Jenkins followed Federov and the driver into the restaurant, passing through a modest crowd seated in the bar. They climbed a narrow staircase to the second floor, where the maître d’ waited, as if expecting them. He led them through what looked to be an elaborate personal library, with dining tables tucked behind ornately carved bookshelves displaying the gold spines of antique books. Tiny lamps with shades hung from the ends of bookcases. With dark mahogany wood, arched windows, and hunter-green tablecloths, the room had the look and the feel of one described in the Harry Potter novels Jenkins read each night to CJ.
On a snowy weeknight, the room was sparsely populated, though Jenkins heard soft voices speaking Russian and the clink and ping of silverware and glasses. The smells emanating from the kitchen made his mouth water, and he realized that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. The maître d’ maneuvered his way around another bookshelf and gestured to a table positioned in the corner. Two drinks—vodka from the look of it—had been placed on the table. A waiter in a white shirt, red vest, and an apron that extended below his knees offered menus. Federov declined, ordering on the spot. Jenkins struggled to understand what was being ordered but deciphered sparkling water, champagne, caviar, and veal cutlets with fried onions.
Either the Kremlin had really liked Jenkins’s information, or Federov, like many American government employees, saw an opportunity to expense a meal and decided to do it right.
“Your agency must pay you well. Far better than in the United States,” Jenkins said, looking about the room after the waiter had departed.
Federov said, “I’m sorry for the theatrics, Mr. Jenkins, but one cannot be too certain when first meeting.”
“I take that to mean that you verified Alexei Sukurov?”
“Mr. Sukurov is deceased,” Federov said.
“Natural causes?” Jenkins asked.
Federov picked up his drink. The second drink sat on the table before Jenkins. He poked his thumb in the direction of the block of cement. “He’s not drinking?”
“Arkady Volkov,” Federov said. “And no, he is not drinking. He’s driving. It would be irresponsible.” Federov raised his cocktail glass. “Za fstrye-tchoo.” To our meeting.
Jenkins returned the toast and put the vodka to his lips but did not drink.
Federov set down his glass. He kept his voice low. “You worked in Mexico City in 1978 with a man named Joe Branick, deceased. A suicide, I believe, no? An interesting explanation.” Jenkins did not respond. “You left Mexico City and returned to the United States. That is where your history seemingly ends, Mr. Jenkins.”
And so it did, in a sense. Disillusioned and guilt-ridden, Jenkins left the CIA and sought isolation on his Camano farm, living alone until that fateful morning when Alex arrived.
Jenkins unfolded his napkin and placed it in his lap. “I wasn’t particularly happy with my employer.”
“Yes. It seems you were sent into the mountains of Oaxaca to report on a growing communist threat by a fabled Mexican leader known as El Profeta. Not long thereafter, the inhabitants of that village were massacred. The massacre was said to be the work of a right-wing Mexican militia. Another interesting explanation, no? How is my information so far?”
Jenkins nodded but did not answer, due to the waiter’s timely return. The man set a plate of appetizers on the table, speaking while gesturing. “Rye-bread bruschetta with eggplant spread. Marinated mushrooms, and pickled vegetables. Naslazhdat’sya.”
Federov picked up a piece of the bruschetta and spread the eggplant with a butter knife. “Please,” he said, gesturing to Jenkins. “You will enjoy.”
Jenkins chose the bruschetta and spread, mimicking whatever Federov ate. The driver sat resolutely.
“He doesn’t eat either?” Jenkins said. “Where do you replace his oil and batteries?”
The driver slowly turned his head and stared at Jenkins. After a moment, he gave Jenkins the tiniest hint of a smile. This guy would be a riot at a comedy club.
“To be clear, Mr. Jenkins.” Federov popped a mushroom in his mouth. “We are not interested in the names of dead former KGB officers.”
“And yet, here we are,” Jenkins said.
“Yes. Well, I assume that your purpose in advising me of Alexei Sukurov was to allow me to verify that at one time you had access to classified information. Yes?”
“Yes.”
“And you say that you have other information more currently relevant?”
“I have access to information I believe would be very relevant.”
“And how is it that an unhappy former case officer of the Central Intelligence Agency has such access after so many years, Mr. Jenkins?”
“He wouldn’t,” Jenkins said.
Federov paused, just a beat. Then he picked around the edges of the appetizers and Jenkins’s statement. “So, you are wasting our time?”
Jenkins set down what remained of his bruschetta and wiped the corners of his mouth with his napkin. “On November 16 of this year, a secretary in the Russian Ministry of Defense, Zarina Kazakova, left the Russian White House, what you refer to as Belyy Dom, shortly after five p.m. to return to her apartment in the Filyovsky Park District.” He recited information Carl Emerson had provided. “Ms. Kazakova worked in the ministry of defense for nearly forty years. She received favorable reviews and had been recognized as a member of the party in good standing before glasnost. Her standing did not change thereafter. And yet, she would not return to work the next day or the day after. Her whereabouts, and the circumstances of her disappearance, are unknown.” He paused to take a bite of his bruschetta. “An interesting development, wouldn’t you say?”
Federov’s Adam’s apple bobbed. He attempted to hide this with a sip of his vodka, but whether it was the news or the alcohol, he began to cough into his green napkin, suffering through an ill-timed hacking fit. The driver flinched but otherwise did not move. If Federov had been choking, he certainly would have died. The coughing slowed and finally ceased.
“Excuse me,” Federov said, voice harsh. He sipped water. “I believe your saying is ‘the wrong pipe,’ yes?”
“Yes,” Jenkins said.
Federov placed his elbows on the table and made a steeple with his hands. “Your information is interesting,” he said. “Of course, it would need to be verified for its accuracy.”
“Of course,” Jenkins said, though the coughing spasm had already done that.
“Is there more?” Federov asked.
Jenkins said, “Two other women, Irena Lavrova and Olga Artamonova, both similar in age to Ms. Kazakova, have also disappeared during the past eighteen months. They, too, left their employ with the Russian government and never returned. Would you like to hear about them?”
Federov nodded. This time he sipped his water, not his vodka. He was interested. He was very interested.
For the next ten minutes, Jenkins told Federov of the other two of the seven sisters, and the circumstances of each woman’s disappearance. He told Federov that in each instance, the Moscow police professed to have very little in the way of leads, or any hope they would find the three women, despite the pleas of family and friends.
When he had finished sharing the information, Jenkins said, “You see, Viktor, sometimes the best disguise is no disguise at all. One can simply disappear in plain sight, and everyone speculates as to why he has done so, until they lose interest in him altogether. It is then that the person is most valuable . . . and the most dangerous. Wouldn’t you agree?”