“Sit down at the table.” Federov took his drink to the table and sat. “Where is the camera in relation to where Paulina is seated?”
Federov pointed. “Behind her. In the corner of the ceiling, the right corner from my perspective on the other side of the table.”
“Over her left shoulder.” Jenkins considered this and gestured to the right side of the table. “So this area of the table would be blocked by her shoulder.”
Federov frowned. “Even if it is blocked by her shoulder, there is the guard in each corner.”
“And how attentive are the guards?”
Federov shrugged. “I did not pay close attention to them.”
“The trick,” Jenkins said, “is to make a photograph appear and disappear from the stack of photographs you bring in.”
Federov shook his head. “Appear and disappear . . . What does this mean?”
“Do you have a deck of cards?”
“A what?”
“Cards. Do you have a deck of cards?”
“You wish to play a game?”
“No. I wish to show you something.”
Federov exhaled and pushed back his chair. “You Americans are crazy.”
He rummaged through several drawers in the kitchen and returned with a deck of cards, handing them to Jenkins. “Here.”
“You’ve heard the expression that the hand is quicker than the eye?”
“No. I have not heard this.”
Jenkins took out the deck of cards, which were different than cards in the United States—fewer in number and of a different design. The differences were not important. He shuffled the deck using just his right hand. “When I was a boy, my grandfather showed me magic tricks to amuse me. He was an amateur magician. Loved Harry Houdini, René Lavand, and Bill Malone.”
“Houdini I have heard of. The others I have not. What is your point?”
With the same hand shuffling the deck, Jenkins made a card appear faceup. Just as suddenly, he made it disappear and replaced it with a different card. “The point is that he taught me, just like he taught me chess.”
“Yes, but you stink at chess,” Federov said.
Jenkins set the deck down and picked out seven cards. “Imagine these seven cards are seven photographs of women who could be, or are suspected to include, one or more of the remaining original seven sisters. The first thing you need to do is replace one of these pictures with the picture of me holding Lizzie. Are you left- or right-handed?”
“Right hand.”
“You’ll hold the deck in your left hand, like this.” Jenkins demonstrated, holding the top edge with his index finger and the bottom edge with his thumb. “You’re going to bend your ring finger so it is behind, and in contact with, the top card of the deck. Like this. You see?”
“Yes, I see this, but—”
“Just keep watching. You can gesture to Paulina using your right hand, like this. It will draw the guards’ attention, if they are watching, to that hand. Meanwhile, this bent finger will slide the top card off the deck, like this.” Jenkins demonstrated in slow motion. “You then pinch it behind your hand between your ring and middle finger, seemingly making it disappear. When you bring your hands together, you slip the hidden card into your right hand, again cupping it using your ring and small finger.”
“I am not following this,” Federov said.
“Watch. I will do this at regular speed.”
Jenkins performed the trick with Federov seated directly in front of him. Federov flinched when Jenkins showed him the card in his right hand. Jenkins did it again. Again, the expression on Federov’s face indicated he did not see Jenkins slide the top card and put it in his right hand.
“Yes, but . . .”
“Now you create a diversion with the seven cards like this. The guards’ eyes will go to the cards. You could even drop them on the table. When you do, the right hand exchanges the card you removed with the photograph of me holding Lizzie, which you will have in your pants pocket or in your belt at the small of your back.” Jenkins performed the trick a second and then a third time.
“When you bring your hands together to pick up the cards, you place the new photograph on the bottom. Like this. You said Paulina had her head down?”
“Yes.”
“So you lean forward as if to put the photographs under her gaze, then fan them out.” Jenkins moved his hand across the table, right to left. “She sees the picture of me and Lizzie closest to her right shoulder, which obscures the camera’s lens, and she knows I am not imprisoned at Lefortovo and that I am trying to communicate with her through you. You then gather the cards back into a stack, putting my photograph on top.” Jenkins lifted the cards into his right hand.
“And to get rid of the picture of you and your daughter before I leave the room, I do the same thing?” Federov said.
“Exactly. Watch. Let’s say the six of spades is my picture.” He stuck it in his pants pocket. “I have seven cards in my hand. I’ll even show them to you.” He did the diversion and quickly fanned the cards in front of Federov. Seven cards, including the ten of clubs, appeared on the table.
“Now to get rid of it.” He repeated the process and handed the cards to Federov. Federov put them on the table and spread them out. The ten of clubs had vanished. Jenkins pulled it from his pants pocket and tossed it on the table.
“You want me to learn some card trick?”
“Not just any card trick, Viktor. That’s a six-million-dollar trick.” Jenkins smiled.
Federov did not. After a moment he said, “How can I do this?”
“Practice.”
“Yes, but—”
“I’m going to make some phone calls and make sure the agency leaks that Sergei Vasilyev is a double agent handling the remaining four of the original seven sisters.”
“Fine,” Federov said. “But tell me, how long did it take you to learn this trick, Mr. Jenkins?”
Months, Jenkins thought. Months before he could fool people. “A couple of days, maybe a week of intense practice,” he said.
But only if the guards were not paying attention.
22
Efimov granted Federov further interviews. In the interim he purchased a camera like the one at Lefortovo and installed it in the corner of his kitchen ceiling. He used his briefcase to get a rough measurement of the height of the table at the prison, purchased a used table and modified it accordingly, then put it the same distance from the camera as the metal table at Lefortovo. Jenkins sat so that his left shoulder blocked the camera’s view of the corner of the table, though Ponomayova would be significantly shorter and not nearly as wide.
As the week progressed, Federov’s continued interviews of Ponomayova took on multiple purposes. The first was to convince whoever watched the tape, Efimov certainly, that Federov was a skilled interrogator making progress. Efimov remained skeptical in their debriefings, and Federov was hoping to further challenge him by asking to show Ponomayova the photographs of the women.
Federov’s second purpose was to further convince Ponomayova that he and Jenkins were working together and that Federov could be trusted. Each session Federov would drop into the conversation something only Jenkins and Ponomayova would know, what Ponomayova had told him about her brother’s suicide at the Bolshoi, his reason for having done so, and what Jenkins had told her about his unexpected anxiety and claustrophobia. Ponomayova, however, remained guarded, and Federov knew she was not convinced the information had not been pried from Jenkins in a cell at Lefortovo. He needed something more. The picture of Jenkins in America with his newly born little girl would likely convince her, but Federov was not ready, despite hours of practice each night with the cards.
The third goal, Federov knew, could very well be the most crucial. He needed to establish a hierarchy with the guards, and he had been plying them with packs of quality cigarettes to gain their trust and, more importantly, to establish the psychology that he was a colonel with the FSB, a ranking officer
who had power and prestige, and whose orders were to be followed, when given, without question.
Finally, with each visit, Federov carefully considered his surroundings, and he provided Jenkins with details that the American could pass along and discuss with his CIA contact, though Federov remained unconvinced they would ever get Ponomayova out of Lefortovo.
Unlike Jenkins, who had big hands and long fingers, Federov’s hands were small and his fingers thick. It limited his ability to slide the top card from the deck. If he couldn’t do that, he couldn’t do the trick.
“My grandfather said some magicians put a resin on the back of their finger to help them grip the card,” Jenkins said one night. “A Band-Aid also works.”
They used the bandage and applied a bit of resin. Federov improved exponentially and for the first time began to believe he could perform the trick undetected. Just as his confidence increased, however, Efimov summoned him to Lubyanka.
After Federov had taken a seat in the barren office, Efimov came around the desk, bracing his arms on the edge and leaning back, just a foot from Federov—a form of intimidation. The brick remained close at hand. Another intimidation technique.
“What success have you had with Ms. Ponomayova since her first response?” he asked.
Federov was certain Efimov was asking a question to which he already knew the answer, but he played the game. “Limited, but I believe I am very close to a breakthrough.”
“I think you’re being too generous, Colonel. I’ve watched the tapes. I would say you have had no further success.”
Federov delivered a dig of his own. “These things take time, as you well know.” He folded his legs. “I have been employing various techniques to try to further gain the witness’s confidence.”
Efimov grew red in the face, and the vein in his head pulsed. His brow furrowed and his voice became terse. “I am not interested in the witness’s confidence. I am interested in what she knows. She has offered nothing of import, as I confirmed.” Efimov picked up the brick, as if to weigh it. Federov did his best to ignore it. It wasn’t easy. He had an image of the brick flying toward his face, too quickly for him to raise his hands.
“Perhaps if I were to show her photographs of women suspected to be some of the remaining members of the seven sisters.”
Efimov did not immediately answer, and Federov suspected that was because the FSB did not have a strong grasp on any suspected women. Instead, he asked, “You believe you would have more success than I had?”
“What is there to lose?”
“Time. We are well behind Charles Jenkins.”
“You have no information he has yet fled.”
Efimov smiled. “Did you expect him to personally notify the border patrol? Your purpose in interrogating Ponomayova was to determine what she knows of Charles Jenkins, his purpose for his return. I am convinced she knows nothing. I am ending your interrogation before we waste any more time.” He rounded the desk to return to his chair, which gave Federov precious seconds to think.
“I think I would have better success if the two guards were not present in the room, and of course the camera is a further hindrance to gaining her trust. She knows she is being filmed.” Federov asked for something he knew Efimov would never allow, but which might make him amenable to what Federov actually sought. “She can go nowhere inside that room, certainly not with her chain bolted to the floor. And I am unconcerned for my well-being; have the guards wait outside.”
“That is against prison policy.”
“If I am to gain her confidence—”
Efimov slammed the brick onto the desk, a dull thud. His voice rose in volume, and spittle flew from his lips with each hard syllable. “Your job is to extract information about Charles Jenkins, why he has returned and where he is, not to . . . gain her confidence or her trust, Colonel. As I said, your interrogation has failed, as I knew it would. Leave.”
A dozen retorts flashed through Federov’s mind, but he resisted the urge to verbalize them. The brick, if meant to scare, had failed, instead provoking defiance and bitterness at being treated like a cadet by the agency to which Federov had given and lost so much of his life. “That is, of course, your prerogative.” He stood. “If you believe you can find someone who would be more successful.” Federov let that thought linger, though not for long. He needed to move to the alternate plan he and Jenkins had discussed. “But may I say that I believe we are taking the wrong approach with this prisoner.”
Efimov did nothing for several seconds. Then he released the brick and rubbed the dust from his hands. He sat, no doubt fully contemplating the ramifications of Federov’s failure, one that would also be his failure—and from what Federov had learned in these meetings, Efimov did not have a viable alternative. He was clearly under pressure to find Charles Jenkins, and he was no closer to doing so.
After a full minute of silence, Efimov chose the lesser of what had to be two bitter choices and asked Federov to explain why he believed Efimov had taken the wrong approach. “How so?” he asked.
“I don’t believe Ponomayova will give up anything on Charles Jenkins or the remaining four sisters.”
“Then what—”
“She may, however, be willing to provide information on Sergei Vasilyev.”
Efimov stared at Federov for several seconds, then gave a vague hand gesture for Federov to continue.
“Carl Emerson was the CIA officer who supplied the identities of three of the seven sisters, and he was paid well to do so.”
“Too much, in my opinion,” Efimov said.
“Perhaps, but the information was of import to the president.”
Efimov again waved away the comment. “Water under the bridge.”
“Bank accounts in the names of Charles Jenkins and Sergei Vasilyev were opened at the same time, in the same Moscow bank. Why?”
“You have a theory?”
Trickles of sweat ran down his sides, but Federov kept his voice even. “I do. Mr. Emerson could not very well bring home ten million dollars, or have it deposited in a US bank. So, he had it deposited here, in Moscow, but in a bank with secrecy laws to protect him. A Swiss bank.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“I am suggesting that Mr. Emerson would have acted in a manner intended to implicate those trying to implicate him. It would be a way to control them. To control Charles Jenkins.”
“Meaning what?”
“Mr. Jenkins would have no reason to open a bank account in his own name in Moscow. Surely, he would have contemplated that the account would be frozen. No. I believe Mr. Emerson opened the bank account in the name of Charles Jenkins as part of his plan to have Mr. Jenkins tried for espionage. A Swiss bank account containing four million dollars at a bank in Moscow would certainly be strong evidence Mr. Jenkins was being well compensated for information he provided. That he was guilty of espionage.”
“Mr. Jenkins was not convicted,” Efimov said.
“He was not. And once freed, Mr. Jenkins knew of Mr. Emerson’s deceit and of the account’s existence.”
“You believe he killed Carl Emerson to gain access to the accounts?”
“No. I believe he killed Carl Emerson because Emerson betrayed him and his country. But access to the bank accounts would certainly assist a man on the verge of bankruptcy.”
“And Vasilyev?”
“I wonder whether, perhaps, there is a deeper relationship there than we have considered.” Federov found the courage to pace. His own form of intimidation.
“Such as?”
“Emerson ran counterintelligence against the KGB in Mexico City in the 1970s. He was Mr. Jenkins’s station chief. This is about the time we first learned of the seven sisters, I believe. And Mr. Putin made finding them a priority while he worked for the KGB.”
Efimov shook his head. “I’m not following you.”
“I believe the man using the name Sergei Vasilyev likely served the KGB in Mexico City, where he first became acquainte
d with Carl Emerson.”
“You believe he was KGB?”
“I believe it is a distinct possibility. And so one must ask, what if Mr. Emerson did not obtain the names of three of the seven sisters from someone within his own government? What if we have been wrong in making this assumption? What if the information came from someone within the KGB?”
“Who?”
“Sergei Vasilyev.” Federov spread his hands as if it were obvious. “Tell me, why would Carl Emerson pay anyone sixty percent of what the FSB paid him?”
“You believe Vasilyev is the source of Emerson’s information?”
“I believe Vasilyev is the alias of the person who provided the information. At least the facts—the two bank accounts and the lack of any identification on Vasilyev—certainly indicate this to be a possibility.”
“Why would a KGB officer give Mr. Emerson any money if he knew the names of the seven sisters?”
“Because Vasilyev needed Emerson. He couldn’t very well provide the information himself and seek to profit from doing his job. He knew what the information was worth, especially when Mr. Putin became president. He needed Emerson, someone he was acquainted with, someone who could make it look like the information was coming from a mole in the United States seeking to be richly compensated.”
Efimov displayed no emotion, but he also didn’t interrupt.
“The ten million dollars gets paid to Emerson, and Emerson pays Vasilyev—the actual source of the information. Jenkins extracts this information from Emerson before he kills him, then comes to Moscow to steal the money in both accounts.”
Efimov stretched his neck from side to side. Then he asked, “Why? You said Mr. Jenkins is not motivated by money.”
“I don’t believe he is. So clearly taking the money was to gain leverage over Vasilyev for some other purpose.”
Efimov’s bland expression indicated he hadn’t rejected the scenario outright.
“We know that Jenkins and Ponomayova were working in concert. Why?” Federov asked. “What joined them together? What did they both want?”
“To find the source of the leak,” Efimov said.
The Last Agent Page 16