The Eighth Sister

by Robert Dugoni

  Federov glanced at him, and the two men held one another’s gaze. Saving face—projected strength—meant everything to Russian men. Jenkins purposefully broke eye contact first.

  “Besides, the noise in here makes it next to impossible that anyone could hear us or record our conversation,” Jenkins said in English. “I think that is best to suit our purposes this morning. I assume you do also, which is why we’re here.”

  Federov stared at the screen. “Perhaps we should start with your purpose?” he said.

  “Fair enough. As I said on the phone, I’m an American businessman with information I think the Russian government would appreciate.”

  “What kind of business?”

  “Security.”

  A grin inched across Federov’s lips. “In Russia, some would say we have enough security, maybe too much.”

  “And in the United States, some would say we don’t have enough to protect us from those who seek to harm us.” He sighed. “My job is a convenience for my presence in your country.”

  “Why don’t you tell me why you are here.”

  “Have you ever visited Mexico City?” Jenkins asked.

  Federov’s eyebrows inched closer together. “No. I have not.”

  “You’re too young.” Jenkins estimated Federov to be midforties. “In my day, you couldn’t throw a rock without hitting a Russian KGB officer in Mexico City.”

  “And what was your business in Mexico City?”

  Jenkins smiled. “Throwing rocks at Russian KGB officers.”

  Federov glanced at Jenkins for a moment, then laughed.

  “Yo era un turista estadounidense en México,” Jenkins said in Spanish. I was an American tourist in Mexico.

  “I see. So tell me, what then is the nature of your information?”

  “The names of Russian KGB officers I hit with those rocks.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “Stones that found their mark.”

  “Russian KGB officers who defected?”

  “No. Those who stayed.”

  “I see.” Federov was clearly intrigued but would not show it. He shrugged. “This was many years ago. The Soviet Union is no more. What makes you think we would still be interested?”

  “Yes, I’ve read all about glasnost and perestroika. So perhaps I am wrong in my assumption that someone like me would have anything of value to offer this new Russia.”

  “Perhaps not,” Federov said, but then added, “one can only try.”

  Jenkins nodded. It was time to boat the fish. “Alexei Sukurov. I believe he was a former colonel in your KGB, and for forty years he provided the United States with valuable information regarding Soviet weapons technology. The operation went by the code name Graystone.”

  “I have not heard of this man.”

  Jenkins smiled. “Because he would be an embarrassment to your country. Look him up, Mr. Federov. If he interests you, let me know.”

  “How long will you be in Moscow, Mr. Jenkins?”

  “One never knows,” Jenkins said, noting that Federov had not asked where he was staying.

  “And if this man is of interest, what is it that you would want in return?”

  “What every American wants,” Jenkins said. “What every Russian wants, at least from what I saw on my brief walk this morning. We’re all capitalists now, aren’t we?”

  7

  The call to Jenkins’s burner phone came the following afternoon, as Jenkins hurried up the carpeted runner into the Metropol Hotel’s marbled lobby after another round of largely unnecessary meetings with LSR&C’s Moscow office. He’d scheduled the meetings only because he wanted to give Federov time to do his due diligence on Alexei Sukurov. According to Emerson, Sukurov, a high-ranking KGB officer, had for years provided the United States with detailed information on Soviet technology before his death. His name itself was, therefore, inconsequential. The hope was Federov would be curious about whether Jenkins had access to more relevant but equally sensitive information.

  The call confirmed Federov was curious.

  The FSB officer again requested that Jenkins come to the Lubyanka Building. Again, Jenkins declined. He suggested instead that they meet in a restaurant. In an effort to soothe Federov’s ego, Jenkins further suggested that Federov pick him up at the hotel, then drive until satisfied Jenkins was not being followed by any CIA case officers—a procedure which, in Jenkins’s day, had been called “dry cleaning.”

  An hour later, Jenkins walked down the steps outside the back of the hotel. While he waited, heavy snowflakes drifted on a light breeze before settling on the paved courtyard like fall leaves, tempering sound and giving Moscow a tranquil feeling.

  A black Mercedes pulled into the courtyard and stopped at the base of the stairs. Federov sat in the passenger seat, staring out the windshield. Jenkins heard the click of the door locks disengage, and the valet pulled open the rear door. Jenkins slid into the back seat behind Federov. The block of cement drove. They did not exchange pleasantries.

  The driver merged onto surface streets. Jenkins noticed both men checking mirrors for a tail.

  The driver made a sudden and sharp right turn, forcing Jenkins to grab the ceiling handle and fight against the centrifugal force threatening to throw him across the back seat. The bottom of the car scraped concrete. The wheels bounced. When they stopped, the headlights illuminated a narrow brick alley, barely the width of the car. The driver shut off the ignition and killed the lights. Then he and Federov quickly exited the car. Federov opened the back door.

  “Step out, please.”

  Jenkins stepped out, hoping this was not their final stop. The alley reeked of the sour scent of garbage.

  The driver patted down Jenkins from his head to his feet. When he’d finished, he nodded to Federov, who gave a hand signal down the alley. Headlights from a second car, parked in an arched tunnel, illuminated the alley. The car inched forward from its hiding place. Three men, one as tall as Jenkins, emerged from a red Audi and walked quickly and silently to the black Mercedes. The tallest sat in the back. The new driver drove down the alley, turning right on the intersecting street.

  Jenkins followed Federov and his driver to the Audi and climbed into the back seat. They exited the alley in the direction they had entered. The block of cement resumed making unexpected turns and slowing and accelerating to time traffic signal lights. When satisfied no one followed, the driver pulled to a stop on Tverskoy Boulevard in front of a Baroque-style building with a gold plaque bearing the name Café Pushkin.

  Jenkins followed Federov and the driver into the restaurant, passing through a modest crowd seated in the bar. They climbed a narrow staircase to the second floor, where the maître d’ waited, as if expecting them. He led them through what looked to be an elaborate personal library, with dining tables tucked behind ornately carved bookshelves displaying the gold spines of antique books. Tiny lamps with shades hung from the ends of bookcases. With dark mahogany wood, arched windows, and hunter-green tablecloths, the room had the look and the feel of one described in the Harry Potter novels Jenkins read each night to CJ.

  On a snowy weeknight, the room was sparsely populated, though Jenkins heard soft voices speaking Russian and the clink and ping of silverware and glasses. The smells emanating from the kitchen made his mouth water, and he realized that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. The maître d’ maneuvered his way around another bookshelf and gestured to a table positioned in the corner. Two drinks—vodka from the look of it—had been placed on the table. A waiter in a white shirt, red vest, and an apron that extended below his knees offered menus. Federov declined, ordering on the spot. Jenkins struggled to understand what was being ordered but deciphered sparkling water, champagne, caviar, and veal cutlets with fried onions.

  Either the Kremlin had really liked Jenkins’s information, or Federov, like many American government employees, saw an opportunity to expense a meal and decided to do it right.

  “Your agency must pay you
well. Far better than in the United States,” Jenkins said, looking about the room after the waiter had departed.

  Federov said, “I’m sorry for the theatrics, Mr. Jenkins, but one cannot be too certain when first meeting.”

  “I take that to mean that you verified Alexei Sukurov?”

  “Mr. Sukurov is deceased,” Federov said.

  “Natural causes?” Jenkins asked.

  Federov picked up his drink. The second drink sat on the table before Jenkins. He poked his thumb in the direction of the block of cement. “He’s not drinking?”

  “Arkady Volkov,” Federov said. “And no, he is not drinking. He’s driving. It would be irresponsible.” Federov raised his cocktail glass. “Za fstrye-tchoo.” To our meeting.

  Jenkins returned the toast and put the vodka to his lips but did not drink.

  Federov set down his glass. He kept his voice low. “You worked in Mexico City in 1978 with a man named Joe Branick, deceased. A suicide, I believe, no? An interesting explanation.” Jenkins did not respond. “You left Mexico City and returned to the United States. That is where your history seemingly ends, Mr. Jenkins.”

  And so it did, in a sense. Disillusioned and guilt-ridden, Jenkins left the CIA and sought isolation on his Camano farm, living alone until that fateful morning when Alex arrived.

  Jenkins unfolded his napkin and placed it in his lap. “I wasn’t particularly happy with my employer.”

  “Yes. It seems you were sent into the mountains of Oaxaca to report on a growing communist threat by a fabled Mexican leader known as El Profeta. Not long thereafter, the inhabitants of that village were massacred. The massacre was said to be the work of a right-wing Mexican militia. Another interesting explanation, no? How is my information so far?”

  Jenkins nodded but did not answer, due to the waiter’s timely return. The man set a plate of appetizers on the table, speaking while gesturing. “Rye-bread bruschetta with eggplant spread. Marinated mushrooms, and pickled vegetables. Naslazhdat’sya.”

  Federov picked up a piece of the bruschetta and spread the eggplant with a butter knife. “Please,” he said, gesturing to Jenkins. “You will enjoy.”

  Jenkins chose the bruschetta and spread, mimicking whatever Federov ate. The driver sat resolutely.

  “He doesn’t eat either?” Jenkins said. “Where do you replace his oil and batteries?”

  The driver slowly turned his head and stared at Jenkins. After a moment, he gave Jenkins the tiniest hint of a smile. This guy would be a riot at a comedy club.

  “To be clear, Mr. Jenkins.” Federov popped a mushroom in his mouth. “We are not interested in the names of dead former KGB officers.”

  “And yet, here we are,” Jenkins said.

  “Yes. Well, I assume that your purpose in advising me of Alexei Sukurov was to allow me to verify that at one time you had access to classified information. Yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you say that you have other information more currently relevant?”

  “I have access to information I believe would be very relevant.”

  “And how is it that an unhappy former case officer of the Central Intelligence Agency has such access after so many years, Mr. Jenkins?”

  “He wouldn’t,” Jenkins said.

  Federov paused, just a beat. Then he picked around the edges of the appetizers and Jenkins’s statement. “So, you are wasting our time?”

  Jenkins set down what remained of his bruschetta and wiped the corners of his mouth with his napkin. “On November 16 of this year, a secretary in the Russian Ministry of Defense, Zarina Kazakova, left the Russian White House, what you refer to as Belyy Dom, shortly after five p.m. to return to her apartment in the Filyovsky Park District.” He recited information Carl Emerson had provided. “Ms. Kazakova worked in the ministry of defense for nearly forty years. She received favorable reviews and had been recognized as a member of the party in good standing before glasnost. Her standing did not change thereafter. And yet, she would not return to work the next day or the day after. Her whereabouts, and the circumstances of her disappearance, are unknown.” He paused to take a bite of his bruschetta. “An interesting development, wouldn’t you say?”

  Federov’s Adam’s apple bobbed. He attempted to hide this with a sip of his vodka, but whether it was the news or the alcohol, he began to cough into his green napkin, suffering through an ill-timed hacking fit. The driver flinched but otherwise did not move. If Federov had been choking, he certainly would have died. The coughing slowed and finally ceased.

  “Excuse me,” Federov said, voice harsh. He sipped water. “I believe your saying is ‘the wrong pipe,’ yes?”

  “Yes,” Jenkins said.

  Federov placed his elbows on the table and made a steeple with his hands. “Your information is interesting,” he said. “Of course, it would need to be verified for its accuracy.”

  “Of course,” Jenkins said, though the coughing spasm had already done that.

  “Is there more?” Federov asked.

  Jenkins said, “Two other women, Irena Lavrova and Olga Artamonova, both similar in age to Ms. Kazakova, have also disappeared during the past eighteen months. They, too, left their employ with the Russian government and never returned. Would you like to hear about them?”

  Federov nodded. This time he sipped his water, not his vodka. He was interested. He was very interested.

  For the next ten minutes, Jenkins told Federov of the other two of the seven sisters, and the circumstances of each woman’s disappearance. He told Federov that in each instance, the Moscow police professed to have very little in the way of leads, or any hope they would find the three women, despite the pleas of family and friends.

  When he had finished sharing the information, Jenkins said, “You see, Viktor, sometimes the best disguise is no disguise at all. One can simply disappear in plain sight, and everyone speculates as to why he has done so, until they lose interest in him altogether. It is then that the person is most valuable . . . and the most dangerous. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “And what then would motivate such a person?”

  “My motive is not complicated, nor is it altruistic or patriotic. It is strictly financial,” Jenkins said. “My business is failing and I am financially tapped out. I can’t meet my payroll expenses and I’m about to lose everything I have worked so hard to achieve. I’ve signed personal guarantees on business loans, which puts my home and everything else I own at risk.”

  “You have a family?”

  “That is not relevant,” Jenkins said. He sat back. “Besides, you checked with your superiors and you confirmed my identity. Leave it at that. Now check with your superiors regarding the three women, whom I believe your agency refers to as three of ‘the seven sisters.’”

  Federov paused. “And you can provide the names of the other four sisters?”

  This was where things got dicey. If Jenkins said yes, there was very little preventing Federov from taking him immediately and seeking to extract the information, perhaps in one of the remodeled cells inside Lubyanka.

  “No. Not at present.”

  “But you have access to this information?”

  Jenkins shrugged. It should have been obvious that he did.

  “What is it you are proposing, Mr. Jenkins?”

  “I want fifty thousand dollars as a sign of good faith.”

  Federov smirked. “For information we already possessed? I don’t think so.”

  “Consider it a down payment. Any further information will cost an additional fifty thousand. Prior to my delivery of the seventh and final name, you will pay me a bonus of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

  “Five hundred thousand dollars,” Federov said, doing the math.

  “Consider it a deal.” Jenkins removed a sheet of paper with a bank account number on it and handed it to Federov. The number, again, had been provided by Carl Emerson. “The down payment will be wired to this bank before I leave tomorrow morning to catch my
flight home. If it is not, I will assume your superiors are not interested. If it is, you can call the number you called earlier and simply say ‘The down payment has been completed.’”

  The waiter returned, carrying trays of food and set them on the table. When he’d finished, Federov dismissed him. “I believe that my superiors will pay your initial expenses, Mr. Jenkins, but I see no basis—”

  “My terms are nonnegotiable,” Jenkins said, eating one of the mushrooms and issuing Federov his first challenge.

  “Then I will be discussing your terms with my superiors,” Federov said, offering no commitment. He took a piece of the veal and buried it under onions. As he cut his meat he said, “And I wish to provide you with information.”

  Jenkins nodded but he had not expected this.

  “Chekovsky, Nikolay Mikhail,” Federov said.

  “Who is Nikolay Chekovsky?” Jenkins asked, certain this was a test, though not yet certain of the purpose.

  “A name for you to remember. But do not disclose this name . . . to anyone.” Federov smiled but kept his eyes focused on his plate as he cut into his veal. “You are seeking a lot of money, Mr. Jenkins. My superiors wish to be sure you are not, how shall we say . . . playing us.” He took another bite, set down his utensils, and raised his cocktail glass. “Za tvoyo zdarovye,” he said. To our health.

  Jenkins raised his glass in his left hand. Beneath the table, he felt his right hand quiver.

  8

  Christmas morning, less than a month after his trip to Russia, Jenkins sat in his leather chair, sipping coffee and considering the array of empty boxes and wrapping paper strewn across the family room floor. CJ sat on the floor assembling an app-enabled droid that looked like something from a Star Wars movie—a rolling black ball. In the fireplace insert, pine and maple burned a bright red-orange, and the fan pushed out warm air. He could smell Alex’s cinnamon rolls baking in the kitchen and hear Max gnawing on a massive turkey bone—her annual Christmas present—beneath the dining room table.