The Last Agent

by Robert Dugoni

  “Where?” The officer looked past Jenkins, to the throng of people into which Paulina had been absorbed.

  Jenkins held up his ticket. “I believe it is platform nine?”

  The officer checked the ticket. “You’re going to be close,” he said. “Grab my arm.” Jenkins did so, and the officer walked him quickly across the hall to an escalator that descended to a paved platform open to the weather. A police escort. Jenkins smiled.

  On the platform, passengers hurried to get on a sleek, white Sapsan train. A crew member in a long gray coat and matching hat with a red brim checked a final passenger’s ticket and passport at the door, then turned to go inside the train.

  “Wait!” the officer called out. He grabbed Jenkins’s ticket and handed it to the man.

  “Do you have identification?” the conductor said.

  Jenkins looked to the windows on his right. Paulina walked down the car toward the back of the train. Behind him, a low whistle signaled the arrival of another train on the adjacent platform. A crowd awaited it.

  “Dayte cheloveku sest’ v poyezd, poka on ne uyekhal bez nego,” the officer helping Jenkins said. Let the man on the train before it leaves without him.

  The crew member nodded. “Yes. Yes. Come on then. Do you need help finding your seat?”

  “I wish to use the bathroom,” Jenkins said.

  The conductor moaned. “All right. But be quick about taking your seat. The train leaves in less than three minutes.”

  “Then I shall have no choice.” Jenkins turned to his escort and thanked him. “Spasibo.”

  “Pozhaluysta,” the officer said. “Udachnoy poyezdki.” Have a good trip.

  The employee helped Jenkins aboard. A glass door between the cars slid open, and Jenkins stepped to the bathroom.

  “Do you wish for me to help you?” the conductor asked.

  Jenkins bristled. “Do you wish to hold my dick?”

  The young man quickly backtracked. “I meant only—”

  “If you’ll excuse me,” Jenkins said. “I believe you said I do not have much time.”

  Embarrassed, the man turned and went back into the car.

  Across the platform, passengers departed from the train. It would be close.

  29

  Efimov issued orders from the back seat of the black Mercedes as it sped up Academician Sakharov Avenue toward Leningradsky station, lights flashing and siren wailing. The drive from the Lubyanka building was ordinarily fifteen minutes, but more likely seven given the speed they traveled, despite the persistent poor weather.

  Efimov held the roof handle while talking with Alekseyov, who was on the speakerphone to Lubyanka. An analyst was reporting on a number of persons, each dressed similarly to Jenkins and Ponomayova, walking into each of the three train stations, Yaroslavsky, Kazansky, and Leningradsky. Others, similarly dressed, had also entered the Kiyevsky railway station, the Kurskiy Vokzal station, the Belorussky station, and several of the other dozen stations located in the same area.

  “Camera footage shows two people . . . Ponomayova and Jenkins going inside the main terminal of Leningradsky station and moving toward platform nine, but officers inside the station are reporting multiple sightings walking in the direction of multiple platforms. Reports from the other stations are the same. Moscow police are overwhelmed,” the analyst said.

  “Which is exactly what Mr. Jenkins is trying to do,” Efimov shot back. “Maintain focus on the people who exited the side of the building.”

  “We have tried.” The analyst sounded stressed. “But there have been—”

  “Do not give me excuses. Tell me where you have tracked them,” Efimov said.

  “Leningradsky.”

  “Can they be tracked inside the terminal?” Efimov asked.

  The analyst said, “Maybe. But one of the women is walking without a limp.”

  Efimov shuffled the information in his head. It seemed too easy a mistake to make for someone trying to emulate Ponomayova. “To which platform?”

  “Platform nine. The train is scheduled to depart for Pskov at 1:15 p.m.”

  Efimov gave that information a moment of thought. It made sense. “Mr. Jenkins is headed for Estonia,” he said. “The border is vast and can be breached by land or by crossing Lake Pihkva. Alert Moscow police to platform nine.”

  Alekseyov said, “Yes, but can we be sure?”

  Efimov ignored him and checked his watch. 1:11 p.m.

  “Do you want me to call the station and have the train delayed?” Alekseyov asked.

  “By the time you spoke to the person with such authority, if you were able to reach them, it would be too late. It would also not be wise. The railway adheres to strict promptness.”

  Efimov had read of trains waiting outside stations to ensure they arrived precisely on schedule. He barked at the analyst, “Do as I said. Alert Moscow police at Leningradsky. Tell them to get to platform nine before the train departs and to remove Ponomayova and Jenkins.”

  “But what of all the others similarly dressed?” the analyst said.

  “Have Moscow police intercept as many as they can.”

  The driver came to Kalanchevskaya Ulitsa, a one-way street in the wrong direction they were traveling.

  “Turn right,” Efimov ordered.

  “It is one way.”

  Efimov slapped the back of the seat. “Do it.”

  The driver turned, the car’s lights flashing. Its siren wailing. Cars parted and veered quickly to the curb. When the Mercedes reached Leningradsky station, Efimov hurried up the snow-trampled steps, barking out orders. The Moscow police quickly fell in line and escorted him and Alekseyov into the building and past metal detectors. The procession hurried across the crowded main terminal, commuters moving quickly to get out of its way. Those who didn’t were bumped and shoved, a few knocked over.

  Efimov checked his watch. 1:14. They had one minute.

  The group quickly descended a staircase, reaching platform nine just as the white Sapsan train lurched forward, leaving the station precisely at 1:15 p.m.

  30

  Viktor Federov knew well that Big Brother had returned to Russia, though the method of spying—once Russians reporting on fellow Russians—now employed computer technology, cameras, and cell phones. He utilized every counterintelligence skill he knew to spread misinformation and circumvent the FSB’s ability to track him. He had planned for the possibility of this day, when he would have to flee Moscow, though it had come much sooner than he had anticipated.

  He got on and off buses and trolley cars, left behind cell phones, and routinely changed clothing and disguises at designated lockers where he had also stashed rubles, euros, and dollars, as well as different forms of identification and passports from multiple countries.

  Satisfied he had successfully evaded surveillance, he set to completing two personal tasks before leaving Russia forever, hopefully to live out the remainder of his life in anonymity and wealth—though he knew nothing was guaranteed. Putin’s vengefulness was extreme—and patient. Federov would forever need to be on guard.

  What bothered Federov more than living the life of an exile was the knowledge that he would not likely see his daughters or grandchildren again, not unless they, too, left Russia. Since being let go by the FSB, he had sought to change his daughters’ perception of him, to spend time with them, but they had been understandably distrustful and reluctant. They each held a grudge, and rightfully so.

  Still, he would not validate their perception of him by leaving without saying goodbye, and he would not do so in a letter or a text message, as he had done too often when he’d missed their birthday parties and other special occasions. He’d always promised to do better. He never did.

  Now, at least, he had the financial ability to do something for each of them, if not the time; something to let them know that while he had not always been present, he had never stopped loving them. Something that, when his daughters thought of him . . . if they thought of him . . .
they would do so with fondness. To Renata he would leave his two-bedroom apartment, which was much nicer than her studio apartment and convenient to the theaters at which she plied her trade. To his daughter Tiana he would leave enough money to pay for his grandchildren’s education, hopefully ensuring them a good life.

  With the wind gusting and the snow swirling, Federov walked to the back of the Vakhtangov Theatre on Arbat Street. Renata had secured a minor role in the cast of the play Anna Karenina and would be in rehearsal. The last time they spoke, Renata advised that she had a small singing part and hoped this opportunity would be the one on which to build her career. Federov didn’t have the heart to tell her that showcasing her voice could do more to hurt than to help her career.

  He sucked down a last breath of nicotine and tossed the cigarette butt into the alley, which gave him a moment to ensure no one else was around. He reached into his coat pocket and retrieved a hotel key card, jimmied the lock of the theater’s back door, and stepped inside the building. The hallway beneath the stage smelled of must and body odor. Above him faint voices spoke, and muted musical instruments played. He would need to act quickly, hoping to find Renata in the actors’ green room. He would tell her only that he had to leave, and that while he hoped to see her perform again someday, it would not be this night. If she cared enough to ask why not, he would tell her it would be better for her if she did not know where he was going or what he intended. Then he would hand her the envelope, ask her not to open it until he had departed, and tell her he wanted only for her to know that he loved her, despite his poor performance in the role of her father.

  Federov stepped to the staircase just below the rehearsal stage. Above him the muffled sounds of actors became more pronounced, footfalls on the stage floor, instruments playing, voices speaking. When the instruments reached a crescendo, Federov took a step up, thought he heard a noise behind him, and instinctively reached into his black leather coat for his pistol, though not quickly enough. Not this time.

  A dull thud impacted the back of his skull.

  Efimov and Alekseyov flew above a stark, white Russian Orthodox church, its gold, onion-shaped domes fading in winter’s dull-gray light. The wind gusted as the helicopter pilot struggled to touch down in a parking lot behind the church, close to the Tver train station. The station stood in stark contrast to the ornate church: a glass-and-concrete testament to Soviet architecture—functional and without visual appeal. As if to emphasize this, a hideous red stripe adorned the front of the building, advertising a Kentucky Fried Chicken outlet inside the train terminal.

  Efimov and Alekseyov had arrived in just under one hour and thirty minutes, a little more than ten minutes ahead of the train’s scheduled arrival in Tver, the first stop on the route to Pskov. A dozen Tver police officers, hands raised to deflect the wind generated from the helicopter blades, stood beneath an awning protecting the station’s concrete steps from the weather.

  “Wait here,” Efimov shouted to the pilot through his headset.

  The pilot shook his head. “The weather won’t allow it. The storm is getting worse. They’re grounding flights out of Moscow and Saint Petersburg. If I don’t get back to Moscow now, I won’t get back at all.”

  Though unhappy, Efimov realized there was little he could do. He and Alekseyov stepped from the helicopter, ducking beneath the swirling blades, and hurried to the train station. Ilya Vinogradoff introduced himself as the officer in charge. He and Efimov had engaged in an extended telephone conversation during the helicopter ride. Vinogradoff had a head of silver hair, a protruding stomach, and an officious demeanor no doubt intended to impress. It didn’t.

  They entered the train station, maneuvering around potted palm trees beneath a mosaic mural depicting important sites and events in Tver’s history. “The train will be on time,” Vinogradoff said, checking his watch. “I have spoken with the president of the Russian Railways and confirmed your instructions. The bathrooms on the train are to be shut down ten minutes before the train’s arrival. The passengers will be detained.”

  Efimov looked about the empty platform. “When the train arrives, I want officers to enter each car—two at the front and two at the rear. They will work their way toward the middle, checking passports and tickets. They have been provided the photographs we forwarded to you?”

  Vinogradoff nodded. “They have,” he said.

  “I want additional officers outside the doors of each car and, also, here, at this exit,” Efimov continued. He turned to Alekseyov. “Since you are the most familiar with Mr. Jenkins and Ms. Ponomayova, you will enter the first car and work your way to the back.”

  Alekseyov nodded but did not speak. He looked uncertain.

  Efimov gave him a second look. He did not have time to be second-guessed. “You wish to say something?”

  “I am just wondering . . . whether this is too easy?”

  “Too easy? We have flown in a storm to get here.”

  “Viktor Federov and I similarly followed Mr. Jenkins to a hotel in Turkey where we were certain we would apprehend him. We did not.”

  “The bus of which you speak made multiple stops before it arrived in Bursa, did it not?” Efimov asked, having read the report.

  “Yes.”

  “That is not the situation here.”

  “No. It is not,” Alekseyov said. “But then, we were not trying to decide between multiple targets either.”

  Efimov did not have time to debate the young agent. In his reports, Federov had written several times that Jenkins had formidable and intuitive counterintelligence skills. Efimov believed that to be part of the problem; Federov had given Jenkins far too much credit and thus he had been far too cautious. Efimov also discredited much of what Federov had written, believing Federov had used this to cover his ass, attempting to provide an excuse for his failure. His most recent actions further put the contents of those reports in doubt.

  As for the shell game Jenkins had played, first with the ambulances and then with the disguises, time would tell whether the analyst had kept his eye on the prize or had become confused. During their helicopter ride, Moscow police reported detaining a number of the look-alikes, none of whom had been Jenkins or Ponomayova. As with any shell game, Efimov would not be certain until he had removed the final shell.

  “Do as I have instructed,” he said to the officers. To Alekseyov he said, “Have you heard from Volkov?”

  Alekseyov shook his head.

  Efimov would deal with Federov in good time.

  31

  Federov awoke feeling disoriented and confused, his vision blurred and distorted. The glow of a light emanated from somewhere above him, dull and yellow, and he detected a familiar tobacco smell, sharp and bitter, though he couldn’t recall how or from where he knew the smell. He tried to move his hands and realized they had been bound behind his back.

  As his senses slowly returned, so, too, did his understanding of his circumstances. He sat in a metal chair, his jacket removed, the holster beneath his left arm empty. He initially surmised from the windowless, bare concrete walls that he was in a cell, perhaps in the basement of Lefortovo, then realized that the room, like the tobacco smell, was familiar.

  It was the room beneath the Vakhtangov Theatre—the same room in which he and Arkady Volkov had once interrogated Charles Jenkins.

  Across the room someone had placed a briefcase beside a single metal chair. A noise behind him drew Federov’s attention, but he could not turn his head sufficiently to see who had made it. A man entered his peripheral vision. Federov had seen that lumbering walk and block-like physique almost every day for nine years. He recognized the bittersweet aroma of Belomorkanal cigarettes.

  Arkady.

  Arkady sat in the chair, the cigarette in his right hand leaving a smoke stream in the room’s stagnant air. Federov didn’t know whether to greet him or to remain silent. His perception of their meeting in the elevator had proven accurate. Arkady had known more than he had let on.


  “I assume you recognize the room,” Arkady said, his voice soft, sounding almost hoarse. Smoke curled from his lips as he spoke each word.

  Federov nodded, uncertain. “Yes,” he said.

  “We didn’t have much success,” Arkady said, as if reading Federov’s mind. “With Mr. Jenkins.”

  Federov continued to gauge Arkady’s actions, the tone of his voice. “We did our best, Arkady.”

  Arkady nodded but said, “Sometimes I wonder.” His face retreated from the circumference of light into the shadows. He raised the cigarette to his lips. The end burned a blood red. A moment later he released another thick cloud of smoke.

  “Why am I here, Arkady?”

  His former partner did not immediately answer. He leaned forward, but his stoic facial expression revealed little. After a moment, he placed his forearms on his thighs. “I’ve wondered that myself,” he said. “We’re here because you got careless, Viktor. Because I suspected you would be careless, though I hoped you would not. I do not know your motive—perhaps guilt. Maybe regret. Maybe a final chance to make peace with your daughter before you left?”

  Federov did not respond.

  “Guilt, you once told me, Viktor, is a powerful motivator but a poor rationale for one’s actions.”

  “You make me sound more profound than I feel at the moment.”

  Arkady stood. He crushed the cigarette butt beneath the sole of his black dress shoe. “You had to know that once Efimov suspected your involvement, he would ask me everything I knew of you, including your relationship with your ex-wife and with your two daughters—that he would probe me for any weakness to exploit. You had to know this, Viktor.”

  “Yes. I suppose I did.”

  Arkady spoke as if he hadn’t heard the response. “I couldn’t very well say you had none. We worked together a long time, Viktor, many years. And, of course, every man has a weakness. You also know this.” Arkady exhaled and looked to the door. “I told Efimov it was a waste of time, that the Viktor Federov I knew would never make a mistake we could exploit.” Arkady shook his head. “Apparently I was wrong. Regrettably. What has happened to you, Viktor?”