The Last Agent

by Robert Dugoni

  “The third one,” Ponomayova said. “He looks familiar.”

  24

  Jenkins listened as Federov told him everything that had happened. Federov was spent from the stress of the interrogation, the almost failed card trick, and his debriefing by Efimov, but he was also amped on an adrenaline high, like a marathoner at the finish line. It confirmed for Jenkins what he already knew. Viktor Federov liked nothing more than to win, and he had won, for now.

  “Something I’ve been meaning to tell you,” he said. “Ponomayova walks with a noticeable limp. I don’t know what you intend, but it will make her easily identifiable.”

  “I’ll make a note of it,” Jenkins said. He had not told Federov of the multiple conversations he and Lemore had had about ways to get Ponomayova out of Lefortovo. The basic idea had come to Jenkins one night while sleeping. He’d awoken and called Lemore immediately to discuss its potential, and what might be needed.

  “What did Efimov say when you briefed him?” he asked Federov.

  “Little. He said only that I should continue the interrogation, but that if I did not quickly obtain more information, he would end it.”

  Jenkins smiled.

  “Do not look so happy, Mr. Jenkins. Efimov did not say I could question Ponomayova outside of Lefortovo. In fact, her willingness to talk to me inside the prison makes that a moot point. You still have the same problem. How to get her out? And that will be much more difficult than gaining her trust. Efimov is not a patient man, especially when he has been made to look bad.”

  Jenkins pulled out an envelope and removed a square patch that looked like a Band-Aid.

  “What is that?” Federov asked.

  “Applied to Ponomayova’s skin, it will induce symptoms of a heart attack.”

  “I don’t . . . ,” Federov started, then stopped and looked from the packet to Jenkins.

  “You don’t have to get Efimov’s permission to get her out of Lefortovo,” Jenkins said. “Now that she’s talking, she’s valuable. Everyone will want to keep her alive, at all costs.”

  “This is true,” Federov said, though he did not sound convinced. “But Lefortovo prisoners are taken to the military hospital in Moscow, and she will be under security as tight as Lefortovo. Maybe more so.”

  “She would be if she were taken to a military hospital,” Jenkins said. “But we’re not going to give them that chance.”

  Two days later, Federov returned to Lefortovo and went through the same routine. Mordvinov and Galkin were again assigned to his interrogation, and Galkin seemed, at least, more respectful of Federov’s position. Federov continued to question Ponomayova about the KGB agents in Mexico City and was impressed by her ability to make things up on the fly.

  This did little, however, to calm his nerves. Once he applied the drug patch to Ponomayova’s skin there would be no going back. He’d either get out of Lefortovo and flee Russia, with $10 million, or he’d be in a cell in this very prison for the rest of his life, however long that might be.

  He laid the photographs on the table, then glanced up at the light, as if it distracted him.

  “Are you certain you can see well enough? The light is poor.”

  Federov moved as if to allow better illumination on the table and again looked up at the light. “This glare is a problem. Perhaps we can move the table.” He pivoted his body to block Mordvinov’s view and slid his right hand beneath the fabric of Ponomayova’s prison jumpsuit, where he applied the drug patch to her skin. She did not react to his touch.

  “Nothing is to be moved,” Galkin said, taking a step forward, but retreating when Federov glared at him.

  The pecking order had been established.

  Federov resumed his questioning of Ponomayova for another twenty minutes, watching her carefully. In the middle of an answer, her body slumped forward then jerked back, as if she were falling asleep. Her breathing became labored.

  “Are you all right?” Federov asked to draw the guards’ attention to the prisoner. “Ms. Ponomayova?”

  Her head again fell back, then to the side, and her eyes rolled up just before she fell forward. Her forehead struck the edge of the table with a dull thud and she pitched to the side, onto the floor.

  Federov rushed to her and put a hand on her carotid artery. “Her pulse is weak.” He lifted her head and used his thumbs to raise her eyelids. “Her pupils are dilated and she is not breathing.” He turned to Mordvinov. “Call for the doctor, now.”

  The young guard moved quickly and without question to the door.

  Still kneeling beside Ponomayova, Federov turned to Galkin. “Unlock her chains.”

  “It is against regulation,” Galkin said, though he no longer looked sure of himself.

  “We need to start chest compressions. She is dying,” Federov said, for now remaining firm but calm. “Unlock the chains.”

  Galkin shook his head. “It is against—”

  Federov stood and stepped into Galkin’s personal space, getting an inch from the guard’s face and using every bit of hubris he had learned during twenty years at the FSB. He exaggerated his authority to further intimidate the guard. “I am here at the direction of the deputy director for counterintelligence. His orders come from President Vladimir Putin. I am making progress interrogating this woman. If she dies before I can question her further about this photograph and this man, you will have interfered with a decades-old investigation of personal interest to the president. And if that happens, I swear I will see you fired.”

  Galkin stuttered. “The rules state . . .”

  Federov shouted over him. “I don’t give a good Goddamn what the rules state. If my orders are good enough for me, they are good enough for you. You can talk about your Goddamn rules in the unemployment line. Unlock her chains!”

  Galkin looked to the door. Voices and footsteps echoed down the hallway.

  “Unlock them!” Federov shouted.

  Galkin dropped to a knee and unlocked the chain from the ring in the floor.

  “Take off her cuffs. Now. Do it.”

  Again, Galkin hesitated, but only for an instant before he complied.

  Federov laid Ponomayova on her back. As he did, he reached beneath the fabric of her uniform and pulled off the patch. Her breathing was almost undetectable. Her chest did not appear to rise or fall. This was a complication Jenkins had said he could not completely predict. He said the drug patch, sufentanil, acted as an anesthetic and caused respiratory depression, a slow heart rate, and low blood pressure. The proper dosage depended on the weight of the patient, her physical health, and any other drugs already in her system. Neither Federov nor Jenkins could make those predictions with any degree of certainty. They knew only that Ponomayova was in a severely weakened physical state, first from her injuries and then from her imprisonment.

  Federov bent and put his ear close to Ponomayova’s mouth, listening to her shallow breath. He thought of the irony—if he and Jenkins had come this far and risked this much to get Ponomayova out of Lefortovo, only to kill her in the process.

  Mordvinov slammed into the doorjamb upon his return. A man introduced himself as the prison doctor as he entered and dropped to a knee. “What happened?”

  “I was questioning her when she fell unconscious. She isn’t breathing.”

  “She’s barely breathing,” the doctor corrected. He grabbed her wrist. “And her pulse is weak.”

  “This prisoner is my responsibility; it is imperative that she survive.” Federov spoke in his most authoritative voice. “We must get her to a hospital, immediately.”

  “That is not your decision—”

  “It is my decision,” Federov said, allowing anger to inch into his tone. “I would not be here if it were not of the highest import, and if my orders did not come from the highest authorities. Get her on a gurney and move her—quickly.”

  Two men wheeled a gurney to just outside the door. Federov and the doctor lifted Ponomayova from the floor and placed her on it.

>   “Go,” Federov said.

  The wheels hummed down the hallway to the elevator. Federov stepped in beside the gurney and the car ascended. When the doors parted, they hurried along additional hallways, turning left and right before pushing the gurney into the prison infirmary.

  Federov checked his phone. He had reception. He hit “Send,” the encrypted number preprogrammed, then entered a room with limited medical equipment. The doctor pressed a stethoscope to Ponomayova’s chest.

  Mordvinov entered the room. “An ambulance is at the front gate.”

  “Move her. Quickly,” Federov said to the men who had brought the gurney.

  “I am not finished—” the doctor started.

  “We do not have time to wait until you are finished.” Federov again motioned for the men to move Ponomayova. The doctor stepped back. They pushed the gurney along additional hallways and through a door leading to an exterior courtyard with a ten-foot stone fence and razor wire.

  The cold air chilled him, and Federov realized the extent to which he was perspiring.

  A metal gate rumbled open and an ambulance drove into the courtyard. When it stopped, a man in a dark-blue uniform with a cap pulled low on his brow stepped down from the driver’s seat, holding a clipboard. He handed the forms to Mordvinov and hurried to the gurney.

  Federov looked to the windshield. Charles Jenkins slid from the passenger seat to the back of the ambulance, out of view. They had agreed they could not risk having Jenkins photographed in the courtyard. His skin color and size would make him too memorable, maybe even recognizable.

  This was it. They would either get out or both be caught. His anxiety spiked.

  The prison doctor spoke to the driver as he accompanied the gurney to the back of the ambulance, Federov following. The driver pulled open the doors. Inside, Jenkins busied himself with equipment. The legs of the gurney collapsed as the men slid it into the ambulance. The doctor and Federov climbed in, followed by Galkin.

  Another unexpected confrontation. Federov glared at him. “Get out.”

  “The prisoner is to be accompanied by guards to the hospital,” Galkin said.

  “My prisoner,” Federov said. “My responsibility. I will accompany her. Get out.”

  “We are losing her,” Jenkins said, speaking Russian. The blue cap covered much of his face. “Her pulse is weakening.”

  The doctor spoke to Galkin. “Get out.”

  Galkin reluctantly stepped out, stumbling and nearly falling off the back of the ambulance. The driver slammed the doors shut and, a moment later, pulled himself up behind the wheel. He made a U-turn and drove out the gate with two blasts of the horn.

  Federov felt a sense of relief, but he knew it would be short-lived. Getting Ponomayova out of Lefortovo was the biggest and most challenging hurdle, but far from the last.

  Inside the ambulance, the doctor issued instructions to Jenkins while checking Ponomayova’s vital signs. Jenkins pulled open one of the drawers and removed a syringe.

  “What is that?” the doctor asked, looking and sounding perplexed.

  Jenkins pulled the stopper from the tip of the needle and squirted out a small amount of the fluid.

  “What are you giving her?” the doctor asked again.

  Federov grabbed the doctor’s arms from behind, pinning them to his sides, and Jenkins plunged the needle into the man’s neck, depressing the plunger of midazolam, a central nervous system depressant. The doctor slumped forward and Federov pushed him to the side. He would be out long enough for them to hopefully get away, but otherwise unharmed.

  Jenkins lowered his ear to Ponomayova’s mouth. “She’s barely breathing.” From his pocket he removed a nasal spray and squirted naloxone into each of Ponomayova’s nostrils to revive her.

  She did not react.

  “Come on. Come on.” Jenkins grabbed the back of her neck and lifted her head, speaking to her. “Paulina? Paulina?” He checked her pulse.

  “What can be done?” Federov asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Can you give her more?”

  “I don’t know,” Jenkins said.

  25

  Mordvinov watched Galkin stumble awkwardly from the back of the ambulance but manage to keep his balance. The driver slammed the doors shut with a dull thud. Moments later, the ambulance departed the prison with two blasts of its horn, causing crows in the surrounding trees to take flight, black arrowheads against the gray Moscow sky.

  Mordvinov turned his head to suppress a smile. It was good to see someone put the arrogant prick in his place.

  “Let the shift commander know what has transpired so he can order Moscow police to meet the ambulance at the hospital and remain with the prisoner—if she lives,” Galkin said. “If he asks why we did not accompany the prisoner, tell him we followed orders of the FSB. I don’t plan to get fired because of that asshole. I’ll get started on the paperwork.”

  Mordvinov had no problem telling their shift commander what had happened. In fact, he relished the chance to impress upon Artem Lavrov that he could think independently and adapt to an emergency without hesitation. He had no desire to suffer the same career fate as Galkin.

  Mordvinov made his way to Lavrov’s office inside the prison administration building. Glass windows, two inches thick and reinforced with mesh, provided a view into the hall and allowed natural light in. Mordvinov greeted Lavrov’s assistant and advised that he had an urgent matter to discuss with the shift commander. After a brief call, the secretary motioned for Mordvinov to enter an inner door.

  Lavrov sat behind a desk cluttered with paper. On the wall hung a large green chalkboard with a permanent grid—the board once used to record the names of each guard on duty and the hours of their shifts. Computers had rendered it obsolete. Winter light filtered through windows that provided a view across the street to a three-story brick apartment building above a retail pharmacy with a hideous orange façade. Whether it was the poor light or poor health, Lavrov looked sickly pale. His stomach hung over the waistline of his pants, and he squinted behind glasses as if having difficulty seeing Mordvinov.

  “I thought you were on duty for the interrogation of Ponomayova,” Lavrov said. “Has it ended already?” He glanced up at a large clock hanging on the wall above the chalkboard.

  “Ponomayova suffered a heart attack during the interrogation. Upon the FSB officer’s orders, she is being taken by ambulance to the veterans hospital. Galkin is starting the paperwork, but I wanted you to know, in case—”

  Lavrov stood, speaking over the end of Mordvinov’s sentence. “Why was I not immediately notified? Ponomayova is a high-security prisoner.”

  “It happened quickly,” Mordvinov said. “There was little time—”

  Lavrov stepped out from behind his desk. “Alert the Moscow police. Advise them of the situation.”

  “Galkin is doing so.”

  “Tell them to post officers at the emergency room entrance and, if the prisoner survives, outside her hospital room. Send orders that only hospital staff and authorized personnel are to be admitted to her room. No exceptions. Credentials are to be checked.”

  Mordvinov started from the room as Lavrov’s desk phone rang. The shift commander picked up the receiver. “Da.” Lavrov called out to Mordvinov, who had opened the office door, about to step out. Lavrov covered the speaker with his hand. “You said Ponomayova was taken by ambulance?”

  “Yes. Just minutes ago.”

  “Then why is the guard at the front gate calling to ask about an ambulance seeking to enter?”

  Within minutes of receiving the phone call from Lefortovo, Efimov sat in the back seat as Volkov weaved through Moscow traffic to the prison. He issued orders to Alekseyov to notify Moscow police of the ambulance and to tell the analysts at Lubyanka’s task-force center to find it.

  Efimov now knew the purpose for Jenkins’s return to Moscow, and for Federov’s suggestion that he interrogate Ponomayova. Federov had issued Efimov a challenge
, and Efimov had fallen for the trick. A victory perhaps, but it would be short-lived. Efimov would find them, and Federov would personally experience Efimov’s interrogation techniques.

  “Guards at Lefortovo describe the ambulance as white with red stripes and a blue light bar on the roof. It has the number 103 on the side panels,” Alekseyov said, describing the vehicle to the analysts at Lubyanka.

  “They will abandon the ambulance as soon as possible, if not already.” Efimov spoke from the back seat, his mind racing. “Tell Moscow police to search side streets, parking garages, and alleys—any place where the ambulance could be abandoned. Tell the analysts to focus on traffic footage of every street leaving Lefortovo within the last twenty minutes. Tell them to find that ambulance and to alert Moscow police.”

  Efimov had also ordered roadblocks on every major road out of Moscow and instructed that the border patrol be provided the most recent photographs of Jenkins, Ponomayova, and Federov—who would be treated as guilty until proven innocent—as well as the paramedic from the ambulance.

  Volkov drove through the prison gate into the courtyard. Efimov exited the back seat before the car had come to a complete stop. He wore no winter coat, hat, or gloves despite the falling snow. A guard inside the building escorted him past security to the shift commander’s office. Efimov had instructed Alekseyov to speak to Artem Lavrov and to order Lavrov to secure footage taken of Federov’s interrogation of Ponomayova the prior day and that morning, as well as footage of the ambulance in the prison yard.

  Lavrov greeted them, but Efimov did not have the time or the desire. He stepped past the man’s outstretched hand to the computer monitor on the desk. “Clear this office of everyone but the two prison guards in the interrogation room with Federov and Ponomayova . . . and the doctor who treated her.”

  “The doctor accompanied Ponomayova in the ambulance,” Lavrov said.

  “Have one of your men provide his name and a photograph.” He turned and spoke to Alekseyov. “Treat the doctor also as complicit until proven otherwise.”