The Last Agent

by Robert Dugoni

  “Your time seems to be running out, Mr. Jenkins,” Federov said.

  “Does it?” Jenkins asked.

  Federov turned to Zuyev. “What time does the train arrive?”

  Zuyev checked his watch. “Seven minutes.”

  He pointed the gun at Zuyev’s temple and spoke to the other guard holding the zip ties. “Bind their hands and ankles.”

  The officer hesitated.

  “Do as I say, and you will all go home to your families when you complete your shift. Fail to do so, and hopefully the alternative is clear to each of you, yes?”

  Federov closed the door and ensured it was locked. He slipped the key into his pocket and checked his watch. “We have just over five minutes. Maybe less.”

  Jenkins kept his hands behind his back, though Federov had cut the zip ties. “Do I dare ask what you are doing here, Viktor?”

  “Now is not the time, Mr. Jenkins.”

  Federov picked up the three Makarov pistols left on the desk by the officers, handed two to Jenkins, and shoved the third into his waistband at the small of his back. Jenkins stuffed one in his waistband and covered it with his jacket. He put the other in his coat pocket. Federov tugged on Jenkins’s coat sleeve and moved him toward the door.

  “What exactly is your plan?” Jenkins asked.

  “I wish I knew.” Federov moved quickly to the door. “I’m making it up as I go. Keep your hands behind your back.”

  “Do you know Saint Petersburg?”

  “I worked here for a year. Beyond that, I studied Google Maps.”

  “You’re joking?”

  “Not so funny, is it?” Federov said. “We must move quickly.”

  Federov pulled open the door, stepped down the narrow hallway, and pushed through an exit into the nearly deserted main terminal. A loudspeaker announced the impending arrival of the train from Tver. “We are out of time,” he said.

  Federov walked to the officer who had directed him to Jenkins. “I am taking the prisoner to the Big House. Please take your men to meet the incoming train, platform five, and escort the FSB officers to the holding room, where they can discuss transportation to the Big House.”

  The police officer nodded and the group moved in unison toward the platforms.

  Federov pulled Jenkins to the exit, and they pushed outside into a wicked wind. They started up the sidewalk, the snow pelting them with such force it was difficult to see even a few feet. Jenkins raised his voice over the howling wind. “You have a car, I presume.”

  “I had a car. I gave it to Ponomayova.”

  “You what?” Jenkins asked.

  “I didn’t exactly have a lot of time to find a replacement.”

  “How did you plan to get away?”

  “We walk, Mr. Jenkins. Quickly.”

  “Walk? Walk where?”

  “To the gravesite of Russia’s most famous author.”

  “I hope he has a car.”

  Efimov stepped from the train as it came to a stop, not surprised to find multiple police officers waiting on the platform.

  “I am Officer Kotov, Sebastian Nekrasov,” the lead officer said. “I am here to escort you.”

  “Lead the way,” Efimov said.

  Efimov and Alekseyov followed the officers up the staircase and crossed the deserted main hall to a locked door leading to a hallway and the security office, which was empty.

  Efimov looked at Kotov. “Why is there no one here?”

  “I do not know.”

  “Where is the prisoner?”

  Kotov motioned with his hand. “Being taken to the Big House to be detained . . . due to the worsening weather.”

  “On whose authority?” Efimov asked, bells and whistles sounding in his head.

  “The FSB.”

  Efimov looked to Alekseyov, who shook his head. “I specifically told the officer that Jenkins was to remain here.”

  Efimov hurried to a closed door at the end of the hall and tried the door handle. Locked. He stepped back and raised his leg, striking the knob with the heel of his foot. The doorframe cracked but did not give entirely. Another kick and the door burst open. Efimov entered the room with his gun drawn. Three officers lay on the floor, their hands and feet zip-tied, their faces pale.

  Federov, Efimov thought. He turned to Kotov. “How long ago did this FSB officer take the prisoner?”

  “Just a few minutes. I spoke to him in the main hall. He instructed me to meet you at the train and arrange—”

  “What was his name?” Efimov asked.

  “Who?”

  “The FSB agent,” he said, voice rising. “What was his name?”

  “I don’t . . . I don’t recall.”

  “Federov,” Efimov said. “Viktor Federov?”

  “Yes,” the officer said. “Yes, that was the name.”

  “Which way did they leave?” Efimov moved quickly to the door.

  “I don’t—” Kotov said.

  “Bring your men.”

  “What of the three—”

  “Leave them.”

  Efimov hurried across the main hall, Alekseyov and the officers running to keep up. Viktor Federov remained very much in play and was now also close at hand. Efimov would capture or kill them both. As for Ponomayova, he would deal with her later.

  He hit the bar across the exit door, stepped into a gusting wind and blinding snow, and shuffled down the snow-covered steps. He raised his hand to shield his eyes, surveying the deserted parking area, then the streets.

  He spotted what appeared to be two men crossing Nevsky Prospekt and disappearing down the block. Efimov’s heart rate picked up and he felt an adrenaline rush; he had grown up on the streets of Saint Petersburg, and he had endured many blizzards. They would not outrun him.

  He shouted to Alekseyov. “Get as many officers and cars as you can. Radio that we are in pursuit of two men headed north on Vladimirsky, possibly for the subway. Provide their location and their descriptions. In this weather, with the streets empty, they should not be hard to find. Go. Move!”

  Then he turned and ran down the sidewalk, into the blizzard.

  Federov and Jenkins moved deliberately but did not run, not that they could have in the driving wind and snow. They would be conspicuous enough walking the deserted streets of Saint Petersburg in what amounted to a blizzard, and they weren’t exactly dressed for the weather. Both lacked hats and gloves. Jenkins pulled up the collar on his jacket and thrust his hands deep into the pockets, flexing his fingers to keep the blood circulating. His face became numb after just a few blocks.

  In the street, cars and buses sat idly, abandoned and covered beneath four to six inches of snow. An eerie silence had enveloped the city, the only sounds the gusting wind and the hum of a snowplow struggling to keep the road clear.

  Federov pulled Jenkins behind a building, a respite from the fierce wind. Breathing hard and sounding out of breath, Federov wiped at beads of water rolling down his face.

  “The subway is our only option, which means we cannot take it. Efimov will know this. We need to split up,” Federov said. “We are too conspicuous together.”

  Jenkins knew Federov was correct. He blew warm air into his cupped hands, then rubbed them together and shoved them under the armpits of his jacket. “You have a plan?”

  “At the end of Nevsky Prospekt is Tikhvin Cemetery, where Dostoevsky is buried. Before the cemetery, in a roundabout, is a monument to Alexander Nevsky. To the left of that monument is an alley. Ponomayova is to meet you there.” He quickly checked his watch. “You have less than twenty minutes to get there.”

  “How far is it?”

  “Under two kilometers.”

  “In this snow? It’s not possible.”

  “It is your only choice. Make it possible.”

  “What about you?” Jenkins wiped the moisture from beneath his nose.

  “I will be fine,” Federov said.

  “Viktor—”

  “Do not thank me, Mr. Jenkins. This is fa
r from over, and we are both far from being safe. Me? Perhaps never again.” He turned to leave. Jenkins grabbed his shoulder.

  “Tell me why you came back.” Jenkins didn’t know why, at that moment, this was so important, but he sensed he would not get another opportunity to ask.

  “As you said, Mr. Jenkins. I like to win. And I have four million very good reasons to get you back to America.” Federov smiled. Then he said, “Karma. I am, how do you say . . . doing this because someone did it for me, and I don’t want to get the bad luck. Perhaps someday we will drink that toast in Seattle. Then we shall tell all our secrets.”

  Federov left the shelter of the alley and turned the street corner, disappearing into the swirling snow.

  Federov reached the end of the block, about to turn north, when a shadow came around the corner and delivered a blow hard enough to drop him to his knees. The already colorless landscape faded to black and white as Federov pitched forward, the snow softening his fall. Someone shoved a knee into his back, then searched his clothes, removing his weapons.

  “Did you think you could betray your country so easily, Colonel Federov?” The voice was gravelly and winded. It was also familiar.

  Efimov.

  The muzzle of a gun pressed into the flesh of Federov’s cheek, making it difficult to speak. Federov grunted, trying to shake the cobwebs from the blow, trying to think. “I did not betray my country.”

  “Too bad it will not be seen that way,” Efimov said.

  “No. I doubt that it will.”

  “Your mistake was underestimating me,” Efimov said.

  “I don’t think I could have thought any less of you,” Federov replied.

  Efimov yanked Federov to his knees and put the muzzle of the gun to the back of his head. “And that was your mistake, Colonel. It will cost you your life.”

  The wind gusted, driving the snow into swirling tornados. Everything seemed fuzzy and distant.

  “But not here and not now,” Federov managed, struggling to think, to stay in the present.

  “No? I execute you now and I save the state the trouble of doing so.”

  “But you won’t,” Federov said, unable to connect his thoughts.

  “Again, you underestimate me.”

  “And you underestimate me.” The thoughts coalesced. “I did not betray my country. I am working for my country.”

  “You are a liar.”

  “Am I? I know where Charles Jenkins and Paulina Ponomayova are going, and as much as you want me, I know you want them much more.”

  “I want you all.”

  “Yes, but you want me because I embarrassed you—but would that not be a hollow victory?” Federov felt sick. He forced himself not to vomit. “Capture Jenkins and Ponomayova, or capture the entire network seeking to free them? Which is better? Which will bring the greater respect of the deputy director and the president?”

  Federov sensed Efimov hesitating, and he hoped it was because his statement hit its mark.

  “You’ve known where they are going, but you said nothing.”

  “I did not know the extent of their network, and I did not have a gun at my head.”

  “And now you wish to barter for your life?”

  “Is it not obvious from your vantage point? Besides, what do you achieve by killing me?”

  “You are a traitor.”

  Federov shrugged. He blew out a breath. His knees felt weak. “Fine. Let them go. But will not the president reward the man who captures them? I do not mind sharing the credit, Efimov.”

  Efimov spun Federov and put the muzzle of the gun to his forehead. “A dead man can share nothing.”

  “And offer even less,” Federov replied.

  Again, Efimov hesitated. “And you can give me Jenkins and Ponomayova?”

  “I give you them both, and there is little reason for you to keep your word and let me live.” He began to see shadows. “But I can give you Mr. Jenkins.”

  Again, Efimov paused. “And if this is another lie?”

  “That is obvious, is it not?”

  “Where is he?”

  Federov smiled. The shadow gained clarity. “He is not far,” he said.

  Efimov straightened at the touch of the muzzle of a handgun against the base of his skull.

  “Bros’ pistolet,” Jenkins said. Drop the gun.

  When Efimov did not immediately respond, Jenkins leaned closer and spoke louder. “Bros’ pistolet.”

  Efimov released the gun and it fell, silently, in the snow. Then Jenkins hit Efimov in the back of the head with the butt of his pistol, dropping him to his knees. He, too, pitched forward into the snow.

  “Time to move, Viktor,” Jenkins said.

  Federov stepped toward Jenkins, but the nausea and the dizziness intensified and overwhelmed him. He fell sideways, stumbling into a building.

  Jenkins grabbed him to keep him from falling to the ground.

  “Go, Mr. Jenkins. I will be fine.”

  “Had that chance. Didn’t work out,” Jenkins said. “You said something about karma. We can put it on the list of things to discuss in Seattle.” He wrapped Federov’s arm around his shoulder and gripped him by the belt.

  “We can’t outrun the cars,” Federov said.

  “Not by standing here.”

  Jenkins pulled Federov down the street and turned a corner. A short alley. He turned again, staying off main roads by cutting through the narrow passageways between buildings, hoping he was paralleling Nevsky Prospekt. He struggled to catch his breath; Federov was over six feet and at least two hundred pounds. Jenkins kept talking to keep Federov attentive, but the Russian did not always track the conversation.

  One thing Federov had said, however, seemed dead certain.

  If they did not reach Paulina in the next twelve minutes, they had little chance of getting away—not in this weather, not on foot, and not with the Saint Petersburg police searching for them.

  Jenkins concentrated on taking one step after the next, pulling Federov down another alley, emerging on a deserted street lined by three-story buildings. Cars along the curb lay buried beneath snow, and Jenkins could no longer discern the street from the sidewalk. He was quickly tiring and contemplated how good it would feel to sit, just for a moment, and catch his breath.

  He shook the thought. His brain was shutting down, giving in to the cold. Confusion would follow. If he stopped, he would not start again. Hypothermia would follow. He and Federov would both freeze to death. He checked his watch. Less than ten minutes to reach the cemetery.

  Headlights appeared on the side of a building, illuminating the falling snow. A car came around the corner. Jenkins pulled Federov back into the alley and pressed against the side of a building. The car slowed. Someone searching. Federov was right. Jenkins could not outrun them. Not on foot. But maybe if they had a car. If Jenkins could get a car.

  He set Federov down and removed the gun.

  “What are you doing?” Federov asked.

  “Shh,” Jenkins said. “They’re coming.”

  Federov, dazed and confused, tried to stand, stumbled, and fell sideways, knocking over a garbage can. The snow muffled the clatter, but the noise still reverberated in the alley.

  Time to move.

  Jenkins secured the gun and lifted the Russian to his feet, dragging him down the alley. Behind them a door slammed shut, then a second. He heard voices. Jenkins swore under his breath and urged Federov forward. As they neared the end of the alley, additional headlights appeared on the snow-covered road. The police were circling the area, cutting off their escape. Jenkins looked up. Across the street, in the center of a roundabout, stood a snow-covered statue of a man atop a horse.

  He hoped it was Alexander Nevsky.

  Jenkins checked his watch. Under five minutes.

  He was running out of time and alleys. When the wind gusted, causing the snow to swirl, he saw a chance, hoping the poor visibility would allow them to cross the street without being seen and reach the all
ey beside Tikhvin Cemetery. If not, they might very well be shot.

  If so, at least they were headed to the right place.

  36

  Jenkins reached the monument with just a few minutes to spare and pulled Federov behind the pedestal. He raised a hand to deflect the wind-driven snow, seeing what looked like an alley. “Not much further, Viktor,” Jenkins said. The Russian was moving better, getting his legs beneath him, more balanced. He was also tracking their conversation.

  They crossed and proceeded down the alley, no wider than the width of two cars, and narrowed by what looked like abandoned vehicles.

  “What kind of car?” Jenkins asked.

  “A white Lada,” Federov said.

  Jenkins was not familiar with the car. “What does it look like?”

  “A Lada. It looks like a Lada,” Federov said.

  They reached the end of the block. “It’s not here,” Jenkins said.

  Federov shook his head. “Maybe she’s gone already.”

  To Jenkins’s right, headlights glowed. A car edged around the corner, the beams reflecting the swirling snow. No choice now. They needed a car before they froze. He pulled Federov behind one of the abandoned cars and reached for the handgun. Forty years ago, he’d sworn he’d never kill another human being. He hoped he didn’t have to do so now.

  The car approached slowly, squeezing down the ally. Jenkins crouched behind a car and waited for it to pass. When it had, he rose up and stepped out, reaching for the door handle. He pulled the driver’s door open and shoved the muzzle of the gun into the gap.

  “Don’t shoot,” Paulina said. “Don’t shoot, Charlie.”

  Jenkins helped Federov into the back seat and hurried around the car to the passenger seat. Paulina spoke as she backed down the street, unable to turn around and not wanting to drive on Nevsky Prospekt. “There are police everywhere,” she said. At an intersection, she straightened and turned down a second narrow alley. “The buildings have blocked much of the snowfall in the alleys,” she said. “We can move faster.”

  Jenkins quickly recognized that having a car this night was both a blessing and a curse. He would not have made it much farther, not lugging Federov beside him. And the snow and heavy cloud cover prevented, or severely limited, the use of police helicopters or satellites to track the car. But with the roads deserted, any moving vehicle would be easy to spot by the swarm of Saint Petersburg police searching street by street, and no doubt monitoring traffic cameras deployed throughout the city.