At noon, Jenkins walked the cobblestone street of the Pike Place Market, hearing fish hawkers call out and hungry seagulls caw. Many of the restaurants and shops had already been decorated for Christmas, though Thanksgiving was still a few days away.

Radiator Whiskey, a restaurant inside the two-story building at the mouth of the market, had an open floor plan. Ductwork, exhaust fans, and light fixtures hung between wood beams. Pots and pans dangled from a center rack over a noisy kitchen, and bottles of whiskey and aged wooden barrels lined a back wall. The space was flooded with natural light, streaming in through the multipane arched windows, which looked out at the iconic, red Public Market Center neon sign and clock.

Carl Emerson sat at a table near the window. A chalkboard displaying a handwritten daily menu hung on the wall.

"How'd you find this place?" Jenkins removed his black leather coat and draped it over the back of a chair.

"A friend recommended it," Emerson said. "She said it had a retro feel and good food." A waitress approached the table. "Can I get you a drink?" Emerson asked.

Emerson had a glass of Scotch over ice. His choice in alcohol hadn't changed.

"Just water," Jenkins said.

The waitress departed. "I'm told the pork shank is excellent," Emerson said, handing Jenkins the menu.

Jenkins set the menu down without considering it. "How would I find this eighth sister?"

Emerson picked up his glass, sipping at the Scotch. Then he replied, "As I said, once you mention you have information on the remaining four sisters, we believe she will find you. Russians are curious and paranoid by nature. It comes from looking over their shoulders during eighty years of communist rule."

"And how do I establish credibility?"

"As you said, the Russians will vet you the moment they scan your passport. When you make contact, you let it be known that you're a CIA case officer—"

"Former case officer."

"A former case officer wouldn't have much in the way of valuable information, not unless you worked at Lockheed or some such place. No, you lead them to an understanding that while it appeared you left the agency, you're very much still in play, and have information you believe would interest them. Given your hermit-like existence on your farm these past decades, they won't have a way to verify or disprove what you tell them. As I said, it is the perfect cover."

Jenkins had spent years living off of an inheritance supplemented with cash selling honey, jams and Arabian horses. "Hiding in plain sight," he said.

"Exactly."

"And the information I have is the identities of the other four sisters?"

"You say that and you'll likely find yourself in a Russian cell at Lubyanka," Emerson said, referencing the building that had housed the KGB and now housed the FSB. "Initially you will tell them you have information you wish to sell. Remember, the Russians are sloth-like in this process. They will wait you out, make it look as though they are uninterested, and likely test you before they trust you."

"And why am I doing this?" Jenkins asked. "If I'm still active, why am I betraying my country?"

"The best cover is always one—"

". . . closest to the truth," Jenkins said.

"You have a business that is seriously low on operating funds."

"How do you know that?"

"An old operative's intuition—you wouldn't be here if you were thriving, would you?"

"How do I establish trust?"

"I will provide you with names of Russian agents, long since exposed, who worked for the CIA, but who were never acknowledged by the Kremlin or by the agency."

"If they were never acknowledged, then how would I have access to such information?"

"Because they were KGB officers we turned in Mexico City. If the FSB checks, and they will check, they'll determine you are telling the truth. That should be enough to stir their paranoia pot and pique their curiosity. Once you have established trust, you will tell them you may have access to the names of the remaining four sisters, for an increased price. The number doesn't really matter, but do recall that the Russians are miserly."

Emerson slid a manila file across the table.

Jenkins opened the back flap and peered inside. He saw a Polaroid picture clipped to a worksheet of a man who looked to be mid-forties.

"Colonel Viktor Nikolayevich Federov," Emerson said.

"The eighth sister works for him?"

"Unlikely. We believe her identity is known only at the very highest levels within the FSB. Federov, however, is known to be ambitious. The moment you mention the seven sisters, he will understand the significance, and he will report the information up his chain of command. When the eighth sister presents herself, you will get out with a promise to provide the names of the remaining four sisters. You will provide the eighth sister's identity to me. We'll take it from there."

"And what if the Russians decide not to play by the rules? What if they decide they'd prefer that I stay as a guest in their country?"

Emerson never blinked. "If anything goes wrong the agency will disavow the operation. Your work can never be publicly mentioned or acknowledged. To do so would put the remaining four sisters at greater risk."

"What about my wife and my son?"

"Your wife can know nothing about what you are doing."

"I understand that. What assurances do I have that if anything were to happen to me they would be taken care of?"

"None," Emerson said.

Jenkins sat back. "At least you're honest."

"Would you have believed me if I had said anything different?"

"I want two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, fifty thousand up front, the other two hundred paid upon my providing you with the name of the eighth sister."

"That's a lot of money," Emerson said.

"It's a lot of risk, and I have debt I need to resolve. Think of the first fifty thousand as an advance. I'll ask the FSB for a similar amount to divulge the first name. When I receive that money, I'll give it to you."

Emerson smiled. "You haven't changed. Still sticking it to the KGB."

"I've changed a lot," Jenkins said.

"I can't get you a payment in advance," Emerson said. "When we are certain the FSB is interested, I will authorize payment of fifty thousand. When we have the name of the eighth sister, I will seek another hundred thousand."

One hundred and fifty thousand would get CJ Security out of debt and provide a cushion for Jenkins if LSR&C continued to falter.

The waitress returned with Emerson's plate. She asked Jenkins if he wished to order, but he waved her away, not hungry. Emerson looked down at his pork shank, topped with red peppers and a green aioli sauce. "Do we have a deal?"

"Yeah," Jenkins said. "We have a deal."

"Brush up on your Russian."