The Silent Sisters (Charles Jenkins #3)(85)

“I don’t think so,” Federov said, his gaze dancing between the rearview mirror, the windshield, and Arkhip. “For one thing, your friend is carrying a gun. Tell me who you are, friend, or I will shoot you and leave your body along the side of the road.”

“I am Arkhip Mishkin, senior investigator with the Moscow police department.”

“You’re a police officer?” Maria said, stunned and feeling betrayed.

Arkhip glanced at the side mirror. “The other car is coming,” he said. “I suggest you turn, frequently, if you desire to lose him.”

Federov drew back the gun and checked his side and rearview mirrors, swearing repeatedly. He turned the car multiple times, weaving down alleys and streets without hesitation. Within a minute, Maria did not see Zhomov’s car in the side mirror.

Federov drove down a narrow alley, sending garbage cans flying over the hood and roof of the car. Just before the end of the alley, he pulled into a bay of a two-car garage in a concrete-block building. A car occupied the second bay, in the process of being pulled apart. Federov got out and quickly rolled the door shut.

Back at the car, he waved the gun at Arkhip and Maria inside the vehicle. “Both of you, get out.”

Maria and Arkhip did so. Light inside the concrete room came from fluorescent tubes in light fixtures suspended by chains from the ceiling. Spare car parts littered a wooden workbench along with tools. The aroma of oil and gas permeated the air.

Federov held Arkhip at gunpoint. “Remove your weapon slowly and hand it to me,” he said. Arkhip did so.

“You are a police officer? You have been following me?” Maria said again.

“Not a police officer. A senior investigator. And I was not following you, Ms. Kulikova. I was following Mr. Jenkins. I am sorry for not telling you the truth on the train, but I assume you can understand why.”

“How did you even know we were on the train?”

“I followed you from the apartment building in Moscow to the Yaroslavsky station. When you boarded the Trans-Siberian train I had no choice but to follow.”

“What is your business in this?” Federov asked.

“My business is the murder of Eldar Velikaya,” Arkhip said. “My business is speaking to Mr. Jenkins.”

Federov laughed. “Well, you’ve bitten off a lot more than a murder, Investigator Mishkin.”

Arkhip looked to Maria and spoke calmly. “Yes. It appears that I have.”

“On the train . . .” Maria struggled to find her words. “I don’t understand. Why didn’t you just arrest Mr. Jenkins? Why take the train all the way to Irkutsk?”

Arkhip didn’t immediately answer but his look was telling. He had not been following Maria, but he had been anticipating their meetings. “My situation is complicated, as is yours, Ms. Kulikova. As I said to you the other night, I am being retired. I might already be retired. This is the thanks I get for three decades of service, a pat on the back as I am ushered out the door. I am trying to come to terms with forced retirement, but not before I close this case. Not for them—they have already removed me from it. For myself.”

Maria looked to Federov and they all collectively exhaled. “What do we do now?” she asked.

“He stays with us for now,” Federov said. “We can’t very well let him leave; and killing a Moscow police officer will generate more interest, and we have enough as it is.”

“I assure you. I have no interest in this except in speaking to Mr. Jenkins. If I cannot leave on my terms, at least I will leave with a perfect record. It is a small thing, and it isn’t.”

“What is your interest in this, Viktor?” Maria said. “Are you a CIA asset?”

Federov chuckled. “No. I am not CIA. I am no longer FSB. I have no affiliation with government organizations any longer, nor do I wish to be so affiliated.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Money,” Federov said. “It pays better to be an independent contractor.”

“You approached the CIA and offered your services?”

“No. The CIA, Mr. Jenkins specifically, approached me several months ago and asked for my services.”

“You helped him get Paulina Ponomayova out of Lefortovo Prison and out of the country.”

“Yes,” he said. “For which I was paid very well.”

“Then why are you here now . . . It doesn’t sound like you need the money.”

“One can always use more money, Ms. Kulikova.” He shook his head. “But no. It was not the money. Mr. Jenkins’s handler found me in Paris. It seems the CIA has followed me for some time, my alias anyway. They seek to turn me.” He looked to Arkhip. “But like you, I will do this on my terms, nobody else’s. Mr. Jenkins’s handler told me the situation. I said it was of no concern of mine. He offered me money; I told him I had money. Then he offered me something I didn’t have.”

“What?” she said.

“The chance to spit in Dmitry Sokalov’s face is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, is it not?”

“The man who fired you.”

“Yes. Besides, Mr. Jenkins’s handler told me his plan to get you out, and I am from Irkutsk. I was born and raised here. I have many friends, and I know this city like the back of my hand.”