The Last Agent

by Robert Dugoni

  “How do they open and close?”

  “They, too, have gates that lower and raise, depending on the water surge.”

  “Show me on the map,” Efimov said.

  The man typed on his tablet and, a moment later, turned the screen to Efimov, showing him a blown-up detail of the diagram with the sluice gates opening and closing. “Here. You see? They are labeled B1 to B6.”

  “And B6 is closest to this side?”

  “Yes. The roadway we are on runs over the top.”

  “How high above the water?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “How high above the water is the roadway? Could a man of average height walk beneath it?”

  “I’m not certain of the exact height. Do you want me—”

  “No. Are the gates also closed?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “They don’t automatically close when the channel gates are closed?”

  “Not necessarily, no.”

  Efimov could not lose them here. If they got through the gates, they were a big step toward getting out of Russia, taking with them any chance he had at redemption.

  “Call who you must. If the sluice gates are open, order them closed immediately.”

  Jenkins tapped Nadia’s shoulder and handed her the night-vision goggles. He pointed to the road leading to the levee, and she quickly figured out what he had deduced. If there were cars out on a night such as this, it was purposeful.

  Nadia stuffed the goggles into her suit. “We go. Now!”

  Jenkins had just enough time to grip the seat handles before the woman hit the throttle and their machine shot forward. Behind him, Federov started his machine. Nadia, now intent on making it through the sluice gate, had increased her speed, magnifying the jackhammering. It was all Jenkins could do just to hang on.

  As they approached the sluice, Jenkins turned and looked behind him. He did not see Federov’s machine. Nadia increased her speed and momentarily took her hand from the handlebar to point at something on the bridge. When she did, they hit a spot where the waves had collided and frozen, leaving an icy speed bump. The left ski hit the bump and lifted from the ice. The machine tilted off balance. The woman quickly gripped the handle again, and Jenkins instinctively leaned to the left. The elevated ski dropped, hit the ice, and bounced. Jenkins was certain they would topple, but Nadia managed to somehow keep the machine upright.

  Despite the near miss, Nadia did not decrease her speed. She kept the machine at full throttle, racing for the sluice. Jenkins no longer needed the goggles to see the soft light beneath the darkened solid portion of the bridge. As the machine neared the sluice, the gap beneath it appeared to narrow.

  They were lowering the gate.

  The woman ducked her head and shoulders to the height of the handlebars, and Jenkins did his best to mimic her movement. He held his breath, half expecting them to strike the closing gate and their bodies to shoot backward. In an instant they had emerged on the other side, the Gulf of Finland. The woman cut her speed and turned, angling the machine to look back to the sluice. Nadia handed Jenkins the goggles and he raised them and focused on the narrowing gap.

  He did not see Federov.

  The engineer disconnected his call. “The gates were open, but I have ordered them closed.”

  “How long does it take?” Efimov asked.

  “Minutes.”

  “Are there cameras under the dam?”

  “There are cameras, but not specifically under each sluice.”

  “Have any video in that area sent to you. I want to know if you can detect any snowmobiles approaching or passing under the bridge.” Efimov tapped Alekseyov on the shoulder. “What is the status on the Berkuts?”

  Alekseyov lowered the cell phone. “Two have left the coast guard base in Saint Petersburg and are en route to the dam.”

  “How far?”

  “I am told thirty minutes.”

  “Radio the base and have them radio the Berkuts. Tell them to look for snowmobile tracks, specifically near the B6 sluice, but not at the expense of speed. Have they readied a helicopter and a pilot?”

  “They say the weather makes it dangerous.”

  “I don’t give a damn what they say. Order them to do it.”

  41

  The sluice faded in and out of view as the snow flurries blew across Jenkins’s field of vision. He shifted his focus to the string of lights approaching the dam. The cars neared. He returned his attention to the sluice.

  “Come on. Come on,” he whispered.

  The gap narrowed. Too small, Jenkins thought. It’s too small to get under.

  Nadia must have come to the same conclusion. She throttled the machine and it lurched forward. Just as she did, the wind shifted, and Federov’s snowmobile shot through the opening. For a brief, terrifying moment, Jenkins saw only the machine and feared Federov and Paulina had been knocked from it.

  Then Federov sat up from behind the visor, but Jenkins could not see Paulina.

  Nadia flashed her headlamp twice, to ensure Federov did not crash into them. He slowed alongside them. Paulina remained tied to Federov’s back.

  Nadia did not waste time talking or celebrating. She gunned the throttle, turned the sled north, and shot down the Gulf of Finland. This time, Federov kept the nose of his machine to the right of, and even with, the back of the lead machine. He clearly did not want to lose sight of them again.

  Nadia drove for another ten to fifteen minutes before she eased back on the throttle. She removed the headlamp, clicking the beam of light on and off.

  Jenkins flipped up his visor, about to speak into her helmet, when a light flashed farther out on the ice. The woman drove toward it. As they neared, a thin strip of land materialized, an island protruding above the ice. The woman slowed and cut through one of the concrete gaps surrounding the island, stopping the machine alongside a white prop plane on three skis, two in the front and one beneath the tail.

  Doors on the plane opened beneath the wing, and two men stepped down onto the ice. Jenkins slid off the seat. His back hurt so much he had trouble straightening, and he could feel his gloves sticking to the palms of his hands.

  Nadia removed her helmet and handed Jenkins a new encrypted phone, which he slid into his coat pocket. “You have your gun?”

  He nodded and touched the grip.

  “If Colonel Federov is going to do anything, this would be the time. Watch him closely, Mr. Jenkins, or we may all die.” She walked toward the plane and the two approaching men.

  Jenkins removed his helmet and placed it on the seat, then turned and looked at Federov, who was untying the scarf that had kept Paulina on the snowmobile. Paulina stood to get off, but her legs wobbled when she stood. Jenkins helped her remove her helmet, then lifted her from the seat. Federov had been correct. She weighed no more than a child.

  Federov also looked stiff as he stood and removed his helmet. His facial expression conveyed that he was physically and emotionally spent.

  “Weren’t sure you were going to make it under that dam,” Jenkins said.

  Federov shook his head. “I, too, had my doubts. I could feel the gate scrape my back.”

  Jenkins looked at the two men talking with Nadia.

  “No doubt they are discussing the unexpected passenger,” Federov said.

  Nadia waved them forward. “The pilot is concerned about the additional weight. It will make taking off more challenging, maybe too much.”

  “I found smooth ice behind the island coming in,” the pilot said in unaccented English. “With the additional weight—I’m guessing you’re two hundred pounds”—he spoke to Federov but did not wait for an answer—“we might not have a long enough strip of smooth ice, and if we hit those ripples before I can get airborne, it could be hell on those skis.”

  The pilot was no taller than Nadia—perhaps five foot eight and thin, even wearing a thick leather jacket, but there was something in the way he stood, the cocksure pattern of his
speech—not to mention that he must have flown through some hairy shit to get the plane here, and he didn’t look fazed. CIA, Jenkins thought, probably of very long standing. He looked older even than Jenkins—late sixties or early seventies. A fur-lined ushanka with earflaps covered his head.

  “This is where we part, Mr. Jenkins,” Nadia said. “The pilot will take you and Ms. Ponomayova where you need to go. This man and I will take the snowmobiles and draw anyone who may be following away from you. We will hide them further up the coast.” She took out a gun and pointed it at Federov. The second man stepped behind Federov. He held zip ties. “Mr. Federov will come with us.”

  Jenkins shook his head. “You can’t take him with you on the back of the snowmobile.”

  “Then we will leave him here for the FSB, or to freeze to death,” she said. “It is your choice, Colonel Federov.”

  “If the FSB finds him, he will have every reason to disclose everything about our escape, including the help you provided,” Jenkins said.

  “Alive, that is true,” Nadia said.

  “He comes with us,” Jenkins said.

  “He jeopardizes your escape, Mr. Jenkins. My job is to see you and Ms. Ponomayova safely out of Russia, and you are, as of yet, far from out of Russia and far from safe.”

  “Shoot him or put him on the Goddamn plane,” the pilot said. “I don’t give a rat’s ass which one, but it’s got to be done now. I have no way to keep that engine warm, and if we wait any longer, I won’t be able to start it, and then none of us is getting out of here.”

  “Tie his hands behind his back and put him on the plane,” Jenkins said. “He can’t do anything on the plane unless he has a death wish. When we land, we’ll part.”

  Nadia shook her head. “This is my decision.”

  “We have to assume Efimov knows we escaped on snowmobiles and that our chances of getting out by ship are nonexistent,” Jenkins said. “He will have helicopters and planes in the air as soon as the weather permits, maybe already.”

  “I agree. We’re out of time,” the pilot said, definitive. “And I have the type of forty-year background the Russians would dearly love to chat about over a cup of tea in Lubyanka, not to mention a young Finnish woman waiting for me to get home. Each is sufficient incentive for me to get on that plane and get the hell out of here, with or without any of you. If you’re coming, I’m leaving. Now.” He took Paulina by the arm and led her to the plane.

  “Radio whoever you have to,” Jenkins said to the woman. “Tell them this is my call. I take full responsibility.”

  Nadia nodded to the second man.

  “Put your hands behind your back,” the second man said to Federov, who complied. The man bound Federov’s wrists together, then slipped a second zip tie through his belt and bound the tie to Federov’s belt.

  “I hope for your sake this is not a mistake,” Nadia said.

  Jenkins grabbed Federov by the bicep and hurried to the plane.

  42

  Jenkins ducked beneath the wing and looked in the open passenger door. The plane’s interior was no larger than a compact car, with two bucket seats side by side—worn orange-and-white leather—and a bench seat across the back. It held a moldy smell, which was perhaps the reason the carpet had been ripped out from the floor, traces of glue and remnants of padding still visible.

  Jenkins helped Paulina into the bench seat at the back of the plane.

  “Put the man behind me,” the pilot said to Jenkins. “You’re so damned big you’ll never get into the front seat without sliding it all the way back.”

  Jenkins snapped the buckle at Paulina’s waist, much the same way he and Alex buckled Lizzie into her car seat. He adjusted the straps to remove slack, but they remained loose over Paulina’s malnourished frame. She smiled as Jenkins cared for her, doing her best to convince him that she was all right, as tough as the woman he had first encountered in a Moscow hotel room. He didn’t believe her.

  Next, he helped Federov into the bench seat beside Paulina, also buckling him in. He would have cut the ties around Federov’s wrists, but he didn’t have a blade and, even if he did, he could not do it with the others still present and watching. Federov seemed to understand his circumstance and gave Jenkins a subtle nod, as if reading his mind.

  Jenkins set the passenger seat as far back as it would go, then climbed in, ducking his head and pulling in his knees. The U-shaped handles of a yoke protruded between his thighs, and for a moment he thought he was in the wrong seat, then saw the second yoke to his left.

  Jenkins felt like a giant on a miniature set. His head brushed the roof, his knees folded on each side of the yoke and pressed against the front panel. He picked up a headset hanging from the yoke and expanded it to fit comfortably on his head, then adjusted the microphone to just below his mouth.

  The pilot finished sweeping the snow from the plane with a short broom, stowing it beneath the rear seat before he climbed in. He and Jenkins sat so close their shoulders touched. The man was pure concentration, flipping switches on the dash and going through his preflight routine. He flipped what Jenkins surmised to be the starter switch and slowly advanced the throttle. The propeller whined, made two or three revolutions, then died.

  “As I feared,” the pilot said, his voice a nasally, distant twang in the headset.

  He went through the process a second time. The engine whined, the prop clicked, the blades rotated, and the engine coughed. Then it turned over. The pilot looked over at Jenkins, who felt a rush of relief, and smiled.

  “What do I call you?” Jenkins asked.

  The pilot continued his preflight check of the various gauges. He pulled the yoke toward him, then pushed it away. Then held out a hand to Jenkins. “Rod Studebaker. Like the car.” Jenkins thought it sounded like a fake name. “Most call me Hot Rod.”

  “Also like the car?”

  He grinned. A man who’d successfully set a trap. “Not when it’s my girlfriend. She’s two decades younger than me and looks it.”

  Jenkins smiled. “My wife is also.”

  Studebaker grinned. “Finally, a man who can speak my language.”

  “I have two kids. My son is nearly eleven, and my daughter is just about a year.”

  Hot Rod whistled. “You weren’t fooling around. Looks like we both have an incentive to get the hell out of here and get back home,” he said, which was exactly why Jenkins had brought up his family. “Hang on. It’s about to get bumpy.”

  Studebaker waved to the man and woman on the ground before they hurried to the snowmobiles. The plane’s blades rotated, and the noise in the cockpit increased.

  “You can fly in this weather?” Jenkins asked over the headset.

  “We’re about to find out,” Studebaker said, then shot Jenkins a mischievous grin. “Relax. I made it here, didn’t I?”

  Jenkins didn’t relax.

  Studebaker turned the tail of the plane and faced the propeller into the gusting wind, which caused the plane to shudder.

  “Can we get off the ground with these headwinds?” Jenkins asked.

  Studebaker quickly explained that the fast air bearing down on the plane’s wings generated an upward force that would help to lift it. “And we’re going to need all the help we can get with the additional weight. The smooth ice only extends behind the island. Then we hit the ripples.”

  “What happens when we hit the ripples?”

  “We get rattled like the mother of all jackhammers, but hopefully nothing more.”

  Jenkins could relate after the snowmobile ride.

  Studebaker throttled forward and pulled back on the yoke, then pushed it forward. The tail lifted and the plane gained speed, bouncing down the ice and sending additional shivers of pain up Jenkins’s already tender spine. Studebaker swore under his breath—the way Jenkins’s father used to when working on a project around the house, or on one of the cars.

  The wind buffeted the plane, twisting it from side to side. They lifted, momentarily, then dropp
ed back onto the ice. Another second and the plane lifted into the air three or four feet, but again bounced back onto the ice. The rattling changed, dramatically, like steel wheels driving over bumps and threatening to tear the plane apart. Jenkins tucked his chest to keep his head from pounding against the ceiling. Studebaker twisted the yoke left and right and got the plane airborne a third time. This time he did a slow turn to the right.

  The plane jolted, as if something had reached up and hooked it, then twisted to the right. The yoke between Jenkins’s legs jerked to the left just as the plane slammed back down onto the ice, causing Paulina to let out a scream. The plane kicked free, but with a horrific wrenching of metal. Something whipped past the window and hit just underneath the wing. Something else slammed into the back window, cracking the plastic.

  To his right, Jenkins could see the front half of a broken ski dancing on the end of a bungee cord and smashing against the side of the plane and the bottom of the wing. It wrapped under the wing strut but continued to slap the bottom of the plane, making a sound like large rocks being dumped from a truck. When Jenkins turned his head to see what had happened to the back window, he noticed fluid streaming out the bottom of the wing.

  This could not be good.

  After determining that the gates on the sluice had not been closed quickly enough to prevent the snowmobiles from getting through, Efimov ordered the coast guard officers on the Berkuts to continue to track the snowmobiles. They eventually reported that the tracks led to the downwind side of Fort Totleben, the abandoned concrete fortification constructed on a spit of land once used to protect Russia against invasion. Efimov spoke to them through a dedicated line set up by the coast guard station.

  “The snowmobile tracks continue up the coastline,” the ranking officer said. “Four people, judging from the bootprints, boarded an airplane and took off into the wind.”

  Efimov swore under his breath.

  “We have also found debris,” the officer said.

  “What kind of debris?” Efimov asked.