Jenkins bent for a closer inspection. The decorative bars were part of a single grate with hinges at the top and a bolt embedded at the concrete base. The concrete had been drilled and the bolt epoxied into place, but the bolt had rusted, creating space. Jenkins yanked on the grate and the bolt head moved. He rattled the grate, and the noise echoed in the courtyard.
“I might be able to pry up the bolt.” He grabbed the head of the bolt with his fingers and tried to force it up. It raised slightly, but not enough. He stopped. “I’m going to need to create some leverage.”
He left the fountain for one of the surrounding flower beds and found a pile of rocks in a corner. He sifted through them until he found two that might work. Hurrying back, he dropped to his knees and angled the longer of the two rocks to put the flat edge under the bolt head, like a chisel blade. He used the second rock like a hammer. The bolt head raised slightly. He tapped again, and again, and again, each time raising the bolt millimeters. The woman kept watch. When Jenkins had raised the bolt enough to grip the head, he wiggled it, but again could not yank it free. He went back to tapping. He had no idea the length of the bolt, or how long it would take to dislodge it. He did know, however, they had very little time.
Zhomov drove slowly, searching the woods to the left and right.
“They could have hidden the car anywhere,” Sokalov said.
“No,” Zhomov said. “They could not. We would see the tire tracks and the bushes would be destroyed. They stayed on the road, trying to get as far as possible until the tire wore off the rim.”
They came to a fork in the road. The main road continued back toward Moscow; the other took them to Moscow State University. “They would not risk taking the car back to Moscow. They would try to hide it someplace on the campus,” Zhomov said.
He took the fork to the university, proceeding slowly, his head on a swivel, scanning the parking lots on each side of the campus. He slowed the car to a near stop.
“What?” Sokalov asked.
He pointed to the portion of the road visible in the car’s headlights. The pavement looked like someone had dragged a spike down it. “He lost the rubber on the tire here. There,” he said and pointed to torn rubber along the road’s edge. “They cannot be far.” He followed the scrape marks into the parking lot on the back side of a dormitory building and pulled behind the car with the blown-out back window, partially hidden behind a garbage dumpster. “They are on foot.”
“They could be hidden in any of these buildings,” Sokalov said.
Again, Zhomov dismissed it. “The buildings are locked,” he said. “Call the CCTV center in Moscow. Throw your weight around. Tell them you want live footage of the campus, that you are looking for a man and a woman on foot, likely running. Tell them to have the computer system search for Maria Kulikova.”
Sokalov took out his phone, made the call to Lubyanka, and was connected to the Moscow Department of Information Technologies. He provided them his access code and told them what he wanted.
“We have located them,” the man on the phone said. “They are still on the campus, near the main building on Sparrow Hill. A woman and a Black man.”
“Black?” Sokalov said.
“Is he an old man?” Zhomov said into the phone.
“Can’t tell.”
“But you’re sure he is Black?” Sokalov asked.
“It is dark, but the man appears to be Black, yes.”
“Can you estimate his size?”
“If the woman is of average height, the man would be about two meters. He is muscular, thick.”
“Charles Jenkins,” Sokalov said.
“Do you want me to see if I can capture his face and run him through the system?”
“No. Do not,” Sokalov said.
The man provided the live feed and Sokalov recognized Jenkins from pictures on file. “I do not want them to be perceived as being together,” he said to Zhomov.
“Then I would suggest we find them, quickly,” Zhomov said.
Kulikova ran past the main building to an expansive courtyard, then disappeared behind trees.
“The coverage there is limited. I cannot see what they are doing,” Sokalov said.
“Hiding while waiting for a ride,” Zhomov said, taking out earphones, inserting one in his ear and attaching the plug to his phone. “I can move faster on my own. Stay here and monitor the feed. Advise me if you see them again or if a car arrives.”
He turned and broke into a run, moving toward the large spire of the central building at the entrance to the campus.
25
Moscow State University
Ramenki District
Moscow Oblast
Jenkins gave the bolt another tap. He had raised it nearly three inches. He set down the rocks and gripped the bolt head, wiggling it back and forth as he applied pressure until it yanked free. He grabbed the grate with both hands and pulled. The bottom edge raised from the concrete but only about six inches.
“The hinges are rusty,” Jenkins said, working the grate back and forth, raising it a fraction higher each time. The hinges emitted a screeching noise. He continued until he had raised it enough for a person to squeeze beneath it.
“Follow me,” Kulikova said. She lay on her belly and shimmied under the grate, then carefully turned and braced her feet against the concrete on the far side so as not to fall down the shaft. She spun again, gripped the top of a metal ladder bolted to the wall, and descended the shaft.
Being considerably bigger, Jenkins had more difficulty wiggling under the grate, then maneuvering in the cramped space. He braced his hands and feet against the wall to turn. The rungs of a rusted ladder descended into darkness—to where, he had no idea. He looked back to the grate, which was open, and was about to reach for it when a man jogged down the path toward the fountain.
Zhomov, Maria had called him.
No time to close the grate. If it made a noise, it would draw Zhomov to him, and Jenkins would literally be the fish about to be shot in the barrel.
He stepped down the ladder rungs, moving as quickly as he dared. The lower he descended into the pitch darkness, the less he could see. He had to be sure his foot found a perch before he let go to reach down to the next rung. He likened it to rock climbing, or what he imagined rock climbing to be, trying to keep three points of contact on the ladder as he descended.
If he slipped and fell, he had no idea how far the drop, or if Kulikova was still beneath him.
Zhomov reached the courtyard in front of the building and slowed his pace, assuming the man who had come for Kulikova, Charles Jenkins, to be armed. He didn’t know Jenkins, but he knew of him from Sokalov. He knew Jenkins had come to and escaped from Russia twice, the second time killing Adam Efimov, “The Brick,” and one of Lubyanka’s best torpedoes. The president had placed Jenkins on a kill list, and Zhomov would have liked nothing better than to appease the president, but Sokalov had been adamant that Jenkins be taken alive, a much more difficult task.
Zhomov removed the pistol from the holster at his back and held the barrel pointed at the ground as he walked and listened. He stopped, allowing his eyes to search the trees and shrubs for natural hiding places and unnatural colors. His ears listened for man-made sounds.