The Eighth Sister

by Robert Dugoni

  Jenkins smiled. It was the first bit of humor Federov had displayed. Perhaps the information Jenkins had provided the prior evening was causing Federov to warm to him. “That’s why you wanted the seat by the railing.”

  “That is why,” Federov said. “Remaining in character is not Renata’s acting strength. She will invariably look up here to see if I came.”

  “And so here we sit,” Jenkins said.

  “And so here we sit.” Federov pointed at actors coming on stage. “There. You see the dark-haired woman in the white dress. That is my daughter.”

  “She’s beautiful,” Jenkins said. “You must be proud of her.”

  Federov shrugged. “The beauty and theater come from my side of the family. My mother sang in the Russian opera.”

  “Theater is in your blood.”

  “For the amount I have spent on Renata’s training, I could be watching a doctor operate, but I’m told that young people now are not concerned with things like money and living decently. They want to be happy. Everyone wants to be happy. I’m supposed to accept that, while paying the bills, of course.”

  “Of course. Still, she’s in a major production in Moscow. That’s something.”

  “She stinks, Mr. Jenkins. That she gets from my ex-wife’s side of the family. When my wife sang at home, the neighbors feared she’d sucked the cat into our vacuum cleaner. My daughter’s singing is not much better.”

  Jenkins smiled. “How then did she get the part?”

  Federov rolled his head toward Jenkins and raised his eyebrows. “She benefits from having a father who knows people who know people, though neither she nor her mother know of this.”

  Jenkins chuckled. “And for the briefest of moments, you were starting to sound almost human, Federov.”

  Federov shrugged. “We are not so different, Mr. Jenkins. We want our wives and our children to be happy, no? I failed at my marriage. I am trying not to fail with my children.” Moments later, when Federov’s daughter left the stage, the FSB agent stood. “Come,” he said.

  “We’re leaving?” Jenkins asked.

  “She does not return until the third act. She will not know we have left. Think of it as a reprieve.” Jenkins paused, still uncertain if Federov was joking. “The play is typical of Russian theater,” Federov said. “Far too long and far too depressing. Spoiler alert—the wife dies. Come.”

  Jenkins followed Federov from the booth, Volkov trailing them with his briefcase. Jenkins wondered if it contained money. Rather than turn right toward the hall leading to the theater entrance, Federov turned left. They continued down the hall to a back staircase that would, presumably, lead outside. Jenkins followed the Russian FSB officer down a narrow staircase to the bottom floor, but Federov walked past the green exit sign that was over a door.

  “Where are we going?” Jenkins asked.

  “Someplace to speak in private,” Federov said.

  Somewhere behind him, Jenkins heard the orchestra and singers building to a faint crescendo. Federov stopped and pushed open a door. Jenkins took a step forward before realizing he had stepped into total darkness. Behind him the door slammed shut. He heard Federov, or Volkov, flip a switch. A bright light emanated from a bare bulb hanging from a wire, revealing the room to be a windowless, concrete square. In the center of the room, just beneath the light, someone had placed a lone metal chair.

  When younger, and better on his game, Jenkins would have assessed all of this in an instant, and just as quickly disabled both men, but his reactions were no longer what they once had been, and by the time it all registered, he was too late.

  He felt a dull blow to the back of his head.

  12

  The sharp smell of ammonia caused Jenkins to sit up. Blurred images danced and shimmered. When his vision cleared, he saw Federov seated beside Volkov in folding chairs, both sucking on cigarettes. From the haze of smoke above their heads and the collection of crushed butts littering the floor, Jenkins could tell he had been out for a while. He had a throbbing ache at the back of his head where he’d been hit.

  “I told Arkady he hit you too hard,” Federov said, voice calm. “He doesn’t seem to understand the word ‘soft.’” Volkov stood and walked to a folding table at the edge of the light. On it, he’d set his briefcase. He clicked it open.

  Jenkins felt plastic strips binding his wrists to the bars at the back of the chair. His ankles were likewise bound to each chair leg. His jacket and his shirt had been removed, draped on a hanger hooked to a nail hammered into the wall. The nail appeared to have caused a spiderweb of cracks.

  “I removed your jacket and shirt so as not to damage them unnecessarily,” Federov said, following Jenkins’s gaze.

  “What the hell is this, Federov?” Jenkins asked, trying to sound more tired than scared. This was an unexpected development—unlike anything he’d experienced in Mexico City. He needed to buy time to determine its purpose. Was it simply to scare and intimidate him, or had he pissed off somebody in Lubyanka?

  Volkov unfolded the briefcase on the table. In it, Jenkins saw duct tape, pliers, knives, and a blowtorch.

  “I am on a schedule,” Federov said, checking his watch. “If I am not back in the box before the start of the third act, my daughter will know that I left and then . . .” He shrugged. “For me and for you it is not so good.”

  “So your daughter is actually in the play?” Jenkins asked, stalling for time.

  “Of course,” Federov said. “And I would not want to disappoint her again. You asked, I believe, ‘What is this?’ No?”

  “Yeah. What the hell is this?”

  Federov took a final pull on his cigarette, dropped the butt to the floor, and stood, crushing the embers beneath the sole of his shoe. Smoke escaped his nostrils and mouth as he spoke. “This is a room several stories beneath the stage. Its history is somewhat uncertain and, I think, embellished. So, hard to say. Some say Catholics used to come here, under the guise of attending the theater, but really to attend mass during communist times. Others say that is a myth, that the room was used only for storage. Still, others say it is one of the hundreds of rooms used by Stalin to interrogate dissidents. They say the blood of those men stains the walls and cannot be covered with paint. Do you see the red tint? It is not so easy in this light.”

  “Sounds like the plot of another Russian play,” Jenkins said.

  “One doesn’t really know the truth, which, ironically, is also why you are here, Mr. Jenkins.”

  Jenkins fought to remain calm. At least with his right hand cuffed to the chair it was not trembling. He kept his voice even and, hopefully, unconcerned. “This is all very theatrical, Federov. You want to try again, this time without the histrionics?”

  Federov paced. “You are here, Mr. Jenkins, because I told you once my superiors are not interested in, and will not pay for, the names of dead women. Of which you have provided me.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  Federov stepped in front of him. “It means that Uliana Artemyeva died several years ago from natural causes.”

  “So?”

  “So, you can see my dilemma, no?”

  “No, I can’t. How does that diminish the information?”

  “Because we have no way to confirm or to disaffirm that Ms. Artemyeva was one of the seven sisters.”

  “I told you she was one.”

  “Yes, but someone who would betray his country for money is not exactly a bastion of integrity and honesty. Is he?”

  At the table, Volkov twisted the nozzle onto the torch, turned the valve, and struck a match. It made a scraping sound on the table. The burner ignited in a blue-and-yellow flame, and Volkov adjusted the nozzle until the flame became a crisp blue triangle.

  “Why would I provide you the information if it was inaccurate?”

  Federov diverted his attention when he heard the pop of the blue flame, then reconsidered Jenkins. “With which of the fifty thousand reasons would you like for me to start?”<
br />
  “How about one of the fifty thousand you haven’t paid me? I provided that information in good faith, Federov, with the understanding that I would be compensated. Don’t treat me like some amateur. I’m getting tired of it. You want the information. I’m providing it. I can’t be held responsible if one of the seven sisters had already died of natural causes.”

  “It is convenient for you though, no?”

  “Does this look convenient to you?”

  Volkov removed a knife from its sheath and sliced a ribbon of paper that fluttered to the ground.

  Jenkins looked back to Federov. He needed to outsmart him. “Tell me, Federov, how is it that you confirmed the other three women were three of the seven sisters? Did they tell you when you tortured them? Or did they tell you they did not know what you were talking about, that they did not even know the term ‘the seven sisters’?”

  “They might have been trained well to resist, Mr. Jenkins.”

  Jenkins laughed, but inside his stomach churned. “If that’s the case, then you boys have fallen well off your game since I was sparring with the KGB. I understood the FSB was a more refined version of the KGB. Maybe I heard wrong, if you could not get three sixty-year-old women to admit anything to you.”

  “We are going to find out if we have fallen off our game,” Federov said. He considered his watch. “I will go back to the booth,” he said, speaking Russian to Volkov. “You will excuse me, Mr. Jenkins. Our superiors have orders, but this is ugly business in which I do not wish to participate.”

  “You’re not thinking this through, Federov.”

  “You wish to enlighten me?” Federov sat again in the chair across from Jenkins. He folded his legs. “Enlighten. Please. But be conscious of the time. The second act is long, but not that long.”

  “Why would I provide information on a Russian double agent that your people could easily verify wasn’t true? The information I provided to you would be, if divulged to my agency, enough to put me in a penitentiary for the remainder of my life. So why would I risk providing you with false information now? What purpose would it serve?”

  Federov bent forward, inches from Jenkins’s face. “I am thinking it is because you want to make me look like the fool to my superiors, Mr. Jenkins. And I will not be made to look like the fool.”

  “What I want is my money, as we agreed. I don’t give a good Goddamn about your image with your superiors, and based on what you’re telling me, I’m not sure I have much respect for them either. At least tell me your superiors performed their due diligence and determined the information is accurate.” Jenkins waited for an answer. When it didn’t immediately come he chuckled. “Seriously? How else did the FBI and the CIA know that the Russian nuclear industry officials were engaged in a conspiracy of bribery and extortion, unless they were receiving classified information from someone in a position of knowledge?”

  “Artemyeva is dead, which means—”

  “It means you can’t verify the information simply by torturing her. It means you have to get a bit more creative, like searching through documents and engaging in human intelligence. How were the FBI and the CIA able to thwart so many companies doing business with Russian energy companies, unless they had knowledge of the kickbacks and the extortion and threatened to make that information public? The illegal activities were made known to the CIA by a ‘confidential witness’ with intimate knowledge of the Russian atomic energy commission. That confidential witness was Uliana Artemyeva.”

  At the table, Volkov removed a large snipping tool and held the cutting edges to the flame of the torch until the tool glowed red.

  “Maybe she was and maybe she wasn’t this confidential witness,” Federov said, again picking at imaginary lint from his suit leg.

  It was a tell. Almost everyone had a tell, even some of the best agents Jenkins had gone up against. Picking imaginary lint was Federov’s tell. He was not as confident as he was projecting. His daughter was not the only actor in the family who stunk.

  “It does not mean she was one of the remaining seven sisters,” Federov said.

  “No?” Jenkins said, becoming more confident. “She was sixty-three years old when she died. How old were Zarina Kazakova, Irena Lavrova, and Olga Artamonova?”

  “Which would be the reason that you chose to disclose this name as opposed to another.”

  “As opposed to some other woman working in the Russian atomic energy industry who just so happens to be the same age as the other three and who, through a little bit of work on your part, you would know was providing the US with confidential information? You disappoint me, Federov. I was a fool to deal with you. I should have asked for someone above you—someone with some intelligence.” He smirked. “You go ahead and throw away the only potential source of information you’ll ever have that might be able to provide you with the names of the other sisters because you think I could be a double agent feeding you a bunch of bullshit.”

  Federov sat in silence, but his body language spoke volumes. Jenkins had gotten to him. He’d gotten to Federov’s ego, in front of Volkov, who had put down his play toys and now also looked uncertain and, maybe, concerned.

  “I guess we’re at a crossroads,” Jenkins said. “And not unlike the crossroads you face with your daughter?”

  Federov looked up. “How so?”

  “You can either swallow your pride and accept your daughter’s chosen profession so you can have a relationship with her, or you can let your pride get in the way and lose any hope of ever having any relationship.” Jenkins waited a beat. Then he said, “So what’s it going to be, Federov? Are we going to have a relationship? Or are you going to let your pride get in the way and lose the best opportunity you’ll ever have in your career to make a name for yourself?”

  13

  The clerk at the Metropol Hotel reception desk gave Jenkins a quizzical stare, as if seeing a ghost. He walked out from behind the counter.

  “Are you not well, Mr. Jenkins?” he asked over the sound of the harp strings being played in the lobby.

  Truth was, Jenkins felt sick and probably did not look well. He’d talked his way out of Volkov using his body as an ashtray, or maybe snipping off a couple fingers, but he didn’t feel clever or vindicated, as he had in Mexico City when he’d outfoxed a KGB agent. “I think I might have overdone it at dinner,” Jenkins said.

  “Is there anything I can get you? Some aspirin perhaps?”

  “No. Thank you. I’ll just head up to my room and lie down.”

  He entered the elevator feeling drained and exhausted. As the doors closed, a hand knifed between them. Jenkins jumped back and instinctively raised his hands. The doors opened and the bellboy, the one Jenkins had given the champagne and the twenty-dollar tip, stepped into the car. He nodded before he hit the “Close” button multiple times. When the doors closed he turned to Jenkins.

  “A woman came to the desk asking for you. She said she was a friend of yours. The desk clerk would not provide her with your room number, but this is Russia, Mr. Jenkins, and everything can be bought for a price.”

  “What did she look like?” Jenkins asked.

  “I would guess mid-to-late forties, but it was hard to tell. She wore large glasses and had much hair.”

  “What was the color of her hair?”

  “Dark. Almost black. The glasses were big, oval shaped.”

  “What about her clothes? Do you remember anything?”

  “She wore a long winter coat with a fur collar and a scarf.”

  The coat and the scarf, along with the glasses, could be easily and quickly discarded, giving the woman a completely different appearance, if necessary. The more perplexing question was why the woman had gone to the clerk asking for Jenkins. The clerk certainly would have told Federov that Jenkins had switched rooms when he checked in, and Federov would have told the woman, if she was the eighth sister. Only two scenarios came to mind. Either Federov did not know the eighth sister, or the woman was not the eighth sist
er. If not, then who was she? If Federov had not sent the woman, Jenkins had to assume the desk clerk would have alerted him by now that someone had come to the hotel asking about him—though Federov had gone back to the play to watch his daughter in the third act and may not yet have received that message.

  “Did she say anything else?” he asked.

  “No. When the clerk told her he could not confirm a guest’s presence at the hotel or provide a room number, she left. But as I said, Mr. Jenkins, in Russia, everything has a price.”

  “Spasibo.” Jenkins reached into his pocket for additional cash.

  “No.” The young man raised a hand. “Now we are . . . even. Yes?” He pushed the button for the next floor. When the elevator stopped, he stepped off. “Good luck to you, Mr. Jenkins . . . whatever it is that you are doing.”

  Jenkins rode the elevator to the eighth floor. Trays with empty plates, glasses, and discarded napkins and cutlery littered the carpet. Jenkins checked the trays as he walked to his room, looking for anything he might use as a weapon if, as the bellboy had implied, the woman had been able to bribe someone and get a key to his room. He spotted a steak knife and picked it up, along with the napkin. He cleaned the blade and fit the handle of the knife up the sleeve of his shirt.

  At the door to his room he removed the “Do Not Disturb” sign he’d hung on the handle, and swiped his card key, hearing the mechanism engage and unlock. He dropped to a knee, not wanting to take a bullet to the forehead if the woman was inside, pulled down on the handle, and gently shoved open the door three to four inches. The scrap of paper remained on the carpet where he had placed it.

  He let out a sigh, stood and entered his room. Inside, he removed his coat, and tossed it, along with his hat and the steak knife, on the bed. The events of the evening hit him hard. He felt a panic attack continuing to gain traction. In the bathroom, he shook out one of the green pills and washed it down with water, then took deep, slow breaths to calm himself. In the mirror he looked as gray as the Moscow winter night. He turned on the cold water, lowered his head, and splashed water on his face. His wrists burned where the cuffs had bit into his skin, leaving red abrasions.