He speculated whether the friend could be Lemore, but just as quickly concluded such a scenario was far too dangerous. More likely the friend was an asset who intended to remain anonymous. He hoped it wasn’t a trap, but that was a possibility too.
To his right, across the tracks, the Irkutsk train terminal looked like a two-story, turn-of-the-century palace with bright-green paint and white trim highlighting the arched windows and elaborate molding. Jenkins followed the commuters to the covered stairwell and descended to a tunnel beneath the tracks. The wheels of the rolling suitcases echoed off of the tiled walls, a hum that sounded like jet engines. The travelers kept their voices to a minimum, exhausted by the early hour. He ascended a stairwell on the other side of the train tracks and paused, again looking for “a friend,” but also to give someone time to approach or to make eye contact. Seeing no one, he entered the train terminal. He kept his head directed forward, but his gaze shifted left and right. He looked for men seemingly taking an interest in the passengers, maybe wearing concealed earpieces. He looked to their mouths to see if their lips moved. If this was a trap, there would be more than one, and they would communicate with one another.
Again, he saw no one.
No one approached him.
He neared the exit. He stopped for a moment and bent to tie his shoelace, taking the time to look for Maria. He did not see her.
He stepped through the exit but remained atop the step to scan the parking lot. Lamps on stanchions illuminated a bus at the bus stop across the lot and the parked cars. The commuters exited the depot and crossed the lot.
Jenkins kept his gaze roaming.
Headlights flashed on a black Citroen in the parking lot. A moment later a man pushed out of the car into the light of dawn.
Jenkins couldn’t believe what he saw. Nor could he suppress a smile. He did not know how Lemore had arranged this, but he was certain he’d find out soon enough, and in great detail. He departed the step into the parking lot, about to slide the backpack strap from his shoulder.
Maria Kulikova waited several long minutes, as instructed, inside her cabin. She felt a rush of adrenaline but fought to control it before she pulled open the cabin door. She held her bag of clothing in one hand. Without her pen with the cyanide capsule, she felt naked and exposed. She had never put herself in a position that would allow Russian forces to capture her, and that prospect now terrified her. She knew what had happened to the sisters betrayed by the CIA informant Carl Emerson, the months of psychological and physical torture they had endured before being executed.
She stepped toward the opposite end of the car, away from the exit Jenkins had taken. The man and his two children whom she had met on the platform in Moscow approached the same exit from the attached train car. The man smiled and waved enthusiastically, an indication he had been looking for her on the train. His two children trudged forward as though he had just gotten them out of their beds, which he certainly had. The boy and girl wore pajama bottoms beneath their jackets and pulled their roller bags behind them like prisoners dragging heavy stones. The boy’s bag clunked against the side wall several times.
“Ya dumal, vy yedete do konechnoy stantsii, vo Vladivostok,” the man called out across the exit. I thought you were traveling to the end of the line, Vladivostok?
“One never knows one’s plans for certain,” Maria replied. “A woman is free to change her mind, no?”
The two children stepped down onto the platform, their suitcases clunking on each step, as well as the concrete. The man gestured for Maria to go before him. “I didn’t see you on the train. We looked for you in the dining car.”
“The time zone changes have played havoc with my sleep,” she said, relying on the six time zone changes from Moscow to Vladivostok as an excuse. “It is the middle of the night, and I am wide awake. I don’t think you can say the same about your two children.”
“Getting them up was like raising the dead,” he said, the four of them walking forward with the crowd. “What are your plans? A little sightseeing then?”
She looked for Jenkins. His hoodie bobbed above the others, though he had done well to make himself look shorter. “Perhaps, yes. I have never been to the Paris of Siberia.” Her eyes danced between the faces of the people on the platform waiting to board.
“I would love to take you,” the man said.
“That would be kind,” she said, keeping her gaze moving. “But it looks like you need to get these two back to bed before they fall asleep on their roller bags.” The two children smiled and wiped their eyes. “Here, let me pull your case,” she said to the little girl, who willingly handed Maria the handle of her roller bag.
She stayed close to the man and to his children as they descended the interior stairwell and crossed beneath the tracks. Up ahead, Jenkins ascended the staircase. Moments later, she and the family ascended, entered the terminal, and crossed toward an exit to the parking lot. As they neared the exit the man asked, “Do you have a ride?”
“A friend is picking me up,” Maria said.
“Perhaps I might call you while you are here, to show you around Irkutsk?”
“Thank you,” Maria said. “Why don’t you give me your cell phone number, so it doesn’t look like I’m the type of woman to give out her number to every attractive man?”
The man provided his number.
Maria thanked him and said her goodbyes. She paused, then stepped out the exit into the parking lot. To her right, at a second exit, she spotted Jenkins atop the step. He fiddled on his cell phone, but she could tell he was surveying the lot. She moved behind one of the pillars and waited. In the parking lot a car’s headlights flashed and a man stepped out. Jenkins moved from the platform, then reached to slide the backpack strap from his shoulder.
He had found “a friend.”
As Jenkins started toward the friend in the Citroen, he heard the throaty roar of a car engine and caught a glimpse of a fast-approaching car a moment before it cut off his path and stopped beside him. The doors flew open, blocking his escape. Just as quickly two men popped out from the front and back seats. Choreographed. Each held a weapon, the muzzle pointed directly at him. Jenkins thought briefly of fleeing. He thought of fighting. Instead, he raised the backpack to sit firmly on his shoulder. In that split second the man behind him clubbed him in the back of the head with the butt of his pistol. As Jenkins fell, he was shoved onto the floorboard of the back seat.
The doors closed, and the car sped forward.
After a moment, the man in the front passenger seat spoke. “You are a popular man, Mr. Jenkins.”
Jenkins tried to shake the cobwebs and the stars. He felt plastic ties cinch one wrist and then the other. His ankles were similarly bound.
“Tell me, where is Ms. Kulikova?” the voice asked.
“Who?” Jenkins said.
His response generated a series of kicks with hard-sole shoes to his ribs. One smashed his face.