The Eighth Sister

by Robert Dugoni

  “Colonel Federov?” The police officer shouted over the thumping blades and extended his free hand. His other hand held the police hat on top of his head.

  Federov gave the hand a perfunctory shake. He’d received a call that Paulina Ponomayova’s car had been located at a gas station in the town of Vishnevka, and he told Alekseyov to make arrangements to get them there as quickly as possible.

  “I’m Chief of Police Timur Matveyev. Please,” Matveyev said, still shouting and gesturing to a waiting police car.

  Matveyev removed his hat and put it on the car’s dash as he slid behind the wheel. Federov climbed into the passenger seat. Alekseyov sat in the back.

  “I understand you’ve located the car,” Federov said as soon as he’d shut the door and muffled the thumping blades.

  “Yes,” Matveyev said. “We believe so.”

  “Where is it?” Federov asked.

  “That’s the problem,” Matveyev said. He recounted what had happened to his young officer.

  “My instructions were very simple and clear,” Federov said, seething. “The car was to be identified but not approached.”

  “The officer is young and inexperienced,” Matveyev said. “It is a mistake.”

  “It’s more than a mistake,” Federov said. “It could result in a breach of national security. You do not have the car?”

  “No,” Matveyev said. “But it can’t be far.”

  “You do not know its current location?”

  “Not at this time,” Matveyev said, then rushed to add, “but we know that it was here, at the gas station, very recently.”

  Federov suppressed his anger, knowing that it would do no good. He reached into his pocket and unfolded the map he’d brought with him. The M27 motorway ran along the coast from Novorossiysk to Russia’s border with Abkhazia, the region that Russia took from Georgia. A handful of roads intersected M27, leading into Russia’s interior, but Federov dismissed those, convinced Jenkins and the woman were attempting to flee the country, either southeast to Georgia, northwest to the Ukraine, or across the Black Sea. Federov did the math in his head, calculating the approximate distance to each border and the likely speed of the car. He spoke out loud. “If the car was in Vishnevka at approximately 8:30 this morning, then they’ve had little more than an hour to drive north or south. Given the terrain, the winding road, and this fog, that’s roughly forty to fifty kilometers in either direction,” he said to Alekseyov, who leaned forward, between the seats. “Get an alert issued to police departments in the towns along M27. I want to know if that car is spotted. Tell them to check traffic film as far back as an hour ago. And alert the border service that Jenkins may try to cross.” He turned to Matveyev. “Do you have traffic cameras?”

  “Some,” Matveyev said. “In town.”

  “Take us to your office.”

  Matveyev’s office was a double-wide trailer situated on a vacant lot at the edge of town. The police chief had obtained the videotape from the convenience store at Federov’s order, and the three men sat around an antiquated desk watching the tape on the computer monitor.

  The footage quality was poor, grainy, and in black and white.

  “Fast-forward,” Federov said to Matveyev. Matveyev did so. “Stop.”

  They watched Jenkins exit the store and get back into the Hyundai. He drove away from the pump, made a U-turn, and drove across the street, stopping a second time. A woman walked out of the store carrying plastic bags and got into the car. Federov assumed it was Ponomayova, though he could not see details at that distance.

  “I want any video footage from inside that store and I want to know what she purchased.”

  Matveyev shouted at the young officer who had endured the humiliation of having been handcuffed to the bathroom toilet. The man had a split lip and a black eye and looked to be in considerable pain.

  “Go!” Matveyev said. “Find out.”

  “Play,” Federov said to Matveyev. The tape resumed.

  With Ponomayova in the car, Jenkins again made a U-turn, but he did not drive toward M27. He drove east, toward the water. Federov checked his map. “There is a road here, along the water?” he asked.

  “No,” Matveyev said, looking over his shoulder and running his finger along the map. “Those are train tracks. They follow the water’s edge to the gas-refining plant. This, here, is a walking path for pedestrians to access the beach.”

  “How do the people who live in these homes access them?”

  “There is a road.” Matveyev turned the map, studied it. “Your map does not show it, but the road follows the beach to this point, then turns left, providing access to these homes and eventually intersecting with M27, here. You see?”

  Federov sat back, thinking. Jenkins did not know the area. He would have been following directions, likely provided by Ponomayova. If their intent had been to gain access to M27 and beat a hasty retreat, Jenkins could have driven north after picking up Ponomayova from the store. He hadn’t done that. In fact, he’d made a deliberate move not to do that. He’d made a U-turn and drove toward the beach. Federov put himself in Jenkins’s position. Jenkins had clearly deduced the police officer had identified the car. He would have also known, therefore, that it would be dangerous to continue driving. That meant he had either hidden the car and found another, or he and Ponomayova had no intention of leaving Vishnevka, at least not immediately, and remained in hiding somewhere close by, perhaps waiting for transportation. Jenkins, as a trained CIA officer, would also know Federov had access to satellites that could focus on this area and identify the car, though not with this current weather. Still, Jenkins would not take the risk of the car being again spotted. Fog or no fog, Jenkins would have hidden the car under cover.

  “Find out if anyone has reported a stolen car within the last few hours,” Federov said to Matveyev. “I want to know of any such report immediately.”

  Matveyev stepped to a nearby desk. Federov accessed the Internet and pulled up Google Earth. A few more strikes of the keyboard and he was looking at a picture of the Russian coast along the Black Sea. He pinpointed Vishnevka and zoomed in to better see the access road Matveyev had showed him, but which was not on his map. He saw how it turned to the left, away from the water, and continued past no more than twenty homes before intersecting the M27.

  “These homes,” he said, speaking over his shoulder. “Is it safe for me to assume they are used primarily in the summer months?”

  “Yes,” Matveyev said. “Though not every home.”

  “I need to borrow your car,” he said.

  26

  Jenkins stared at the scuba equipment and immediately felt his anxiety level rise. He stepped away from the locker, suddenly short of breath. Fearing the onset of a full-blown panic attack, he hurried into the living room and grabbed his medications from his backpack, dry swallowing a propranolol.

  “Are you all right?” Anna asked, entering the room.

  Jenkins closed his eyes. Though it was cold in the house, he felt himself perspiring.

  “Mr. Jenkins?”

  “I just need a minute.”

  She stepped closer. “You are not all right.”

  “I’m fine. It’s a panic attack,” he said. “Anxiety.”

  “About the scuba dive?”

  He nodded. “I’m also a bit claustrophobic. Is there any other way to reach this ship?”

  She shook her head. “He will already be violating international treaties by being in Russian waters. He cannot come to shore, and we have no boat to meet him. It is the only way. We cannot delay. As you said, the FSB will eventually find us.”

  “What kind of cover does he have, to be out on the water? What will he tell the coast guard if they find him?”

  “He is a commercial fisherman in Turkey. If he is stopped, he will tell them he must have drifted, that his GPS has been on the blinking . . . is not working.”

  “How far out do we need to swim to meet him?”

  “I will h
ave to check the coordinates, but a minimum of three hundred meters.”

  “And you’ve done this before?” Jenkins asked.

  “No.” She slowly shook her head. “I have had no reason to go before this.”

  “Please tell me you have, at least, scuba dived before.”

  “Yes. I am trained. But I must tell you that a three-hundred-meter swim is about the capacity of the tanks.”

  “No, you didn’t have to tell me that.” He sat down, feeling his anxiety calm but not his concern. He tried to gather his thoughts. “How do we find the boat if we’re underwater?”

  “I will have the coordinates of the ship and we will follow a compass.”

  “A compass? What about currents? What if we drift, or the boat drifts?”

  “The ship will not drift. He is experienced. We will follow our compass and, once in place, I will inflate a buoy with a beacon to alert him to our presence.”

  “And if we’re off, then we’ve swum three hundred meters and what?”

  “We will not be off.”

  “But if we are?”

  “If we are off, then we will be up the shit creek, I believe is how you say it.”

  “Terrific.” Jenkins blew out a breath of air. “How long does the tank of air last?”

  “That depends on how much you are breathing. You are big man and your anxiety will not help, but if you remain calm and follow me, then the tank will last approximately thirty to forty-five minutes, but perhaps longer since we will not be diving deep. No more than three meters. Remain calm and you will be fine.”

  “What about sharks?” Jenkins asked.

  “Only the kind like in your movie Jaws. Nothing to worry about.” Anna paused. Then she smiled. “It is joke. No sharks.” She checked her watch. “It is dark at 4:20. I will look for his response. One light and we go half an hour after sunset. That gives us a few hours to check the equipment and make you more comfortable.”

  “If you want me more comfortable, I’d suggest you find a way to put a cruise ship in that equipment box.”

  27

  Using Matveyev’s personal car, Federov drove the gravel road, the car pitching and bouncing with each pothole. To his right, in between bushes and paralleling the beach, he saw the train tracks and power poles leading to the natural-gas refinery. He drove slowly up an incline, the road just wide enough to accommodate Matveyev’s car. Shrubs on each side threatened to engulf the road. Federov looked for shrubs that had been knocked down or otherwise disturbed—a possible place to hide a car.

  At the top of the slope he came to a series of expensive, and more recently built, homes. He slowed and looked through fences, but he did not see any cars or any place to hide one.

  As he continued along the road, now driving inland, the quality of the homes decreased significantly. Piles of construction materials overflowed the lots to the edge of the road—rusted pipes, blocks of cement, and other materials. Men stood in the road loading materials into the back of a lime-green flatbed truck. Federov stopped and exited the car. He approached the men with a picture of the Hyundai and a picture of Charles Jenkins. The photographs fluttered and flapped in the breeze off the sea.

  “Izvinite za bespokoystvo. Ya ishchu etu mashinu. Vy videli eto?” I’m sorry to bother you. I’m looking for this car. Have you seen it?

  The first man considered the picture, then shook his head. The two other men walked toward Federov, studied the picture, and also shook their heads.

  “Nyet,” they said.

  “What about this man? Have you seen him?”

  Again, they shook their heads.

  Federov believed them honest, but Russians had once again become distrusting of their government and those who worked for it. “How long have you been working on this street?” he asked.

  “A couple of hours,” one of the men said. “We are just finishing.”

  “Spasibo,” Federov said. He got back into the car and continued along the road, looking left and right and asking himself, What would Jenkins and the woman want more than anything?

  “Privacy,” he said.

  He stopped outside a house with a vacant lot on its left and across the street. A six-foot wrought-iron gate attached to a fence made from aluminum siding protected the home. Federov parked the car and stepped out, peering over the top of the fence. He did not see the car or a place to hide it. He walked to the gate and pulled on a chain, rattling the padlock, which appeared to be rusted shut. He looked again to the house, but he did not see any lights. No smoke came from the chimney.

  He returned to the car and continued down the street, noting houses in various stages of construction and of various quality. He considered cars in driveways, and when he could not see over walls, he got out to look. At a fork in the road he noted a one-story home with a sloped red roof and, to its right, a shed made from sheets of corrugated metal. Federov parked on the gravel, got out, and walked to the shed. The doors did not have exterior handles, though they were hinged. A stone on the ground kept the doors shut. Federov heard wind whistling through cracks in the metal siding. He removed the stone and pulled on the bottom of the door, which remained stubborn, scraping dirt as it opened. The lack of any marks in the dirt almost caused him not to bother, but he persisted and managed to create a gap wide enough to slip his hand inside and grip the door’s edge. With a better hold, he lifted as he pulled. When he’d opened the door enough to step inside, he held up his phone and turned on the light, illuminating a gray Hyundai.

  His heart hammered in his chest.

  The shed was too narrow for him to walk to the back of the car, but this did not stop him from climbing over the hood and the roof. He used his phone to illuminate the license plate, which he’d committed to memory. The plate matched.

  The car had been parked facing out, with easy access to M27 if the need arose to quickly get away—if Jenkins and Ponomayova even remained close by. The possibility existed that Jenkins and Ponomayova had switched vehicles, maybe with a car that had been inside the shed.

  Federov exited the shed and watched the house for any sign of people inside. Seeing no such indication, he returned to the shed, closed the doors, and put the rock back in place. Then he did his best to obscure the line in the dirt made by the door, as well as his footprints.

  Back inside Matveyev’s car, he drove to the fork in the road and parked behind shrubs. He called Alekseyov on his cell phone, who told him that there had been no sighting yet of the Hyundai on the M27 or in any of the towns along it. “Border security has been alerted as well as the coast guard.”

  Federov told Alekseyov he wanted as many men as Matveyev had available to guard each end of the road, from the sea to the intersection with M27. “Tell them no one drives in, and no one drives out without the car being thoroughly inspected. Do you understand?”

  “Da.”

  Federov provided Alekseyov with the house number associated with the shed. “Determine the owner. Send people to wherever they are currently and find out when they were last here, and also any cars they own and keep here.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I have found the car in a shed at the end of the road. I am going to the house now to determine if Jenkins is inside.”

  “Do you want more men?”

  Federov did not want others. He did not want anyone who might give away his position. Jenkins was a smart and formidable foe. Federov knew from his research that Jenkins had served in Vietnam and therefore that he could have experience with trip wires or other such things to alert him to someone’s approach. Ponomayova, too, was capable, given her shot of the FSB agent in the hotel parking lot. And both, he assumed, were armed. Beyond all of that, Federov did not want to answer to anyone. Not now and not later.

  “Nyet. Position the men at each end of the road. If Mr. Jenkins is here, they are trapped. And this time he will not get away.”

  28

  Jenkins heard Anna reenter the house through the back door, one of several trip
s she’d made to map their path to the beach. The boat had made contact. One light. They were good to go. Earlier she had reported that the wind had died down and the seas had calmed, a good thing. This time, however, when she returned, she looked grave.

  “There are men out front.” She said the words without emotion, the way one might say: “There are rocks on the beach.” But Jenkins knew what it meant. He knew the ramifications. Getting to the beach might be harder than the swim to the boat.

  “We can’t stop now,” he said. “We move forward.”

  They laid out the scuba gear on the brown shag carpet. Jenkins’s suit was more than a little tight, but he could squeeze into it—he didn’t have much choice.

  “Can we get around the men?” he asked as they worked.

  Anna shook her head. “No. Two men are sitting in a car at the end of the road where the path leads down to the sea.”

  “Is there another path?”

  “No. It is too steep and would be very difficult to climb down even without equipment. With tanks, is not possible. More men are also positioned at the other end of the road, near where I parked the car.”

  “The gas station likely had a camera, maybe the store too,” Jenkins said. “Federov would have seen me make a U-turn and drive toward the sea. He assumes we stayed.”

  “It is a logical deduction,” she agreed.

  “If they found the car, they’ll start searching houses. We’re going to have to find a different path down to the water, or a way to get the two men to leave.”

  “There is no other path. And the men will not leave unless they think they are pursuing us. You will have to go alone.”

  Jenkins wasn’t sure exactly what she meant, but he deduced it meant that Anna would be the distraction to get the two men away from the path. “No. I’m not going without you. We’ll find another way.”

  “There is no other way,” she said in that soft, resigned voice.