He used his identification to move past the line and enter the railway terminal. He didn’t immediately see either Jenkins or Kulikova, then spotted the old man he presumed to be Jenkins passing through one of the metal detectors. He spotted Kulikova at a different machine, still in disguise. They had split up. A smart move. He decided to follow Jenkins, since he was Arkhip’s person of interest. He again flashed his badge and stepped past the metal detectors. Jenkins had entered a store within the terminal. Arkhip sat on a bench near lockers and waited for him to emerge. Jenkins remained in the store for about five minutes. He exited carrying a large plastic bag and went into the restroom on the other side of the terminal.
Arkhip watched the door. Men came and went, but he did not see Jenkins, the old man, emerge. What would be the purpose of the bathroom—the usual, of course, but then why go into the store and what would he buy? Other disguises?
He looked about the terminal and noted a man at the doors leading to the platform studying his ticket. He wore a red sweatshirt with the hood pulled over a baseball cap, obscuring much of his face, and a backpack. It was not just the hood and the hat that concealed Jenkins; if this was Jenkins, he had seemingly transformed his whole persona—the way he stood and, when he pushed open the door and moved to the platform, the way he walked: quicker, shoulders slumped, head down. He appeared much younger, a man rushing to catch his train.
Arkhip followed. The man crossed to a kiosk in the middle of the platform and moved to the far side. Arkhip looked back and gazed up at the CCTV cameras on the light stanchion. The man sought refuge from the cameras. On the other side of the kiosk, he seemed to be looking to the terminal doors, as if searching for someone. Arkhip could not get a clear look at his face.
Minutes later the man stood in line to board a train car while the provodnitsas, female attendants in red berets and dark-blue uniforms, checked tickets and passports. This time Arkhip got a look at his face. Jenkins.
Arkhip went to the ticket counter and flashed his badge. “Where does the train on platform eighteen go?”
“The end of the line is Vladivostok.”
“I will need a private cabin,” Arkhip said. He’d never ridden on the Trans-Siberian Railway, though he had read about it. Like most Muscovites, it was one of those bucket-list items he and Lada never got around to accomplishing. He’d do so now, using his expense budget. While he still had one.
No sense wasting his retirement funds. Not just yet.
36
Lubyanka
Moscow, Russia
Dmitry Sokalov stood at the windows of his office staring across Moscow to the Kremlin and ignoring the ringing of his cell phone. He sipped heavily on a glass of vodka and turned to the sound of his office door opening. Zhomov stepped in. He had spent most of the morning at the Moscow police station. The arresting officer had apparently refused to allow him to make a phone call or to even enter his name into the computer. Had he done so, a prompt would have informed the officer to release Zhomov without any questions. Zhomov had apparently said enough buzzwords to finally reach a captain in the Criminal Investigation Department and get him to run a background check. When he did, Zhomov was released immediately. “We are going to have a problem,” Zhomov said.
“Just one?” Sokalov asked.
“The three men arrested work for Yekaterina Velikaya,” Zhomov said. “What is their interest in this?”
“That is what I have been trying to figure out these last several hours.”
“It looks like you’ve been drinking,” Zhomov said.
“Yes, a fair amount of that also.”
“So . . . What have you learned?”
Sokalov told Zhomov how Charles Jenkins’s fingerprint came up on a beer bottle in the Yakimanka Bar where Eldar Velikaya was killed, and he didn’t think it could be a coincidence.
“It appears Yekaterina used her influence to have the CCTV tape outside the bar expunged, and the prostitute and the bodyguard have been killed.”
“The bartender?”
“Is no longer talking.”
“Who is the investigator who arrested me?”
“Arkhip Mishkin,” Sokalov said. He opened a folder on his desk and tossed an eight-by-ten photograph across the table at Zhomov.
Zhomov nodded. “How did he know Jenkins was at the apartment?”
“I don’t know. I can only assume someone advised him when Jenkins was spotted on the CCTV cameras.”
“You have a leak.”
“I will deal with that after you find Jenkins and Kulikova.”