The Last Agent

by Robert Dugoni

  She spit up more blood. “So very Russian of you to threaten to kill a dying woman,” she said, speaking through clenched teeth.

  “Where is he?”

  She smiled, this time purposeful. Federov saw the white capsule wedged between her teeth.

  “For Ivan. May those of you who killed him rot—”

  The story Federov told Jenkins sounded a lot like the Paulina he had come to know—tough as nails and defiant. She had little to lose or fear; all of her family was deceased.

  A wet snow splattered the windshield, and Jenkins turned on the wipers to clear the glass, the rubber blades occasionally shrieking. “So she’s dead?” he asked Federov.

  Federov shook his head. “It would be better for her . . . and for you, if she were dead. But no. She did not die that night.”

  Jenkins’s pulse quickened. His mouth went dry. “Tell me what happened.”

  Federov reacted before Ponomayova finished her sentence. He slapped her hard across the face. The white capsule, likely cyanide, dislodged and fell somewhere into the dark recesses of the car. Whether that would be enough to keep her alive, Federov did not know; her injuries looked to be significant. She’d passed out from the blow, slumped over the steering wheel, blood trickling from the corner of her mouth. Federov put a hand to her carotid artery. Her pulse was faint but still present.

  He removed his cell phone and called Timur Matveyev, the Vishnevka chief of police. “This is Federov. I am roughly three kilometers east on M27. Send an ambulance and one of your patrol cars immediately.”

  “You didn’t stay?” Jenkins asked.

  “If you recall, it was you I was after, not her.”

  “But she was alive when you left her.”

  “Yes. As I said. Her pulse was weak and her injuries significant, but she remained alive.”

  “Do you know what happened to her after you left her?”

  “Only what I heard after I was dismissed. Of this I have no personal knowledge.”

  “What did you hear?”

  “She was flown by helicopter to a hospital in Sochi, then to a trauma center in Moscow.”

  “A military hospital?”

  Federov stared at Jenkins, clearly wondering how he knew that bit of information. “They had the expertise to keep her alive.”

  “What else did you hear?” Jenkins asked.

  “Nothing. After your escape, I was dismissed. I put my experience to other interests.”

  “Did you hear anything else about Ponomayova?”

  “No.”

  “If she lived, where would she be now?”

  “If she lived? If she lived, she would be in Lefortovo,” Federov said. “And let me warn you, Mr. Jenkins, even if she survived the car crash, there is no guarantee she has survived Lefortovo, and she would soon wish that she did not. Russian interrogation techniques are designed to break the subject physically and mentally. Once accomplished, Ms. Ponomayova would have been shot as a traitor.”

  “How do I find out if she is in Lefortovo and if she is still alive?”

  “You do not.”

  “How would you find out?”

  Federov chuckled. “I have no interest in finding out.”

  “You have a ten-million-dollar interest,” Jenkins said.

  Federov exhaled. He tilted his head left, then right, stretching his neck as if it were stiff from stress. He brushed at lint on his sweater, and Jenkins recalled the movement from his prior encounter. Federov’s tell. Everyone had a tell. He waited. Federov eventually spoke. “I may have access to individuals who might advise me. But it is likely that Ms. Ponomayova’s existence and location has been kept . . . what you Americans like to call ‘top secret.’ Only those at the highest levels could confirm this type of information. And I do not have such access. Nor would I risk asking, not with Efimov involved.”

  Jenkins ignored everything except what he wanted Federov to do. “So you might be able to find out.”

  Federov laughed. “You do not listen. It would be very dangerous.”

  “But for a price?”

  “Everything has a price, Mr. Jenkins. The question is the cost. But let me ask you a question. What good would it do you to know this information?”

  “If she’s alive, I’m going to get her out.”

  Federov laughed, a deep and full chuckle that awoke or annoyed Ruslana, who groaned and whined in the back seat. When Jenkins did not laugh, Federov leaned across the gap between the two seats. “Have you gone crazy, Mr. Jenkins? Did that trial scramble your brain? You think you are going to get Ponomayova out of Lefortovo? This I wish to know. Tell me. How?”

  “Not Lefortovo. Out of Moscow. Out of Russia.”

  Again, Federov laughed. “You might as well release my money now, because I will never see the rest. This is a suicide mission you are undertaking. You understand that, no?”

  “My coming for the eighth sister was supposed to be a suicide mission, Viktor. But it didn’t work out that way.”

  “Let me ask you another question. Why are you here? Surely it is not some ideological reason motivating you. And you never struck me as a man motivated by money. So why come back?”

  Jenkins shrugged. “She saved my life.”

  Federov gave this a moment of thought. “You feel obligated.”

  Jenkins didn’t respond.

  “You do this out of some loyalty? Duty? Honor? . . . Guilt?”

  “I do it because it’s the right thing, Viktor. Because of Paulina I got to see my wife and son again. I was home for my daughter’s birth. You have two daughters. Perhaps you can appreciate that.”

  “I can appreciate it,” Federov said. After a moment of silence, the windshield wipers again shrieked. Federov stared out at the darkened road. Then he said, “But be careful, Mr. Jenkins. There are millions of forgotten young men buried in the ground who gave their lives for duty and honor, and their families have nothing to show for it but a gravestone. Some don’t even have that.”

  17

  Efimov stood at the window on the third floor of the main Lubyanka building smoking a cigarette and drinking Scotch. He stared down at Lubyanka Square, illuminated under bright streetlamps, and the lingering remains of Moscow traffic. This view, or one just like it—perhaps in the office down the hall, the office of the deputy director—should have been his. He had earned it—not through political ass kicking, but through decades of hard work.

  His years in the KGB with Vladimir and Dmitry had resulted in much success, like their childhood in Saint Petersburg—though it would always be Leningrad to Efimov. Vladimir had been the smartest of the three, certainly; Efimov always knew his friend would go on to do great things. Efimov had no such illusions about himself. He’d been the brawn, Vladimir’s enforcer. Dmitry was a parasite, one who would go only as far as Vladimir could take him.

  Efimov understood his place and his role. He’d learned both from his father.

  He’d never had the chance to succeed in school, to develop his intellect and to earn the degrees that would elevate him to positions of prestige. His father had removed him from classes after his primary education. He’d told Efimov that further schooling was a waste of time, that Efimov did not have the brains to amount to anything academic; that it would be better for him to learn a trade.

  Efimov had hated the work from the moment he caught his first brick at eight years of age, and he hated it more with each summer that his father conscripted him, until the work became his life. During his first years, his father forced him to carry bricks up to him on the scaffolding, sometimes several stories. He asked his father why they didn’t fashion pulleys and use a crate to pull the bricks up, but his father told him no man learned anything doing things the easy way.

  “You will carry the bricks, which will motivate you to get stronger, so that you can toss them up to me. Then you will understand.”

  Efimov did get stronger, much stronger, until he could toss the bricks to his father at any height, and catch them.
When he demonstrated this, his father told him, “Now you don’t need the pulley and the basket.”

  Efimov had never understood the lesson his father tried to impart. He never understood why doing things the more efficient way was not the better way. But he also did not have the time to find out. Whenever his mind wandered in search of such answers or to his friends, who spent the warm summer months hiking and swimming and enjoying the weather before Leningrad’s brutal winters, his father regained Efimov’s attention by tossing a brick in his face. Efimov had the jagged scars of abuse to show for it: across his forehead and the bridge of his nose, on his chin, and the backs of his hands. His father refused to take Efimov to the hospital. He did not want to waste time that could otherwise be spent working.

  “Besides,” he would say, “you will get nowhere with that face. You have my grandfather’s brow and his jaw. The scars are an improvement.”

  But his father had been wrong. Efimov’s face would take him places. After his father fell from the scaffolding in a drunken stupor and, thankfully, died, Efimov reunited with Vladimir and Dmitry, though at a level far below theirs. He did not have the education for advancement within the KGB, but he had the face and the brawn, and soon the reputation.

  His father had been right about one thing.

  Fear was the best motivator.

  Those who worked for him paid attention to the goal, or they suffered the consequences.

  But Russia had changed. The KGB was no more, and Efimov had difficulty finding his place within the FSB and other successor organizations. While Vladimir’s and Dmitry’s political careers advanced, Efimov’s career stagnated. Then it collapsed. And not even Vladimir’s rise to the presidency had been able to fully resurrect it.

  Dmitry threw him bones, at Vladimir’s suggestion, for old times’ sake, for the friendships they had made as boys on the streets of Leningrad. But those bones now came with the same warning his father had once imposed.

  Get the job done, or suffer the consequences.

  Efimov turned from the view and joined Alekseyov and Volkov in his barren office. The walls of the room contained no photographs. The desk and shelves were bare. Efimov’s jacket and tie hung over the back of the desk chair where he had placed them. His cuff links rested on the desk. He’d rolled his shirt cuffs to his elbows.

  Efimov poured another drink and carried the glass to a cream-colored leather chair. He didn’t bother to ask Alekseyov or Volkov to join him. This was not a celebration. Far from it.

  He sat and lit another cigarette, inhaling the nicotine deeply, then motioned to the two chairs across the desk. Alekseyov and Volkov dutifully sat.

  Alekseyov tried not to look or sound uncomfortable or concerned, though Efimov knew he was both. He’d seen it often in those who worked for him, the young officer’s wandering eye contact and rigid posture, the anxious way his left leg shook. Volkov, on the other hand, looked as he always looked, imperturbable, as if nothing said or done would have any impact on him. Perhaps he no longer cared for the FSB. Many old KGB agents felt the same. If that was the case, Efimov admired him for it.

  But he’d still sacrifice him in an instant, were this matter to fail.

  They discussed in detail what had transpired at the airport and at the M’Istral Hotel, where they had searched every room and every closet without success.

  “Mr. Jenkins’s counterintelligence skills are very good,” Alekseyov said.

  “I have read Viktor Federov’s prior reports,” Efimov responded. He had not been impressed. He believed Federov’s reports had been more to cover his own ass. It hadn’t worked. He sipped his drink, sucked in more nicotine, and blew smoke across the desk. “What more do we know?”

  Alekseyov clearly had not been expecting the question. Perhaps he’d expected Efimov to yell and scream and lose his temper, then tell them what to do. But Efimov had learned how to modulate his responses for maximum effect. Besides, to scream and yell defeated the purpose of this late-night meeting. The purpose wasn’t to intimidate them to a point of paralysis. It was to motivate them to think, to act, to succeed. Another lesson from his father.

  “Sir?” Alekseyov asked, sounding as uncertain as he looked.

  “Where do we go from here?”

  Alekseyov stared at Efimov, mouth agape, as if uncertain whether Efimov’s question was serious. “I . . .”

  “This is your investigation, Simon.”

  Efimov’s words found their mark, as he knew they would. Alekseyov looked like he’d been stabbed with a dagger. His Adam’s apple bobbed and the knee continued to shake. Consequences for one’s failures were also a strong motivator. “My investigation?”

  “Is it not?”

  Efimov could see the ramifications crystallizing in the young agent’s mind. This was his investigation. Efimov worked in the shadows. He did not exist. Volkov was old, and largely unmotivated. It would be Alekseyov’s ass on the line, at least publicly, should they fail. In private Efimov would bear the brunt of the president’s anger, and the likely consequences. But Alekseyov and Volkov did not need to know that.

  Alekseyov said, “We provided the description Arkady obtained of Sergei Vasilyev from the hotel employees to our analysts to narrow the pool of potential candidates, but so far we have not had much success.”

  “And they have still not found a driver’s license or identification card?”

  “No. In fact, although Vasilyev used a credit card to make the reservation at the spa and for the massage, he paid the bill in advance, in cash.”

  Alekseyov looked to Volkov for some confirmation and affirmance, but the old officer provided none. Perhaps he, too, understood the consequences should this assignment fail. So close to retirement, he likely did not want to be out front, taking the first bullet.

  Volkov sighed as if bored. The act was so brazen and out of character it was as if he had jumped onto Efimov’s desk and pissed. Efimov shifted his attention from Alekseyov to the older officer. “You have something more to add, Arkady?”

  “I think it is a waste of time,” Volkov said.

  Alekseyov cringed.

  Efimov suppressed a smile. He respected the old officer’s balls. He’d read his file, which was much like Efimov’s—a limited education but not a limited intellect. The strength he’d earned working in the fields as a young man had been put to good use. Efimov had read of Volkov’s interrogation techniques and admired the reputation he, too, had cultivated. “Do you, Arkady? Tell me why.”

  “Because I believe it is more likely that Sergei Vasilyev is a double agent, working for the CIA, and that the name was deliberately chosen because it is so common. It would also explain the lack of any Russian identification and his use of cash.”

  Alekseyov sat looking stunned by the analysis—a further indication that while Volkov did not say much, what he said was insightful. Efimov’s father would have described Volkov as a heavy boulder at the top of a hill, hard to get going, but once pushed he quickly picked up speed.

  Efimov leaned back, studying both men. His chair creaked. “And so, what then do you propose to do at this point?”

  “I propose that we determine why Mr. Jenkins has returned to Russia, given the significant risk for him to have done so. If we determine why Mr. Jenkins has returned, perhaps we will determine where he is most likely to be next.”

  “And do you have any thoughts on why Mr. Jenkins has returned?”

  “No,” Volkov said, without elaboration or apology.

  Efimov stared at him but did not see any indication Volkov was being insolent. After a few moments his gaze shifted back to Alekseyov. “Do you?” he asked.

  “But I do not believe it was to retrieve money,” Volkov said before Alekseyov had the chance to speak, no doubt saving the young officer the embarrassment of admitting that he had no idea why Jenkins had returned to Moscow.

  “No?” Efimov asked.

  “No.”

  “Why then?”

  “This I do not yet k
now, but Simon brought up a brilliant idea, someone who may know why Jenkins has returned. Someone who knows him better than anyone sitting in this room.”

  Efimov and Volkov looked to Alekseyov, but the young officer continued to look stumped. Then the answer came to him, like a thunderclap on a clear day, unexpected and sudden.

  “Viktor Federov,” Alekseyov blurted, trying to not look or sound surprised.

  Efimov knew he was both.

  After driving Ruslana to a high-end apartment building, Jenkins was directed by Federov to the Cheryomushki District, southwest of the Kremlin—what Jenkins considered to be downtown Moscow, though Federov explained that Moscow did not have a “downtown.” He didn’t even understand the term. He said the government had buildings throughout the twelve administrative okrugs that comprised Moscow, and those okrugs, or regions, were each divided into multiple districts that housed Moscow’s twelve million inhabitants.

  Federov also explained that the Cheryomushki District was at one time named for the former Soviet dictator Leonid Brezhnev, and it had been synonymous with cheap Soviet-style apartments—what Jenkins likened to housing projects in the United States. Most of those buildings had been demolished during Putin’s never-ending reign and replaced with modern apartment buildings. Federov had purchased his apartment in one of the buildings following his divorce.

  “Turn here,” Federov directed.

  Jenkins descended a driveway to a gate beneath a multistory building. Federov handed him a card key that Jenkins pressed to a pad, and the gate rolled back. Just before midnight, the garage was full of cars but, thankfully, no people.

  Federov directed Jenkins to a parking space and got out of the vehicle. “Wait here. There is a camera in the elevator lobby.”

  Federov used his card key to activate a lock on a metal door. Seconds later he gestured to Jenkins. When Jenkins stepped into the lobby, Federov said, “The building cameras are outdated and easily manipulated.”

  Jenkins noticed a detached wire dangling from the back of the camera. “What about a guard?”