He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting, but the bus was surprisingly modern—the interior temperature and the seats comfortable. Jenkins sat back, feeling fatigue settling into his joints. He put his head against the window and closed his eyes, hoping for even a few hours of precious sleep, though conscious of Yusuf’s instructions that he get on and off the bus frequently. Disinformation.
Yusuf stayed away from his home for as long as he dared—enough time, he hoped, for Charles Jenkins to be well on his way out of Istanbul. He returned to Rumeli Kavaği at just after noon, and wound his way along the road above the marina to one of the homes his father had built on the cliffs above the Bosphorus strait. His brother and his father lived in houses down the street. He parked the van, descended the stairs to the gated courtyard, and crossed to his front door. The gate slapped closed and clicked shut behind him.
Yusuf opened the front door but stopped advancing when he saw his wife seated in the living room, the plate-glass window behind her offering a spectacular view of the strait, though that was not the focus of his attention. His father and his brother also stood in the room, along with three men. Yusuf’s three children were, thankfully, at school.
“Ah,” one of the men said. “So good of you to join us, Yusuf. We’ve been awaiting your arrival.”
“Who are you?” Yusuf said. “And what do you want?”
The man smiled. “You know who we are.”
“I know you’re Russian.”
“Yes,” the man said. “We are the Russians who stopped your father’s ship in search of Mr. Jenkins. Mr. Jenkins has committed serious crimes in Russia, including the murder of Russian FSB officers.”
“I know nothing of his crimes,” Yusuf said.
“No?”
“No.”
“But you know where he is?”
Yusuf shook his head. “At the moment I do not.”
The man smiled but it had a tired quality to it. He pulled his gun from his holster and held it to Yusuf’s wife’s head. She cried. “Do you really want to do this?” the man asked.
“No,” Yusuf said. “I do not. But how can I tell you what I do not know?”
“Where did you take Mr. Jenkins?”
“That is a different question. I took him to the bus terminal in Taksim. He told me that is where he wished to go so I took him there.”
“And where is he going?”
Yusuf looked from Federov to his father and his brother. His father nodded.
“He said he intended to leave the country through Greece.”
“More specific, please.”
“I can only assume he is headed to the Turkish coast and will seek to get across the Aegean Sea. I do not know where he intends to go once he is there.”
“And did you help Mr. Jenkins obtain any travel papers to assist him in his efforts?”
“No. I swear. I just drove him to the bus station. That is the last I saw of him.”
The man nodded to the others and they made their way to the door. He lingered near a shelf and picked up a picture of Emir and his family, Yusuf and his family, and his father and his mother. Then he turned to Demir. “You have a beautiful family, Captain. In the future I believe it would be prudent if you were to spend more time with them.”
Jenkins’s head bumped against the bus window, awakening him. He quickly sat up, momentarily disoriented and confused. He looked around the bus, but others also appeared to be sleeping or not paying him any attention. He had no idea how long he had slept or how far they had driven. When the bus slowed and exited the road, Jenkins pulled out a map he’d picked up at the bus terminal from the inside pocket of his jacket and checked his watch to determine how long they had traveled. He ran a finger along the bus route, and concluded they were entering the city of Bursa. Signs soon confirmed his deduction.
The bus pulled into a terminal and stopped with the hiss of air brakes. The driver shouted in Turkish and the passengers made their way to the exits at the front and rear of the bus.
Jenkins stepped off with his eyes scanning the terminal. It appeared to be in the middle of a dirt lot. He made his way to where several taxi drivers stood outside beat-up cabs and approached the first driver in line. “Bursa?” he said.
The man responded in Turkish. Jenkins tried Russian but the man shook his head. Thinking for a moment, he spoke English, unfolded the map, and pointed to Bursa. The taxi driver smiled and nodded. Jenkins jumped into the back seat.
They drove for approximately fifteen minutes, into what Jenkins surmised from the congestion to be downtown Bursa. The man spoke from the front seat, undoubtedly asking Jenkins where he wanted to go. Jenkins saw signs atop buildings for several hotels and pointed to one of the hotels situated on a busy intersection congested with cars, buses, and retail stores. The driver stopped at the entrance. Jenkins checked the fare on the meter and paid the man a generous tip, one he would remember. Then Jenkins stepped out, dodged pedestrians, and went inside the Central Hotel.
Speaking English, he asked for a room for two nights. The desk clerk asked Jenkins for a credit card. Jenkins shook his head. He took out his money and said he would pay in cash. The man smiled and nodded his approval.
“Sorun Değil,” he said.
Jenkins smiled in reply.
Key in hand, Jenkins made his way to the elevators and ascended to the third floor. His room was second from the end on the left. The interior was Spartan but clean. Jenkins removed a burner phone from his coat pocket and tossed his jacket onto his bed. He called David Sloane, uncertain of the time difference between Seattle and Turkey. Sloane sounded groggy when he answered the phone.
“David.”
He heard the sound of someone getting up. “Charlie?”
“Is Alex at your house?”
“Yeah, she’s here with CJ.”
“How are they doing?”
“They’re worried about you. We all are. Are you all right?”
“I don’t have a lot of time.”
“I’ll get her.”
Jenkins heard more commotion, then a voice that made his heart soar. “Charlie?” Alex said.
“Hey. You’re okay? CJ’s okay?”
“We’re fine. Where are you? How are you?”
“I’m on my way home, but I’m going to need some help. Do you remember Uncle Frank from Mexico City?”
“Who?”
“Do you remember me telling you about my Uncle Frank in Mexico City, the man with an artistic flair for documents? You and I visited him on one of our trips back to Mexico City, maybe eight or nine years ago.”
There was a pause. Then Alex said, “Yeah. Yeah. I remember. The forger.”
“He’d be in his seventies now. He owned that antique store in Mexico City. Antigüedades y tesoros.”
“Antiquities and Treasures.”
“Yes—165 República del Salvador.”
“Hang on. Hang on. I have to get a pen. Okay, repeat that.”
Jenkins did. “I’m going to need at least one passport,” he said. “Canadian. And I’m going to need someone to bring it to me.”
“Where are you?”
“Turkey. I’ll provide more explicit instructions when I get to Greece.”
“Charlie, I can’t fly. I’m on bed rest.”
“I know. David is going to have to do it,” he said.
“David can’t do it, Charlie. If they see you we have to assume I am being watched and they know I am here. They’ll follow David.”
Jenkins sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing his forehead, trying to think despite his exhaustion. Then he heard another voice through the phone.
“I’ll do it.”
38
Federov smoked a cigarette as he watched the buses arrive and depart the Bursa bus terminal, spitting black petrol smoke out their exhaust pipes. Taxi drivers shouted “Taksi” outside their worn and tired-looking cars and vans. Simon Alekseyov moved from one driver to the next, showing each Charles Jenkins’s photograph
. Dressed in a suit and tie, Alekseyov stood out like the proverbial sore thumb. Most men wore jeans or slacks, untucked long-sleeve shirts, and leather coats. They looked as if they hadn’t shaved in days. The women, too, wore casual dress, though a few wore hijabs and even fewer the burka with the headdress.
Federov took a drag on his cigarette and blew smoke out the open car window. The weather had warmed to a comfortable fifteen degrees Celsius, but it had also produced a brown haze that hovered over the bus terminal.
Alekseyov pulled open the passenger door of the rental car. It gave a metallic snap. He got in, shaking his head. “Nichego,” he said. Nothing. He put the picture of Jenkins on the dash of the car, and he and Federov continued their wait for the arrival of the next round of buses and taxi drivers.
Federov knew Jenkins had taken at least one bus. The ticket agent at the bus terminal in Taksim recalled Jenkins and remembered that he had purchased a ticket first thing that morning when the booth opened. Jenkins had paid lira, and the man said he looked to have a significant amount. He also said Jenkins had to run to catch the first bus out of Istanbul.
On a whim, Federov had found a currency exchange office down the street from the bus terminal and showed the teller Jenkins’s picture. The man recalled Jenkins exchanging 10,000 Russian rubles that morning and said he had assumed Jenkins to be Russian both because of the rubles and because he spoke Russian. The man also said Jenkins asked for directions to a store to purchase a cell phone, and he had directed Jenkins down the street to a store in one of the alleys.
The store clerk also identified Jenkins from his picture, and said Jenkins purchased two burner phones, each loaded with roughly thirty minutes of call time. He said Jenkins expressed interest in making calls out of the country. Federov left the store and called his contact in the United States. Federov’s contact told him that Jenkins might be attempting to reach his wife and tell her of his plans for getting out of Turkey.
Federov then tracked down and spoke to the driver of the first bus to have left Istanbul that morning. The man specifically recalled Jenkins getting onto the bus because Jenkins had nearly missed it, and he recalled Jenkins because of his size. He said Jenkins did not request any unplanned stops, and that his bus had emptied when he reached the station in Bursa. In case Jenkins had gotten back onto the bus, or a different bus, Federov had agents in Çeşme asking the bus drivers arriving in that city if they recalled seeing him. If Jenkins hadn’t gotten back on the bus, then he’d likely taken a cab at the bus terminal, maybe to lay low in Bursa for a day or two, though with roughly 850 lira, he also could have had the cab take him all the way to Çeşme.
“There’s another one.” Alekseyov pointed to another taxi pulling into the bus terminal and parking at the back of the line. He picked up the picture from the dashboard and crossed the parking lot to the taxi stand. Moments after showing the driver Jenkins’s photo, Alekseyov turned his head and waved his arm for Federov to come quickly. Federov stepped from the car, took a final drag on his cigarette, and flicked the butt across the lot as he walked toward them.
Alekseyov stepped to Federov as he approached. “He recalls him.”
Federov felt a jolt of nervous energy. “Does he speak Russian?”
“Little,” Alekseyov said.
Federov took the photograph and showed it to the driver, speaking Russian. “Vy pomnite etogo cheloveka?” You recall this man?
“Evet,” the man said, nodding. “Ono bu sabah Bursa şehir merkezindeki biro tele götürdüm.” I drove him to a hotel in downtown Bursa this morning.
Federov looked to Alekseyov for help. “He said something about driving him to a hotel in Bursa.” Alekseyov looked to the driver. “Kogda?” he asked, then caught himself, struggling with the translation. “Ne zaman?” When?
“Bu sabah,” the man said.
“This morning,” Alekseyov said to Federov.
“Ask him where he took him,” Federov said. “To what hotel?”
“Otel neydi?”
The driver looked at Alekseyov, then at Federov, and held out his hand, rubbing his thumb and index finger together, a universal sign. Federov nodded. Alekseyov pulled out forty lira from his pocket and handed it to the man.
“Central Hotel,” the man said.
Federov turned without another word and walked back to their rental car. As Alekseyov caught up, Federov pulled open the driver’s door and spoke across the roof. “Get me the directions,” he said, “but first let everyone in the area know to keep an eye out for him. Tell them not to go near the hotel until I arrive.”
Twenty minutes later, Federov drove past the Central Hotel on a busy street in downtown Bursa. The street fed into a roundabout littered with honking city buses, vans, scooters, and other vehicles seemingly paying no attention to lanes. On the sidewalk, vendors hawked their wares, adding to the cacophony of sounds. Federov took the roundabout, then backtracked until he found parking one hundred yards past the hotel, in front of a bank ATM.
“Tell the others we will meet them here,” Federov said. He lowered his window and shook free another cigarette. Before he could light it, a bank employee came out of the front door of the bank, gesturing and telling Federov to move his car. The employee pointed to a sign Federov could not read and did not care to. Federov nodded to Alekseyov, who got out of the car and intercepted the man, speaking to him in animated Turkish before handing him a few lira. The man considered the notes, shrugged his shoulders, and left without further complaint.
Eventually, four other agents met Federov and Alekseyov. Federov sent one of the men to scout the exterior of the hotel for exits Jenkins might use to escape. He returned ten minutes later.
“On the far side of the hotel there is a glass door leading to an alley with restaurants and outdoor tables and shops. It is crowded at the moment. The near side abuts a hardware store. There are no exits. There is a third exit at the rear of the hotel, but it also leads to the same alley.”
Federov instructed two men to position themselves at a table where they could see the door at the back of the hotel, and the other two to sit somewhere with a view of the door on the far side of the hotel. He and Alekseyov would enter the hotel through the front door. When the men were in place, Federov and Alekseyov approached the reception desk. The hotel looked to be a traveler’s rest stop, clean but nothing fancy, a place to sleep for the night for a modest price. Brochures stuffed in a rack just to the right of the counter advertised local activities, from the zoo to sightseeing bus tours. The tours perhaps explained the innumerable small white buses cluttering the street outside the hotel. The interior smelled of Turkish cigarettes, and Turkish music played from ceiling speakers.
At the counter, a man in an open-collared white dress shirt looked up and greeted them. Alekseyov slid Jenkins’s photograph across the counter and said, “We are looking for this man and understand he rented a room here this morning.”
The man removed a brochure from one of several slots on the counter and placed it over the photograph. Then his eyes shifted to his right, and Federov saw a camera bolted to the ceiling, the lens directed at the front desk. The clerk looked at Alekseyov and Federov in much the same manner as the taxi driver. He recognized Jenkins, but to breach hotel policy would come at a price.
Alekseyov picked up the brochure as if contemplating it, turned his back to the camera, and subtly placed twenty lira and the photograph inside the fold. He set it back on the counter. The man opened the brochure but his look conveyed he was not impressed. He did not pick up the lira. “I do not know,” he said. “We get many guests. He may be familiar.”
Federov nodded and Alekseyov pulled back the brochure and repeated the process. This time, the man did not hesitate. He picked up the brochure and casually slid the lira into his pants pocket while considering the photograph inside the brochure. “Yes,” he said looking up at them and keeping his voice low. “He came in this morning, spoke English, and rented a room for two nights. He paid cash.”
>
Federov’s heart pounded. “Did you see him leave the hotel?”
“I did not. He looked exhausted. I assume he is sleeping.”
“What room?” Federov said.
The man looked again to Alekseyov and placed the brochure on the counter. Federov placed his hand over the brochure before Alekseyov could pick it up, and glared at the clerk. The man got the message. He turned to his computer and quickly typed. Then he picked up a pen and wrote “312” on the back of Jenkins’s photograph.
“I have lost the key to my room and will need another,” Federov said.
The man slid a room key into a machine to activate it, then handed the key, and the photograph inside the brochure, to Federov.
Federov walked to the elevator bank just behind the counter and deposited the brochure in a garbage can. They stepped on board the elevator. When it stopped on the third floor, he nodded for Alekseyov to step off, then he switched off the elevator before he also stepped into the hall. He removed his gun and pressed it against his thigh. Alekseyov mimicked him. The two walked down the hall, considering room numbers on doors. Room 312 was on the left side of the hall, which meant the windows faced the street. Federov hoped Jenkins had not seen them entering, but if he had, and if he had attempted to flee, the other men would know it. He and Alekseyov took up positions on each side of the door, guns now raised.
Federov removed the key from his pocket and slid it through the lock mechanism. The light flashed green. He pressed down on the handle, pushed the door open, and entered quickly, gun in front of him.
The Eighth Sister Page 21
