The Last Agent

by Robert Dugoni

  Federov smirked. “Most likely asleep at the front desk. The camera will be this way until I fix it.”

  Federov used his card key to activate the elevator and again to activate the keypad to gain access to the eighth floor. Moments later Jenkins waited as Federov stepped from the elevator and scanned the hallway, then nodded for Jenkins to follow. They slipped inside apartment 8B.

  Federov placed his key in a basket on a small table just inside the door and hung his coat on one of several pegs. Jenkins did the same. Federov turned on a radio, a classical station.

  “The walls are solid, but keep your voice down.”

  Jenkins walked down a narrow hall into a surprisingly spacious, and clean, living room. The furniture was modest but spotless, despite being white. Throw rugs covered much of the tile floor. The living room and a bachelor-style kitchen were separated by a counter. Federov removed two glasses from a cabinet and a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black. He held it up. Jenkins nodded.

  The apartment was not what Jenkins had expected—sparkling white, from the countertops to the walls and cabinets, in contrast to brightly colored paintings. The interior looked like it had been cleaned for a showing. Jenkins walked to the mantel above the fireplace and considered framed photographs of two young women, likely Federov’s daughters. One of the daughters appeared to be married with two children. Jenkins did not see a picture of Federov’s former wife, which didn’t surprise him. He walked to a sliding glass door that opened onto a small balcony with a table and chair. Late at night, the view was minimal. Streetlamps illuminated a tree-lined street with cars parked along both curbs.

  “Not bad, Viktor,” Jenkins said when Federov joined him and handed him a glass.

  “My wife got the family apartment.” Federov held up his glass. “I would offer a salute, but I think in these circumstances it might not be for the best to tempt fate.”

  Jenkins sipped his Scotch. It burned at the back of his throat.

  Federov retreated to one of two white club chairs. Jenkins took a seat on the couch and set his drink on a glass coffee table. Federov opened a drawer on a side table between the two chairs and flipped Jenkins a coaster. He slipped a second coaster beneath his drink. Federov was fussy. Perhaps it was the reason he had never remarried. Jenkins would not have guessed it, but it also reminded him that most Russians did not have much, but what they had they protected.

  “Tell me what you know, Mr. Jenkins.”

  Jenkins remained distrustful of Federov. He wasn’t going to disclose much of what Lemore had told him. He paraphrased and summarized instead of giving details.

  “Why did you suspect the asset to be Ponomayova?”

  “As I said, the timing was right, and American intelligence confirmed the prisoner at Lefortovo to be female and mid-to-late forties.” Jenkins wasn’t about to discuss the American arrested as a spy and sent to Lefortovo who made this determination.

  “If Ponomayova is being held under such tight security and secrecy, then it is not likely she will be used to bargain for a Russian asset in the United States. Mr. Putin despises traitors. It can be assumed she was kept alive to extract what information she possesses. What does she know of the remaining four sisters?”

  Jenkins shook his head. He didn’t know and he wouldn’t tell Federov if he did. “She told me she didn’t know their identity. She said her involvement was to find the person who had leaked the identities of three of the seven to the FSB.”

  “She herself does not know these women?”

  “No.”

  “That is too bad. President Putin wants that information very badly. When he is convinced Ponomayova has nothing to offer, she will be shot as a traitor.”

  “I suspected as much.”

  “I see only one possibility. You allow yourself to be caught and hope you are taken to Lefortovo as a political prisoner to be traded for a Russian asset. This, I think, is no good for many reasons.”

  “I can think of one,” Jenkins said with sarcasm.

  “There is no guarantee you would be taken to Lefortovo, and if Ponomayova is being held under tight security, it would be unlikely you would see her. Second, Mr. Putin is said to have been embarrassed by my inability to capture you, and by the subsequent loss of a high-level intelligence asset within the CIA. It is unlikely he would seek to trade you or even acknowledge you were being held captive. Efimov’s involvement supports this.”

  “Any other options?” Jenkins asked.

  “To get her out of Lefortovo? I can think of none. I believe this, too, is what you Americans call a ‘pipe dream,’ no?”

  “Maybe,” Jenkins said.

  “Let me ask, Mr. Jenkins. Why come to me with this problem?”

  “I told you, I needed to confirm whether Paulina was still alive, and I figured you were one of the last to see her.”

  “Yes, so now you know. What made you think I would not give you up, and thereby regain favor with the FSB?”

  “Three things.”

  “Three? I am impressed.” Federov sat back, drink in hand. “Please. Tell me.”

  “First, I have your money, which you went to some lengths to get, so it means a lot to you. Second, I’m offering you nearly twice as much if I’m successful. Third, I know that you killed Carl Emerson, which, as you have said, upset Mr. Putin.”

  “And I would say that you killed Mr. Emerson.”

  “Yes, but then that wouldn’t explain the mysterious existence of Sergei Vasilyev or his bank account with nearly six million dollars, would it?”

  Federov studied him. “It appears that we are both going over the barrel, no?”

  Jenkins ignored Federov’s bastardization of the American expression. “I respect you, Viktor. I respected your counterintelligence skills and your determination. I also believe your government screwed you, as mine screwed me. But make no mistake. I don’t trust you any more than you trust me, and, if forced to do so, I will burn you.”

  “Then at least we both know where we stand,” Federov said.

  Something buzzed. Jenkins looked to the kitchen counter. Federov’s cell phone illuminated. Federov looked to Jenkins, then to the phone, clearly not expecting a call at this late hour. He considered his watch as he walked over and picked it up.

  “The FSB.” His voice dropped and he turned to Jenkins, clearly upset.

  “You’re sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure. I spent twenty years of my life there. The number is impressed in my brain.”

  “Answer it,” Jenkins said.

  Federov paused.

  “Answer it, Viktor, as if you have nothing to hide.”

  Federov answered the phone, took a moment, then moaned as if he’d been asleep. “Allo?” He listened.

  Federov blanched, his face becoming almost the color of the apartment walls. Jenkins had never seen Federov respond in such a way.

  “Da.” Federov’s gaze shot to Jenkins, panic in his eyes. He spoke Russian. “Tomorrow? Yes, I can be there. What is the purpose of this meeting, if I may ask? No. No, I will say nothing. Yes . . .”

  Federov slowly lowered the phone.

  “Who was it?”

  “Efimov.”

  Jenkins felt a twinge of anxiety—this was unexpected. “What did he want?”

  “He has summoned me to Lubyanka tomorrow morning. I fear, Mr. Jenkins, that I am already, how did you say it? Burned?”

  Jenkins gave the matter some thought, then shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

  “No?” Federov sounded incredulous. “Adam Efimov does not call a former agent in the middle of the night and request a meeting to reinstate him, of this I am quite certain.”

  Jenkins returned to the plate-glass door and slid it open. He stepped onto the balcony and looked down at the street.

  Federov stepped out behind him. “What are you looking for?”

  “What do you see on the street, Viktor?”

  Federov gave him a quizzical stare. “I see nothing. I see parked cars,
trees.”

  “Exactly. If you were burned, Efimov would not have summoned you by phone and given you the chance to escape. If you were burned, this building would be surrounded by dozens of Moscow police and FSB officers.”

  The color gradually returned to Federov’s face.

  “Did Efimov tell you the purpose of the meeting?”

  “No. Only that I was to report to Lubyanka at 9:00 a.m.”

  “He wants me.”

  “Of course he wants you.”

  “That’s not what I mean. He summoned you because you were the officer who hunted me the first time. The meeting is probably to determine what you learned about me, my tendencies, potential contacts, why I might have returned. He may want to know if you have heard of Sergei Vasilyev. We need to discuss how to use this to our advantage.”

  Federov went to the counter and poured himself another drink. “I hope, for my sake, that you are right, Mr. Jenkins. Otherwise, perhaps I will be the one put inside Lefortovo. And if that happens”—he raised his glass—“Bozhe, pomogi nam oboim.”

  God help us both.

  18

  The following morning, Federov returned to a once familiar routine. He departed his apartment dressed in a suit and tie and a warm topcoat. Stepping out the front door of his building, he pulled on fur-lined leather gloves and his black knit skullcap, fitting the cap low on his head—a winter outfit he had worn often. He stepped onto the Kaluzhsko-Rizhskaya line of the Moscow Metro, transferred to the red line, and departed that train at Lubyanka station beneath Lubyanka Square, a commute he had taken almost daily during his years at the FSB.

  He ascended the escalators to street level. This morning, beneath a heavy cloud layer, he stared at the building that had once been his home, or should have been, given the number of hours he had spent there. The main Lubyanka building looked pale orange, rust-colored trim delineating each of its floors, windows, and the clock centered atop the structure.

  Up until this moment Federov had moved on autopilot.

  No longer.

  He took a deep breath and crossed to the building entrance. When he stepped inside, he approached turnstiles and realized he no longer carried the fob with the randomly generated access code that accorded him entry. He greeted one of two security guards seated behind a marble reception counter and told him his purpose inside the building. The guard picked up the phone, checked a log of numbers, and punched one in. He hung up and handed Federov a ridiculous-looking clip-on badge identifying him as a visitor and advised that someone would be down to escort him into the building.

  For a once senior FSB officer, this was a humiliating return. The badge might just as well have said “Fired” or “Dismissed.” He wondered if it was purposeful.

  Federov shoved his gloves and hat in the pockets of his topcoat, then slid it from his shoulders. He straightened his nub-short hair, a nervous reflex, and otherwise worked to get his nerves under control. He hoped Mr. Jenkins’s assessment of the situation was correct. If not, this could be the last time Federov was escorted into the building. In the days of the KGB, he would have been locked in a cell in the infamous basement prison, tortured for information, then forgotten. With that prison no longer operating, Federov would most likely be taken to nearby Lefortovo. Before leaving his apartment, he had sent text messages to his two daughters advising that he had been summoned to Lubyanka for a meeting. He said he hoped the meeting would lead to his reinstatement.

  He didn’t.

  He sent the text messages because he could think of no one else who cared enough, should anything happen to him, and he was not even certain his daughters met that criteria. Rightfully so, perhaps. Frequent travel and long hours in this very building had made him mostly absent from their lives—his wife’s life as well. Their marriage had been loveless, at least between the two of them. They each had affairs, more than one. Federov had spared his daughters this knowledge, and when a court judicially terminated his marriage because of an “irretrievable breakdown,” his daughters lived with their mother in the family apartment. Federov saw his daughters once a week and every other weekend until they left for their tertiary education. Then he saw them less.

  He’d paid for Renata’s private acting lessons, a hopeless cause, and for Tiana’s computer science courses, a degree she had used before marriage and children. They had intermittent contact during those years, mostly because Federov served as their bank. Upon completion of that financial commitment, their contact became less frequent—cards and phone calls on birthdays and holidays. They were busy with their own lives now.

  They had learned by example.

  “Colonel Federov?” A young, attractive woman greeted him in the marbled entrance. The woman had Slavic features and a figure that had been either a gift from God or hard-earned in a gym. Federov caught himself before his eyes roamed and possibly offended the young woman.

  “I will escort you into the building.”

  “Spasibo,” Federov said with a slight bow.

  They stepped from the elevator to the third floor. Federov knew from experience that the deputy director for counterintelligence sat in the corner office at the end of the hall, and he thought, for a moment, that was their destination. However, the woman stopped one door short, knocking before pushing the door open. “May I offer you coffee or a glass of water?” she asked.

  “Thank you, no.”

  Federov stepped into a Spartan office. Efimov stood behind a large desk, watching his approach, though his eyes diverted, for an instant, to the young woman.

  Efimov looked every bit the thug as reputed, with Neanderthal features and the stocky build of a man who’d worked labor much of his life. It was an odd contrast to his crisp white shirt—which looked heavily starched, but which Federov quickly realized was stretched tight across the man’s upper torso—and gold cuff links and a blue tie, crisply knotted.

  Efimov appeared serene, which also did not comport with his reputation.

  Federov reached across the expansive desk to shake the man’s hand. As he did, he noticed a red brick in the out-box, the only item, other than a computer screen, on the otherwise pristine desktop.

  The two men shook hands, Efimov’s grip living up to his rumored strength.

  “Please, have a seat,” Efimov said in a deep, quiet voice.

  Federov draped his coat across the second chair and sat. Efimov got straight to the matter at hand. “I’m sure you are wondering why I have called you here today.”

  “It was unexpected,” Federov said, offering a thin smile.

  “I have reviewed your employment file, Colonel Federov. You had a stellar work history.”

  “Thank you—”

  “Up until your final assignment.”

  Federov smiled, tight-lipped. “Charles Jenkins,” he said. “A formidable adversary.”

  “Yes. That was noted in your reports.” Efimov stared for a moment, as if to ensure Federov knew Efimov didn’t agree, or perhaps didn’t care. He did know that. “That is actually why I asked you here this morning.”

  “Is it?” Federov said, trying not to sound concerned.

  “Yes.” Efimov sat back, the leather of his chair crackling. He looked to be eyeing Federov, as if evaluating an opponent for the placement of a lethal blow. Federov hoped that was not the case. “Something has come up, and we believe you may be of assistance.”

  “I am always willing to be of assistance to my country,” Federov said.

  Efimov looked mildly amused. “It seems your nemesis has returned to Russia.”

  “I had many nemeses when I served.”

  “Perhaps. But this is the one responsible for your dismissal.”

  Federov squinted, trying to appear confused, but also evaluating whether the man was being sincere or probing for information, attempting to trip him up or determine how much Federov knew. “Charles Jenkins has returned to Russia?”

  “So it seems.”

  “Excuse me for saying so, but that seems an
unlikely scenario.”

  Efimov rested his elbows on the chair arms and folded his hands together, his index fingers tapping against one another. “Why would you say that?”

  “Because Mr. Jenkins went to great lengths to get out of Russia and managed to do so only by the skin of his teeth.”

  “And yet we have visual confirmation he has returned.”

  Efimov pivoted a computer screen, and Federov leaned forward to watch a video. Charles Jenkins entered what appeared to be a bank, dressed in a suit and tie, and approached a teller.

  “Do you recognize that man to be Charles Jenkins?” Efimov asked.

  “He has a beard, but yes, I recognize him. Where was the film obtained?”

  Efimov pulled the screen back. “A camera inside the UBS branch in Moscow.”

  “Huh?” Federov said. “What was his purpose for being there?”

  Efimov explained Jenkins’s apparent purpose inside the bank.

  Federov listened as if hearing it for the first time. Then he asked, “For clarification, the account was in Mr. Jenkins’s name?”

  “Yes.”

  “And he supplied the teller identification using his real name?”

  “Yes.”

  Federov pondered this, or at least hoped he looked to be doing so. Then he said, “Mr. Jenkins’s counterintelligence skills are such that he should have expected the account to be frozen, and that Lubyanka would be notified of any activity.”

  “That would seem to be the logical deduction. Unfortunately, he fled the bank before officers arrived. But let me ask . . . As someone who pursued Mr. Jenkins, do you have any suspicions about what would bring him back to Russia?”

  Federov scowled. “The obvious deduction would be that Mr. Jenkins came back because it was the only way to open a frozen bank account . . . but . . .”

  “But . . .”

  “Such a supposition raises a number of other questions I’m sure you have already considered.”

  “Such as?” Efimov asked. “I summoned you for your opinion.”

  “Well . . . Where did Mr. Jenkins obtain the funds in that Moscow account?”