The Eighth Sister

by Robert Dugoni

  He crossed the road. Now he was exposed. He picked up his pace, feeling the tank bouncing against his back, the weight belt digging into his hips. He cleared the bend in the road and slipped down the path. Another ten yards and he was on the rocky beach. Again, the bottom of his feet felt every stone as he picked a path to the water’s edge. Reaching it, he dropped his fins, mask, and gun, and pulled the hood of the dry suit over his head. It snapped tightly into place. He felt along the edges, tucking in stray strands of hair.

  He picked up the rest of his equipment and walked knee-deep into the blackened water. The calm night air had stilled the surface and the waves were minimal, helping his balance. He had no use for the gun now and tossed it, hearing it splash somewhere in the darkness. He lifted his left leg, struggling to balance on the rocks, and slipped on the long fin, then repeated the process and pulled on the second fin. He tried to spit in his mask but his mouth had gone dry.

  He spotted the headlights of a car on the road that looked to be accelerating toward the path to the beach.

  Again, Jenkins tried to spit, this time producing minimal saliva. He rubbed it against the glass until it squeaked, rinsed it, pulled his mask over his face, and adjusted the snorkel. The approaching car came to a stop. Men got out quickly.

  Jenkins stuck the regulator in his mouth and fell backward into the frigid water.

  Federov walked down the road to meet with Alekseyov and the other FSB agents but came to a sudden stop when he heard the gunshot. The shot came from the end of the block—from the house he’d just inspected. He’d left an officer at the shed.

  He turned and ran, at first a jog, his knee painful, but he swallowed that pain and lengthened each stride until he was sprinting. He heard a car engine and watched as the Hyundai burst from the shed. It fishtailed, corrected, and accelerated. One of the police cars, the officers no doubt alerted by the sound of the gunshot, sped toward it, a high-stakes game of chicken. The police car flinched and veered suddenly to its right, barely missing the Hyundai, and plowed through bushes and hit a tree.

  Federov didn’t stop or raise his weapon to shoot, knowing it more important that he get to the roadblock as quickly as possible. He watched the Hyundai take aim at the two cars parked across M27 and heard a rapid succession of gunshots. The car did not decrease its speed. If Matveyev’s men had returned fire, they’d missed their mark.

  The Hyundai smashed between the gap in the two cars, causing a horrific crunching of metal and shattering of glass. Federov thought for a brief moment that the crash would disable the car, but the force of the impact separated the two cars enough for the Hyundai to push through. The back end again fishtailed, but the driver corrected and collected speed, driving south.

  Federov was losing them, again.

  When he reached the two police vehicles, now damaged, Federov raised his weapon and unloaded his clip. The Hyundai never slowed.

  Federov considered the police cars, their front ends smashed so badly he knew they could not be driven. Down the road, however, headlights approached. Federov stood in the middle of the road waving his arms. Alekseyov skidded to a stop. Federov hurried around the hood to the driver’s side.

  “Get out! Get out!” He yanked Alekseyov from the car.

  The young officer stumbled from behind the steering wheel, fell to his knee, and scrambled out of the way. Federov got behind the wheel and accelerated before the officer who’d escaped from the passenger seat had time to close the door. The velocity caused it to snap shut.

  He maneuvered around the two damaged police cars, punched the accelerator, and increased speed as he ascended the slope in the road. He figured he was a mile or two behind the Hyundai, but the Hyundai had hit two cars at a high rate of speed. The damage to its front end had to be significant. He could only hope the engine would give out sooner rather than later.

  Three-foot stone walls and heavy brush bordered the narrow two-lane highway, which made it difficult to pass, and dangerous to do so where M27 intersected cross streets. Having studied the map, Federov knew those cross streets led to housing tracts, but they provided no discernible way out of Russia and were therefore dead ends as far as Jenkins and Ponomayova would be concerned. Federov was more convinced than ever that the two were desperate and making a futile run for the border.

  He quickly came up on the bumper of a white commercial van, swerved into the adjacent lane to pass, and just as quickly retreated when headlights appeared around a bend in the road. When the oncoming car passed, Federov swerved again. Seeing an opening, he pressed down on the accelerator and passed the van just as the road veered to the left. He braked and pulled the steering wheel hard into the turn, though not hard enough to keep the right side of the car from scraping against the metal guardrail that had replaced the stone wall. Sparks flew, and the side mirror violently snapped off.

  Federov accelerated and braked into the next turn. When the road straightened he picked up speed, honking the horn and flashing his lights as he passed another vehicle. This continued for several miles, until Federov began to wonder if Jenkins and Ponomayova had evaded him, perhaps hiding out on a cross street. Just as he had that thought, however, he came around another bend and saw red taillights. Federov quickly closed the distance. The Hyundai drove well below the speed limit, smoke spewing from beneath its hood.

  Finally, he’d caught a break.

  Federov hit the accelerator and slammed into the back bumper. The Hyundai swerved, but the driver corrected. Federov steered to his right and tapped the rear bumper, a move favored by police. The Hyundai spun. This time the driver could not correct. The car slid across the center white line and the adjacent lane before it slammed into the trunk of a tree, coming to a violent and certain stop.

  Federov hit his brakes and spun a U-turn. He parked ten meters back from the car, considering the windows for any movement. Seeing none, he removed his gun and got out, using the door as a shield. He took aim at the back window.

  “Vyydite iz mashiny, podnyav ruki na golovu!” Get out of the car with your hands on top of your head.

  There was no response. Smoke rose from the shattered engine.

  Federov repeated the order.

  Again, he got no response.

  He raised up from behind the door and shuffle-stepped forward, finger on the trigger. He moved deliberately to the driver’s side and used his left hand to yank on the door handle. It opened with a metallic crunching noise. The woman, Ponomayova, lay draped over the steering wheel. Federov looked across the seat, then to the back of the car. He did not see Jenkins. Infuriated, Federov grabbed Ponomayova by the neck and yanked her backward. Blood streamed down her face from a cut on her forehead.

  “Gde on?” he shouted. “Gde on?” Where is he?

  Ponomayova’s eyes cleared momentarily and she smiled, her teeth red from the blood. “Ty opozdal. On davno ushel,” she said, voice a whisper. You’re too late. He is long gone.

  Federov stuck the barrel of the gun to her temple. “Tell me where he is. Where did he go?”

  She laughed and spit up more blood. “So very Russian of you to threaten to kill a dying woman,” she said, speaking through clenched teeth.

  “Where is he?”

  She smiled again, this one purposeful, and this time Federov saw the white capsule wedged between her teeth.

  “For Ivan. May those of you who killed him rot in hell,” she said. She bit down on the capsule.

  31

  Jenkins swam into darkness, the blue glow of his compass his only spark of light. Tucked tightly in his dry suit, the mask pressed to his face, he fought against his claustrophobia and anxiety, and focused on that light and his struggle to keep the degree heading aligned with the lubber line. Whenever he lost focus, or found himself starting to panic, he thought of Paulina, knowing she had given her life for him to have this opportunity, one he would not waste.

  Let me do this, for Paulina, for Alex and CJ and my unborn child.

  He told himself to rel
ax and to kick in long, languid strokes, not to exert himself or breathe too deeply. Paulina said the swim would take roughly thirty minutes. He checked the dive watch frequently. He’d been swimming for nearly half that time. When he wasn’t watching the compass, he looked up to search for a light in the water, not seeing one. Miss that light, and he knew he would not have enough air to get back to shore and, even if he did make it back, somehow, he would have nowhere to go.

  He checked his depth gauge. In the darkness, it was difficult to read, but he saw enough to know that he remained three meters below the surface, just deep enough that he could see the distinction in the color of the water. He propelled himself forward. Though Paulina had told him the Black Sea did not have any appreciable current, he felt a pull, and he had to fight against it to maintain his course.

  Another ten minutes of kicking and he sensed he was getting close, but to what? He did not see a light. He checked his submersible pressure gauge, thankful that the equipment was American made and he could at least understand what he was reading. The SPG had started at four hundred pounds per square inch. It was now down to 100 psi. When the gauge reached 50 psi, his remaining compressed air would be in the red, the tank close to empty.

  He swam another three minutes and checked the compass. He was in position. He looked for a light, didn’t see one. He checked his watch: 6:35 p.m.

  He was on time. He was in position.

  The boat, however, wasn’t there.

  Federov pulled out his cell phone as he rushed back to his car and called Alekseyov. Ponomayova and Jenkins had split up. Her sacrifice had clearly been to lead Federov and his team away from Jenkins. With M4 being watched, he doubted Jenkins would try to get to the border. That left the water.

  “Jenkins is heading to the water,” he said when Alekseyov answered. “Get a car and get to the water. Look for a boat and any vessel anchored offshore. And call the coast guard. Tell them to intercept any ship in Russia’s territorial waters.”

  He disconnected, considering Paulina Ponomayova and what she had said to him. He had studied her dossier. He knew “Ivan” had been Ponomayova’s brother, and that he had committed suicide by jumping from the roof of the Bolshoi Theatre. Ponomayova’s comment indicated she held the Russian state responsible for her brother’s death. Her anger had likely been the reason for her treason and also the likely reason she had done what she had done, directing their attention away from Jenkins so that he might slip away. Whatever the extent of her betrayal, she must have seen this moment as a fitting ending.

  Federov would never stomach anyone who betrayed her country, but he had begrudging respect for someone who would give her life to a cause, no matter how misguided.

  He slowed when he came to the damaged police vehicles. The roadblock was no longer needed, nor had it been of any use. Matveyev had no clue about what he was doing.

  Federov powered down his window, waving at the two cars to separate further so he could pass. He accelerated between them and continued down the dirt-and-gravel road leading to the Black Sea. When he reached the far end, just before the turn, he parked, pushed out of the vehicle, and hobbled on his aching knee down the access path, careful not to roll his ankle on a rock or step into a hole.

  Alekseyov stood at the water’s edge, looking through binoculars. He turned at the sound of Federov’s approach. Federov took the glasses without a word and focused on the horizon, scanning left to right, searching for a boat or a light, not seeing one. The marine fog layer remained thick enough to hide a boat, especially if the boat was running without lights.

  “Have you seen anything?” he asked Alekseyov.

  “No, Colonel, I have not.”

  “You’ve contacted the coast guard?” he asked, eyes still pressed to the binoculars, fingers adjusting the knob between the lenses.

  “They have dispatched a Rubin-class patrol boat to search this area.”

  “One?” Federov lowered the binoculars. “They have one vessel?”

  Alekseyov shrugged. “I stressed to them the urgency of this matter, Colonel—”

  Federov swore, raised the binoculars to his eyes, and continued searching. “Ya naydu tebya, Mr. Dzhenkins, I kogda ya eto sdelayu, ty rasskazhesh’, mne vse. V etom vy mozhete byt’ uvereny.” I will find you, Mr. Jenkins, and when I do, you will tell me everything. Of this you can be assured.

  Jenkins checked his SPG. It was now becoming a habit, like a person in a car running low on gas repeatedly glancing at the descending gas gauge. The needle on his SPG had dropped another 10 psi, down to 60. Another 10 and he’d officially be in the red. It didn’t mean he was out of air, just getting dangerously close. He knew it would be prudent not to allow the gauge to dip farther, but Jenkins didn’t have much choice, or options, other than to surface, something Paulina had said not to do.

  He checked his compass. The lubber line pointed straight and true to 210 degrees. The question now was whether he had swum far enough, or whether the current, what little existed, had been just enough to slow his pace, in which case the boat remained farther out. He was beginning to think the plan had been doomed from the start—the ship trying to find a drop of water in an ocean. Then he remembered the search-and-rescue transponder, and Paulina’s instruction. He disconnected the conical device from his belt, opened the plastic casing, and turned the switch to the black dot just as Paulina had instructed. A light began to flash. He wrapped the string around his wrist, and let the rest of the string unfurl. The transponder floated to the surface and gently tugged on his arm.

  Nothing left to do now but to hope and wait.

  He swam in circles to keep warm, one eye focused on the compass, the other searching for a light. Not seeing one.

  Could the compass be off? He tapped the face. Could Paulina have somehow set it wrong, sending Jenkins swimming in the wrong direction, making the transponder out of range of the boat, and making Jenkins hopelessly lost? He fought to remain calm and to control his breathing. If he panicked, he’d suck what remained of the compressed air from the tank, and then he’d be both lost and without air. He looked again to the SPG—50 psi. He was in the red. The gauge seemed to be dropping faster. He was breathing too quickly, or too deeply. He again contemplated surfacing, but Paulina had warned against doing so prematurely. He could inflate his vest and float on the surface. At least then he wouldn’t be sucking what remained of his air.

  He was about to surface when he heard a dull, distant thrumming sound. He stopped moving and held his breath, listening more intently. The noise increased in volume. A boat engine. He couldn’t pinpoint the sound, magnified under the water. The noise sounded as if it was all around him. He turned in circles, searching the surface.

  There!

  A wake cut through the surface, the hull of a boat approaching at a slow speed. Trailing behind the boat’s stern, perhaps three feet below the hull’s lowest point, was a blue LED light.

  It glowed like a small lighthouse. Charles Jenkins’s salvation.

  Jenkins kicked his fins, moving toward the light, closing the distance from forty feet to twenty feet and finally to ten feet. About to inflate his BC, he heard another thrumming, this one even louder than the first, a much larger engine to a much larger boat, and one that sounded as if it was traveling at a much higher rate of speed. The water above him churned. The hull of the boat was deeper than the first boat, deep enough to crush Jenkins. And it was quickly closing on him.

  The LED light extinguished.

  Jenkins stopped swimming, frantically using his hands to help him sink. The hull of the boat passed over him, but close enough to spin him in the rush of the moving water. When he’d stopped spinning he checked his SPG. The exertion of the swim toward the boat had caused him to suck in more compressed air. The gauge now read just 30 psi. It was firmly in the red, and quickly fading to the black.

  32

  Demir Kaplan had been a fishing boat captain for almost twenty-five years, and, at sixty-three, he knew the waters of the
Black Sea, Bosphorus strait, and Marmara Sea as well as any man. Prior to owning his boat, he’d spent fifteen years in Turkey’s navy, the last ten in an amphibious marine brigade, after five years in special forces detachments. He’d retired, largely out of boredom, and set to work on his father’s fifty-foot fishing boat. When his father died from too many cigarettes and too much booze, Kaplan became the fishing boat’s captain. For years, fishing had provided his family a good living. The fish he caught—anchovies and shad—filled the fish sandwiches sold by the vendors beneath Istanbul’s Galata Bridge. Turkish fishing, however, had been in sharp decline for years, a victim of commercial overfishing, illegal netting, and lax regulations. Where once Kaplan could fill his nets with thirty different species of fish, he was now lucky to catch just five or six, and none in great quantities. In a bid to replenish the stock, the government had banned fishing in the summer months to allow the fish to reproduce, but these regulations impacted only Turkish fishermen. The Russians did not abide by any such laws, did not honor territorial waters, and they stripped the Black Sea through gill netting, then grossly underreported their catch counts. After spending eighty years learning how to cheat the government, cheating had become ingrained in the Russian way of life.

  Kaplan had made a decent living, enough that he could build family homes on the cliffs of the strait for himself and for his two sons and their families, but as he aged, and retirement beckoned, he grew concerned that his sons could not make a living fishing, so much so that he had become reacquainted with valuable contacts from his days in the navy. For the past several years he’d supplemented his dwindling fishing income with money earned from transporting refugees out of Iraq and Syria, and smuggling—weapons and people—American, British, and Israeli special agents. In this regard, he’d become like the Russians. As long as he was paid, he didn’t care about the outcome. Besides, he hated the Russians, a trait he had inherited from his father. He considered smuggling agents who opposed the Russian regime to be a way to even the playing field. And he was paid handsomely to do so, receiving more money for one smuggling run than he could make in a fishing season—but only if he safely delivered his target. Tonight, with each passing minute, that prospect seemed more and more unlikely.