The Last Agent

by Robert Dugoni

  “Da,” Jenkins said.

  “One moment, please.”

  The teller stepped away and spoke to a middle-aged woman, who looked over at Jenkins, then walked to the computer screen, studying it. She smiled at Jenkins. “Your account has been frozen,” she said.

  “Yes, I am aware. My initial deposit was substantial. I hope to resolve the matter with my personal banker later today.” He didn’t elaborate or try to overexplain.

  “You wish to make another deposit?” she asked.

  “I do,” he said.

  Another smile. “How much do you wish to deposit, Mr. Jenkins?”

  “One million, six hundred fifty thousand rubles,” Jenkins said, which was roughly twenty-five thousand American dollars. He placed a check, drawn on the account of a CIA proprietary, on the counter.

  The woman considered the check, then typed. She nodded to the teller to finish the transaction, smiled warmly at Jenkins, and departed. When the teller looked to the computer screen, Jenkins hit the “Send” button on the encrypted phone.

  The cold freeze has lifted, but likely not for long.

  So far, so good.

  After another minute, the teller handed Jenkins a receipt for his deposit. “Spasibo.”

  “Oh,” Jenkins said, subtly hitting the stopwatch button on his wristwatch. “Ya pereyehal. Mne nuzhno obnovit’ informatsiyu na kartochke s obraztsom podpisi, poka ya zdes’.” I’ve moved. I’d better update the information on my signature card while I’m here.

  “Certainly. Let me get your card,” the teller said. A minute later the young man came out from behind the counter, keys in hand. “If you’ll follow me.”

  Jenkins did. He checked his phone.

  Confirming freeze lifted. Freezer emptied.

  The teller led Jenkins into a small private room much like the room with safe deposit boxes used at banks in the United States.

  “Take your time,” the young man said.

  Jenkins smiled. “Spasibo.”

  He would do no such thing.

  Georgiy Tokareva sat at his computer terminal in the basement of the main Lubyanka building nursing a hangover. The basement had once been the notorious KGB prison, where spies, political dissidents, and various other enemies of the Soviet state had been imprisoned and interrogated. It had been renovated after the fall of communism and converted to a staff cafeteria, plus some limited office space. Tokareva and his cubicle mates joked that the food had not improved much.

  Tokareva, an analyst, was grateful just to have a cubicle. Lubyanka had become more crowded as perestroika faded and the government returned to its days of paranoia and distrust. The Kremlin kept hiring additional FSB officers, and those officers needed work space. Tokareva and half a dozen of his mates were moved from the second floor to the basement, what they referred to as “the Siberian gulag,” though never out loud. It was a spin on an old Soviet joke.

  “What’s the tallest building in Moscow?”

  “Answer: Lubyanka. You can see Siberia from its basement.”

  Not that Tokareva minded his exile. Just twenty-four years old, and a recent graduate of Moscow State University with a degree in computational mathematics and cybernetics, he was essentially his own boss. Their supervisor remained on the second floor and rarely, if ever, ventured to the basement. Proof, his fellow analysts said, that the man would never lower himself to their level. Ha!

  “S glaz doloy, iz serdtsa von!” his cubicle mates said. Out of sight, out of mind!

  Tokareva and the other analysts came and went as they pleased. This morning, Tokareva arrived hungover after a late night. One of his fellow analysts had clocked him in and logged on to his computer terminal to ensure Tokareva received full pay. He, of course, returned the favor when needed.

  Tokareva sipped coffee and rubbed his temples. He’d taken two ibuprofen, but it had yet to put a dent in his headache.

  “I think you have a headache because she was beating you about the head with her fake tits.” Arkhip Bocharov stood at Tokareva’s cubicle, his ribbing adding to Tokareva’s headache. Bocharov shook his head from side to side as if being beaten. “You should have seen this woman,” he said to the others. “She had melons the size of basketballs and just as firm.”

  She’d also been in her midfifties and wore enough makeup to put a clown to shame. Tokareva had flirted with her until Bocharov departed, then excused himself to use the bathroom and slipped out the back door. He went to another bar, where he drank alone.

  At present, Tokareva texted a woman he’d met in a Moscow bar two nights ago. He wanted to grab a drink, hoping it could lead to something more, possibly dinner, and perhaps a trip back to what had been his grandfather’s apartment, which his parents had inherited and Tokareva gladly occupied. The fourth-floor apartment in Moscow’s Arbat District had sweeping views of the Bolshoy Kamenny Bridge over the Moskva River, and across it to the armory and the Cathedral of the Annunciation.

  “Yesli u vas ne poluchitsya zdes’ perepikhnut’sya,” Bocharov had once said upon taking in the view, “vam nichego ne ostanetsya, krome kak zaveshchat’ svoy chlen nauke.” If you can’t get laid here, you might as well just donate your dick to science now.

  Tokareva hit “Send” just as Bocharov plucked the phone from his hand and read aloud to their fellow exiles Tokareva’s prior text messages and the woman’s responses.

  Dinner and drinks?

  “With a cute little smiley face,” Bocharov said, stepping around the cubicle as Tokareva stood to advance. “How touching. Ooh, listen to this response.”

  Who is this?

  They all laughed. “You must have made quite an impression, Georgiy.”

  “Give it back,” Tokareva said.

  Bocharov laughed. “She loves you, Georgiy boy.”

  Bocharov and the others made catcalls. He held the phone high over his head. Tokareva, just five foot six, was unable to grab it from his taller colleague. “You keep dating women in bars, and you are going to have a full calendar . . . of doctor’s appointments,” Bocharov said, and he tossed the phone into the air. Tokareva missed it and the phone hit the carpet with a dull thud.

  “You’re as good at catching your phone as you are women.”

  As he was about to sling a retort, Tokareva’s computer pinged. It pinged a second time.

  “Maybe that’s your girlfriend with the big melons. She forgot her dentures in your apartment.”

  Tokareva went into his cubicle and typed on the keyboard, reading the message. His adrenaline spiked. “Shit.” He dropped into his chair and quickly typed. “There is movement on one of the flagged accounts.”

  “What?” Bocharov stepped into Tokareva’s cubicle and studied his computer screen.

  “One of the flagged bank accounts has just been accessed,” Tokareva said. “At UBS.”

  “A Swiss account,” Bocharov said, peering more closely.

  “Of course it’s a Swiss account, you idiot. It’s a Swiss bank.”

  “A withdrawal? Did they close the account?”

  “No.” Tokareva sat back. “A deposit.”

  “A deposit? On a frozen account?”

  “One million, six hundred fifty thousand rubles.”

  Bocharov leaned over his shoulder. “Who is the officer on the case?”

  Tokareva’s fingers again flew across the keyboard. He read the name of the FSB officer in charge of the monitored account. “Simon Alekseyov.”

  “Then you better get this to his attention.”

  “No kidding?” Tokareva stood and pushed past Bocharov. “Get out of my way, you shit ass.”

  12

  Charles Jenkins checked his stopwatch as he crossed from the private room to the bank teller who had initially helped him. Just under six minutes had passed since he made the deposit. He and Lemore were convinced it would trigger an alert at the FSB. Once it did, Lubyanka was roughly eight minutes by car from the bank, though Moscow traffic could be notoriously unpredictable, especially during
the lunch hour, another reason Jenkins had chosen this particular time for the transaction. Jenkins figured he had fifteen minutes, maximum, to finish and get out of the building.

  A woman stood at the teller’s window talking to the young man, but otherwise she did not look to be conducting further business. Young and attractive, she was way out of the teller’s league, but her smile and wide eyes clearly indicated she was enjoying the tease. Jenkins checked his watch. Seven minutes. He didn’t have time for this.

  He cleared his throat, loud and brusque enough to cause the woman to turn from the counter. When she realized his noise had been intentional, she made a face as if to say: How rude! Jenkins, in turn, stared at the woman and arched his eyebrows as if to say: Take your little amusement ride someplace else. I have business to transact.

  She gathered her things and stepped away. At a safe distance, she turned and flipped him the bird. Jenkins smiled. “Khoroshego dnya.” Have a good day.

  The young teller looked sheepish as Jenkins stepped to the counter. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, Mr. Jenkins.” He looked to the signature card. “You are finished?”

  Jenkins handed back the card. “Not quite. I wish to speak to Dimitri Koskovich, please.” Koskovich had been the name of the banker on Jenkins’s signature card.

  The young man looked perplexed. “Is there a problem? Perhaps I can help you.”

  “Thank you for the offer. Is Mr. Koskovich here?”

  The young man looked at the large clock on the wall behind Jenkins. “Let me check.” The teller picked up the phone and punched in a number. A moment later he lowered his voice and turned his head, speaking into the receiver. “Spasibo.” The young teller hung up and redirected his attention to Jenkins. “I’m terribly sorry, but Mr. Koskovich just left for lunch.” The young man’s eyes shifted to a tall man with gray hair heading toward the bank doors.

  “Spasibo.” Jenkins moved toward Koskovich, who pulled gloves from the pocket of his long wool coat just before he stepped through the bank’s glass doors into the building lobby. Jenkins hurried to the doors but had to stop when a woman with a child in a stroller struggled to enter. He pulled one door open for the woman, then stepped behind the stroller and hurried across the lobby, dodging people leaving for lunch. Koskovich stepped through the revolving door leading to the outside. Jenkins ignored the revolving door and pushed open a glass door next to it. The cold air hit him instantly.

  Koskovich, at the bottom of the steps, had opened the back door of a cab, about to lower himself inside.

  “Mr. Koskovich?” Jenkins called out, hurrying to the curb.

  Koskovich turned at the sound of his name. His facial expression clearly said, Do I know you?

  “I’m sorry,” Jenkins said, speaking Russian as he reached the cab. “I know you are on your way to lunch. I need a minute of your time.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “I need the name on a signature card.”

  “Have one of the tellers help you,” Koskovich said, dismissive. He lowered himself into the cab. Jenkins grabbed the cab door by the edge.

  “I’m afraid this is a delicate matter on an account that you opened. Two accounts actually.”

  “I am a vice president,” Koskovich said, pulling on the door. Jenkins refused to release it. “A teller can assist you. Now if you don’t mind, I have an engagement.”

  “I do mind,” Jenkins said. “And if you wish to keep your position as vice president, you will tell your engagement you are going to be late.”

  Koskovich did not immediately protest or express outrage, which indicated a learned demeanor—he’d been previously purchased, or he had performed nefarious transactions.

  Jenkins had him.

  Koskovich now struggled to determine whether Jenkins was referring to one of those transactions and, more importantly, if Jenkins worked for the federal authorities. He gave Jenkins a smug smile that fooled no one.

  “And who might you be?”

  “I might be the guy for whom you opened one of the accounts,” Jenkins said, switching to English.

  That got Koskovich’s attention.

  The cabdriver turned around, irritated. He made hand gestures to the pair. “Ey! My ukhodim ili kak? Primi resheniye.” Hey! Are we leaving or what? Make up your mind.

  Jenkins ignored him, continuing to hold the door open. “I am not looking to create any trouble for you, Mr. Koskovich. In fact, I believe this information can be financially rewarding to both of us.”

  The cabdriver sought an answer. Koskovich told him to keep his pants on. “How rewarding?” he said to Jenkins, also speaking English, perhaps so the cabdriver did not understand.

  “Five thousand American dollars for five minutes of work.”

  Koskovich exited the cab and swung the door shut. “I think I can help you, Mr.—”

  “Jenkins,” he said, sensing a ridiculous James Bond moment. “Charles Jenkins.”

  Tokareva stepped from the elevator and hurried down the parquet floors. The department secretary told him that Alekseyov was attending a mandatory meeting in the conference room and could not be disturbed. The alert on the bank account, however, said otherwise.

  Tokareva moved past empty cubicles to the tall wooden door leading to the conference room. He paused just outside it to catch his breath and straighten his appearance, then pushed in the door. Half a dozen men and one woman sat at a long rectangular table reading from packets. At the head of the room, beside a projected computer screen displaying graphs and numbers, stood Dmitry Sokalov, the deputy director for counterintelligence. Tokareva froze. Had he known Sokalov was conducting the meeting, he never would have interrupted. Everyone in the room turned and stared, as if Tokareva had two heads.

  “I am sorry to disturb,” he said, finding his voice. “I am Georgiy Tokareva. I have an urgent alert for Simon Alekseyov.”

  At the mention of the name, all eyes shifted to a young, blond officer seated in the middle of the table who had turned his head to the analyst.

  “Can it not wait?” Sokalov asked from the front of the room, his stomach protruding over the belt of his pants and straining the buttons of his shirt.

  Tokareva cleared his throat. “It cannot.” He quickly added, “I apologize for interrupting.”

  Sokalov motioned to Alekseyov to leave the room, and Alekseyov picked up his packet and hurried from his seat, reaching the end of the table as Sokalov resumed speaking. Alekseyov grabbed Tokareva by the elbow and hustled him out the door. “Tell me what is so vital that you would interrupt a meeting with the deputy director?”

  “We received an alert on a flagged bank account. It says to provide immediate notice of any activity . . . day or night. You are the assigned agent.”

  “A bank account?” Alekseyov asked.

  “A Swiss bank account. The assigned agent was originally Viktor Federov.”

  “Federov? What is the name on the bank account?” Alekseyov asked.

  “Charles Jenkins,” Tokareva said.

  Alekseyov momentarily froze. Then he said, “What is the nature of the alert? Has he withdrawn funds and closed the account?”

  “No,” Tokareva said. “He could not do so. The account was frozen.”

  “What then?”

  “He deposited one million, six hundred fifty thousand rubles.”

  “Deposited?”

  “Yes.”

  “From where?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “From where did he make the deposit? Could you track his location?”

  “The deposit was not done electronically.” He handed Alekseyov the printout of the alert.

  “He made the deposit in person?” Alekseyov said, looking up from the printout.

  “It would seem so,” Tokareva said.

  Alekseyov scanned the pages. “When?”

  “Minutes ago,” Tokareva said.

  Alekseyov pushed the papers at Tokareva, speaking as he hurried down the hall. “Notify Moscow police.
Tell them to block every entrance and exit to and from the bank, and any parking structure associated with it.”

  “But I am just—”

  “Do it, quickly.”

  Alekseyov turned and ran. The soles of his leather shoes slapped the parquet floor. Inside his cubicle he picked up his desk phone as he grabbed his winter coat from the rack in the corner. “This is Simon Alekseyov. I need a pool car immediately. Have it brought out front at once.” He hung up the phone and reached into his desk drawer for his MP-443 Grach, fitting it into the holster at his hip. He started from the cubicle, but another thought stopped him. He picked up his desk phone again and called a number he had not called in months.

  The deep, sullen voice answered on the first ring. “Volkov.”

  “Charles Jenkins is back in Moscow,” Alekseyov said.

  Jenkins followed Koskovich back inside the bank as his stopwatch sped past nine minutes. Koskovich led Jenkins to a door at the back of the bank, pulled a key on a chain attached to his belt, and unlocked the door. He stepped inside a modest office with utilitarian furniture, tossed his coat over the handrail of one of two chairs, and stepped around his desk to his computer terminal. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out at a parking lot. An interior door led to a bathroom with a small window.

  “Tell me what it is you want.” Koskovich dropped all pretenses and spoke English.

  “An account was opened in my name on October twelfth of last year. You opened that account. Your name is on my signature card. A second account was opened on the same date at the same time. I want to know the name of the person on the second account.”

  “For what purpose?” Koskovich asked.

  “For this purpose.” Jenkins removed $5,000 and put the stack on Koskovich’s desk. Koskovich moved to take it but Jenkins leaned his knuckles on the bills.

  Koskovich looked up, meeting Jenkins’s gaze, clearly trying to determine if there was more money to be had. “If you ask for more money,” Jenkins said, “I’ll alert the FSB—”

  “I highly doubt—”