Jenkins exited into the terminal with the quick and confident gait of a much younger man late for a trip. He dashed toward the swinging glass doors leading to the outdoor platform, but he did not immediately exit. He moved to the side as people came and went, and pulled out his ticket as if to consider the platform, but kept his gaze outside the glass doors. He searched for anyone watching the doors as well as for the CCTV cameras. He found one camera with four lenses high up a light stanchion, no doubt providing platform coverage. In the center of the outdoor platform was another kiosk with multiple stores that looked to carry similar merchandise as the interior shops. He searched the stanchions on the other side of that kiosk for another camera but didn’t immediately see one. That didn’t mean there wasn’t one.
Jenkins checked his watch. Thirteen minutes until their train departed.
He stepped outdoors and moved quickly to the far side of the kiosk. In his peripheral vision he spotted Kulikova. She had ditched the black sweater for a colorful scarf, and somehow had managed to lift her long skirt above her knees. She had also changed from walking shoes to heels and she had removed the wig. She had put her hair up beneath a fashionable hat that looked like something a 1950s newsboy would wear selling newspapers on the street corner. The most intricate part of her disguise, however, was not her clothing but her company. She strolled alongside a man and two young children, keeping her head turned away from the light stanchion as she crossed the platform. Jenkins looked for the man’s spouse but didn’t see one. The young-looking Kulikova completed the family picture—a mother possibly, but more likely a grandmother.
35
Varsonof’yevskiy Pereulok
Moscow, Russia
Arkhip hurried but did not rush. He did not want to look as though he was in pursuit. As he passed the Range Rover, he studied the faces of the three handcuffed men and committed them to memory. One of the men, the oldest looking of the three, wore a tailored suit and dress shoes that would likely cost Arkhip his annual salary. As Arkhip passed, the man looked up at him, gave him the tiniest thin-lipped smile, and tipped his head, as if to say they would meet again.
Arkhip did not return the gesture.
He turned the corner in the direction Jenkins and Kulikova had walked, blending in with the emerging crowd on the sidewalks and congregated in the cafés and at coffeehouse tables. The crowds were not as dense as on weekday mornings, but sufficient for Arkhip, at five foot six, to not stand out.
He spotted Jenkins and Kulikova in the far distance just before they turned another corner. Arkhip needed to close in but not get too close. He contemplated what would be Jenkins’s and Kulikova’s first priority. Getting out of the country, definitely, but how best to do it? Transportation? Certainly. What method?
He considered his location. Were Jenkins and Kulikova walking to a designated rendezvous site where a car would pick them up? Perhaps, though that would be potentially risky for all involved, especially the person providing aid, given the depth to which Jenkins and Kulikova were wanted.
Arkhip felt his cell phone buzz and removed it from his pants pocket. He noted the number for the Moscow police department.
He answered the call. “This is Chief Investigator Arkhip Mishkin.”
“Chief Investigator, this is Officer Orlov. We spoke at the crime scene.”
“Yes, Officer. What do you have for me?”
“Well, nothing, I’m afraid.”
“Nothing?”
“The man’s name is Zhomov. Alexander Zhomov. But when I ran his name through the customary databases on my car’s computer, I came up with nothing. His file has been sealed.”
So it wasn’t nothing. It was very much something. “On whose authority was his file sealed?” Arkhip asked, though he suspected he knew the answer.
“Lubyanka. My inquiry produced a telephone number for us to immediately call.”
“Have you made that call?”
“I thought it best to call you, as instructed.”
“I will make the call, Officer Orlov. If a head is to roll, I would prefer it be mine. I’m close to retirement, anyway.”
“Thank you, Chief Investigator.” He could hear the relief in the officer’s voice.
“Take Mr. Zhomov to Petrovka and detain him as I advised until you hear back from me. Do not let him make any telephone calls until then.”
Arkhip disconnected, slipped his phone back in the pocket of his slacks, and smiled. What were they going to do to him if he didn’t call? Fire him?
He drew closer to Jenkins and Kulikova but continued to maintain a comfortable distance. Cars and buses filled the streets with the smell of diesel and the sounds of the awakening city. They neared Komsomolskaya Square. The trains. Of course. Moscow had more than nine terminals with a multitude of different platforms at each. If Jenkins and Kulikova could avoid CCTV detection and get on one of the trains, they could get a long way from Moscow, and there were far fewer, if any, cameras. Arkhip paused when the two stopped. Jenkins bent down. From his angle, Arkhip could not tell why. Just as quickly Jenkins rose, and he and Kulikova entered Yaroslavsky rail terminal. Here, Arkhip could not delay. If he lost them inside the station, he would not know the train they boarded, and he doubted Stepanov would again be so charitable, or that cameras would be available in the smaller towns where Jenkins and Kulikova might be headed.