The Last Agent

by Robert Dugoni

  More than once, Jenkins concluded that Paulina had the right idea, closing her eyes and putting her fate in Studebaker’s hands, but he and Paulina were in far different positions. She had no family, no one she loved. Each time Jenkins closed his eyes, images of Alex and CJ and his baby girl, Lizzie, filled his mind, and all his fears of never again seeing them rushed back to haunt him.

  So, he paid attention. Not that there was anything he could do. More than once he’d asked Studebaker if he could help—hold on to the yoke for a bit to give the man’s wiry forearms a break. Each time Studebaker shook his head. “Just sit tight,” he’d say. Then he’d burst out singing the Doors song “Light My Fire.” Jenkins figured it was Studebaker’s way of handling stress, but he could have done without the lyrics about setting the night on fire. He sincerely hoped that would not be the case.

  Well past an hour into their flight, the winds remained fierce, though the snow had eased and eventually stopped. Jenkins kept sneaking glances at the fuel gauges, two side-by-side instruments with white needles and the words “Fuel Qty.” The needle of the gauge on the right, which Jenkins knew to be empty, rested below the red line. The needle of the gauge on the left had started at just beneath the centerline and had since fallen to one line above the red mark. Jenkins did not know how much gas the tank held, or how much was left, and he didn’t know if they had a tailwind or a headwind, or how far they still had to go.

  Whenever he asked Studebaker about the gas, the pilot would tap the glass and respond, “We’re going to be close,” never being more definitive. Maybe he couldn’t be. Maybe it was just as Studebaker had said. They’d know when they knew. Jenkins decided he’d just have to take the man at his word. Then Studebaker would start singing again about setting the night on fire.

  Another ten minutes and Studebaker removed a hand from the yoke and pressed it to his headset. “We’re getting a transmission across the Finnish emergency frequency,” he said. “It’s in Russian.”

  “Can you broadcast it so we can all hear it?” Jenkins asked.

  Studebaker flipped a switch. Jenkins removed his headset.

  “Viktor Federov, ty menya slyshish?” Viktor Federov, can you hear me?

  Federov looked to Jenkins. “Efimov,” he said over the sound of the plane engine and all the rattling.

  “If you are listening, understand that you cannot get away. You will never be free. Your family will pay for your acts of treason. Turn yourself in. Do so and we will spare your family.”

  Federov paled. It was not like him.

  “Sounds like they’ve given up,” Studebaker said.

  “Given up?” Jenkins asked.

  “I’d say those are the idle threats of a man who has lost. We’ll punish your family. Screw him,” Studebaker said.

  Efimov continued. “To the pilot of the Cessna airplane, you are transporting fugitives from the Russian government who are wanted for criminal acts. If you do not turn around immediately, you will be dealt with harshly.”

  “Like I give a shit,” Studebaker said. For the first time since they started flying, he smiled. “Bring it on. Light my fire.”

  “Are you listening?” Efimov continued. “A Russian Coast Guard helicopter is quickly closing on your location one hundred and thirteen kilometers off the coast of Finland.”

  Studebaker lost the smile. “Son of a bitch. Maybe he isn’t bluffing.”

  “The helicopter is armed and has received orders to fire upon you unless you immediately decrease your airspeed and turn your aircraft around. I repeat. You have invaded Russian airspace illegally and you are now transporting criminals who are guilty of crimes within Russia. Decrease your airspeed immediately and make a definitive move to return to Saint Petersburg or I will issue the order to fire upon your plane.”

  Studebaker flipped a switch, ending the communication. “We’ll make a definitive move,” he said. “Just not the one he’s expecting.”

  “Did he get our location correct?” Jenkins asked.

  Studebaker nodded. “Close enough, though we are no longer in Russian airspace.”

  “That doesn’t mean he won’t fire on us.”

  “No, it does not, but it does reduce the likelihood.”

  “I don’t exactly like those odds.”

  “He might not even be back there. He might have caught a blip on Russian radar and is just trying to scare us.”

  “Can we find out somehow?” Jenkins asked.

  “I was thinking the same thing.” Studebaker put his headset back on, flipped a switch, and changed to a different radio channel. He entered a call sign, speaking Finnish. A woman responded, also in Finnish.

  “Darling,” Studebaker said in English. “Can you check radar and find out if there are any birds in the air near our location? One just threatened to put a load of lead up my ass. I just turned on my transponder.”

  Nearly a minute passed before the woman hailed him over the speaker.

  “I’m still here,” Studebaker said.

  “On helikopteri, joka sulkeutuu nopeasti.”

  Studebaker looked to Jenkins. “I’ll be damned. He wasn’t lying. There’s a helicopter, closing fast. Kuinka kaukana?” How far?

  “Viisikymmentä mailia.”

  “Very good. I’ll be home soon. Count on it.” He flipped the switch and looked to Jenkins. “We’re going to have to get lost for a bit.” He spoke over his shoulder, to Federov. “Apparently your boy doesn’t make idle threats. We got a helicopter on our butt and closing fast.”

  “How close?” Jenkins asked.

  “Forty-eight kilometers. Time to make time.”

  “I thought you said that would use up more fuel?”

  “Fuel won’t matter if the guy flying that chopper can shoot straight. I’m going to gain some altitude so I can raise the flaps and get more speed.”

  “It could be a bluff. You said the coast guard didn’t ordinarily arm its helicopters.”

  “Yes, but I was wrong once, and I don’t plan to stick around and find out if I’m wrong again.”

  The Russian copilot spoke as he pointed to the screen. “There,” he said. “He’s back on radar.”

  Efimov leaned between the seats. “Can you mark his location?” He did not ask whether the plane had made a definitive move, not expecting that it would.

  “No need,” the man said. “He’s gaining altitude to increase his speed.”

  “How long before we close on him?”

  The pilot looked to his instruments. “Roughly twenty minutes. Maybe less.”

  “How long before he reaches the Finnish shore?”

  “Also roughly twenty minutes.”

  “Do not allow that to happen.”

  The copilot turned, his look uncertain. “We’ll be in Finnish airspace.”

  “The plane is transporting people who have committed crimes in Russia, has breached Russian airspace illegally, and is a threat to Russian national security. You have your orders. If he does not comply, shoot him down.”

  The copilot and pilot exchanged a glance.

  Alekseyov shot out an arm, touching Efimov’s shoulder. “We cannot fire on a Finnish plane in Finnish airspace,” he said. “The fallout would be horrific, especially if the plane crashes into an occupied area and kills others.”

  Efimov glared at the young agent. This was the second time he had publicly questioned Efimov’s authority. “It is not my intent for them to reach Finland,” Efimov said.

  “They are already in Finnish airspace. You heard the pilot. Let me call our resources in Finland and have them track where the plane lands.”

  Reluctantly, Efimov admitted Alekseyov was partially correct, and the suggestion wise. “If the plane lands, then you may alert our resources to track them down. Until then, I am giving the orders, and my job is to bring in Jenkins and Ponomayova. Barring that, I will kill them both.”

  “You said this was my case. You said ultimate responsibility falls to me.”

  “Yes,” Efimov
said. “And it will. Now remove your hand from my shoulder before I break it.”

  If the wind and the snow and the constant turbulence hadn’t been enough to get Studebaker’s blood pumping, the thought of Russian machine-gun fire did the trick. Jenkins watched the pilot transform into combat mode. He increased the plane’s altitude and its airspeed to 120 knots, each of his movements quick and decisive. He no longer even considered fuel consumption. Jenkins, however, did. The needle of the fuel gauge had dropped into the red.

  “Sweetheart, are you out there?” Studebaker said into the headset.

  “Olen vielä täällä.”

  “You got a bead on the bad guys?”

  “Thirty-two kilometers and closing,” she said.

  “I’m going to leave this frequency on. Keep me posted?”

  “Joo,” the woman said.

  “How close do they need to be to fire?” Jenkins asked.

  “Don’t know. I told you, I don’t like lead in my bird, and I’m not planning to give them the chance to use us as target practice.”

  For that, Jenkins was thankful. He had no doubt that if the plane had been armed, Studebaker would have made a U-turn and taken on the helicopter head-on. “How far are we from where we need to go?” he asked.

  “Not close enough.”

  “How far?” Efimov asked the pilot, sensing that the plane was close to the Finnish coast and a possible place to attempt a landing.

  “Thirty-two kilometers,” the copilot said. “We’re closing, though not as quickly. He has increased his speed.”

  “Then increase our speed,” Efimov said.

  The pilot shook his head. “We are in Finnish airspace.”

  “I don’t care—”

  “We are being hailed. They want to know our purpose.”

  “Ignore them,” Efimov said.

  “That would not be wise. If anything were to happen—” Alekseyov started.

  Efimov cut him off. “If anything happens we will blame the plane, and the Americans. Do not interrupt me again.” He spoke again to the pilot. “Respond to the Finnish traffic controllers. Tell them we are searching for two missing snow machines out on the ice,” Efimov said. “But stay on the plane. And increase your airspeed.”

  “Kymmenen kilometriä,” the woman said over the headset.

  “The helicopter is within ten kilometers,” Studebaker repeated in English to Jenkins. “Time to get lost again.” He pushed the yoke forward and pointed the aircraft’s nose at the ice. Jenkins’s stomach flipped like when he’d been a kid riding one of the big roller coasters at Coney Island. What had been, a moment before, dark spots through the haze of light quickly became islands. He could see tree branches swaying in the wind, and boat docks and piers extending into the frozen water, even people in the windows of the housing tracts.

  “We are passing Pikku Leikosaari,” Studebaker said.

  “Kahdeksan kilometriä,” the woman said.

  “Eight kilometers. It’s going to be close.”

  Studebaker flew between the many islands, gaining altitude to fly over a bridge linking a larger island to a smaller one, then dropping again, this time so low Jenkins could almost reach out and touch the water’s surface.

  “Vissi kilometriä,” the woman said.

  “Five kilometers,” Studebaker repeated. He pulled down his microphone and spoke to Federov in the back seat. “Your guy is a stubborn son of a bitch. What the hell did you do?”

  The pilot shook his head. “He’s dropped altitude again. He’s trying to lose us in the islands.”

  “Stay on him,” Efimov said.

  “Traffic control is hailing us again.”

  “Ignore them.”

  “We are closing on populated islands,” Alekseyov said.

  “How far are we from shore?” Efimov asked.

  “The islands are populated,” Alekseyov said. “Did you not hear me?”

  “How far?” Efimov asked the copilot again, ignoring Alekseyov.

  “Eight kilometers,” the copilot said.

  “Increase our airspeed.”

  “I can’t safely fly any faster in these winds.”

  “Increase our speed or I will see that you do not fly again.”

  The pilot and copilot exchanged another glance, then the pilot increased the helicopter’s speed.

  Alekseyov spoke again. “We cannot fire over a populated area.”

  Efimov turned quickly, grabbed Alekseyov by the lapels, and pulled him forward, nearly spitting the words as he spoke. “That is the last time you will question my decisions. Do it again and I will have you sweeping floors at Lubyanka.” He shoved Alekseyov away from him. “The pilot cannot fly to a populated area. He cannot land on a solid surface. He is looking for a place to try to land on the ice, if he can find it. It’s his only chance.”

  “Seven kilo—” The copilot abruptly stopped.

  “What is it?” Efimov asked.

  “He’s off radar.”

  Efimov swore and gripped the back of the seat.

  “What should we do?” the pilot asked.

  “Stay on the same course and speed. See if we can visually spot him.”

  When they reached what Jenkins assumed to be the city of Helsinki, Studebaker changed the plane’s course, this time to the northwest. Air traffic controllers, now aware of the rogue plane suddenly present on their radar and flying so close over a populated area, were screaming into their microphones, but Studebaker ignored them.

  “Where are we headed?” Jenkins asked.

  “Home,” Studebaker said.

  “I thought home was Helsinki?”

  “Far too crowded for me. I like my space. Besides, we can’t land in Helsinki. We have to land on ice,” Studebaker said. Then he said, “Darling? Where are the bad guys?”

  “Kahdeksan kilometriä. He ovat vähentäneet nopeuttaan.”

  “They’ve decreased their speed,” Studebaker said.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means we’ve evaded their radar but not them. They’re still searching for us, or for a plane crash.”

  As Studebaker spoke, the plane shook, then shuddered. Jenkins thought it had been hit. “Relax, that’s not machine-gun fire. It’s the engine.”

  The engine coughed and spit, then caught again.

  “And that’s better?” Jenkins asked.

  Studebaker played with the yoke, tilting the plane’s wings back and forth, trying to tease as much gas as he could from the tank. “Tighten your straps,” he said to all three of them. “This could get interesting.”

  The copilot held binoculars to his eyes, scanning between the islands. Efimov scanned out the right-side windows with a second set. After several minutes, the pilot said, “They’re gone.” He did not sound disappointed.

  “Look for a plane crash,” Efimov said. He lowered the binoculars and stared out the window for a moment, thinking. If the plane crashed, they should be able to see it. If not, then he needed to quickly turn his attention from the plane to the pilot. As the helicopter pilot had confirmed, there weren’t many who would or could fly in these conditions, and he hoped Russian assets in Finland could reduce that list to just one or two. He turned to Alekseyov. “You wanted to alert our assets. Do so.”

  “With all due respect,” Alekseyov said, “Finland has a couple hundred thousand lakes on which to land.”

  “Yes,” Efimov said. “But very few pilots who could do so in these conditions and on one ski. Tell our assets we are looking for a pilot, most likely an American, with enough experience, expertise, and guts to do what this pilot has done and, presumably, what he is about to attempt. He is likely ex-military, likely CIA. Tell them I want the name of the pilot or pilots with such a reputation. Tell them to also put their ears to the ground and to advise of any small airplane crashes, and of any fatalities.”

  Turning back to the pilot, Efimov continued issuing orders. “Tell the Finnish authorities we have some kind of problem and need to land to
fix it before resuming our search.”

  Studebaker never changed his demeanor. He flew as if he had a full tank of gas and three functional skis. He even had a small grin on his face, like this was just another challenge, something he had not yet done but was eager to try. Or maybe the pilot was just trying to appear confident, to reassure them things were going to be okay. Then again, what choice did he have? He had to land the plane. He could panic, start cursing a blue streak, but it wouldn’t change what he had to do. He reminded Jenkins of a seasoned card player who’d been dealt a bad hand and was taking it as far as he could. He was either going to bluff his way through the hand, or he was going to lay down four aces and live to talk about the time he landed a Cessna with no fuel and missing one ski. People might not believe him. They might think Studebaker had made the story up. Jenkins doubted the man cared what others thought. Studebaker likely had a dozen stories of close calls better than this one.

  At least Jenkins hoped he did.

  They flew over the tops of houses, barns, industrial buildings, and barren streets. Studebaker again rocked the plane, determined to squeeze the wing for every drop of precious fuel. The engine coughed and sputtered, like a dying man in the final stages of life support.

  “What are we looking for?” Jenkins asked.

  Studebaker pointed to a clear, flat spot in the distance. “That,” he said. “Lake Bodom.”

  The barren white patch looked no larger than a football field, though Jenkins hoped that was just a matter of distance and perspective. Snow-flocked barren trees and heavy brush surrounded what Jenkins suspected to be the frozen water’s edge.

  The engine coughed, this time a final gasp. The prop blades slowed, then stopped. So did the engine noise, the tranquility interrupted only by the persistent banging of the broken ski tethered to the bungee cord beneath the plane.