Jenkins saw Simon Alekseyov, Arkady Volkov, and a third man standing at the marble reception counter and quickly retreated.
“Shit,” Federov said, having also seen the men. “What did you do, Mr. Jenkins? What the hell did you do?”
After imparting his instructions to Ruslana, the young prostitute, Jenkins pushed the door open just a few inches. He watched the three men step into the elevator with a hotel employee, a middle-aged man. When the elevator doors shut he nodded to Ruslana. “You remember what to do?” he asked in Russian.
She rolled her eyes. “Ladno.” No problem. She walked to the building’s front entrance, dragging her suitcase behind her. Federov and Jenkins walked in the opposite direction, down a hall leading to an exit at the back of the hotel. Jenkins pushed open the glass door, and the cold air stung his uncovered hands and face. The temperature felt ten degrees colder than when he had arrived.
“Who is the third man with Alekseyov and Volkov?” Jenkins asked.
“Now is not the time,” Federov said. He removed a knit cap from his pocket and pulled it down over his ears, then slipped on gloves. Jenkins also put on a knit cap, but he’d left his gloves in the rental car.
“The FSB will utilize local police as much as possible,” Federov said, “to avoid an international incident. Local police will not have the same vested interest, and we can hope that the cold will further deter their curiosity.”
Hopefully it would be enough for Ruslana to get through a blockade. Jenkins had paid her five hundred American dollars and promised to pay her another fifteen hundred dollars when they met at the car. If the police asked for registration, the name on the rental agreement would be meaningless, another alias. Jenkins had instructed Ruslana to advise that the car was registered to a boyfriend and, if pushed, to intimate he was cheating on his wife with her.
“What do you know of this area?” Federov asked Jenkins as they walked toward the trees.
“Only what I was able to determine from Google Earth.”
“Shit,” Federov said again.
“I’m kidding, Viktor. Relax.”
“Relax?”
Jenkins and Federov walked past a large chessboard set up on the outside pavers, following a path between patches of lawn covered in snow. The path led to the lake.
“We hike along the water’s edge several hundred yards, then cut through that stand of trees.” Jenkins pointed. “It leads to Rozhdestveno, where, hopefully, Ruslana will be waiting.”
“Yes, we can hope,” Federov said. “Because if we must walk back to Moscow, in this weather, you will freeze to death. If I don’t kill you first.”
Volkov continued to ponder why Jenkins would use his name, of all names, to enter the hotel. It made little sense, especially since this man, Vasilyev, had enough money to rent the penthouse of the hotel. Volkov knew no one with that kind of money.
The hotel manager opened the penthouse door and quickly stepped back. Efimov, his gun in front of him, pushed on the door and slid into the room, sweeping the pistol left to right. Alekseyov, also armed, moved in the opposite direction. Volkov had also removed his weapon, but only to be the good soldier. From past experience, he didn’t believe they would find Charles Jenkins or Sergei Vasilyev, whoever he was, inside the room. Efimov had underestimated Jenkins at the airport and again here at the hotel.
Volkov stepped into a bedroom, where Efimov was considering an unmade bed. The sheets revealed what looked to have been quite a romp. Volkov opened closets and checked dresser drawers. He found neither clothes nor luggage.
Moments later Alekseyov entered the room. “Nichego.” Nothing.
“They have left,” Efimov said. “Call the front gate.”
Volkov walked out of the bedroom and approached the floor-to-ceiling plate-glass windows in the living room. Whoever Vasilyev was, he had significant money to spend on the plushest suite at the hotel. During the day, the windows likely provided sweeping views of the Istrinskoye Reservoir and of the tiny farming towns nearby. At present, the fading winter dusk made it difficult to see anything but the sporadic twinkling of distant lights.
Movement on the footpath below him caught Volkov’s attention. Two people walked toward the water, which seemed odd given the cold temperature. They were not running, but they seemed to be walking with a purpose. Volkov stepped closer to the window. The taller of the two turned his head and took a quick glance back at the hotel, as if to determine whether they were being followed. He did this just as he stepped beneath one of the lamps lining the path. It was only an instant, but Volkov did not need any longer to recognize the man he had confronted in the Metropol Hotel bathroom in Moscow. He’d gotten a close-up look at Charles Jenkins, one he would never forget.
He was about to call out to Efimov when something familiar about the second man drew Volkov’s attention. Something in the man’s gait, his long black leather coat, the hunch of his shoulders, the black knit skullcap pulled low on his head.
Viktor Federov.
And just as quickly as Volkov recognized his former partner, he understood why Charles Jenkins had chosen to use his name at the hotel’s gated entrance, a name that would be unfamiliar to Sergei Vasilyev but certainly familiar to Viktor Federov.
Viktor was Sergei Vasilyev.
Volkov looked over his shoulder. He heard Alekseyov and Efimov speaking inside the bedroom. Alekseyov relayed information from the front gate to Efimov. A handful of cars had left the hotel grounds, but they’d been checked thoroughly, and the registration and license plate numbers recorded. No one named Sergei Vasilyev and no one resembling Charles Jenkins had departed.
Volkov quickly considered why Jenkins would have emptied Vasilyev’s bank account, and how Federov would have obtained so much money. He briefly considered whether Federov could have been a double agent—he’d certainly expressed more than once that his ex-wife and his daughters were bleeding him dry—but Volkov dismissed that thought almost as quickly. If Federov had been a double agent, there would have been no reason for Jenkins to empty his bank account. Jenkins certainly didn’t need the money, not after withdrawing $4 million from his own account.
He had to have emptied the accounts to gain some sort of leverage over Federov.
But for what purpose?
“They have to be somewhere on the hotel grounds.” Alekseyov slipped his cell phone into his coat pocket as he and Efimov exited the bedroom.
“What are you looking at?” Alekseyov asked.
The two men disappeared into the tree line. Volkov turned from the windows. “The view,” he said.
Alekseyov gave him a quizzical stare and stepped to the darkened windows. He glanced over his shoulder to the front door, speaking under his breath. “We have no time for the view, Arkady. The guards are adamant that no one named Sergei Vasilyev and no one who looks like Charles Jenkins have left the grounds. Efimov will not tolerate it if we lose Jenkins again.”
“I told you, Simon. We cannot lose what we have never possessed.”
“Tell that to Efimov. He will cook your balls for dinner, and mine.”
Efimov stepped back into the room. “What are you doing? We must move quickly.”
Volkov spoke. “In Moscow, Mr. Jenkins went inside another guest’s room to make it appear as though he had left before we arrived. He may be doing so again.”
Efimov considered this for a moment, then turned to the hotel manager, who remained outside, a good distance down the hall. “You will take us room to room.”
“But the guests—”
“You will take us room to room,” Efimov said again. This time the manager did not argue.
At the door Volkov said, “Perhaps I should speak to the front desk and to the spa and get a description of Sergei Vasilyev, since we apparently have no photograph. It would be good to have, no?”
Efimov nodded. “Meet us in the lobby when you are done.”
Volkov glanced back again at the window before exiting the suite.
1
6
Ruslana was good to her word, or at least good to the dollars Jenkins had promised to pay her. He and Federov found her smoking a cigarette behind the wheel of the rental car on a side street in the small town of Rozhdestveno. She had the car running and the heater and radio on, and gave them a decidedly disinterested expression when Jenkins knocked on the driver’s-side window.
“Kakiye-to problemy?” Federov asked as she opened the car door. Smoke poured out. Any problems?
“Nyet, vsyo normal’no.” No, everything is fine. Ruslana stepped from the car still looking disgruntled. She tilted back her head and blew smoke into the night sky, then flicked the burning embers of her cigarette down the dirt-and-gravel street. She held out her hand to Jenkins.
“Oni obyskali mashinu?” Federov asked. Did they search the car?
Ruslana shrugged and gave Federov a thin smile. “Mashina ikh, pohozhe, ne zainteresovala.” They did not seem to be interested in the car.
“Oni poprosili dogovor arendy?” Did they ask for the rental agreement?
Another headshake. “Nyet.”
Federov looked to Jenkins. “She said they—”
“Did not check the rental agreement,” Jenkins said. “But they likely wrote down the license plate. I want to get rid of the car as quickly as possible.”
“Yes, but for now it is all we have, and we need to depart, quickly,” Federov said.
Jenkins handed Ruslana the remainder of her payment, which she pocketed before sliding into the back seat. She leaned her head against the headrest and closed her eyes. Federov climbed into the passenger seat. Jenkins slid behind the wheel. He put his palms to the warm air coming from the car vents and flexed his fingers to restore the flow of blood to his hands.
Jenkins cracked his window to ease the smell of cigarettes. He drove back roads, concerned about additional checkpoints.
Once they reached the main route to Moscow, Federov spoke English. “I think it is time you told me why you have come back to Russia, Mr. Jenkins. Can I assume it was not to retrieve the money in your bank account?”
“You can assume that,” Jenkins said. “But first, who is the third man?”
“Adam Efimov. The Brick,” Federov said.
“The Brick?”
“Everyone who knows him knows his nickname.”
“You worked with him?”
“No. Efimov grew up in Saint Petersburg with Vladimir Putin and the deputy director of the FSB, Dmitry Sokalov. He, too, was KGB, and one of Putin’s closest allies. He moved up the ranks quickly, but his temper caused problems and kept him from being promoted to higher positions within the FSB. It is said that Efimov is brought in when the FSB does not wish to be connected to an investigation.”
“He’s off the books,” Jenkins said.
“This is term I do not understand. Efimov now does the bidding of the president and the deputy director, but you will find no record of it or of him.”
“He’s a ghost,” Jenkins said.
Federov shrugged. “He’s no ghost. He’s quite real.”
Jenkins decided not to define the term for Federov. “Why is he called The Brick?”
“As the story goes, his father was a bricklayer in Saint Petersburg and Efimov his reluctant apprentice. He spent much of his youth catching or throwing bricks to his father high on the scaffolding, and he has the scars and the muscular build to prove it. His hands and forearms are said to be as hard as concrete. It is also said that he kept a brick in his office as both a reminder and a warning to those who worked for him—a reminder of his nickname and a warning to never take your eyes from the goal. I have heard stories of agents who had that brick tossed in their faces for failure to pay attention, or to achieve expected results.”
“So, you’re saying he’s a psychopath,” Jenkins said.
“He’s practical, pragmatic, and relentless. If he is involved, it is bad news for you. He is singularly focused.”
“And a psychopath.”
“This is no joke, Mr. Jenkins. If Efimov is involved, you are of the highest priority.”
“We already suspected that.”
“Yes, but it is also an indication that the FSB’s focus has changed.”
“How?”
“My job was to capture you. Efimov is ordinarily sent to kill.”
“I’m flattered,” Jenkins said, though another chill ran through him, this time unrelated to the temperature. “If he and Putin and the deputy director are friends, why is he off the books?”
“These are unsubstantiated rumors,” Federov said. “But rumors I believe. Apparently one of the bricks did considerable damage to the son of a prominent Russian politician—a politician who also had connections, his more powerful than Efimov’s at the time. Efimov disappeared, but obviously not completely. Now, tell me why you have been so foolish to return.”
“I need information and I had no way of getting in touch with you.”
“It must be very important, this information, for you to take this kind of risk,” Federov said.
“If you’re angling for a bigger payout, forget it. You’ll get what I took. I’ve made arrangements for you to get back your six million dollars—”
“I already had six million—”
“As well as the four million dollars in my account.”
Federov stopped talking.
“That’s ten million dollars, Viktor. Four million will be released when I get what I want. The rest will be released when I get back to the United States.” As with his negotiations with Ruslana, Jenkins knew to never open with his best offer, and to hold back a future payment until he had reached safety. “Do we have a deal?”
“You are offering me just four million dollars. I had six before you went into the bank. And that was before I knew Efimov was involved. For this you are asking me to take a pay cut.”
“You’ll get six million more when I’m out of the country.”
“If you get out of the country. Efimov will have much to say about that. I stand to lose two million dollars.”
“And you stand to gain four million. That’s the deal I’m offering. This is not a negotiation.”
Federov shrugged. “Again, there is no guarantee. Besides, how do I know that I can trust you?”
“The same way I knew I could trust you, Viktor. Blind faith.”
“I am not a religious man.”
“Neither am I. But from where I sit, you could get nothing. That’s a lot to lose, especially given how you’re apparently spending it.”
“And from where I sit, I could call the FSB as a Russian patriot and you would spend the rest of your life in Lefortovo. If you were so lucky.”
“Maybe, but that wouldn’t change the fact that you would once again be penniless, Viktor, and probably still out of a job.”
“One never knows Russian gratitude. I may be reinstated. I may even get a bonus.”
“You think so? When I give them proof you killed their best double agent, Carl Emerson? The man who was providing the names of the seven sisters?” Jenkins glanced over at Federov, who was no longer smiling. “Besides, do you think the Russian government would give you a ten-million-dollar bonus?” Jenkins nodded to Ruslana in the back seat. “Take a good look at her, Viktor, because you won’t be able to afford her again.”
Federov smiled. “I like you, Mr. Jenkins. I like the way you think.”
Jenkins didn’t believe him, not for a moment. “Does that mean we have a deal?”
“One exception. If things do not go as planned, and my involvement is more than . . . how do you say it . . . either of us anticipated, you will make it worth my while, yes?”
“You’ll want more money?”
“You Americans always play your cards close to your chest. I know there is more money. I want only to know that you will authorize it, if circumstances dictate it to be so.”
“Agreed,” Jenkins said, “though I’m not saying there is more money.”
“Nor did you deny it.
” Federov stuck out his hand. “As you do in your country.” The two men shook hands, not that Jenkins put much stock in it.
“Tell me. What is it that is so important you have risked so much to ask me?” Federov asked.
“I want to know if Paulina Ponomayova is still alive, and if she is, where she is being kept. Tell me what happened that night in Vishnevka.”
Federov hit the accelerator and slammed into the car’s back bumper. The Hyundai swerved, but the driver corrected. Federov steered to his right and tapped the rear bumper, a move favored by police. The Hyundai spun. This time the driver could not correct. The car slid across the centerline and the adjacent lane before it slammed into a tree trunk, coming to a violent and certain stop.
Federov hit his brakes and spun a U-turn, stopping ten meters back from the car. He considered the windows, looking for any movement inside the car. Seeing none, he removed his gun and stepped out, using the car door as a shield. He took aim at the back window.
“Vyidite iz mashiny, ruki za golovu!” Get out of the car with your hands on top of your head!
There was no response. Smoke rose from the shattered engine.
Federov repeated the order.
Again, he got no response.
He rose up from behind the door and shuffled forward, finger on the trigger, muzzle aimed at the car. He moved deliberately, cautiously, to the driver’s side and used his left hand to yank on the door handle. It opened with a metallic crunching noise. The woman, Ponomayova, lay draped over the steering wheel. Federov looked across the car to the passenger seat, then to the back seat of the car. He did not see Jenkins. Infuriated, Federov grabbed Ponomayova by the neck and yanked her backward. Blood streamed down her face from a cut on her forehead.
“Gde on?” he shouted. “Gde on?” Where is he?
Ponomayova’s eyes cleared momentarily and she smiled, her teeth red from the blood. “Ty opozdal. On davno ushol,” she said, voice a whisper. You’re too late. He is long gone.
Federov stuck the barrel of the gun to her temple. “Tell me where he is. Where did he go?”
The Last Agent Page 11