The Last Agent

by Robert Dugoni

  “Vy slishkom toropites’, gospozha Ponomayova,” the man said. You are in too big a rush, Ms. Ponomayova.

  34

  The side of Charles Jenkins’s face burned where the police officers had shoved it against the concrete ground. Voices yelled all around him, too many and too quickly for Jenkins to understand everything being said. After securing his hands behind his back, the officers pulled him to his feet and slid a sack over his head. They gripped each bicep and half dragged, half carried him up the escalator. When they reached the top, Jenkins stumbled and nearly fell, but the officers held him upright, and he got his feet beneath him. They pulled him forward, moving quickly now, a fast jog. He nearly fell a second time when he missed a step he could not see. The misstep caused him to wrench his back, pain flaring down his right leg. He grimaced and collapsed to his knees, but again only momentarily. The officers yanked him to his feet and moved him forward.

  Men shouted instructions for doors to be opened. The crowd noise dissipated. The shoving and pulling stopped. A key turned in a door lock. The officers shoved him and he fell forward, landing hard on his shoulder, his head hitting the floor. This time it was carpeted. But this time the officers did not lift him to his feet. The door slammed shut. Keys again in the lock.

  Jenkins had not felt the rush of cold air. He had not felt or heard the snow or the wind, which meant he had not been brought outside. He was still within the rail station, not yet in the custody of the FSB or Adam Efimov.

  A good thing.

  Enveloped in darkness, locked in a room with his hands zip-tied behind his back and armed officers outside the door, it was a small consolation.

  Before Paulina, too weak to do much of anything, had a chance to react, the man forced her down the street and shoved her into the back seat of a car. The door slammed shut and the driver’s door quickly pulled open, though the overhead light did not illuminate. The inside of the car was warm, as if it had just been driven, and it smelled of fresh cigarette smoke.

  The man started the car and quickly pulled from the curb. He wore a baseball cap seated low on his brow and thick-framed glasses. A street sign she saw out the car window indicated Nevsky Prospekt. Paulina sat up and contemplated reaching over the seat and trying to choke the driver. She also contemplated pushing open the door and rolling into the snow, but where would she go? And how far could she get in her current condition and this weather?

  The driver glanced in the rearview mirror and spoke as if reading her mind. “I would suggest you keep to the floor, Ms. Ponomayova. We don’t have much time, and neither does Mr. Jenkins.”

  She recognized the voice, though not the face in the darkened interior. “Federov?”

  “Tell me what happened inside the train station,” Federov said.

  “Why are you here?”

  “That is a question for another day, perhaps. Now is not the time. We must act quickly if we are going to act at all. Tell me what happened.”

  Paulina did so.

  “These men were all in uniform?”

  “Yes.”

  “All of them?” he asked again, more insistent.

  “Those that I saw, yes.”

  “Then we still have a chance.” Federov made a turn and pulled to a stop at the snow-covered curb. He handed Paulina a street map of Saint Petersburg that looked to have been torn from a tourist pamphlet. It had an X on it. “If I am successful, Mr. Jenkins and I will not get far without a car, but we cannot risk having the car followed from the station. We will meet you here.” He pointed to the map.

  “Tikhvin Cemetery?” she said.

  “The cemetery is just under two kilometers from the train station. Just before it, in the roundabout, you will come to a monument to Alexander Nevsky. To the left of that monument is a narrow road. Park there. You will be well hidden. An hour. Wait no more.” Federov pushed out of the car.

  “What if you’re not there?”

  Federov shrugged. “Mr. Jenkins gave you instructions . . . where to go?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then do as you have been told.”

  When advised that neither Jenkins nor Ponomayova was on the Tver train, Efimov had quickly studied the Leningradsky train schedule and concluded they had exited the train before it left the station and boarded the train leaving platform eight at roughly the same time. That train was traveling nonstop to Saint Petersburg. A subsequent review of videotape streamed from Lubyanka proved Efimov’s intuition to have been accurate. Ponomayova, then Jenkins, had entered the train to Pskov, but minutes later, each had emerged at the back of the last car wearing a different disguise, and they blended into commuters rushing to and from the train bound to Saint Petersburg.

  Alekseyov had been correct about one thing. It had been too easy.

  Perhaps there had been some truth to Federov’s reports. Efimov did not have time to analyze it now. With the first mystery solved, their next immediate problem was getting to Saint Petersburg. As the helicopter pilot had warned, the heavy snowfall, darkening cloud cover, and gusting wind had closed the M10 highway into Saint Petersburg and grounded helicopters and commercial and private airplanes. Even if flying were possible, getting to an airport in the current weather, locating a crew, then flying the one hour and thirty minutes of airtime into Saint Petersburg, followed by a commute from the airport to the train station, would take more time than a train to the Moskovsky station. As much as Efimov did not want to sit idly, the train was their best and only real option.

  Efimov watched Alekseyov disconnect the call to Lubyanka and make his way down the center aisle of the train car. “Reception is very poor, but from what I could hear, the Saint Petersburg police have arrested Charles Jenkins.”

  Efimov shot him a look. “What of Ponomayova?”

  “She remains at large.”

  “How?” Efimov asked.

  “Again, I had difficulty hearing, but the Saint Petersburg police missed the train’s arrival by a minute or two. Passengers had already deboarded. They arrested Mr. Jenkins as he ascended a staircase. Ponomayova was not with him.”

  “He was alone?”

  “So I am told.”

  “Jenkins would not have left Ponomayova to travel alone. He would be concerned about her health. She is in Saint Petersburg, but with the weather getting worse, she could not have gotten far, even with help,” he said. “Blizzards in Saint Petersburg shut down traffic and freeze the bay. Her options of escape will be severely limited. Where is Mr. Jenkins now?”

  “The police have him locked in a room at Moskovsky. Do you wish for me to contact the office in Saint Petersburg and have Mr. Jenkins transported to the Big House?” Alekseyov asked, referring to the FSB building on Liteyny Avenue.

  “And shall we tell the whole world of our incompetence?” Efimov asked. “That we allowed two spies to escape Moscow?”

  “I only meant—”

  “I know what you meant.” The storm had, at least, provided Efimov an excuse to avoid calling Sokalov and advising him of the latest misstep. “Are you not here only because Viktor Federov was fired for his incompetence? Do you wish for a similar fate?”

  “No. I—”

  “No, I did not think so. When we arrive at Moskovsky and have Mr. Jenkins in hand, then we will escort him to the Big House, where we will await improved weather to return him to Moscow, but not before he tells us where Ms. Ponomayova is going.”

  35

  Federov arrived at the train station sweating and out of breath from the exertion expended trying to run in the heavy snow and gusting wind. For not the first time in his life—and likely not the last—he vowed to give up smoking. He even had a fleeting thought to give up vodka.

  Smoking. He’d start with that.

  Nevsky Prospekt’s sidewalks and the parking lot outside Moskovsky station were all but deserted, buried in snow. The ornate, antique streetlamps offered flickering yellow light. Federov climbed the steps to the station and struggled to open the door against the fierce
wind. Inside, he took a moment to straighten his appearance. For what he was about to do, Federov could wear no disguise.

  The difference in temperature inside the station was almost as pronounced as the humidity. Federov did not linger. He did not have time.

  Arkady Volkov had called Federov and told him that Efimov and Simon Alekseyov were en route to Saint Petersburg by train, and that Efimov was largely using local police to minimize the chances of a public spectacle.

  That meant nothing would happen at the train station, at least not until Efimov arrived from Tver, and that gave Federov a chance, though certainly a slim chance, at best. He’d checked the train schedule, then glanced at his watch. He had less than fifteen minutes.

  He flashed the FSB badge he had never turned in and utilized his well-honed demeanor on a uniformed officer at the security checkpoint. “I am Viktor Federov with the Federal Security Service. I understand you have detained a man wanted on criminal charges in Moscow.”

  “Yes. But I do not know where he has been taken.” The officer pointed up the stairs. “Ask one of the officers in the main lobby. They should know.”

  Having now identified himself as law enforcement, Federov removed his pistol and placed it in a tray on the belt without eliciting any questions. It passed through the metal detector and he retrieved it on the other side.

  He climbed the marbled steps into the first hall and approached a group of police officers, flipping open his billfold with the same arrogance. “Good evening,” he said. The officers’ gaze immediately shifted to the identification, and they stood a little taller. Federov flipped the billfold closed. “I am Colonel Viktor Federov with the Federal Security Service. I am told you have arrested a man wanted on criminal charges in Moscow. Tell me who is in charge and how I may find him.”

  One of the officers pointed Federov to a hallway. “The door to the left,” he said. “He’s being kept in there.”

  Federov walked across the hall and pulled open the door. His lungs were assaulted by stale cigarette smoke as he entered a drab reception area. Three officers sat in plastic chairs behind empty desks.

  “Who is in charge?” he asked.

  “I am,” a heavyset man said without enthusiasm.

  Federov flipped his billfold in the man’s face. “I am Colonel Federov, Viktor Nikolayevich, with the Federal Security Service. I understand you have arrested an American wanted on criminal charges in Moscow?”

  The three officers quickly stood. They put on their hats and straightened their uniforms.

  “This is true,” the man in charge said. He extended a hand. “Ivan Zuyev.”

  “I am here to bring the prisoner to the Big House before the weather gets any worse and the roads become impassable. Please bring him to me.”

  Zuyev did not move. “We were told to detain him here, that FSB officers are coming to obtain the prisoner.”

  Federov smiled, though it was without humor. “Am I not standing here before you?”

  “We were told the officers were arriving on a train from Tver—”

  “Yes, well, that was before this blizzard. All trains returning to Moscow have been canceled for the evening, and we need to ensure the prisoner is kept in a secure location, not a closet.”

  “Canceled?”

  “The station master will be reporting it soon, I am sure.” Federov looked at his watch. “Have you been outside?”

  “No—”

  “I have. Now, I don’t have much time. Have you seen the weather?”

  “No, I—”

  “Well, I had the pleasure of driving in it. I am to take the prisoner to the Big House until the storm passes, and I don’t wish to be delayed any longer. Please bring him to me.”

  “I was not made aware of a change in plans, Colonel,” Zuyev said tentatively. “I am sorry.”

  Federov gave Zuyev his best withering stare. “Did I not just advise you?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “But you seek to challenge my authority?” Federov glared. “Perhaps you think I take pleasure in being called out in a storm to pick up a criminal?”

  “No, Colonel.”

  “Would you like to make a phone call to confirm who I am and what I am telling you?” Federov pulled his cell phone from his inner jacket pocket. “Here, let me call for you.”

  Zuyev spoke quickly. “No, that won’t be necessary.”

  “I insist. If you are going to question my authority, at least allow me the opportunity to gloat when I am proven correct.”

  “I am sorry, Colonel. It’s just that my instructions were very clear, and . . .”

  Federov checked his watch. He had nine minutes before the train carrying Efimov arrived. “And what?” Federov asked.

  “And I was to keep the prisoner here.”

  “Was,” Federov said. “Past tense. Do you think the FSB can control the weather?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Exactly. The weather has changed, and we are adapting to that change, upon the order of the deputy director. Or do you question his authority as well?”

  “I do not. If I could just call the number that provided my instructions?”

  “By all means,” Federov said. “Call. But do it quickly.”

  Zuyev turned his back and removed his phone. When he did, Federov reached beneath his coat, tapping the grip of his pistol.

  Efimov sat stoically as the high-speed train sped toward Moskovsky station, reaching speeds of 220 kilometers an hour. Outside, snow whipped past the tinted windows. They would arrive at Moskovsky in less than nine minutes.

  Across the aisle, Alekseyov’s cell phone buzzed. The young officer answered the call and put a finger to his opposite ear. “Alekseyov. Hello?” He stood and walked to the back of the car, Efimov watching him. “Hello. This is Alekseyov. Yes. Can you . . . Can you hear me? I said, ‘Can you hear me?’ Yes. Yes, I can hear you. I said, ‘I can hear you.’ Can you hear me? Hello?”

  He walked to the front of the car.

  “I’m sorry. Repeat that. I said . . . ‘Repeat that.’ Hello? Yes, we are . . . We should be arriving in—What? What man . . . Hello? What man? Can you hear me? Do not . . . Do not . . . Hello? Hello?”

  Alekseyov lowered the phone. He looked confused. He hit a button, apparently to return the call, then slowly returned to his seat.

  “What is it?” Efimov asked.

  “That was a police officer at Moskovsky station.”

  “What did he want?”

  “I couldn’t hear him. He said something about someone being at the station, about Mr. Jenkins.”

  “What about him?” Efimov asked, suddenly alarmed.

  “I don’t know,” Alekseyov said again. “I couldn’t hear.”

  Efimov checked his watch. Like it or not, he was stuck for the next eight minutes. “Call him back.”

  “I tried. The screen freezes then indicates the call failed. The weather, and this train.”

  “Keep trying,” Efimov said. “Tell them no one is to see Jenkins until I arrive.”

  Zuyev clearly struggled to hear. As Federov had hoped, the storm interfered with his call, though to what extent, Federov could not be certain. He kept his hand on the grip of his pistol. When Zuyev disconnected, he turned and gave Federov an uncertain and perplexed look. It made Federov uneasy, but he slipped his hand from the grip and raised his eyebrows. “Now, may I see the prisoner?”

  “I couldn’t . . . The storm. I couldn’t hear.”

  “Sukin syn,” Federov said. Son of a bitch. “What are you going to do?”

  “The train should be arriving within minutes, Colonel. Perhaps you can wait?”

  “Wait?” Federov raised his voice. “For the storm to get worse? I’ve told you the prisoner will not be getting on the train. He will not be going back to Moscow, not in this weather. I am to take him to a holding cell at the Big House, or did you think maybe you can hold him here in an unsecure room all evening?” Before Zuyev could respond, Federov tried a diff
erent tack. “How have you secured him?”

  Zuyev stuttered. “We zip-tied his hands behind his back as well as his ankles.”

  “That is child’s play to this man. Do you have any idea who he is?”

  “No. Only that he has committed crimes in Moscow.”

  “Do you have more ties?”

  “Yes, of course.” Zuyev turned to one of the other officers. The man opened a desk drawer and drew out a handful of the ties.

  “Follow me, all of you, and bring the ties with you.” Federov stepped down the hall at the back of the security office.

  “For what purpose?” Zuyev said, hurrying around the desk to catch up.

  Federov stopped. “I’m going to tell you something that cannot be repeated.” He looked to each of the three officers. Then he said, “This man is not a common criminal. He is a highly trained counterintelligence agent. I must speak to him about a second person traveling with him. A woman. It is extremely important that we find her before too much time passes. You were told this, I assume?”

  “Of the woman, yes, of course,” Zuyev said.

  “Good. Lead the way.” As Zuyev stepped toward the door, Federov spoke again. “Leave your guns out here, please.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Because I do not wish to be shot by your weapon if Mr. Jenkins has freed himself or if things go poorly.”

  Zuyev and the two officers removed their weapons, setting them on a desk, then Zuyev led Federov down the hall, stopping just outside the door. Federov instructed the officers where to stand, then nodded to Zuyev to unlock the door. Federov removed his pistol and stepped to the side.

  Zuyev paused.

  “Open it,” Federov said.

  Zuyev did so and the three officers braced, as if Charles Jenkins might charge them. Inside the room, Jenkins sat on the floor with his back against the wall. Beside him lay a sack that had apparently once covered his head. Jenkins gave Federov a dull stare.