When alerted, Jenkins climbed from the basket into the pilothouse. With deft precision that defied the haphazard mooring of the other ships, Demir and his sons guided the trawler through the marina maze into the Bosphorus strait. Jenkins stood inside the pilothouse, warmed by the air from a space heater and struggling to get his sea legs while watching the lights on the moored tankers drift past. He didn’t know Demir’s plan for getting him back into Russia; he’d left the details to the old fisherman and smuggler.
“The fishermen say the possibility of bad weather remains,” Demir said, replacing the microphone in the clip of the radio mounted over his head. “We will have to be careful. If the storm strengthens, we will have to turn back.”
They passed beneath the enormous white suspension bridge spanning the two landmasses. The last time Jenkins had done so, the bridge had represented the entrance to the Bosphorus strait and, symbolically at least, Jenkins’s escape from Russia. Not this night.
Jenkins held out his hand and was pleased it remained steady. The last time he’d been in Russia he’d developed a tremor, what he thought could be the start of Parkinson’s, but which a doctor said had been caused by situational anxiety and stress.
When he looked up, he noted Demir watching him from his position at the wheel. “The weather is good for now,” Demir said. “You can lie down if you like.”
“I’ll keep you company, if that is okay.”
Demir nodded. “It is okay.”
Yusuf and Emir spelled their father at the wheel. In between, they drank tea and played cribbage. Waves soon began to crash over the bow, and the boat shook and shuddered from the impact.
“The weather will get worse,” Demir said from behind the wheel. “It is coming from the northeast.”
“That is Mother Russia trying to blow you back to America,” Emir said, looking up from the cribbage table at Jenkins with a mischievous smile.
“Can we make it?” Jenkins said.
“We have fished in worse weather,” Emir said, trying again to summon a fisherman’s bravado.
“It may present a challenge getting you to shore, however,” Demir said. He barked at his sons. “We are entering Russian waters. No more games.”
His sons stored the cribbage board in a cabinet and locked the doors shut, then went about ensuring everything was lashed down or stowed.
“We must be diligent,” Demir said. “Unlike before, there is no fog in which to hide.”
A short time later, the radar screen emitted a persistent beeping. Demir studied it.
“Is it the Russian Coast Guard?” Jenkins asked, walking to the machine.
“I do not yet know. At present the boat does not appear to be marking us.” Demir picked up the radio speaker and adjusted the dial, presumably to a frequency not monitored by the Russians. He spoke Turkish, then lowered the microphone. It clicked, followed by a male voice. Demir spoke again, then clipped the mic overhead.
“I think we have company,” Demir said.
Jenkins watched the green blip on the screen. After a moment, he noticed a second blip, this one running parallel with the Esma, shadowing it.
“Ahmet,” Demir said. Their diversion.
The second boat maintained a parallel course, then veered off, forming a Y as it moved toward, rather than away from, the larger blip, which Demir speculated to be a Russian Coast Guard vessel.
“We will know soon enough if it is Russian,” Demir said.
“Can the Russians catch him?” Jenkins asked.
“Unlikely. Ahmet is skilled, and his boat is fast and designed for this type of weather. The question is not if they will catch Ahmet’s boat. It is whether they will follow it. We will need time to get you to shore.”
Jenkins watched the radar. The Y became more pronounced, now a V as Ahmet’s boat widened the distance from the Esma but shortened the distance to the larger blip. The radio clicked. Demir answered it.
“Evet?”
This time the male voice sounded more animated. Demir listened, then swung his boat to the left, in the opposite direction. “It is Russian Coast Guard,” he said to Jenkins. “A Rubin-class vessel. Maybe your friend Captain Popov has come back again. Let us hope not.”
“Can Ahmet outrun it?”
“Not forever, but enough to get back into Turkish waters, if it follows. With the recent accord between our two presidents, Russia will avoid an international incident and be satisfied it has chased Ahmet away. Yusuf,” Demir called out. “Şişme hazirlayin.” Prepare the inflatable.
“This will not be easy, Mr. Jenkins. The waves are considerably larger than I would like. Put on survival suits. Both of you.”
Minutes later, Yusuf and Jenkins had put on the thick red-and-black suits, leaving the hoods off for now. The waves increased in size, fueled by a strong wind blowing whitecaps across the water’s surface. Yusuf hooked a winch to the apex of cables attached to the four sides of the Zodiac inflatable, and Demir’s plan became clearer.
Jenkins followed Yusuf back inside the pilothouse.
“The Zodiac is prepared,” Yusuf said to his father.
Out the pilothouse windows, Jenkins could see spotted lights and the dark shadow of mountains rising seemingly from the water. The waves intensified, crashing over the bow of the boat and causing it to pitch.
“I will get you as close to shore as is safe, but I must be careful. There are many unseen rocks. Go,” Demir said to his son. “We are almost in position.”
Yusuf handed Jenkins a dry bag with a tether and a Velcro strap he could attach to his ankle or wrist. “Put what you can in here. You will have to leave the rest.”
Jenkins opened his duffel and stuffed what clothes he could into the dry bag. He pulled out several passports, various other pieces of identification, the encrypted cell phone from Lemore, and rubles and dollars but did not put them in the dry bag. He sealed those inside a plastic bag he shoved inside his dry suit, against his chest.
“We go,” Yusuf said.
Jenkins followed the two sons outside, mimicking their movements. He pulled up the hood of his survival suit. The spray from waves hit his face, and the water was as he recalled—numbingly cold. The two sons fought to steady the inflatable as they lowered it, the winch whining. Demir slowed the boat, which increased the impact of the waves and the resulting pitch. Several times Jenkins nearly lost his footing, but he remained upright.
“Go,” Emir yelled from the pilothouse door over the howling wind. He looked to be repeating his father’s instructions, motioning with his hands that they needed to get into the inflatable.
“We cannot slow any further in this weather. We will be like a cork in a storm. Get in,” Yusuf shouted at Jenkins. But that was easier said than done. The inflatable banged against the side of the Esma, then swung four to five feet away. Jenkins held the cable and timed the swaying. When the inflatable swung inward, he jumped, falling into the boat with his dry bag.
“Try to center your weight,” Yusuf yelled to him.
Jenkins remembered his position from their earlier escape and got on hands and knees in the center of the boat. He gripped the holds on the two pontoons with his gloved hands. Yusuf jumped in behind him, and Emir lowered the winch.
“Hang on, Mr. Jenkins,” Yusuf called out. “We are going to have to do this the old-fashioned way.”
Without further warning, the boat dropped from the hook and hit the water with a thud and a violent jolt that nearly caused Jenkins to lose his grip on the handholds. Yusuf, who had already started the engine, steered the inflatable sharply to the right, away from the Esma so it didn’t pinball against the ship’s side.
The inflatable rose and fell on the wave crests, water splashing onto both men. With each rise Jenkins felt as though the boat would get caught in the wind, like a kite, and tumble across the whitecaps. Each time the inflatable rose, he could hear the engine whine as the prop came out of the water. With each spray he tasted salt, and he was glad he’d grown the beard, whi
ch protected his face.
“I am going to try to get behind those rocks,” Yusuf shouted. “It might help to calm the waves.”
Water crashed into and over a jetty of rocks. Jenkins gripped the holds. His arms strained from the torque and pressure as he struggled to keep his center of gravity as low as possible. His face and hands soon grew numb. The wind and crashing waves slowed their progress.
“Hang on,” Yusuf yelled. He cut the bow of the boat sharply to the right and gunned the engine. For a moment they were sideways in the surf, and Jenkins thought for sure they would capsize, but Yusuf quickly corrected. They hit a wave and the inflatable shot into the air, landing with a violent bounce that yanked the hold from Jenkins’s grip. He fell sideways into the pontoon. The inflatable pitched again, this time to the right, and, before Jenkins could grip the hold once more, he fell overboard into the water.
10
The stinging cold water felt like a slap across his face, but Jenkins resisted the urge to gasp, which would cause him to suck liquid into his lungs. Immersed in darkness, he held his breath until he shot to the surface, gasping as he bobbed, as Yusuf had said, like a cork in the ocean. He looked for the inflatable but didn’t see it. Another wave loomed over him. He held his breath and tried to descend, but the suit made him buoyant, and the wave crashed on top of him and drove him under. Another lifted him and shoved him forward, toward the rock jetty. Jenkins curled into a ball as he pitched under the crest and slammed into the rocks, bringing a sharp pain to his rib cage. He shot to the surface and again looked for but did not see the inflatable. Probably for the best. The rocks would destroy it.
On his own, Jenkins turned and searched for the shore. He kicked and swung his arms, but the suit made movement difficult, as did the pain to his ribs. The tethered dry bag dragged behind his right arm. Another wave drove Jenkins under. He reached for the Velcro strap on his wrist and wrenched it free, letting it go. When he popped to the surface, he kicked with the waves and the wind.
After several minutes, the mountains appeared closer. Progress.
He lowered his head and kicked with everything he had. Another wave hit him, forcing him under. This time his knees struck the rocky stones. He popped up, realizing the waves would pound him against the bottom. His right side, where he’d struck the rocks, already burned in pain. He could not afford a serious injury.
He tucked into a ball as a wave lifted him and shoved him, tumbling forward. He breached the surface, took a breath, and tucked again. This time he unfurled his legs, pushing off the pebbled bottom with his feet and springing ahead. He fell, went under, but managed to get to his feet, eventually crawling from the sea on hands and knees, gagging and gasping for air.
After he’d caught his breath, Jenkins looked back to the sea. A white light furiously flashed—Demir seeking to determine if Jenkins and Yusuf were alive. He stood with difficulty, legs weak, his side painful. A second light flashed. Yusuf on the inflatable. Jenkins felt for the nipple on the shoulder of his suit and pulled it. The light activated, flashing. After a few seconds, the two lights at sea extinguished, he hoped voluntarily.
Each breath brought pain to Jenkins’s side where he’d struck the rocks. He hoped his ribs were not broken, or badly bruised. He coughed and the pain radiated down his side. Again, he bent over, but this time he vomited seawater, retching for several minutes and feeling the cold settle in, the whipping wind chilling him.
Jenkins considered his location. Nothing looked familiar. A white foam filled the shoreline and blew along the stones and pebbles. He walked down the beach, struggling to see, hearing only the howling wind. He was uncertain of where he had entered these same waters nearly a year ago, if he was even close. If he could not find the safe house, it would be a very long night. He looked for anything remotely familiar. Nothing was.
Another few minutes and he’d run out of beach. The tide met where the hillside extended into the water. Jenkins stepped calf-deep, wiggled his feet into the rocky bottom to better anchor them, and looked around the landmass. He saw the glow of streetlights, a trail that led to a gap, perhaps the path he had once taken. Maybe. Thirty feet of turbulent water, of unknown depth, stood between him and the rest of the beach.
He contemplated whether he could climb the hillside looming above him, but the darkness made it difficult to see any path.
He looked again to the sea. His only option.
Jenkins took a deep breath, then another, fighting the pain in his side, trying to steel himself. He walked into deeper water, up to his calves, then his knees. Offshore, a series of large rocks acted as a break against the crashing waves. He stepped carefully, sure of each step before taking another. The water rushed in and sucked out.
Then it deepened. Jenkins became less stable and struggled to keep his balance.
Halfway across.
He stumbled, nearly fell, but remained upright and climbed around the landmass and walked up onto the beach on the other side. After a moment to regain his breath, he moved toward the streetlights, reaching a gap. Relief washed over him. He recognized it. He climbed the path to the deserted street. With the wind whistling and his body feeling the cold more acutely, he’d need to quickly get warm.
The windows of the houses—mostly vacation homes, according to Paulina—were dark. He cut along the side of the second house on his left and crossed the backyard to a vacant lot. He followed the waist-high stone fence to the fourth house in and climbed over the fence into the backyard. The rusted clothesline still whined as it spun in the wind. One of the windowpanes in the back door remained broken where an FSB officer had hit it with his elbow. Jenkins put his ear to the remaining glass panes, listening for any sounds—voices, a television or radio.
He reached into the opening, unlocked the door, and stepped inside. The house still smelled of must and stale air. He walked past the lime-green counter and stepped into the living room. No one. He confirmed that the rest of the house remained unoccupied. Hungry and thirsty, he went to the kitchen and checked the fridge. Empty. He checked each cabinet. Also bare. The water faucet produced no water. He stepped into the room off the kitchen, the one that had held the crate containing scuba gear. The crate had been removed. The Russians had emptied the house. Jenkins was amazed they hadn’t burned it to the ground.
In the living room, he unzipped and removed his survival suit. The cold air chilled him, raising goose bumps on his arms. He wished he could light a fire, but even if he had the materials to do so, he knew it would be a mistake. He searched the house for blankets, towels, anything. He found nothing. Tonight would be uncomfortable.
He retrieved the plastic bag and turned on the encrypted phone. It still worked. He pulled up his shirt and checked his side with the phone light but did not see any cuts or bruises, not yet anyway. He touched the skin with the tips of his fingers. It was tender, but he did not think he had cracked any ribs.
He sent Matt Lemore another encrypted message.
Have met with painting owner.
Jenkins set the phone on the floor, lay on the couch, and pulled the survival suit over his body. Exhausted, he closed his eyes, hoping sleep would come, if only for a few hours.
11
Three days after his inauspicious arrival in Vishnevka, Charles Jenkins drove a rented Range Rover into a parking garage beneath an office building in downtown Moscow. The weather had cooperated on his long drive into the city the prior day, when he’d performed a dry run of what he intended for today, if everything went according to plan.
An arctic blast brought clear skies and sunshine, but also bitter cold, dropping the temperature to just five degrees Fahrenheit. He noted the heating and ventilation van remained parked on the first floor near an exit. According to a worker he’d spoken to, the van would be there all week. He parked on the second level near an exit door and stepped from the SUV, feeling a twinge of pain in his side. He’d wrapped his torso with an elastic bandage, but his ribs remained sore.
He slipped
on a wool coat over the dark-gray suit he’d bought at a high-end department store, paying exorbitantly for expedited tailoring, along with a fitted shirt, tie, black dress shoes, and socks. Jenkins knew Russian men dressed as well as their salaries allowed, and he needed to impress upon the Union Bank of Switzerland that he did very well.
He walked into the salmon-colored mid-rise on Paveletskaya Ploshchad, across the Moskva River from the Kremlin, at 11:40 a.m., as planned, and crossed a lobby buzzing with people to the bank’s glass-door entrance. Up until this point, he had managed to remain anonymous. That was about to change.
He sent a text message to alert Lemore.
Entering freezer.
He typed a second message, but did not yet send it.
Inside the bank he approached the young, and hopefully inexperienced, male teller he’d picked out the prior day. The teller greeted Jenkins with a warm smile. He looked fifteen, with peach fuzz above his lip.
“Dobroye utro,” Jenkins said. Good morning. He had rehearsed this interaction in the bathroom mirror of the Vishnevka beach house until confident. “I wish to make a deposit,” he said, speaking Russian.
“S udovol’stviyem,” the bank teller replied. With pleasure. “I will need a photo identification.”
Jenkins put his Russian passport on the counter. The young man studied the photograph and looked up at Jenkins. “Mne nravitsya boroda,” he said. I like the beard.
“S ney litsu zimoy tepleye,” Jenkins said, returning the smile. It helps keep my face warm in the winter.
The young man rubbed at his peach fuzz. “Ne vsem tak povezlo.” Some of us are not so fortunate. He smiled and clicked his keyboard, his eyes shifting between the passport and his computer screen. He studied the account, and though he didn’t overtly show it, a subtle eye blink indicated he was impressed with the balance. Then he grimaced, no doubt noting the account had been frozen. “You said a deposit, correct?”
The Last Agent Page 6
