The Last Agent

by Robert Dugoni

  Jenkins stepped through glass doors and approached another young woman behind the counter. He informed her that he had just arrived after a long drive and was hoping she had an opening for a massage. The woman checked her computer terminal and advised that she would have an opening in roughly fifteen minutes.

  “Actually, my wife would like to join me. She’s in the room making telephone calls. I understand there’s a designated room for a couple’s massage?”

  “There is. The doors are marked. It will be door number three.”

  The woman handed Jenkins plush towels and invited him to change in an adjoining locker room. “I’ll let my wife know,” he said. “If you could be so kind as to direct her to the correct room when she arrives?”

  The woman said it would be her pleasure.

  Jenkins took the towels into the locker room, set them on a bench, and stepped out a door on the other side into a short, carpeted hall. Soft instrumental music played from overhead speakers, mood music to soothe and relax the guests. Jenkins hoped that was the case, because Viktor Federov had a big surprise coming.

  As he approached the door marked with a “3,” a man and a woman exited the room, closing the door behind them. They wore uniforms similar to the woman at the counter—khaki pants and yellow shirts with the spa logo above the right breast. The masseuses. Jenkins waited for them to depart the hall, then he slowly pushed open the door, revealing a room with see-through yellow curtains pulled closed across floor-to-ceiling windows. Snow-sprinkled lawn sloped to a pier extending into a glass-calm lake. A man and a woman occupied the two massage tables; the woman lay on the table to his left, the man to his right. Both looked to be asleep.

  Jenkins approached the man. A pale-red sheet covered his lower half. His upper half glistened with what was likely oil. Jenkins picked up a towel and walked to the side of the table, getting a look at the man’s face. Federov. Sound asleep.

  Jenkins gripped Federov’s shoulders and lowered his mouth to Federov’s ear. “Since you could not come to the United States, I decided to come to you,” he said.

  Federov’s eye opened and angled to look at Jenkins. Well-trained, the former FSB officer did not startle, sit up quickly, or lash out, knocking things over. Federov lifted his shoulders when Jenkins eased his grip. “Unless you wish the woman to know your true name, I would suggest discretion,” Jenkins whispered. “But I would also suggest expediency. The FSB is likely not far behind me.”

  Efimov had no idea whether the man they’d removed from the airplane was a CIA officer or MI6. Given his physical resemblance to Charles Jenkins, including his clothes, it seemed unlikely to have been a coincidence. Not that he had time to care. He had a singular purpose—find Charles Jenkins. That Efimov had grown up in Saint Petersburg with both Vladimir Putin and Dmitry Sokalov was largely the reason he had secured his current position. After the FSB had formally released the prisoner, the president had made it clear that, childhood friendships aside, he expected results, not excuses, if Efimov wished to retain his position. Putin had remained in a foul mood since Efimov had been unable to get any information out of Paulina Ponomayova, and the president did not like to be disappointed more than once.

  Efimov was certain Ponomayova had no information to give. If she did, he would have retrieved it. He remained convinced Ponomayova was either brain damaged from the car accident that led to her months-long hospitalization, or she had far less information than the FSB, and the president, had initially given her credit for. Efimov had always been particularly effective in his interrogations, and he refused to believe Ponomayova was his first failure.

  In the interests of time, and not wanting to create another possible incident depicting Russia’s perceived mistreatment of people of color—which would reflect badly on the administration—and predicting that the British man would have no information of value, Efimov had him released with apologies, and he turned his attention elsewhere.

  “What other leads do we have on Mr. Jenkins’s whereabouts?” Efimov asked Alekseyov from the back seat of the car as Volkov drove from the airport.

  “We have alerted the border patrol and provided the office with Jenkins’s recent picture as well as his known aliases.”

  “He can change his appearance, and he has already demonstrated he has many aliases. He will not use the same name twice,” Efimov said. “I asked what other leads we have.”

  Alekseyov flipped through pages of a spiral notepad, reading, then said, “When Mr. Jenkins went into the bank, he asked the vice president about a second account, one belonging to a Sergei Vasilyev.”

  “Call Lubyanka. Determine if they have learned anything more about Jenkins or this Vasilyev.”

  Minutes later, Alekseyov disconnected a cell phone call to Lubyanka. “They have identified credit card traffic for a Sergei Vladimirovich Vasilyev.”

  “Do you have an address?”

  “A pochtomat in a railway station in the Cheryomushki District,” Alekseyov said, referring to a machine with lockers where packages and mail could be left.

  Volkov turned his head to Alekseyov.

  “Something you wish to say, Arkady?” Efimov asked.

  “No,” Volkov said.

  “What were the most recent credit card charges?” Efimov asked.

  “Yesterday morning at 7:42 a.m., a charge was made at the M’Istral Hotel and Spa in Rozhdestveno.”

  “Did they get a photograph—a driver’s license?”

  “They have not found one.”

  Strange, Efimov thought.

  He checked his watch. “Call the hotel. Find out if Vasilyev remains a guest. If so, alert the local police. Provide them with the most recent photographs of Charles Jenkins. Tell them to establish a blockade outside the hotel, and to have every car entering or leaving stopped and searched.”

  Jenkins allowed Federov to swing his legs over the table and sit up. The Russian looked stunned. As Federov tied a towel around his waist, he looked over his shoulder at the woman. She stirred but turned her head away from them. Federov quickly slipped on his robe and slippers, then he nodded for Jenkins to follow him out of the room.

  They got just a few steps when the woman spoke.

  “Kuda vy?” Where are you going? The woman had lifted herself from the table, looking back at them. She sat up, the sheet slipping to her waist, and made no effort to cover herself.

  Federov approached her table, speaking softly, as if to soothe a child. “I’m afraid something has come up,” he said. “Business I must immediately attend to and cannot avoid.”

  He looked back at Jenkins, who motioned with his head to the exit.

  “I am sorry,” Federov said. “We need to move quickly now.”

  “No my tol’ko chto prishli,” she said. But we just got here.

  “I will make it up to you,” Federov said. “Come. Now we must go.”

  The woman stood up. She looked like a pouting teenager as she slid on a plush robe and tied it closed, then stepped into slippers.

  Federov led her by the arm to the hallway, Jenkins following. If the woman was curious about him, she didn’t ask. They walked from the spa across the pool deck. The young mother and her son were now seated on adjacent lounge chairs. The trio hurried the short distance to the hotel, and Federov summoned an elevator. When the car reached the ground floor and the doors opened, a man and a woman stepped off wearing matching hotel robes. Once they were in the elevator and the doors shut, Federov turned to Jenkins.

  “What are you doing here?” he said in English.

  Jenkins looked to the woman.

  “She does not speak English,” Federov said.

  “Looking for you,” Jenkins said.

  “Why?” Federov looked genuinely perplexed and concerned.

  “I need to ask you some questions.”

  The elevator stopped and a hotel employee in uniform stepped on. He smiled and wished them all a good day. The elevator proceeded to the top floor in silence. The man departed. Jen
kins followed Federov and the woman to double doors at the end of the hall. Federov used a card key from the pocket of his robe and stepped inside a plush suite with marble floors, cream-colored furniture, and flat-screen televisions.

  “Khvatay svoi veshchi, bystro,” Federov said to the woman. Grab your things, quickly.

  She moved slowly into the bedroom and removed a suitcase from the closet, shoving clothes into it—a lot of lingerie. She and Federov had not intended to leave the room often or for long.

  “How did you find me?” Federov asked, grabbing clothes from the closet.

  “You’re not going to be happy with me, I’m afraid,” Jenkins said.

  “How?” Federov asked again. He’d stopped packing.

  “I’ll tell you, but I think you better get dressed while I do. I’m not sure how much time we have.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Because, as I said, the FSB will not be far behind me.”

  “What did you do?” Federov asked, now sounding more concerned.

  “I made a deposit to my account at the Union Bank of Switzerland, obtained my signature card, and bribed the banker who opened the account to give me the name on the second account opened at the same time. Sergei Vasilyev?”

  “What?” Federov looked angry. “Why would you do that?”

  “I told you. I needed to find you.”

  “They put a trace on your account. The FSB would have been alerted.”

  “They were, trust me. They came to the bank. If they have my name, we have to assume they now have yours, or at least the name Sergei Vasilyev. It wasn’t difficult getting a trace on your credit card, which is why I don’t think we have a lot of time. If I could find you, we have to assume the FSB can as well.”

  “Shit!” Federov turned to the woman. “Bystreye, bystreye! My dolzhny idti.” Hurry, hurry! We must go.

  He quickly removed the towel and put on underpants, a T-shirt, and long pants. “Is this the thanks I get for giving you four million dollars?”

  “Yeah, about that. When the bank unfroze my account so I could make a deposit, the money was removed electronically.”

  “From your account.” Federov had stopped buttoning his pants.

  “Both accounts.”

  “You emptied my account?”

  Jenkins pointed to the belt buckle. “We don’t have a lot of time. Ask questions while you get dressed.”

  “Why would you empty my account?”

  “If I hadn’t emptied both accounts, the FSB would have frozen yours. I had to get the money out when I could.” This, Jenkins reasoned, was as good an answer as any to keep Federov from going ballistic.

  “Where is my money, Mr. Jenkins?”

  “Safe,” Jenkins said. He pointed. “You’re going to need shoes.”

  Federov sat on the bed, putting on socks. “Where?” he said, voice rising.

  “You’re going to have to trust me, Viktor.”

  “Trust you? You stole my money.”

  “Yeah, but in fairness, you stole it first. And I didn’t really steal it. It’s all still there. Just in a different place. We’ll have plenty of time to talk logistics when we get out of here. Do you have shoes?”

  Federov got up from the bed, swearing. He slipped his feet into boots, zipping them up the side.

  “I admit that it does look like I ruined a very promising weekend, and for that I’m sorry,” Jenkins said.

  Federov pulled open one of the mahogany cabinets and slipped a sweater over his head, then grabbed a long black leather jacket. “Do you have a car?”

  “I do, but there’s only one road into this place for miles, and if the FSB are smart, they’ll set up a roadblock at the gate and stop everyone who leaves.”

  “How do you propose that we get out of here?” Federov asked.

  Jenkins looked to the woman. “Can I assume you haven’t remarried?”

  “What? No. Of course not. She is whore.”

  “Can you trust her?”

  “She is a prostitute, Mr. Jenkins. I can pay her. That’s as far as her trust goes.”

  “Well, since I emptied our accounts and ruined your weekend, it seems right that I pay her.”

  Federov let out a deep breath. He rubbed a hand on his forehead. “If I lose my money or you expose me, I will kill you.”

  “Time’s wasting, Viktor. I’d save the threats for later.”

  15

  Efimov lowered the window in the back seat of the Mercedes as an officer exited one of two police cars parked on the road leading to the gated entrance of the M’Istral Hotel and Spa. The officer approached the driver’s-side window.

  “How long ago did you arrive on duty?” Efimov asked.

  “About half an hour ago,” the police officer said.

  “Has anyone left the spa since your arrival?”

  “Not since we arrived, no,” the officer said.

  “Any arrivals?”

  “Yes, but none matching the picture provided.”

  Efimov motioned for Volkov to drive to the security shack positioned at the gated entrance. The guard did not depart his booth, and Volkov held up his credentials. The gate swung open.

  As Volkov accelerated, Efimov said, “Wait.” Volkov stopped. “Go back.”

  Volkov reversed. The guard, looking confused, pulled open the door to his shack but again made no effort to get out. Efimov pushed open the back door of the Mercedes and stormed out. He grabbed the surprised guard by his collar and yanked him from his stool and the warmth of his booth, toppling the stool and tossing the young man onto the ground. The guard’s hat went sailing across the snow-covered ground.

  Efimov grabbed the young man by his jacket lapels and lifted him to his feet. “Is it not your job to check everyone who enters these hotel grounds?” Efimov elevated the guard so that he stood on his toes.

  “Yes,” the guard said, voice cracking.

  Efimov dragged the man to the car and snapped his fingers in the driver’s-side window. Volkov handed him a photograph of Charles Jenkins. Efimov held it up to the guard’s face. “Have you seen this man today? And I hope for your sake that you have.”

  “Da. He arrived about half an hour ago,” the guard stammered. “Maybe less.”

  “Did he say he was meeting someone?”

  “Da.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know. I . . . I need my checklist.”

  Efimov shoved him toward the guard booth. The guard stumbled, fell to a knee, then stood and retrieved a clipboard, quickly flipping the pages as he returned.

  “Sergei Vasilyev. He said he was a friend of Sergei Vasilyev.”

  Efimov said, “Did he tell you his name?”

  “Name?”

  “Yes. What name did he give you?”

  “I don’t recall.”

  “You didn’t write it down?”

  “No. I . . . Wait. It was . . . Volkov. He said his name was Volkov.”

  Efimov glanced at Volkov, who had turned his head to the guard at the mention of his name but otherwise provided no reaction. “Arkady Volkov?” Efimov asked.

  “Yes. Arkady Volkov. That was the name.”

  “Do not allow any car to leave the hotel grounds without the police stopping it. Is that understood?”

  “Yes.”

  “Retrieve your hat. If you are going to do a job, then do it well, or do not do it at all. Do you understand?”

  The guard nodded.

  Efimov returned to the back seat. “Drive,” he instructed Volkov. He folded the picture of Charles Jenkins and slipped it into his coat pocket as they drove up the cobblestone entry. “Why would Mr. Jenkins use your name, Arkady?”

  Volkov shrugged. “This I do not know.”

  “Why not just make up a name?”

  Neither Volkov nor Alekseyov answered.

  Volkov parked beneath the porte cochere and dealt with the valet while Efimov and Alekseyov hurried up the steps and crossed the marbled lobby to the reception desk. At Efi
mov’s instruction, Alekseyov flashed his identification to the young woman behind the counter. Efimov pulled out the picture of Jenkins from his coat pocket and unfolded it. “Have you seen this man today?”

  “Yes,” the woman said. “He said he had a business meeting with a guest and had been unable to reach him on his cell phone.”

  “Was the guest Sergei Vasilyev?”

  “Mr. Vasilyev was having a massage.”

  “Where is the spa?”

  “It is out back.” Efimov started from the counter when the woman again spoke. “But they are no longer there. They took the elevator perhaps twenty minutes ago.”

  “What is Sergei Vasilyev’s room number?”

  “I cannot give out that kind of information.”

  Efimov was in no mood. “Do you have a superior?” he asked.

  “I’m sorry?”

  He slapped the counter with the palm of his hand, making the woman jump back. “A superior . . . Do you have a supervisor, someone in a position of authority? I don’t care who, just get them out here now.”

  Flustered, the woman departed through the door behind the counter. Volkov entered the hotel and crossed to the reception desk. Efimov checked his watch. If the woman’s sense of time had been accurate, they were now just twenty minutes behind Jenkins. The young woman did not return, but a middle-aged man slipped on his coat and wiped the corner of his mouth with a napkin as he came through the door.

  “Can I help you?” the man asked.

  Alekseyov again flashed his identification, which caught the man’s attention.

  “Provide the room number for your guest Sergei Vasilyev,” Efimov said.

  “Yes, no problem.” The man typed on the computer. “Mr. Vasilyev is in the suite. It is on the top floor of the hotel.”

  “Take us. Bring a key.”

  Jenkins followed Federov and the woman into the hallway, where soft music filtered down from speakers in the ceiling, and directed them past the elevators to a door beneath an exit sign. He pushed it open, listening for a moment before they quickly shuffled down the steps. When they reached the ground floor, Jenkins again paused before he pushed the door open. He peered out at the lobby.