The Last Agent

by Robert Dugoni

  “Unknown.”

  “I think we must assume the funds came from the CIA, but then, why would they use an account that could be so easily frozen? Why use his name, which again would be easily recognizable? In addition, Mr. Jenkins did not strike me as a man motivated by money.”

  “Arkady Volkov said the same thing.”

  “Did he? May I ask how much was in the account?”

  “More than four million American dollars.”

  Federov feigned surprise and hoped he had succeeded. “Perhaps I spoke too quickly then.” He smiled. “You said Mr. Jenkins fled the bank. Has he fled Russia?”

  Efimov discussed their unsuccessful chase of Jenkins to the airport and to the M’Istral Hotel and Spa, and introduced Vasilyev and his stolen money.

  “But you’ve apprehended this man, Vasilyev?” Federov asked.

  “As yet, no.”

  “But he appears to be a key factor in Mr. Jenkins’s return to Russia,” Federov said, beginning to see an opportunity to lead the conversation toward what he and Jenkins had discussed the prior evening.

  “That would seem to be the case.”

  “A double agent perhaps. Someone to provide Mr. Jenkins with information and financial resources and perhaps a way out of the country after he had succeeded in taking the money in the two accounts.”

  “Perhaps,” Efimov agreed.

  “And the money in this second account was also frozen?”

  “It was not.”

  Again, Federov paused to give this due regard. “I don’t understand. I thought perhaps Mr. Jenkins’s return was to unfreeze both accounts and flee with the money, but if the second account was not frozen, then . . .”

  “A conundrum.”

  “Yes, but not unlike Mr. Jenkins. The man was a paradox.”

  “In what way?”

  “He served as a young CIA officer in Mexico City but left abruptly and lived in isolation for decades, or at least appeared to. The fact that he remained highly skilled in counterintelligence dictates against that conclusion.”

  “Perhaps he never actually left the CIA’s service.”

  Federov understood now what Jenkins had meant when he called Efimov a ghost. He suspected Jenkins was also a ghost. “I considered that possibility also—a disgruntled former officer willing to sell secrets—but that, too, was a ruse. His real purpose was to identify and kill the person disclosing information on a cadre of American moles: Russian women referred to as the seven sisters.”

  Efimov did not respond.

  Federov shook his head. “I wish I could be of more help.”

  Efimov nodded. “As do I.” He stared at Federov, who was uncertain what to do. After some time Federov stood and reached for his coat. Then he paused.

  “Something else?” Efimov asked.

  “I’m not certain. But . . . Perhaps there is someone who knows of this Sergei Vasilyev, and perhaps also the reason Mr. Jenkins has returned.” Federov shook his head. “If she is alive.”

  “She?” Efimov said.

  This was the $10 million moment, and Federov was about to put everything on the line. “Mr. Jenkins evaded our attempts to capture him at Vishnevka largely due to a Russian woman. A spy. Paulina Ponomayova.”

  “I read your report.”

  “Then you know that she led us away from the safe house in Vishnevka to allow Jenkins to escape. She crashed her car.”

  “You said ‘If she is alive.’”

  “She intended to take her own life. I succeeded in preventing that, but perhaps only prolonging the inevitable. She was in bad shape from the car accident. I understood she was taken to the Hospital for War Veterans here in Moscow, but I was then dismissed. I’m afraid I do not know whether she survived. If she did . . . Well, she spent many hours with Mr. Jenkins and seems a logical choice for interrogation—that is, I would interrogate her thoroughly. If I still worked here.”

  Efimov responded with a thin smile. “I can assure you that Ponomayova knows nothing.”

  “You’ve interrogated her?” Federov said, not anticipating this answer.

  “The doctors speculate that Ponomayova suffered brain damage in the car accident, and that appears to be so.”

  Federov had not considered this possibility. If Efimov had interrogated Ponomayova and she had not spoken, there was a good chance she had suffered brain damage. If this were true, everything to this point was for naught. He went for broke, suspecting Efimov was arrogant and would not appreciate a challenge to his abilities. He might just want to prove Federov wrong.

  “If I may be so bold,” Federov said, “perhaps you employed the wrong techniques.”

  Efimov did not physically react, but his grin waned. The blood vessel on the side of his head pulsed. “You think you could do better?”

  “Not better,” Federov said, allowing the man to save face. “Differently. I suspect I know something you did not have the benefit of knowing.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “Ms. Ponomayova’s weakness.”

  Efimov smirked and looked to the window before reengaging Federov. “And what would that be?”

  “Charles Jenkins,” Federov said.

  19

  Charles Jenkins bundled himself in a warm coat, knit cap, and gloves, and exited Federov’s apartment building through the garage, where the camera in the elevator lobby remained broken, as Federov had predicted. Jenkins took the Metro train south to Bitsevsky Park, keeping a watch on those on the line to determine if anyone exited at his same stop. The park covered eighteen square kilometers, making it nearly six times larger than Central Park, an easy place for Jenkins to get lost, if he was followed. He was not.

  In the clear morning, Jenkins walked a trail toward a stand of trees. A dusting of snow covered the ground, and the temperature had dropped to a bitter cold, which he hoped would discourage others from the trails and thereby make anyone present conspicuous. Two hardy women jogged past him wearing leggings, long-sleeve shirts, and earmuffs, their breaths trailing them like steam engines. Otherwise, as Jenkins had correctly predicted, the trail was deserted. He called Matt Lemore on the encrypted cell phone, the call routed through France, the prefix for Paris’s third arrondissement—Marais, home of France’s Picasso Museum.

  “Hello,” Lemore said.

  “It’s me,” Jenkins said.

  “I was concerned when I didn’t hear from you. You have news?” Lemore asked.

  “I made contact with the art dealer, and I’ve confirmed the painting remains in the owner’s possession,” he said, again using the agreed subterfuge of Ponomayova as “the painting,” Federov “the art dealer,” and Russia as “the owner.”

  “Where is the painting at present?”

  “I am attempting to obtain further confirmation, but it appears the painting is located in the art gallery as we originally suspected.”

  Lemore paused. “Can it be purchased?”

  “There appear to be many obstacles that would make purchase unlikely. The owner considers the painting to be of great value and has gone to extremes to protect it.”

  “Any chance the painting will be moved in the near future?”

  Jenkins entered the woods. The trees blocked the sun, and he walked in the shadows, feeling the temperature further drop. “That appears unlikely.”

  “Would the owner take an exchange of some sort, perhaps?”

  “I am told by the art dealer that the owner highly values the painting and has a sentimental attachment that exceeds a monetary value, making an exchange unlikely. There was, however, an interesting development this morning. The art dealer has been summoned to speak to the owner.”

  Lemore did not immediately comment. After a pause he said, “Did the dealer provide any indication on the likely subject of his discussion with the owner?”

  “Not as of yet, though I’m hoping to speak to the dealer tonight.”

  “If the dealer is detained beyond an acceptable period of time, do not wait to speak
to him. Abandon the purchase.”

  “Understood.”

  “You have other paintings here at home,” Lemore said, off script. “And they are far more valuable.”

  “I will be in further contact soon.” Jenkins disconnected the call.

  After shutting the door to Efimov’s office behind him, Federov released a long sigh. Beneath his suit coat, his shirt clung to his skin, like he had worn it into a shower, but at least he wasn’t being sent to a gulag—not yet anyway. Beyond that good fortune, he might very well have crafted a challenge that would allow him to speak with Ponomayova—if Efimov took the bait. He had not yet done so, but that was also not unlike the man’s reputation. Though Federov suspected Efimov had a large ego and would be reluctant to admit that Federov, or anyone else, could extract information from Ponomayova when he himself had failed, he might also want to prove his point. Efimov’s failure would be a black stain on his reputation, a stain he might seek to minimize with evidence that others had similarly failed. He might also be right. Ponomayova might be brain damaged—if not before the interrogation then certainly after it.

  But Efimov’s reputation was also of a man who acted deliberately—unless his temper got the better of him.

  Federov did not know which Efimov he would get—if Efimov would give him the chance to interrogate Ponomayova. But investigations required a first step before a second, and a first step was one step closer to a $10 million payout, likely more. Federov also knew Jenkins had not opened with his best offer. Federov would have done the same.

  Federov, however, was not going to put that cart before the horse. Things would not be so simple, not with Efimov involved. He would have his scarred hands in every detail. That would complicate things, especially if Efimov did not trust Federov, and Efimov, it was said, did not trust anyone.

  Federov exhaled another long breath and summoned the elevator car. When the elevator doors on the far left pulled open, he moved to step inside and nearly bumped into Arkady Volkov.

  Federov stopped, surprised by the encounter. “Arkady?”

  Volkov, always a bull leading with his horns, didn’t immediately see his longtime partner. He looked up, hesitating, as if also trying to reconcile Federov’s appearance at Lubyanka, which was certainly unexpected.

  “Viktor.”

  Federov stepped back. “Are you getting off?”

  Again, Volkov paused. He glanced down the hall, then said, “No. No, I am riding to the ground floor for some fresh air.”

  “Fresh and cold,” Federov said. “I will ride with you and enjoy the chance to catch up.” The doors closed and the elevator descended. “How have you been? You have recovered?”

  Federov had visited Volkov many times in a Moscow hospital bed after Volkov’s confrontation with Charles Jenkins. He had brought meals to the waiting room, consoled Volkov’s wife, and played chess with his partner to help him pass the time and to recover his mental acumen. He’d brought Volkov reading material, mostly magazines with crossword puzzles, as well as the newspaper. Volkov had never admitted to reading a book in his life.

  “I am back at work,” Volkov said, always a man of few words. These sounded somber.

  “You don’t sound happy.”

  “Times are different now, Viktor.”

  Volkov and Federov had come from different eras. Volkov had started with the KGB during a time when the Russian government employed nearly two-thirds of Russia’s workers. He had received a modest income, but also an apartment and a garden plot. He had little to no chance of being promoted or of improving his living situation, and thus had no incentive to try to do so. Federov had come to the FSB well after the fall of communism. The pay still stunk, but a chance to improve one’s situation through hard work and ingenuity existed. Success was rewarded, if one did not get oneself fired.

  “And you, Viktor? Why are you here?”

  The two men exited to the lobby. “One of my old cases,” he said. “Our case, actually.”

  “Charles Jenkins?”

  Federov studied Volkov. He had a strange sense his former partner knew the reason for his visit, but then Volkov had always struck him as a man who knew more than his persistent silence revealed. “You are aware of this?”

  “I am aware that Mr. Jenkins has returned,” Volkov said. They pushed through the turnstile into the lobby. “I spent a late night with Simon Alekseyov in Adam Efimov’s office. Simon is the lead officer on the file.”

  Federov gave some thought as to what that meant. Efimov was clearly in charge, but no doubt it would be Alekseyov’s head that rolled if he failed.

  “So you have met with him, then?” Volkov asked.

  “Efimov? Yes, just now.”

  “Efimov has taken over the investigation,” Volkov said. “At least in principle.” They discussed what had transpired to that point, then Volkov asked, “And did the director mention that Mr. Jenkins also removed funds from a second account?”

  “He did. Sergei Vasilyev, I believe was the name. Efimov wanted to know if we had encountered him in our prior dealings with Mr. Jenkins.”

  “What did you tell him?” Volkov asked.

  Federov shrugged. “I told him I did not recall the name. Do you?”

  “I recall little from that time, Viktor.”

  Federov smiled. He needed to change subjects. “Of course. But you are well again, yes?”

  “As well as can be expected for an old officer. I think my time here is coming to an end. The millennials make me expendable.”

  “The millennials do not have your experience, Arkady.”

  “This no longer appears to be valued,” Volkov said.

  “What would you do?”

  Volkov gave a blank stare.

  “I, too, did not know life outside of Lubyanka, Arkady. Perhaps you will have more time to plan than I had when you decide to retire. I am finding it is good to be kept busy.” Federov extended a hand. “Nadeyus’, my eshche uvidimsya.” I hope to see you again.

  Volkov shook hands, seemed about to say something, then appeared to reconsider and, as he had done so often during their nine years working together, remained silent.

  Jenkins returned to Federov’s building just before noon. He looked up to Federov’s balcony. The chair faced the apartment rather than the street—a sign agreed upon to indicate Federov was inside and it was safe to come up. Jenkins surveyed the building and the tree-lined street for an additional five minutes. He did not detect any surveillance.

  He took the same path to the eighth floor and used Federov’s spare key to enter the apartment.

  “You’re not on your way to a Russian gulag, so I assume the meeting went well?” Jenkins asked, disrobing from his winter gear and hanging it on the peg.

  Federov had sweat rings beneath both armpits. “‘Well’ is not the word I would choose, but no, I am not in a gulag.”

  Jenkins entered the living room and sat. Federov provided him with details of the meeting. “I told Efimov I did not have any knowledge as to why you would return to Moscow, but as we discussed, I suggested there may be someone who has such information.”

  Jenkins sat forward, elbows on his knees. He admired Federov’s moxie, or his desire to receive millions more in cash. It didn’t matter. They agreed that the suggestion might just get Federov into Lefortovo to talk to Paulina, which was one step closer to Jenkins getting her out.

  “Before you get too excited . . . or optimistic, you need to know that Efimov interrogated Ponomayova, many times apparently, and she did not speak.”

  Jenkins smiled. “She’s a lot tougher than she looks.”

  Federov shook his head. “You are giving her far too much credit, and Efimov far too little. There is a reason he was chosen for the interrogation, Mr. Jenkins. Efimov was considered the best of the best, or worst of the worst. He has had blood on his hands . . . many times. If he did not extract information from Ponomayova, it may be because she has none to give, or because she suffered some brain injury in the c
ar accident and is not able to do so.”

  “Did you challenge him?”

  “I did. I advised Efimov that you and Ms. Ponomayova spent long hours in the car driving to Vishnevka. I told him that something changed in your . . . how do you say, dynamics—to what end I did not know—but that Ponomayova had been willing to give her life so that you could get out of Russia. I told him that you were her weakness.”

  “What was his response?”

  “He studied me. Adam Efimov is detailed in his thinking. He will take time to digest what information I provided before he makes his decision, and not just because he has a large ego and will not believe I can do better. I can tell you, however, that the fact that Ponomayova was willing to die to save you increased his interest and curiosity. Be assured he will tell this to the deputy director, and the deputy director will advise the president. It will tweak their interest as well, maybe enough for them to tell Efimov to give me a chance to interrogate her. Understand, however, that security will be very tight.”

  “But he may let you speak to her?”

  “This I do not know.” Jenkins heard the beeping of a truck backing up outside the apartment. Federov continued, “Then again, he may use someone else.” Federov wore a wry smile.

  “But you don’t think so.”

  “I told him I had studied Ponomayova’s profile and yours, and that she will remember me as the person who hunted you. She will, therefore, believe me when I tell her that you were unsuccessful in your escape from Russia, that you, too, occupy a cell in Lefortovo, and that the information she provides may very well save your life. This she will not believe coming from anyone else.”

  Jenkins smiled. “It’s brilliant, Viktor. You baited him.”

  “We shall see, Mr. Jenkins, if this is enough to bait Efimov, and if Ms. Ponomayova feels as strongly about you as you do about her.”

  “Can you get her out of Lefortovo to speak with her?”

  Federov raised a hand. “Do not be rash, Mr. Jenkins. These things take time. You Americans are too impatient. It is your consumerism. You want everything now. This minute. You must learn Russian patience. We must take the first step before we take the second.” He shrugged. “What more can be done?”