“I stink. But I have learned that all golfers stink. It is just to different degrees.” Jenkins laughed and looked about the estate. Upon his arrival he had marveled at the wealth—the house, the yard, the pool, the food. Plato Vasin could afford anything he wanted anytime he wanted it, but he was also as much a prisoner as Federov, maybe more so. Jenkins surmised from the armed guards that Vasin’s life was fragile. Federov must have felt similarly at times, living large but alone in Europe’s finest hotels and restaurants and on its golf courses. No doubt he filled that time with high-end escorts, but they, too, would eventually cease to be fulfilling. Jenkins wouldn’t give up his home on Camano Island for five of these estates, and he wouldn’t give up his family for all the hotels, meals, golf, and escorts in the world. He suspected Viktor Federov, a complex man for certain, felt the same, though he’d never admit it. It reminded Jenkins of something his father had once said: When you can have everything, you appreciate nothing.
“What are you going to do, Viktor?”
“I am thinking perhaps that what I do may depend on what you do.”
Jenkins’s eyes narrowed behind his dark sunglasses. “I don’t follow.”
“You seem to need help . . . often.” Federov gave that Cheshire cat grin and raised his eyebrows. “I can provide that help, along with other resources. The Vasin reach, for example, is far and wide.”
“I’ve been told. I’m not certain the CIA would look favorably on working with the Irkutsk mafiya.”
“Don’t be hypocrite. Your CIA is responsible for the deaths of many and engaged in affairs that would make the Fly pale, I am certain. Besides, if it was not for Plato and Peanut, you would be on someone’s dinner plate.”
“No doubt,” Jenkins said. “And they were paid handsomely.”
“And don’t be na?ve. Plato needs more money like the ocean needs more water. He did what he did because I asked him to . . . because I told him you were a friend of mine.”
Jenkins could tell Federov had let the word “friend” slip unintentionally. Odd, that this former FSB officer now considered Jenkins a friend. Jenkins extended his arms. “Is this where we hug? I’m feeling a moment between the two of us, Viktor.”
“You are jackass,” Federov said, stepping away.
Jenkins stepped forward. “Come on, Viktor, bring it in.”
“Bring what in?”
Jenkins lowered his arms. “I think of you as a friend also, Viktor. And I know you didn’t do what you did for the money either.”
Federov shrugged. “Actually, I did. My ocean is not as full as Plato’s.”
Two black Mercedes pulled into the roundabout, bringing the smell of diesel and the click of the engines. “Any word on Dmitry Sokalov?”
“My contacts within the FSB tell me he has disappeared, and no one knows where he is. His secretary said the last person to visit him in his office was his father-in-law.”
“So, it’s unlikely he got away.”
“Very. People in Russia disappear all the time. Sokalov is likely sitting in Lefortovo, reconstructing what classified information he can recall divulging over the last three decades. Then he will be executed, rest assured. But we can’t be too careful even with Sokalov and Zhomov out of the picture; the FSB and the Kremlin, the president, will want you all the more, knowing now Kulikova was one of the seven sisters. The Fly will continue to provide you with security until you have successfully exfiltrated her. Even then, word will spread quickly, and the FSB will adapt just as quickly. For every Sokalov and Zhomov, there are a dozen more.”
“Then the sooner we are out of Russia, the better.”
“On this I agree,” Federov said. Maria appeared atop the steps, speaking to the armed guards, who smiled at her. “She is the last of the seven, no?”
“She is,” Jenkins said.
“Good. Then let me give you piece of advice, Charlie. Don’t return to Russia, under any circumstances. I can’t take it.”
Jenkins chuckled and felt it in his ribs. “I don’t intend to do any sightseeing over here anytime soon.”
“I am curious. What of the two assassins who tried to kill Fyodor Ibragimov?” Federov asked.
“I’ve been told that when I get back on American soil, the CIA will announce their capture and pin it on the Kremlin. The Kremlin will deny any knowledge of the incident, and the two countries will again begin that never-ending dance. One leading with an accusation, the other following with a denial and a counteraccusation.”