Efimov led them back into the conference room and approached the analyst Tokareva, who remained seated at a computer terminal. “Pull up the footage of Mr. Jenkins leaving the garage,” Efimov said.
Alekseyov knew that in 2016 Moscow had installed thousands of Italian Videotec cameras throughout the city, ostensibly to monitor traffic and traffic accidents, but the cameras also allowed Moscow police, the FSB, and other interested government agencies to conduct surveillance throughout the city.
Efimov pointed at the screen with a thick finger. “This is camera footage on Paveletskaya Ploshchad just after Mr. Jenkins left the bank and presumably went to his car,” he said. Alekseyov watched Jenkins ascend from the stairwell. “Stop the footage. Confirm his identity,” Efimov said. It was not a question for Alekseyov or Volkov. Moscow had also installed 174,000 closed-circuit, facial-recognition cameras throughout the city, one of the largest and most expensive systems in the world.
Tokareva’s computer screen indicated a match with a previous photograph of Charles Jenkins.
Alekseyov said, “He has grown a beard since he last came to Moscow—”
“And he is black,” Efimov said, “which is far more descriptive.”
“Yes.” Alekseyov rushed to add, “I gave instructions to close the garage. Mr. Jenkins abandoned his rental behind—”
“Run the tape,” Efimov instructed Tokareva. They watched Jenkins walk from the bank building and turn the corner at the end of the street. Tokareva typed on his keyboard and brought up different camera footage. “We picked him up walking southwest on Valovaya Street to this bus stop,” Efimov said.
Jenkins boarded the bus just before it departed.
“He timed the bus,” Efimov said to Alekseyov. “He never had any intention of taking the car. He parked it behind the van because it blocked camera coverage in the garage. Shutting the garage was, therefore, superfluous. Mr. Jenkins is buying precious minutes, and we are already behind. Pull up the bus route,” he said to Tokareva.
Sweat dripped down Tokareva’s forehead. He pulled up a map of Moscow that included a red line depicting the designated bus path.
“It crosses Krymsky Most Bridge over the Moskva River, then follows the Third Ring Road around the city. A loop,” Efimov said, “which means he had no intention of staying on it for long. It was intended to be disinformation. I want every camera in that area searching for that bus.”
“We can analyze camera coverage—” Alekseyov started.
Efimov spoke over him. “Yes, while we all grow old and Mr. Jenkins gets further away. Moscow police have been instructed to find and to detain the bus as well as the bus driver for questioning. Now, do either of you know why Mr. Jenkins returned to Moscow?”
“It appears he came to obtain more than ten million dollars held in two Swiss bank accounts,” Alekseyov said.
“Why would he come back to Moscow to do this?” Efimov asked.
“We froze the account opened in his name after we learned of it,” Alekseyov said. “He returned, it appears, to make a deposit. When the account was unfrozen to deposit the funds, someone emptied it electronically.”
“I understand it was two accounts. Who is Sergei Vasilyev?”
“We do not know.”
“Find out.”
Across the room, an officer held up a cell phone and called to Efimov. “Moscow police,” the officer said.
Efimov took the phone and listened for a moment, then asked, “Does he recall how long Mr. Jenkins was on the bus? Press him. See if you can jar his memory.”
Efimov handed back the phone, speaking to Alekseyov and Volkov. “The bus driver does not recall where Mr. Jenkins got off the bus.” He raised his voice. “Do we have camera coverage yet?” No one answered.
“That bus route is one of the busiest in Moscow at this time of day,” Alekseyov said.
“Precisely why Mr. Jenkins chose it,” Efimov said.
Another voice called to Efimov, this time a woman. She turned the monitor of her computer to face the three men, revealing a British passport depicting Charles Jenkins with a salt-and-pepper beard and the name Scott A. Powell.
Efimov raised his voice, speaking to the entire room. “Check all the airlines and train stations for any reservations existing under the names Scott A. Powell or Ruslan Scherbakov.” He turned to Alekseyov. “Alert the border service. Ensure they have updated photographs of Mr. Jenkins with and without the beard.” To another analyst he said, “I want to know if any credit cards or debit cards associated with either of those names have been used in the last three hours.”
“And what of Sergei Vasilyev?” Alekseyov said.
The woman seated at one of the computer terminals called out. “A credit card in the name of Scott A. Powell was used within the past thirty minutes to make an airline reservation on British Airways flight 235, leaving Sheremetyevo Airport at 1:35 this afternoon.”
Efimov considered his wristwatch. “Alert the airport police. Tell them that if they must detain the plane, they have the deputy director’s authority to do so.”
“It’s too easy,” Volkov said softly, just before another analyst called out.
“I have located an airline reservation for a Scott A. Powell on Turkish Airlines flight TK3234, leaving Vnukovo Airport at 2:09 p.m.”
“Airline reservation for Ruslan Scherbakov leaving Domodedovo Airport on Emirates flight EK7875 at 1:53 p.m. today,” a third analyst said.
Several more analysts called out names and details of additional reservations.
Volkov shot Alekseyov a glance out of the corner of his eye.
“Pull up a map of Moscow,” Efimov said to Tokareva. The analyst did so. Efimov pointed with a pen as he spoke. “Moscow is serviced by ten airports. Three have international airlines. Sheremetyevo, Vnukovo, and Domodedovo. Mr. Jenkins stepped on the bus as a diversion. It does not service any of those airports. Domodedovo is the farthest away . . . forty-five kilometers. Sheremetyevo and Vnukovo are about thirty kilometers and can be reached by high-speed train or by taxi. Of the two airports, Vnukovo services mostly domestic flights, which does Mr. Jenkins no good. Belorussky railway station provides nonstop services to Sheremetyevo and is close to the bus line. That is likely where he exited the bus.”
Tokareva shouted animatedly, “I have camera footage of Mr. Jenkins exiting the bus.”
Efimov hurried to the terminal. “He’s in the back of a taxi. Follow the taxi as far as you can.”
Efimov gave orders to get film footage of the Belorussky railway station during the past hour, and to have police sent to the two nearest airports. Then he turned and spoke to Alekseyov and Volkov. “We will travel to Sheremetyevo.”
“We?” Alekseyov said.
“This is your case file, is it not?” Efimov said, moving to the door without waiting for an answer.
Alekseyov sat in the passenger seat doing Efimov’s bidding as Volkov drove. He struggled at first to get around and through the heavy Moscow traffic, but made good time once outside the city limits.
Alekseyov made calls to the airport police, who confirmed a Scott A. Powell had checked in for flight 235 and boarded that plane to Heathrow. Upon Efimov’s orders, Alekseyov instructed that the plane be detained at the gate under the pretense that it awaited connecting passengers. Airport police asked Alekseyov if he wanted them to deplane Scott Powell and hold him at the airport security office, and he relayed the question to Efimov.
“Tell them not to do anything until we arrive. With Jenkins on the plane, he is in—what do the Americans call it . . .”
“A crucible,” Volkov said, surprising Alekseyov with a verbal response.
“Yes, a crucible. He has nowhere to go,” Efimov said.
Alekseyov relayed Efimov’s orders and disconnected the call.
“It looks as if Mr. Jenkins’s day of reckoning is at hand,” Efimov said.
Neither Alekseyov nor Volkov responded.
“You’ve been quiet, Arkady,” Efimov said f
rom the back seat. “You are quiet. I thought you would perceive this as good news given what transpired before . . . No?”
“Mr. Jenkins did what he had to do,” Volkov said without emotion.
Efimov chuckled. “I wonder if Federov would be as . . . gracious as you. Losing Mr. Jenkins cost him his job.”
“One does not lose what one never possessed,” Volkov said, again displaying no emotion. “The FSB needed a scapegoat to save face. Viktor was the easy choice.”
“Maybe so,” Efimov said. “At least with you in the hospital.”
Alekseyov glanced at Volkov, but if the man was offended by the insult, he gave no indication.
Volkov parked at the curb outside Sheremetyevo Terminal F. Efimov instructed Alekseyov to flash his badge at an overzealous police officer on parking duty while he and Volkov hurried inside the international terminal. Alekseyov rushed to catch up, wondering again what Efimov had meant when he said, This is your case file, is it not?
They encountered a handful of airport police, including a woman. She extended a hand to Alekseyov, who introduced himself. Alekseyov noted that Efimov did not introduce himself or provide any credentials.
“I am Captain Regina Izmailova. We spoke on the telephone,” the officer said to Alekseyov. “Mr. Powell remains on the plane, as instructed. The passengers have been told the plane has been delayed while it awaits connecting passengers from Frankfurt.”
“And you have allowed no one to leave?” Alekseyov asked.
“The doors have been closed since we spoke.”
Alekseyov eyed three fit-looking men dressed in jeans, tennis shoes, and windbreakers. They carried identical backpacks. “These are plain-clothed officers?” Alekseyov asked.
“Also as instructed,” Izmailova said.
They didn’t exactly look inconspicuous, but Alekseyov concluded they were better than officers in uniform. With cell phones recording every perceived injustice, removing a black American from a flight could become the face of Russian discrimination. Beyond that, once posted on the Internet, the footage would alert the American intelligence community that Russia had arrested Jenkins, which would cause the telephones in the Kremlin to buzz.
“Take us to the gate,” Efimov said to the woman.
They climbed into two electric carts and sped down the terminal, honking the horn at unsuspecting travelers. At the gate Efimov spoke to the plain-clothed officers. “Remove Mr. Powell from his seat with as little disruption as possible.”
Izmailova stepped forward. “If I may? We have a plan that takes into account your concerns.” Izmailova turned to a woman dressed in a flight attendant’s uniform. “This is Officer Pokrovskaya. She will tell Mr. Powell that he has been upgraded to business class, as he requested. Once he is brought forward, she will close the drapes behind him, and the three officers will enter the plane. I believe Mr. Powell will see the futility of a struggle.”
“But if not,” Efimov said, turning again to the three male officers, “you are authorized to remove him by any means necessary. Cover his head before he is brought through the gate into the terminal. Are there any questions?”
No one spoke.
“Get it done,” Efimov said.
When the gate door opened, the four officers moved down the ramp. Alekseyov looked to Volkov, but his placid expression revealed no thoughts.
Efimov also noted this. “Relax, Arkady. This time it will be Mr. Jenkins who is quite surprised.”
Less than five minutes later, the door to the gate opened and the plain-clothed officers escorted Charles Jenkins from the plane, a hood covering his head, his arms zip-tied behind his back. He wore the same suit he’d worn in the photos Alekseyov had collected of Jenkins departing the bank parking structure earlier that day. The officers quickly moved Jenkins to the electric cart, putting him in the middle seat between them and shoving him forward so he was not in view of airline commuters.
At the security center they hustled Jenkins from the cart into a room. Efimov stepped in after Jenkins, followed by Alekseyov and Volkov. The officers seated Jenkins in a chair at a table.
“Remove the hood,” Efimov said to one of the plain-clothed officers.
“What the bloody hell is going on here?” the black man said in a clipped British accent. “I demand to speak to the British embassy.”
Efimov tapped the table for several seconds. He looked to be chewing nails, and not enjoying the taste. Then he stood, turned, and departed the room without a word.
Alekseyov turned to Volkov. The longtime FSB officer looked to be suppressing a grin, though Alekseyov could not be certain; he’d never seen Volkov smile.
14
Forest surrounded the Rozhdestveno Estate and M’Istral Hotel and Spa, situated on Istra Lake, which Jenkins had noted on a map pulled up on his phone. A single two-lane road provided access to and from the hotel. If the FSB had checked credit card transactions, as Matt Lemore had done, and if they had sent officers to the M’Istral Hotel, Jenkins might already be too late. The FSB did not yet know Viktor Federov and Sergei Vasilyev were one and the same, and Jenkins needed to protect that secret for his plan to succeed.
Jenkins figured he had two things working in his favor. First, when his name popped up at the bank, the FSB, embarrassed once by his actions, would be overly aggressive in pursuing him and therefore devote much of their resources to the airports, as Jenkins had intended. They wouldn’t recognize their mistake until they physically obtained the black British MI6 agent Lemore had secured. Jenkins hoped the delay would allow enough time for him to get to the hotel to find Sergei Vasilyev and for them to leave before the FSB changed its focus.
Second, according to the credit card transactions, Vasilyev—Federov—planned to enjoy several days at the hotel and spa. Jenkins hoped the FSB would conclude, as he had, that Vasilyev appeared in no hurry to go anywhere, while Jenkins looked to be fleeing the country. But there was no guarantee. Jenkins, trying to think two moves ahead, contemplated how he and Federov—assuming Federov cooperated, and that was a big assumption—might leave the spa if the FSB closed the access road. He knew from his past interaction with Federov that the former FSB agent was divorced and not close to his ex-wife. Therefore, she was not his likely massage partner for the couple’s massage Vasilyev had booked. He also doubted that Federov, bitter from his first marriage, had remarried in the past year. That meant the person Federov checked into the hotel with had, at the very least, a different last name, which could be useful.
After pulling over the car he’d rented at the airport, Jenkins changed from his suit into warm clothes and boots he kept in the duffel bag. Then he drove until stopping at a wrought-iron gate to the hotel. No roadblocks. At least not yet.
A young security guard reluctantly stepped from his booth into the cold. He did not look happy. His breath preceded him as he approached Jenkins’s car. Jenkins lowered his window partway and advised that he was meeting his friend, a guest, Sergei Vasilyev. The guard, looking less than interested, checked a list on a clipboard.
“A kak tebya zovut?” And what is your name?
“Volkov, Arkady Otochestovich,” Jenkins said. He slowly and deliberately spelled the name, but the guard cut him off, anxious to return to his warm shack. He pressed a button attached to his belt to activate the gate and waved Jenkins through.
Jenkins drove over red pavers, sprinkled with a dusting of snow, that weaved through manicured landscaping to a center island. The building entrance stood three stories tall, with a columned porte cochere. Above it, a large Russian flag—white, blue, and red horizontal stripes—fluttered in a light breeze. Behind the entrance rose an eight-story, pale-yellow hotel capped by a white cupola.
Jenkins handed the valet parking attendant the keys to the rented car and walked inside the circular lobby of polished marble and mahogany wood. An enormous crystal chandelier hung over an elaborate flower arrangement, and live music emanated from a piano played by a tuxedo-clad man. Federov looked to be enj
oying his retirement.
Jenkins approached the counter and smiled at the young woman. He spoke Russian. “Good afternoon. I am to meet your guest Sergei Vasilyev. Would you be so kind as to tell me his room number?”
The young woman typed on the computer screen. “Yes, Mr. . . . ?”
“Volkov. Arkady Volkov.” Jenkins hoped the name of Federov’s long-time FSB partner would pique his curiosity rather than scare him, though Jenkins did not expect the woman to give him the number of Federov’s room. Still, it couldn’t hurt to ask.
“I’m afraid hotel policy does not allow me to give out guest room numbers, and he is not answering the phone in his suite.”
“I understand. He and his companion have arrived, though?”
The woman nodded. “Yes, he has arrived, Mr. Volkov.”
“Hmm . . . ,” Jenkins said. “I have not been able to reach his cell phone for the past half hour, which is not like him.” Jenkins checked his watch. “I’m worried we will miss our meeting.”
“Another moment, please.” The woman typed, then studied the computer. “I see the problem. Mr. Vasilyev has scheduled a couple’s massage this afternoon. Cell phones are not allowed in the spa center.”
“Ah,” Jenkins said. “That is a relief. I’ll walk the grounds a bit and wait so as not to disturb his massage. This cold weather can be hard on the joints, and he has been working long hours as of late.”
Jenkins reached across the marble counter and handed the woman a folded note, one thousand Russian rubles, roughly fifteen dollars. “Spasibo.”
The woman looked to a door to her right before stuffing the money in her vest pocket.
Jenkins followed posted signs directing him to the spa center, a separate building just a short walk out the back of the hotel. Inside the building he passed a pristine pool with potted palms and poolside lounge chairs situated beneath a peaked glass atrium. A young child’s voice echoed as he launched himself from the side, splashing into the pool. His mother ignored him, reading a magazine.
The Last Agent Page 9