to tell her that age was just a number, that old dogs could learn new tricks. But it would just be words. She needed to find out for herself.

“Don’t try to think too much about what is to happen,” he said. “My mother used to tell me that life is a lot like reading a book. You don’t know what is going to happen next unless you turn the page and read to the ending. That’s the beauty of reading. The journey.”

“I hope, Charlie, that your mother was reading a good book. One with a happy ending. I would like that very much.”

“So would I, Maria.” He checked his watch. “It’s almost time.” He tried to smile, to project confidence.

She reached across the aisle and squeezed his hand. “It’s going to be okay,” she said. “Let us turn the page together, Charlie. And see what happens next.”



Jenkins looked out the window as the train neared Irkutsk, but at just before four in the morning the view remained pitch-black, not a glimpse of the sun yet on the horizon. According to the brochure, the train snaked along the Angara River, which flowed through the middle of the city from the southern end of Lake Baikal, the deepest freshwater lake in the world. Of the hundreds of rivers that flowed into Baikal, the Angara was the only one that flowed out. Jenkins hoped that served as an augury, that he and Kulikova would also get out. The train station was built along the river, several miles from the lake.

Jenkins put on the gray sweatshirt, pulled the baseball cap low on his brow, and lifted the hood over the hat. He slid the backpack onto his shoulder and tightened the straps. He stepped to the window as the train rolled into the Irkutsk train station, the platform illuminated by streetlamps. He surveyed the faces of the people waiting on the platform as the train rolled past. Irkutsk was a main hub on the Trans-Siberian Railway, and a considerable number of tired-looking people waited to board the cars. The train lurched to a stop. Jenkins slid between the bunks to the door and turned back to Maria. “Remember. If I take off the backpack, we’re good. If I don’t—”

“I’ll get out of there as fast as I can.” She smiled and he knew it was to calm him.

He pulled open the door. Despite the early hour, sleepy passengers trudged down the train toward the exits, dragging rolling suitcases behind them. Jenkins shut the cabin door and heard Maria lock it from the inside. He shuffled into the line. At the exit he looked out at the faces on the platform. No one he recognized. He felt the cool morning air, a strong breeze blowing in from the river. The provodnik advised each passenger to watch his or her step. On the platform Jenkins walked with the mass of travelers toward a covered stairwell, again searching for a familiar face and waiting for someone to approach and tell him they were “a friend.”

He speculated whether the friend could be Lemore, but just as quickly concluded such a scenario was far too dangerous. More likely the friend was an asset who intended to remain anonymous. He hoped it wasn’t a trap, but that was a possibility too.

To his right, across the tracks, the Irkutsk train terminal looked like a two-story, turn-of-the-century palace with bright-green paint and white trim highlighting the arched windows and elaborate molding. Jenkins followed the commuters to the covered stairwell and descended to a tunnel beneath the tracks. The wheels of the rolling suitcases echoed off of the tiled walls, a hum that sounded like jet engines. The travelers kept their voices to a minimum, exhausted by the early hour. He ascended a stairwell on the other side of the train tracks and paused, again looking for “a friend,” but also to give someone time to approach or to make eye contact. Seeing no one, he entered the train terminal. He kept his head directed forward, but his gaze shifted left and right. He looked for men seemingly taking an interest in the passengers, maybe wearing concealed earpieces. He looked to their mouths to see if their lips moved. If this was a trap, there would be more than one, and they would communicate with one another.

Again, he saw no one.

No one approached him.

He neared the exit. He stopped for a moment and bent to tie his shoelace, taking the time to look for Maria. He did not see her.

He stepped through the exit but remained atop the step to scan the parking lot. Lamps on stanchions illuminated a bus at the bus stop across the lot and the parked cars. The commuters exited the depot and crossed the lot.

Jenkins kept his gaze roaming.

Headlights flashed on a black Citroen in the parking lot. A moment later a man pushed out of the car into the light of dawn.

Jenkins couldn’t believe what he saw. Nor could he suppress a smile. He did not know how Lemore had arranged this, but he was certain he’d find out soon enough, and in great detail. He departed the step into the parking lot, about to slide the backpack strap from his shoulder.