They would have just a few seconds.
He raced outside, Kulikova in tow, pushed open the passenger-side front door, and shoved her into the car, then ran around the hood to the driver’s side and slipped behind the wheel. He threw the car into drive. The tires spit gravel. The rear window exploded. Kulikova screamed. He reached across the car and shoved her further below the seat, hearing bullets ping, then a loud pop. The car fishtailed, but Jenkins managed to correct the steering.
He’d lost a back tire.
They would not outrun anyone on three wheels.
Alexander Zhomov took aim at Maria Kulikova. He fired just after the old man had yanked the door closed. Zhomov stepped over Helge Kulikov and pulled on the door handle. The door rattled but did not open.
He walked back to the two bodies on the ground and wrapped Helge Kulikov’s hand around the pistol, a cheap and readily available weapon on Moscow’s black market. The fingerprint evidence would support that Kulikov had shot his wife’s lover, then turned the gun on himself. Documents within the FSB would confirm Helge had recently spoken to Sokalov of an FSB officer having an affair with his wife, and Helge’s desire for retribution.
Zhomov pulled his MP-443 Grach from its waistband holster at the small of his back as he moved around the side of the building, though with caution, uncertain if the old man who had saved Maria Kulikova was armed. When he reached the building corner, the only car in the parking lot lurched forward and spit gravel. He fired at the back window and heard it explode, then lowered his aim to the tires and gas tank, emptying the clip as the car pulled away.
He hurried back to his Mercedes, hidden in the forest, shouting at Sokalov to get in. “Do you know the old man in the bar?”
“No,” Sokalov said, rushing to the passenger seat as Zhomov slipped behind the wheel.
“We will know soon enough. I shot out the back tire. They will not get far.”
Zhomov threw the car into drive and sped to the double-lane road.
Kulikova sat up in the passenger seat and turned to the rear. Wind whistled in from the destroyed back window, and Jenkins could smell the burning rubber as the car thumped down the asphalt. “Chto s mashinoy?” she asked. What’s wrong with the car?
“On prostrelil zadneye koleso,” Jenkins said. He shot out a back tire. Then, “Ty govorish’ po-angliyski?” Do you speak English?
“Yes,” she said.
Jenkins pulled the mask from his face and tossed it in the back seat.
“Charles Jenkins.” Kulikova looked surprised, but Jenkins didn’t have time to explain.
“We won’t get far. The tire will come off and we’ll be on the rim. We can’t outrun them. I’m looking for a place to ditch the car and buy us some time. Our only choice is to hide in these woods.”
She looked out the windshield. “Turn,” she said. “Here, Mr. Jenkins. Turn!”
Jenkins did as she instructed, a hard right turn past signs for Moscow State University.
“You are well known by the FSB, Mr. Jenkins, particularly within the Counterintelligence Directorate. You have been put on a kill list.”
“So they tell me.”
“You are aware, then, that the president has begun a relentless campaign to find the seven sisters—a special division within the directorate with a singular purpose to find the remaining sisters. You should not have come back.”
“Too late for that.” Jenkins fought to control the steering wheel. The smell of burning rubber intensified. “Who got shot back there?”
“I believe one man worked within the FSB. The other was my husband, Helge.”
“I’m sorry,” Jenkins said. The woman stared out the windshield, intensely focused given her circumstances.
“Turn here,” she said. Jenkins drove onto the campus grounds, the car thumping and banging as they passed tall buildings and near-empty parking lots.
“The man doing the shooting, is he part of the group tasked with finding the seven sisters, Operation Herod?”
“No. That man is Alexander Zhomov, one of the most celebrated torpedoes in the history of the Kremlin.”
Jenkins knew the term meant “assassin.” “What is his involvement in this?” The car thumped as if he had driven over a speed bump, then it dropped. Sparks showered the road. “We’ve lost the tread. We’ve got to ditch the car now.”
“The parking lot.” She pointed to a lot in front of a multistory building, and they slowly rolled in. “Drive around to the back of the building.” Jenkins followed her directions, parking the car behind a blue garbage dumpster. “Hurry,” she said, pushing from the car.