The Eighth Sister

by Robert Dugoni

  To stop was to die.

  He kept repeating their names in his head. Alex and CJ and . . . baby-to-be. They hadn’t decided on a name. Didn’t know the sex. Paulina said it would be a girl—How? Jenkins didn’t know, but in that moment he, too, saw a baby girl. Alex and CJ and baby-to-be. Alex and CJ and . . . Alex and CJ . . . Alex and . . . Alex. Alex.

  He heard underwater thrumming, thinking at first it was just his imagination, his desire. It persisted. He stopped and looked up, but he was having difficulty connecting the sound to anything in particular. A boat? Yes. No . . . An engine. A boat engine. The thrumming grew louder. The boat getting closer. He looked into the gray shroud. Was it his imagination? Was it the desperate hope of a condemned man?

  Was it the Russians, returning?

  A spotlight pierced the darkness, illuminating the gray.

  Not his imagination. The fishing boat.

  The light swept left and right. Then it stopped. He thought he heard voices. Men shouting.

  The light swept right again, blinding him. With difficulty, he raised his arm and flung it back and forth over his head.

  “Nerede?” he heard.

  Then, “Orada! Orada!”

  Not Russian.

  The boat inched closer, materializing out of the fog. On deck, two men stood at the railing, one pointing down at him. The second threw something overboard. It spun in the air before hitting the water. A life preserver.

  Jenkins kicked to it, looped an arm through the opening, and held on as the men pulled in the line, dragging him to the ship.

  It took what little strength he had remaining, and two men pulling and tugging and finally grabbing the straps of his vest, to yank Jenkins onto the boat. He fell over the railing and flopped onto the deck like a fish gasping for air. Three men stood over him, speaking to him in short, quick bursts of English, an urgent tone. He could not catch his breath long enough to respond.

  One of the men gripped Jenkins beneath his shoulders and dragged him across the deck to the pilothouse. The oldest looking of the three hurried to the steering station, taking the wheel and throttling forward on the engine. Jenkins rocked backward as the engine kicked in and the boat gained speed.

  He could not feel his hands or his feet, and he’d begun to shiver violently. One of the men held out a mug. Steam drifted up from the surface of the liquid inside. When Jenkins reached for it, his hands shook so violently he could not hold the mug.

  The man knelt in front of Jenkins and pulled off his gloves. Each movement sent thousands of needles shooting through his hands and his fingers, and Jenkins groaned in agony. After the man had removed the gloves, he stuck Jenkins’s hands beneath his armpits.

  “How are your feet?” he asked in accented English.

  “I can’t feel them,” Jenkins said, his teeth chattering.

  The second man—they were brothers perhaps, based on their similar appearance—returned from the back of the pilothouse with thick wool blankets, draping them over Jenkins’s shoulders. He helped his brother remove Jenkins’s rubber booties. Like his hands, Jenkins’s feet ached.

  “I am Emir,” the man said, rubbing life back into Jenkins’s feet. “This is my brother, Yusuf. The captain is our father, Demir.”

  “I thought I lost you,” Jenkins said, still shivering. “I saw your boat leave.”

  Yusuf vigorously rubbed Jenkins’s hands and he winced at the intense pain. “I am sorry,” Yusuf said, “but we must get the blood to circulate again.”

  “The Russians must want you very badly,” Demir said from the wheel of the boat. “For them to alert the coast guard is a serious matter.”

  “Who do you work for?” Jenkins asked. He began to feel his hands and his feet, but with that return of feeling came more of the stabbing needle pain.

  “For myself,” Demir said.

  “You’re not with Turkish intelligence?”

  “I am a fisherman who works when called upon. My reasons for doing so are my reasons. I was told to find you and to bring you back to Turkey, to Istanbul. I do not care to know the details.”

  “I’m grateful you came back,” Jenkins said. He pulled his hands from the brother’s grasp and flexed his fingers. They felt thick and swollen, but he slowly regained dexterity. Emir handed him the mug. He cradled the warmth in his hands, sipping at the hot and very thick Turkish coffee while Yusuf used sharp scissors to cut him out of the dry suit.

  “Emir will take you to change into dry clothes, though that will be a challenge given your size—and to get you something to eat,” Demir Kaplan said. “He can also show you to a bunk to lie down and sleep. You must be very tired.”

  Jenkins stood, his legs weak, and followed Emir to a narrow interior doorway. He stopped and looked back. “Thank you,” he said.

  “Do not thank me yet,” Demir said. “It is a long way to Istanbul and I suspect the Russians will not give you up so easily.”

  35

  Viktor Federov stepped into the run-down beach house; the interior cold, the air musty and carrying a strong odor of mildew. His men had been going door-to-door, finding most of the beach homes empty and no sign anyone had been there. This one, too, was empty, but it had not been for long. Bags of groceries remained unpacked on the kitchen counter, a box of crackers open. Inside the bags Federov also found juice and bottled water, cheese, and chocolate bars. He grabbed the box of crackers from the counter and took it with him into the living room, eating them. The crackers tasted better than he anticipated, or maybe he was just that hungry. He could not even recall his last meal.

  He considered the articles of men’s clothing strewn across the furniture. On the floor lay scuba equipment, though just one set—a buoyancy vest and a tank, full from the weight of it, a mask, fins, and a dry suit—a woman’s.

  His men had rifled through the clothing but did not find any identification. Federov did not need any. He knew whom the clothes belonged to and who had intended to use the equipment.

  Paulina Ponomayova had clearly given her life so that Jenkins could get away, and that raised further questions regarding the importance of this man and his mission. Federov wiped his fingers on his pants, handed the box of crackers to one of the other men, and spoke to Simon Alekseyov.

  “A man scuba diving without propulsion can get approximately forty minutes of air from a full tank. Jenkins is a big man, so perhaps less, say thirty minutes—unless he is well trained, which we must now assume to be so. Calculate roughly three hundred to three hundred and fifty meters on a calm night such as this. Call the coast guard. Tell them we are looking for a diver. Give them the coordinates. Have them call me without delay if they encounter any boats in the area.”

  Alekseyov pulled out his cell phone to make the call. Federov walked outside and crossed the yard. He could not see the beach, but he could see the blackened waters engulfed in fog. Minutes later, he turned to find Alekseyov hurrying across the yard with a look of purpose.

  “The coast guard stopped a Turkish fishing boat roughly three hundred meters offshore. The captain of the vessel said he had been fishing when his nets became tangled, and his crew was working to free them. Colonel?”

  Federov had looked back to the blackened horizon, thinking. There was no way a man could meet a ship in that fog, in the dark—even with coordinates. He would need a way to transmit his location to the boat, something small—like the kind used on buoys to alert captains to rock croppings, or other underwater perils. “Get the person you spoke with immediately on the phone. Tell him I want to speak to the officer of the coast guard vessel who boarded the fishing boat.”

  Alekseyov dialed the number as Federov moved toward the water. Within a minute, Alekseyov handed Federov the phone.

  “Yes. What is your name?” Federov asked.

  On the other end of the call, the man said, “I am Captain Popov.”

  “I understand you came upon a Turkish fishing vessel a short time ago?” Federov said.

  “Yes, maybe an hour ago
.”

  “What was the ship doing here?”

  “He said he had been fishing when his nets became tangled. He was working to free them. In the process he drifted into Russian waters.”

  “This far?” Federov asked. “Did you search his ship?”

  “Personally. His papers were in order.”

  Federov didn’t give a damn about the boat’s papers. “How many men?”

  “Three. A father and two sons.”

  “You did not find anyone else?”

  “No.”

  Federov had his doubts as to how thoroughly Popov had searched the ship. Smuggling vessels were known to contain hiding places in which to conceal illicit drugs, weapons, and people.

  “How did you locate this boat in this fog?”

  “It appeared on radar.”

  “Did anything else appear on your radar?”

  “No,” Popov said.

  “Nothing?”

  “No,” he said again. Then, after a pause, “I don’t think this is important, but when we boarded the Turkish ship its radar did pick up a signal.”

  “What kind of signal?”

  “A stationary green light. I inquired about it and the captain said it was the ship’s radar detecting our presence.”

  Federov felt his knees weaken. “Could it have been a transponder, Captain?”

  “I . . .” Popov began to answer, then caught himself.

  It was a sufficient enough answer for Federov. The captain had not considered the possibility.

  “Where are you now?”

  “Still on patrol, in roughly the same area.”

  “I want you to scan the entire range of your radar frequencies. Call me back and advise whether you get any other hits. Then return to Anapa and meet me there.”

  Federov hung up the phone. “Get the helicopter ready. We’re going to Anapa.”

  Alekseyov shook his head. “It is not possible, Colonel. The fog is too thick to fly.”

  Federov cursed. “How long is the drive from here?”

  “I do not know exactly, but at least several hours under good conditions. Tonight, it could be much longer.”

  Several hours would put the Turkish fishing vessel close to Turkish waters, perhaps too late to intercept. Federov could not take that chance. He redialed the previous number. “Captain Popov, this is Colonel Federov. You said you remain close to Vishnevka?”

  “Relatively, yes.”

  “And you have an inflatable you used to board the fishing trawler, no?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Return to Vishnevka and send your inflatable to shore. Look for flashing lights. I’m coming aboard.”

  With a change into dry clothes nearly large enough to accommodate him—he didn’t button the top two buttons of the shirt or his pants, which also stopped a couple inches above a pair of work boots—Jenkins was once again warm. After changing, Jenkins followed Yusuf to the ship’s galley. The Turkish coffee, so dark and thick a spoon almost stood upright, made his limbs buzz and placed him on full alert, despite not having slept much the past seventy-two hours. Food had helped to temper the effect of the coffee, and it had never tasted so good. They served him lamb with rice, scrambled eggs with onions and pepper, and bread. After they finished eating, Yusuf and Emir went to rest. They, too, had endured a stressful evening.

  Jenkins walked back into the darkened pilothouse where Demir Kaplan stood watch. The lights of the console reflected under his bearded chin, casting his face in a blue-gray light. Demir looked like his sons, though he had the weathered skin of a man who’d spent his life at sea, or had seen too many tragedies. Deep depressions migrated like rivulets from the corners of his eyes. He stood with his shoulders hunched from too many years standing at the helm, and his chest and arms were thick from manual labor. He turned his head as Jenkins ducked through the interior doorway and stepped into the pilothouse. A space heater beneath the console warmed the room to a comfortable temperature.

  “You should be sleeping,” Demir said. “Too much worry?”

  “Too much coffee,” Jenkins said.

  Demir grunted and said, “We Turks like our coffee as we like our women.”

  “Black?” Jenkins said, smiling.

  Demir glanced at him, his lips inching into a grin. “Thick and full of energy.”

  Jenkins laughed. Then he stuck out his hand and said, “Thank you for coming back. You saved my life.”

  “Do not make this personal, Mr. Jenkins. You are nothing more than cargo that I am transmitting to Turkey.”

  “I understand. I just wanted to say it.”

  Demir shook the hand. “You’re welcome.”

  They traveled in silence, listening to the hum of the boat’s engine and feeling the bow rise and fall with each wave. After several minutes, Demir’s curiosity got the better of him. “Whoever you are, you must be very valuable to your country and very dangerous to the Russians.”

  “I’m not so sure anymore,” Jenkins said. “Things have become much more complicated than I anticipated.”

  “As they always do,” Demir said.

  “The other two—they are your sons?”

  “Yes, although both are better looking than me. They have their mother in them. Me, I have the sea in me.”

  “They’re good men,” Jenkins said.

  “Money can buy much, but it can’t buy blood. Not Kaplan blood. Do you have children, Mr. Jenkins?”

  “A nine-year-old son,” Jenkins said. “And another baby on the way.”

  Demir considered him while rubbing his beard. He nodded. “Good for you.”

  “I got started late in life.”

  “Because of your career?”

  “For some time, yeah, that was the reason. Then I just never really had the chance.”

  Demir glanced at him. “And now you have much to lose.”

  “Too much.”

  “Then why do you do it?”

  “I had to support my family, and I thought I was serving my country. I’m no longer sure that is the case.”

  Demir sighed. “When I was a young man I had a naval career before coming to work for my father. The fishing was abundant. It was a good life. Now the fishing is not so good. I have seven grandchildren, an eighth on the way. We do what we must for our families.”

  Jenkins nodded. “How long before we get to where we are going?”

  “We will be in Turkish waters in an hour. We will be in port an hour after that.”

  “If you don’t mind the company, I’d like to stay here, keep watch with you.”

  “I do not mind,” Demir said.

  Federov and Alekseyov boarded the Russian patrol boat from the inflatable. Popov greeted them on deck and wasted little time leading them up a staircase and inside the pilothouse.

  “We have picked up something on the radar,” he said, moving to one of the console’s instruments.

  “A ship?” Federov asked.

  “No, much smaller. A buoy of some type, but not in a location one expects to find a buoy, nor at the frequency we would expect. This appears to be drifting.”

  “How close is it from where you boarded the Turkish fishing boat?”

  “Maybe half a mile, but given the direction it is drifting, it would have been very close to the fishing boat an hour ago. Do you wish to track it down or try to find the boat?”

  “Track down what is transmitting. We will better know whether the boat is culpable or its presence was simply a coincidence. I do not wish to embark on another wild goose chase. If the boat captain proves culpable you can find him?”

  “We can find him,” Popov said. “And we will run him down.”

  “Good,” Federov said. “Because I would hate to tell your superiors that you allowed him to get away.”

  Popov visibly blanched. His cheeks colored a splotchy red. “Yes, Colonel.” He gave the order to lock on to and locate the buoy.

  Twenty minutes later, Popov, Federov, and Alekseyov stood on the ship
’s deck along with half a dozen seamen. Beams of light crisscrossed the surface of the fog-shrouded water.

  “There,” one of the men said, pointing. “There.”

  Federov, Popov, and Alekseyov stepped closer to the deck railing. The seaman dropped a grappling hook over the side, snagged a cylindrical red tube with a flashing light, and slowly dragged it out of the water and onto the deck.

  “It is a transponder,” Popov said. “It’s used—”

  “I know what it is used for,” Federov said. “And what it was used for in this instance. You said you could find the fishing trawler?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do so.”

  In the pilothouse of the fishing boat, Jenkins handed Demir Kaplan a cup of coffee. “Six sugars?” Jenkins asked.

  “I do not drink it for the taste,” Demir said. He sipped at the rim and set the cup in a rack to prevent it from tipping over.

  “I noticed the boat is named Esma. What does that mean?”

  “Esma is my wife, and she has been my wife for forty years. She used to say that I loved the sea more than I loved her, so when I inherited the boat . . .” Kaplan shrugged. “Now I say, ‘I am with you, Esma, even when I am at sea.’ With Allah’s grace we will have many more years together, many more grandchildren.” He looked at his instrument panel. “Not far now from Turkish waters. Twenty minutes.”

  “You’re almost home,” Jenkins said.

  Demir looked at him and sighed. “But you are a long way from being home, I fear. The FSB has many assets in Turkey, and there are many people who will give you up for very little lira. You are an easy man to remember. You will need to be careful.”

  Jenkins heard a beeping noise from the console. Demir turned to the ship’s radar, his eyes studying the glowing green light. “Call my sons,” he said.

  “What is it?”

  “I do not know. But it is tracking our same coordinates.”

  “How close is it?”

  “Not far. And moving fast. Too fast for us to make the strait.” Demir pushed down on the throttle and Jenkins felt the boat lurch forward with the increased speed.