“She’s going to eat watching television. We should be so lucky,” Vinchenko said, sipping his coffee.
Two blocks from the redbrick house, the old woman shuffled along the darkened street to another parked car, her old dog obediently at her side. This time she did not knock on the window to get the driver’s attention. She pulled open the back door and put the dog on the seat, where it curled up, seemingly happy to no longer be walking. Then she pulled open the passenger-side door—the interior light had been removed—and slid onto the seat. Charles Jenkins, still disguised as the old man, started the car and pulled gently from the curb. They looked like an elderly couple out for the evening.
Having Petrekova walk up to the tail had been a bold move, a move out of character for someone seeking to evade a tail. Jenkins could tell it had been nerve-wracking for Petrekova.
“Everything went all right?” he asked.
“What if my neighbor walks her dog?”
“She already has. That was another reason for you to get home later than usual.”
“And if my tail gets suspicious?”
“We would have known of it already. The fact that they haven’t makes it highly likely you’ll have until Monday morning before you’re missed. Depending on what happens from here, you might call in Monday and tell your office you are ill, to buy more time.” He glanced in the rearview mirror for headlights but didn’t see any. “Are you hungry?”
She gave him an inquisitive look.
Jenkins nodded to the pizza box in the back seat. “If you’re hungry.”
She shook her head and let out a nervous chuckle. “I don’t think I will be hungry until we have left Russia. What now?”
“Information will be provided as you go. I set lights on timers within your home to turn on and off in the various rooms for the next few hours. Eventually everything will go black. Depending on how things go from here, you will be leaving Russia before the lights shut off in your bedroom.”
Petrekova nodded. “What about the dog?”
“The dog will go back to its owner.”
She placed her hands in her lap. Jenkins noticed the tremors. He reached inside the pocket of his jacket and pulled out the photograph of Petrekova with her family. He handed it to her.
She took it and grimaced. Then tears of joy rolled softly down her cheeks. “Thank you,” she said, clutching the photograph to her chest.
Taking it was a risk, but Jenkins hoped thoughts of her family would calm Petrekova, which was equally important. She remained a bundle of nerves. She had a right. A year or so ago, Jenkins had done his genealogy. Not for himself, but for CJ and Lizzie, so that when they got older and curious, they would know who they were and where they had come from. Alex’s family history had been well documented. She had a binder of materials about her ancestors in Mexico City. Jenkins’s research revealed his ancestors had been slaves in Louisiana, until his great-great-great-grandmother escaped via the Underground Railroad made famous in books and movies. His relative had the courage and the moral fiber to repay her freedom by sending money to companies that helped others escape by processing forged papers and paying for train tickets. When he had learned of her heroism, Jenkins wondered if helping others to be free was somehow a genetic family trait he could not ignore.
Possibly. But he refrained from drawing a correlation between his ancestors helping others escape slavery and his helping Zenaida Petrekova to escape from Russia. He also didn’t tell her about it.
Another of his relatives had also tried to escape, a young man.
He’d been captured and hung.
Jenkins drove until he arrived at the designated dead drop, though this time he would be dropping off a package very much alive. He had no further knowledge of Petrekova’s journey. The driver of the second vehicle knew nothing more than her next designated transfer. It ensured Petrekova could not be betrayed. Jenkins wouldn’t know the exfiltration had been successful until he returned home to the United States.
He had no sooner said his goodbyes and returned to his vehicle than his cell phone rang.
Lemore.
He was not using an encrypted number or chat room, which meant he was forsaking security for expediency.
Jenkins got a bad feeling that grew worse as Lemore spoke.
22
Yakimanka District
Moscow, Russia
The computerized woman’s voice filled the Metro car, informing commuters that the train approached the Kropotkinskaya station. Maria departed the train with the mass of humanity emitting a cloud smelling of body odor, cologne, perfume, and cigarettes. Unable to push through the throng, she had no choice but to go with it. She considered those around her, their eyes. Was someone following her? Was someone already waiting to arrest her?