The Last Agent

by Robert Dugoni

  “Patience is one thing. Time is another. And I don’t have a lot of the latter, and that goes for Paulina as well. You said so yourself.”

  “Yes. This is true.” Federov looked to be caught in a thought. “Something else,” he said. “On my way out of Lubyanka I ran into Arkady Volkov, my former partner.”

  “I recall him,” Jenkins said. “The statue.”

  “Do not interpret silence to be a lack of intellect; Arkady is quiet, but that is because he believes one learns more from listening than speaking. He is also intuitive, which is my concern.”

  “Why?”

  “His silence makes him a hard man to know, but he said some things . . . things that seemed to have a purpose.”

  “About what?”

  “About you. About this case. I think Arkady might be the reason Efimov summoned me to his office.”

  “What did Volkov say?”

  “It was not so much what he said, but that he said anything at all. Arkady has a way he looks at you . . .”

  “Looks at you?”

  “In Russia, especially in Arkady’s time, you learned to be careful with your words. One never knew who was listening. Facial expressions conveyed much.”

  “So how did he look at you?”

  “He looked at me as if we would be seeing one another again.”

  “You’re friends.”

  “No.” Federov shook his head. “No. We were partners, but never really friends.”

  “Do you think he can be trusted?”

  “Arkady told me he is nearing retirement. Retirement on a government pension is not much. When one nears retirement in Russia, one contemplates more closely how one is to survive, ways to make money, such as ingratiating oneself with those in power.”

  “Efimov.”

  Federov nodded. “So, no, I would say Arkady cannot be trusted, any more than either of us trusts one another.”

  “I’d hoped we were getting past that, Viktor.”

  Federov smiled but did not otherwise respond.

  “Do you think Volkov has figured out you are Sergei Vasilyev? Did you ever discuss Carl Emerson’s money with Volkov?”

  “No. No discussions. By then Arkady was in a Russian hospital, by your hand.”

  “He could have been probing to determine what you know about me and my return.”

  “Probing?”

  “Questioning you.”

  “Possibly.”

  Jenkins sat back. It was a problem, but not the immediate one. “Let’s talk about Paulina, what you might say to her, if you get the chance to talk to her.”

  “Yes, let’s talk about that. And let’s also talk about how much more it is going to cost you.”

  20

  For the next several days, Jenkins remained almost exclusively inside Federov’s apartment, rarely venturing outside. He imagined it was a bit like how Anne Frank and her relatives had existed, living in fear of being discovered, in a few rooms in an attic—keeping one’s voice down, moving only as necessary during the day, and worrying that at any moment someone would kick in the door and arrest him.

  Efimov had not called, and with each passing hour it seemed less likely he would, and that perhaps their best chance to possibly get Ponomayova out was slipping away. To keep from going stir-crazy, Jenkins and Federov played chess; Jenkins had learned the game at a young age from his grandfather, and at one time considered himself a good player, but he had not played in many years, and the rust showed. Federov beat him handily. By the end of the second day, however, Jenkins had remembered much of what his grandfather taught him, and the games became much more competitive, or so he thought. Federov suggested they play for money. The amount was nominal, five hundred rubles a game. Jenkins soon realized Federov had been toying with him—giving Jenkins a false sense of hope to win his money. The Russian was highly competitive. He liked to win. Jenkins filed that away, along with something else he’d learned.

  Never to fully trust Federov.

  At night, Jenkins walked outside to break the monotony and to call home. The brisk weather helped to clear his thoughts, and the walk alone provided time to think. He talked to Alex and to CJ and listened to Lizzie yelling gibberish in the background. The calls were short, and he and Alex did their best to get in as much as they could, without saying anything of import. Jenkins missed them all and wondered often if this had been the right choice. He also called Matt Lemore, providing him with updates, but until Federov was given permission to talk to Paulina and determine her physical and mental status, Lemore’s hands were also tied.

  Federov grocery-shopped, mostly for prepared meals. His cooking stunk. And though Jenkins and Federov spent long hours together, Jenkins thought of Federov the way his father, who’d suffered two heart attacks, had thought of death. We’re acquainted, but we ain’t friends.

  Jenkins reminded himself often that Federov had $10 million at stake, and that the price would undoubtedly increase if Federov successfully convinced Efimov to let him interview Paulina at Lubyanka, or some other place outside of Lefortovo.

  On the third night, as Jenkins sat on the couch reading, Federov’s cell phone rang. He looked to Jenkins. “FSB,” he said. Answering, he listened intently. Then he said, “I will be there. Da. If she knows anything, I will—” He disconnected, but clearly the caller had cut him off. He looked again to Jenkins, exhaling a held breath. “Be careful what it is that you wish for. That is the saying?”

  “Something like that,” Jenkins said.

  “Tomorrow I go to Lefortovo. Ya nadeyus’, radi nas oboikh, chto eto ne bilet v odin konets.” I hope, for both our sakes, it is not a one-way ticket.

  Lefortovo Prison, built close to the Kremlin, had a long, violent history since it opened in 1883. Federov, a history buff, knew the prison had housed political prisoners dating back to the Bolshevik revolution, and that those prisoners had been systematically executed after years of torture to coerce them to confess their “crimes.” A similar “Great Terror” occurred during Joseph Stalin’s reign. Prison conditions reported by those few who had been allowed to tour the facility were said to have remained markedly consistent with those barbarous times.

  He also knew from half a dozen occasions speaking to prisoners within Lefortovo that Ponomayova would be subjected to isolation, inconsistent exposure to total darkness and bright lights, insufficient food and blankets, constant surveillance, and controlled access to bathrooms and to cold showers. The worst, however, was not the physical mistreatment, but the psychological impact of those conditions on all but the mentally strongest prisoners.

  Upon his arrival at the prison, Federov filled out enough paperwork to kill a small forest, then passed through metal detectors and locked portals, despite his presence at the prison having been approved by Dmitry Sokalov. Once these rituals were completed, he was escorted through cell blocks with brown carpeting, the presence of which, he deduced, dampened sound. With each step he descended into the prison, he became more anxious, wondering if his permission to interrogate Ponomayova was just a ruse, if the FSB was onto him, and if he was about to be thrown into a cell, interrogated, and tortured.

  A second guard opened a door to a windowless, poorly lit room with a small metal table and chair and a footstool, beneath a single overhead light. The guard told Federov to wait.

  “Where would I go?” Federov asked, trying to lighten the atmosphere.

  The guard did not respond—or smile.

  The room was stifling hot and smelled of perspiration. Federov pulled out the chair, the legs making a hellacious screeching noise against the concrete, unbuttoned his suit jacket, and sat. He looked to the right corner of the ceiling, to a camera with a red light. When he moved, the light turned green. He opened his briefcase, which had also been searched, and took out the folder on Paulina Ponomayova he had read so many times he had nearly memorized it. The file had been added to since Federov last possessed it. It described Ponomayova’s serious injuries from the car crash and her
time at Lefortovo. It also described Efimov’s efforts to extract information. Despite her injuries, which Efimov had exploited, and despite other trusted techniques, Ponomayova had not spoken.

  Remarkable, Federov thought. He had heard of hardened foreign agents breaking down and crying like children inside Lefortovo. On a page of his report, Efimov had written:

  Despite my employing proven techniques, Ponomayova has refused to speak or to identify any of the women in the photographs shown to her to be members of the seven sisters. She has no family or relatives to be used as leverage, and seemingly no fear of dying. Her attitude could best be described as recalcitrant, but that intimates acting or speaking with an intent, and the prisoner displays none. She either has been mentally compromised due to injuries sustained in the car accident or she is projecting that to be the case. I believe it to be the former. I have yet to encounter a prisoner this mentally strong and do not believe her to be the first. She has not uttered a single word.

  Federov set the file to one side of the table. It confirmed what he had suspected. Efimov had never failed to get what he wanted, and he did not believe anyone else could do better. He expected Federov to fail, thereby absolving his own failure.

  Minutes passed before the guard again opened the door and escorted a woman into the room—her hands cuffed to a belly chain. A second chain descended from her wrists to ankle cuffs, rattling and scraping the concrete floor. The woman had her head lowered, but from what Federov could see, and from what he could recall, she looked nothing like the bloodied woman collapsed over the steering wheel of the car in Vishnevka. Her hair had been shaved and she looked as small and frail as a terminally ill child. She wore black-framed glasses too big for her face, and the sleeves and pant legs of her blue jumpsuit had each been rolled multiple times. She also walked with a pronounced limp.

  The guards sat her on the footstool and locked her chain to a ring cemented to the floor, then retreated to the corners of the room where, Federov realized, they would not be filmed.

  Federov’s eyes shifted to the camera. The red light had again turned green.

  He stared at the top of the woman’s bowed head and deliberately tapped his pen on the table. The noise had no effect on her. Her gaze remained fixed on the ground.

  “You are Paulina Ponomayova?” he said.

  The woman did not respond, not verbally and not physically.

  Federov flipped open the cover of the file and pulled a black-and-white photograph from a clip on the inside cover, studying the picture Ponomayova had used on her FSB identification card. She had been an attractive, middle-aged woman with light-brown hair and sharp features.

  Deliberately, he slid the photograph across the table where she could see it.

  “Are you Paulina Ponomayova?” he asked again, his voice even and soft.

  Again, she did not respond.

  One of the guards stepped from the corner of the room, but Federov caught his gaze and gave him a slow, subtle headshake. The guard retreated. A good sign. Federov was respected as an FSB officer.

  “I am Colonel Viktor Federov, Ms. Ponomayova. Do you remember me?”

  No response.

  “I chased you and Charles Jenkins across Russia to Vishnevka. We were acquainted when you crashed your car into a tree while attempting to flee.”

  No response.

  “I did, however, manage to save your life.”

  Nothing.

  “You were creating a diversion intended to allow Charles Jenkins to escape by boat to Turkey, were you not?”

  Nothing.

  “You failed.”

  Not even an eyeblink.

  “We apprehended Mr. Jenkins at the safe house in Vishnevka. He has been a political prisoner here in Lefortovo since that day. His country denies any knowledge of his being in Moscow and has made no overtures seeking his return. At first, we believed this was indicative of a low-level officer. Now we are not so certain. Like you, Mr. Jenkins was recalcitrant, but in time he saw the wisdom of speaking to us. He told us that he came to Russia to determine the identity of the individual supplying us with the names of the seven sisters, so that individual could be terminated. In this, he failed. Our contact has since provided us with the names of the remaining four sisters and they, too, are now prisoners here in Lefortovo.”

  Again, nothing.

  “We do not believe there is anything more to be obtained from Mr. Jenkins. He has no value to us. We wish only that you confirm what he has already disclosed to be the truth. If you will do so, we will return him to the United States, to his family . . . to his wife and to his son.”

  Federov paused, keenly aware of the camera lens in the corner of the room. He perspired beneath his shirt, and the stagnant air became difficult to breathe.

  He was about to continue, when . . . subtly, slowly, Ponomayova raised her gaze, meeting his.

  Federov saw an opportunity for a breakthrough. “If you do not assist us, Mr. Jenkins will remain here in Lefortovo and will never again see his wife or his son.”

  Ponomayova’s gaze searched Federov’s face, as he and Jenkins had hoped. He shifted his eyes, for just a brief moment, to the camera in the corner of the room, to impart that they were being filmed. “Do you understand what I am saying to you?”

  She stared at him, and Federov hoped she had picked up on the subtlety of his question. He had left out the fact that Jenkins had told Ponomayova in Vishnevka that his wife had been pregnant, and Ponomayova had predicted they would have a girl, a fact of particular import to her valiant attempt to get him home.

  Federov saw something in Ponomayova’s eyes. Was it an acknowledgment? He was about to speak when Ponomayova uttered her first word since arriving at Lefortovo, which gave Federov a success Efimov had never achieved.

  “Da,” she said softly.

  21

  Federov returned to his apartment shortly after nightfall and went immediately to the cabinet in the kitchen, removing the Scotch and pouring himself a drink. He spent much of the next hour advising Jenkins of what had happened when he’d attempted to speak to Ponomayova, a six-hour grind that had elicited only the one-word response, giving him a leg up on Efimov and proving that Ponomayova had not suffered brain damage.

  Federov poured himself a second Scotch and held the glass up to Jenkins. Jenkins declined. Federov took the glass to the living room and sat. “I believe she was trying to determine why I had not mentioned your wife’s pregnancy or subsequent birth. As with Arkady, it was less what she said and more the look on her face. I told you, in Russia a facial expression can convey more than a thousand words. I looked to the camera in the corner of her room to let her know we were being filmed.”

  “And that was when she told you she understood.”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s a start.”

  “Yes, but I fear it will not go far with Efimov. He will not easily concede that someone can do what he could not.”

  “You already have,” Jenkins said.

  “Which is why he will be ever more vigilant,” Federov said.

  “What was his response when you told him?” Jenkins asked.

  “Little. But he cared. He cared because he will have to tell the deputy director and the president that I succeeded where he failed. But a one-word answer is not going to buy me much more time with Ponomayova—I can also tell you that. And if I cannot get her to respond to my questions, then I am of no use to Efimov. He will dismiss me and go in another direction.”

  Throughout the remainder of the evening, Jenkins thought back to his conversations with Paulina, the things he’d told her, things only she would know, and what she had told him, hoping that if Federov fed them to her, it would gain her trust and she would talk, giving him and Lemore time to finalize plans.

  “The FSB understands I came here to identify the person exposing the seven sisters, does it not?” Jenkins asked as they ate dinner.

  “That was our understanding.”

  “And you s
aid Efimov’s interrogation was primarily because the FSB believed Paulina knew the identity of the remaining four of the seven.”

  “Efimov told me this himself.”

  “He showed her photographs?”

  “It is in his report.”

  Jenkins paced an area behind the couch, near the fireplace. “Okay, so what if you brought in those same mug shots of women for Paulina to consider—”

  “I don’t see—”

  “And in that stack, you handed her a photograph of me holding my baby girl.” Jenkins pulled his wallet from his pocket and removed a picture of him holding Lizzie.

  “Again, not likely. My briefcase and all my materials are searched before I am allowed into the room and when I depart. And again, anything I produce in the interview would be seen by the camera.”

  Jenkins continued brainstorming, thinking out loud and hoping something good developed. “Is there any portion of the room not within the camera’s coverage?”

  “The back of the room, but her guards remain there throughout the interrogation.”

  “Can you get rid of them?”

  “Not likely. What are you proposing?”

  “Some way to get the picture in front of her, to prove that I am not in Lefortovo, and to confirm that you intended to get her a message from me.”

  Federov waved him off. “This is not possible. Not with the camera. I am not a magician.”

  Jenkins stopped pacing, struck by another memory from his youth. “You wore your suit?”

  “What?”

  “A suit. You wore a suit.”

  “You saw me. Yes, I wore my suit.”

  “Did they search you?”

  “I told you. They searched—”

  “No. Did they search your body, your clothes, your pockets?”

  “I passed through a metal detector.”

  “But did they physically search you?”

  “Not physically, no.”

  “Sit down.”

  “What?”