“I had to confirm it was her,” she said. “I didn’t want there to be any mistakes.”
“I should think not. The deputy director would not look kindly on such a mistake,” Vinchenko said with a straight face, though his tone sounded sarcastic.
Chernoff considered his comment and said, “Do you think she is one of them?”
“What? One of the seven sisters?” Vinchenko shrugged. “Personally, I think this is all an American farce to keep us chasing our tails—like their Star Wars program to defend against nuclear attack. I don’t believe there ever were seven women trained from birth to spy on the Soviet Union. Think about it. What are the odds?”
“Equal to the odds of Russian illegals placed in the United States and raised from birth to be spies.”
Vinchenko shook his head. “You are comparing apples to oranges. Russian illegals have long existed, and patience is part of the Russian way of life. Americans have never had that same strength. They are a consumer society. They want everything yesterday.”
“But the women are not American. They are Russian.”
Vinchenko opened his mouth as if to respond, then paused. Chernoff had made her point. After a beat he said, “Maybe, but the Americans elect a new government every four years. They lose focus and interest. Here, we have the same people in power . . . maybe for decades; it allows for continuity and long-term strategic planning.”
Vinchenko’s phone rang. He answered, listened for a few moments, grunted a reply, and clicked off. “She is coming. Nothing of interest. They have broken off their tail. It’s just the two of us tonight.”
“There.” Chernoff pointed and raised the binoculars, watching Zenaida Petrekova walk down the dirt road to her home. Petrekova unlocked the door in the metal gate that allowed a car ingress and egress and stepped inside.
“What I wouldn’t do for a detached home,” Vinchenko said. He set his seat back. “Get ready for a long night of nothing.”
Jenkins waited in Zenaida Petrekova’s modest kitchen listening to each tick of the wall clock. He continued to wear the old-man disguise he’d worn earlier in the day and sat at a table pushed up against the wall and positioned beneath a ubiquitous picture of fruit on a tray with a darkened background. The setup seemed a sad commentary on the solitude of Petrekova’s life. Meals at his home on Camano Island with Alex, CJ, and little Lizzie were lively affairs filled with laughter—most aimed at some Lizzie antic. His daughter was old enough to perform, and their laughter only encouraged her.
A window above the sink provided a view of a small but well-maintained yard with cared-for plants and flowers, though Jenkins had drawn the shade to prevent anyone from seeing in. A redbrick fence with a metal gate surrounded the yard. Each home on the street, which resembled more of an alley than a road in the United States—with no sidewalks—was surrounded by a fence of some type: corrugated metal, wood, even barbed wire. It reminded Jenkins of the road and the houses in Vishnevka on the Black Sea coast where he had departed Russia the first time.
He had provided Matt Lemore with an update through the designated chat room, and he advised that everything depended on timing. If things went as planned, Zenaida Petrekova would be out of Russia tonight and long gone before Monday morning.
If things did not go as planned, it could be fatal for them both.
The front door opened and closed. Jenkins moved to the wall behind the archway leading into the kitchen. Someone dropped things on the table on the opposite side of the wall. When Petrekova stepped to the archway she came to a halt, staring at the unfamiliar suitcase beside her kitchen table. When she stepped in farther, Jenkins put a hand over her mouth to keep her from screaming. She jumped, startled, but she did not scream. Her eyes widened like someone who had the wind knocked out of them. Jenkins slowly removed his hand from her mouth. He had not wanted to scare her, particularly not after what she had endured the past four days, but it couldn’t be helped. He let her catch her breath.
Using hand signals, he directed Petrekova to turn on the television. She walked into the main room of the house, which contained two comfortable chairs and a sofa, and did so. Jenkins then indicated she should shut the blinds to her windows in the rest of the rooms on the ground floor. When she had finished, he invited her to take a seat at the kitchen table beneath the lamp.
She looked nervous, uncertain, and concerned. He smiled, hoping it would help her relax, then clicked open the suitcase. From the false bottom he removed Petrekova’s mask and her clothing, as well as the makeup kit. The CIA disguise team and her Moscow handlers had done a masterful job preparing for this moment. Jenkins hoped he didn’t screw it up.