“What is it you want?” she asked.
He sat back, glass in hand. “Right to the business. Good. I like that. No wasting of time. Very well.” He raised the glass. “Za tvoyo zdarovye!” He drank, then set the glass down on the table. “Tell me, what do you know of the seven sisters?”
The question perplexed her. “Are you mad?”
Federov smiled. “Let us assume I am not. What do you know of them?”
“I am not a tour guide, and I am not here to amuse you. Buy a book if you want to know. I’m sure there are many.”
“Oh,” Federov said, uncrossing his legs. “You think I am referring to Stalin’s seven buildings. A reasonable mistake. No. I do not wish to know of buildings. I wish to know of the seven sisters, of which you are one, who have spied for the Americans for almost four decades.”
Zarina felt a trickle of sweat roll down her back. The room had become as warm and as humid as the bus. She had never heard the term “the seven sisters” for anything but the buildings. Were there six others like her?
“Is it hot in here?” Federov asked Volkov. “I was a bit cold, though the vodka does help.” He redirected his attention to her. After a long moment, he said, “You see, Ms. Kazakova, the other two women also claimed they, too, did not know of the seven sisters, and do you want to know something?”
A pause. Was he expecting Zarina to answer? No words came to her. Six others like her. My God.
“I believe them.” Federov sat back. “Arkady can be very convincing. I would also like to believe that you, too, do not know the identities of the others, but I cannot leave here without similar assurances. We all have bosses to answer to, don’t we?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Zarina said. “You’ve made a mistake. I am a secretary in the ministry of defense and have been for almost forty years. My credentials have been checked and approved dozens of times. You can confirm this.”
“You deny the existence of the seven sisters?” Federov asked.
“As you have defined them, I certainly do.”
Federov picked up his gloves and hat from the table and stood. He looked grave. “To me, it is a sad song I do not wish to hear. To Arkady, your denial is music to his ears.”
PART I
1
Camano Island, Washington
Charles Jenkins dropped to a knee and picked at the leaves and twigs cluttering the two graves. It had become his routine along his five-mile morning run to visit Lou and Arnold, his two Rhodesian ridgebacks that he’d buried along the creek bed. The wooden crosses had long since been swept away when the creek had overflowed its banks. He hadn’t considered that possibility when he’d hastily buried his two boys.
Max, his mottled female pit bull, scurried from the brush as Jenkins stood from his crouch. “Still got you though, don’t I, girl? You’re the last of the Mohicans.” Max, too, was getting long in the tooth, her coat now more gray than brown. Jenkins couldn’t be sure of her age, having rescued her from a man who had abused her. He guessed she was at least eleven, two years older than his son, CJ. “Come on, girl. Let’s get home and see CJ off to school.”
He picked up his pace down the gravel road, Max doing her best to keep up. He wanted to get another dog. CJ was old enough to learn responsibility by caring for an animal, but Alex was dead set against the idea with a second baby on the way, and Jenkins was smart enough not to argue with a pregnant woman.
He walked the final ten yards, his hands clasped on his head as he sucked in the cool November air. Sweat dripped from beneath his knit cap and heavy blue sweatshirt. He ran three mornings a week—his knees wouldn’t take another day—and lifted weights in his basement. At sixty-four, he could no longer stay in shape just watching his diet. It required blood, sweat, and yes, a few tears, but after a year of intensive and consistent exercise, he was six foot five and once again 235 pounds, just ten pounds heavier than his peak weight when he’d worked as a CIA case officer in Mexico City nearly forty years ago.
The Range Rover idled in the gravel drive of their two-story home, the engine warming while Alex conducted the daily fire drill to get CJ out of bed and out the door in time for school. This morning, a Thursday, Alex tutored students who needed help in math, which added to the stress. Jenkins made CJ’s daily lunch and ensured his backpack was organized and near the front door so he could run without feeling completely guilty.
“CJ, come on! We’re going to be late.” Alex stood in the doorway, yelling into the house, her tone already one of exasperation.
Jenkins heard CJ’s reply from somewhere inside. “I can’t find my soccer cleats.”
“That’s because you left them in the car,” Jenkins said under his breath.
“They’re in the car where you left them,” Alex shouted.
“Do you have my lunch?” Jenkins said softly.
“I can’t find my lunch,” CJ said. “Do you have it?”
“Yes,” Alex said, clutching the brown paper bag.
“Where’s your jacket?” Jenkins whispered. “I don’t need one. Yes, you do. It’s thirty-eight degrees. Grab the jacket off the hook.”
“Where’s your jacket?” Alex asked when CJ ran out the door. The boy wore shorts and a T-shirt.
“I don’t need one.”
“It’s freezing out. Grab your down jacket off the hook.”
CJ ran back inside and returned with his jacket. The boy was all arms and legs, tallest in his class—which was to be expected with a father Jenkins’s height and a mother half an inch over five foot ten. He looked like a mixture of Alex’s Hispanic heritage and Charlie’s African American roots. He even had his father’s green eyes—likely from a recessive gene passed down from Jenkins’s distant Louisiana ancestors.
CJ ran past Jenkins. “Hi Dad. Bye Dad.”
“Kiss your father,” Jenkins said.
CJ returned and allowed Jenkins to kiss him atop the head. “Have a good day at school.” CJ turned for the car. Jenkins followed. The boy climbed into the back seat. “Any more trouble with that boy?” Jenkins asked.
“No, it’s fine.”
“If there’s a problem, you call. You remember the code?”
“Yes,” CJ said, sounding impatient as he buckled in.
“What is it?” Old habits die hard. Jenkins had a family code, just as he’d had a code when he’d worked in Mexico City, in case the shit ever hit the fan and they needed one another’s help.
“Dad . . .”
“We’re wasting time.”
“How’s Lou?” CJ sighed.
“He’s sleeping at the moment.”
“Could you wake him?”
“If it’s important.”
“It is.”
Jenkins tousled CJ’s hair. “Good boy.” He shut the door.
Alex rolled her eyes. “He’d forget his feet if they weren’t attached to his legs. And the doctor wonders why I have high blood pressure.”
“You’re going in for a checkup today?”
“At two.”