The Last Agent

by Robert Dugoni

  “It is part of a fiberglass ski that likely snapped off on takeoff, judging from where we located it.”

  Efimov felt suddenly buoyed. “Can you tell anything about the type of plane from the debris?” he asked.

  “Not with any specificity. That is a better question for pilots.”

  “How many ski impressions did you find?”

  “Three. Two in the front, likely beneath the wing, and one in the back under the tail. Probably a Cessna, but again that is a guess.”

  “So you’re saying they repaired the ski before the plane took off?”

  “Repaired? No. This likely occurred on takeoff, where pressure ridges pushed up the ice.”

  More good news. “Can the plane land without one of the skis?”

  “Again, that’s a question best answered by coast guard pilots, but I would think it would be very difficult, especially in these conditions.”

  “Do you have any estimate how far behind the plane we are?”

  “Based on the depth of the snowfall within the tracks, I would estimate less than twenty minutes. I can’t be more certain.”

  “You can still track the snowmobiles?”

  “Of course. We’ve tracked in worse conditions.”

  “Do so, and radio in your findings.” Efimov disconnected the call and turned to Alekseyov. “Call the coast guard station in Saint Petersburg and tell them to ready the helicopter. Tell them I want it armed.”

  “I think we’re leaking fuel,” Jenkins said.

  Studebaker, still playing with gauges and manhandling the yoke, glanced briefly at the wing. Then he swore. “I’m switching to the right tank.”

  “That’s the side that’s leaking.”

  “And I need every bit of what gas I can get from it if we’re going to make it back.” Studebaker shrugged. “Fluid blowing in the wind looks a lot worse than it actually is.”

  Jenkins knew Studebaker was trying to calm him. “Do we have enough to get to wherever we’re going?”

  “I had about forty gallons when I landed—about two and a half hours of flying. Flying below the radar with the flaps down, I needed two hours to get here.”

  Jenkins asked again. “So we should have enough?”

  This time Studebaker didn’t try to appease him. “Maybe,” he said. “Pray for a little tailwind.”

  Jenkins quickly did the math and deduced the problem. “Can we change how we fly?”

  “Not if we want to avoid radar. Increased speed will also increase the amount of fuel we use. We’re going to be on fumes as it is.”

  “What was it that shot by my window, a rock?”

  “No. What went flying by your head was a portion of the right ski. I hit a pressure ridge with the ski when I banked. What you hear beating the hell out of the bottom of the plane is what remains of the tethered front ski.”

  Studebaker imparted the information so calmly, Jenkins wasn’t sure he’d heard him correctly over the rattle and engine noise, but he’d seen the ski. Jenkins looked out at the strut where the ski used to be—now just a metal stake.

  “Hell of a jolt,” Studebaker said. “Thank God for the snow. We came down on the left ski and it slid long enough for me to straighten out. We damned near cartwheeled.”

  “Can you still fly the plane?”

  “Flying isn’t the problem. Landing is. We have a hunk of steel where the right ski used to be, which rules out landing on solid ground. If we drive that stake into the ground, we’ll tear the plane apart.”

  “So how do we land?”

  “I’m going to have to find smooth ice and keep us on the left ski as long as possible. Once I drop that right side that metal stake will dig in. Hopefully it only spins us. If we’re lucky.”

  “And if we’re not lucky?”

  “We’re going to roll over and crash. But at least we won’t have any fuel by then.”

  “You always this positive?”

  “You asked. I told you. Besides, no sense worrying about landing. We have enough problems just trying to fly.”

  Alekseyov’s cell phone rang as the Mercedes drove into the Saint Petersburg coast guard detachment facility. He listened for a moment, then disconnected and turned to Efimov. “They have found the snowmobiles along the coastline. Abandoned.”

  Efimov had figured as much. “How many bootprints?” he asked.

  “Two people.”

  Then the plane had not been intended as misinformation. The footprints indicated that four people boarded the plane—likely Jenkins, Ponomayova, Federov, and the pilot. If the helicopter could catch the plane, he would end this chase here and now.

  Efimov stepped from the car and moved quickly through the coast guard facility. He was directed to two men sitting at tables inside a small room at the back of the building sipping bitter coffee, from the smell of it. Windows provided a view of a red-and-white helicopter on a concrete pad. Behind it, the sun peeked over the horizon, but only enough to lighten the dull gray. The men looked relaxed and comfortable. Efimov was about to change that.

  “Who is the pilot?” Efimov asked.

  “I am.” The taller of the two stood. “Captain Yefremov, Nestor Ego.” He looked to be early- to mid-forties with close-cropped red hair and freckles.

  “You have readied a helicopter.”

  “Da.”

  “It is armed?”

  “Da,” he said again, though looking anything but certain.

  “We are searching for a plane, likely headed to Finland. Have you been able to track anything on radar?”

  “There is nothing on the radar,” the second man said.

  “How is that possible?” Efimov asked. “We have confirmation that a plane took off from the ice.”

  “It doesn’t mean the plane is not out there,” the man said. “A pilot seeking to avoid radar can skim the surface of the ice to avoid detection. And the falling snow causes radar clutter that can further mask the plane. But to do this, in these winds, would require an extremely skilled pilot. Most would not even attempt to fly. His altimeter would do him little good in these conditions, and one cannot visually detect the horizon in this severe a snowstorm. It would be very dangerous to fly at all, let alone so low to the ground.”

  “What type of plane could do such flying?”

  “Many planes. Not many pilots,” Yefremov said.

  “I’m trying to understand how fast the pilot might be flying so we can determine how far behind them we are.”

  “It depends on the plane,” Yefremov said, sounding more cautious.

  “Then choose one and give me a damn estimate,” Efimov snapped.

  “In these conditions my choice would be a Cessna 185,” the pilot said. “Such a plane can travel up to a hundred and thirty knots, but at the altitude the pilot would have to fly to avoid radar, he would have to do so with the plane flaps lowered to maintain control. That will slow their progress.”

  “How fast?” Efimov asked, growing impatient.

  “A very good pilot could do no more than eighty to eighty-five knots.”

  “How long would it take for him to reach Finland traveling at that speed?”

  The pilot took out a pen, doing some calculations on a notepad on the table. After less than a minute he said, “Two to two and a half hours.”

  Efimov considered this. They could catch the plane. “If the plane you have proposed snapped off a ski on takeoff, could the pilot still land?”

  “Snapped off a ski?” Yefremov said.

  “Could the plane land?”

  The pilot shook his head. “It would be very difficult even for the most skilled pilot. I would have to say no.”

  Efimov moved to the window. “And your helicopter. How fast can it fly?”

  “One hundred and fifty knots.”

  “Then we can intercept the plane.”

  “Theoretically,” Yefremov said with a nervous smile, “but it would be crazy to fly in these conditions.”

  Efimov turned from the window, fac
ing him. “You were instructed to have the helicopter armed and ready, were you not?”

  “The helicopter is armed and ready, yes, but . . . the weather is not. It is too dangerous.”

  “But not for the pilot flying the Cessna?”

  “The pilot in the plane . . . He’s either crazy or he had no choice.”

  “Are you crazy?” Efimov asked.

  “What? No.”

  “Then your answer is also clear.”

  Twenty minutes after takeoff, the plane’s engine coughed, then sputtered. “That’s the right tank burping,” Studebaker said. “It’s empty. I’m switching to the left tank.”

  The math doesn’t work, Jenkins thought, again doing the numbers in his head. He almost said this, but Studebaker gave him a subtle shrug and headshake, as if to say, There’s nothing we can do about it now. Don’t alarm the others.

  Jenkins quickly realized why Studebaker wasn’t focused on landing; he had enough problems just staying airborne. Strong crosswinds caused the plane to pitch and bounce like a toy model, and they didn’t have a lot of room to spare, flying so low, which Studebaker said was necessary to avoid Russian radar.

  Jenkins turned and considered Paulina in the back seat. She looked cold. “Can we get a little heat in here?”

  Hot Rod shook his head. “If we heat the windscreen with four of us breathing in here, it will take minutes to coat the inside with frost. And we wouldn’t want to screw up this beautiful view any more than it already is.”

  With each bump and bounce the shoulder straps dug into Jenkins, adding to his growing list of ailments. He’d removed his gloves and noted a strip of red, raw skin across each palm where he’d gripped the straps on the snowmobile seat. Jenkins again looked to the back seat. As badly as he was getting tossed about, it was worse for Federov. With his hands tied behind his back, Federov had no ability to protect himself, and the Russian really couldn’t afford a third blow to the head. Unfortunately, the unstable conditions made putting a knife to Federov’s back to cut free his ties too dangerous an option. The Russian grimaced with each jolt and otherwise looked miserable.

  With the snow whipping past the windscreen, and a white blanket covering the ground, Jenkins couldn’t for the life of him figure out how Studebaker was keeping the plane airborne. The pilot kept his focus glued to a four-inch-by-six-inch screen in the center of the console, what Jenkins assumed to be the altimeter, and only occasionally diverted his eyes to what Studebaker called “the artificial horizon,” a small plane superimposed on a line he said indicated if the plane was climbing or descending. Beyond that, Studebaker looked out the pilot-side window, his scanning routine relentless. Jenkins asked how Studebaker could even find Finland since he couldn’t see three feet. Studebaker tapped on a GPS, explaining that it had tracked his trip into Russia and provided him a line to follow back to Finland.

  “How’re we doing?” Jenkins asked.

  Studebaker checked gauges, while continuing to manhandle the yoke. “We’re doing,” he said.

  “Will flying get any easier when the sun comes up?”

  “Eventually, but we are flying west, away from the rising sun. If it doesn’t stop snowing, the sun will only make everything a lighter shade of gray, or white. It won’t provide me a horizon.”

  “What about the gas? Can we get to where we need to go?”

  “Time will tell, but it’s going to be close.”

  Jenkins looked about the console, for what, exactly, he wasn’t sure. “Is there any radar onboard? Will we be able to tell if we’re being followed?”

  Studebaker shook his head.

  “You think the weather might keep the Russians from following us?” Jenkins asked.

  “It could, unless they can find a pilot with some brass cojones.” Studebaker grinned.

  “If they can, what can we expect? Can they catch us?”

  “Depends on how much of a head start we got, and what they’re flying. The Russian Coast Guard maintains a small detachment in Neva Bay and keeps helicopters on standby. If they’re going to give chase, that’s their best bet.”

  “And if they do?”

  “They fly the MI-8, probably the highest production helicopter in the world. More recently they made an arctic modification to give it slightly more speed—one hundred and fifty knots. They could push it another ten knots or so, though not likely in this weather. Their advantage is an autopilot to keep them from accidentally losing altitude and slamming into the ice.”

  “Are those coast guard helicopters armed?”

  Again, Studebaker shrugged. “Not normally. Normally they’re used for search and rescue. But they can be.”

  “We don’t know for certain.”

  “Not until they fire on us. Guns, though, not missiles.” Studebaker looked over at Jenkins, as if that were good news. “I’ve been shot at more than once. I really hate holes appearing in my airplane.”

  “What about the Russian military?”

  “The military doesn’t keep helicopters on standby. And they wouldn’t be able to scramble fast enough to keep us from reaching Finland.”

  Reading between the lines, Jenkins surmised that if Efimov acted quickly and ordered the coast guard helicopters armed, the plane could take machine-gun fire and never see it coming. Would the Russians risk the political fallout and fire on a Finnish plane? It might not matter—not if the plane didn’t have sufficient fuel, and not if they crashed on landing.

  “Sometimes you just have to cherish the minutes of safety you’re given,” Studebaker mumbled into the microphone. It sounded like the final words of a man staring down the barrel of a gun.

  Jenkins looked behind him, to Federov, who was not wearing a headset and therefore had not heard any of their conversation. Federov grimaced with the turbulence. His back pain had to be excruciating. With the bindings on, he could only sit with his knees twisted toward Paulina. Jenkins had left Federov’s seat belt loose to accommodate the position.

  Paulina had her eyes closed; her body slumped against Federov. She couldn’t possibly be asleep, Jenkins thought, but then the alternative—like the plane’s damaged ski and lack of sufficient fuel—was not something Jenkins wanted to fully consider. He shifted his gaze to Federov. The Russian tilted his head to look at Paulina, then looked at Jenkins. He’d had the same thought.

  43

  Simon Alekseyov sat strapped into one of the helicopter’s seats, a row behind and to the right of Efimov, who sat directly behind the pilot, Yefremov, and the copilot. Neither looked thrilled to be there.

  Nor was Alekseyov.

  When Efimov had instructed Alekseyov to call the Russian Coast Guard and tell them to ready a helicopter, the young FSB officer never imagined he’d be on it. Even when they drove onto the base, Alekseyov thought they would wait there, with someone checking radar. But Efimov had never hesitated. He’d walked out the door beside the pilot as if walking to his fate, and not caring whether he lived or died. He stopped only to look back at Alekseyov, who had remained in the doorway.

  “This is your case,” Efimov had said. “Get on the helicopter.”

  As Alekseyov listened to the pilot quickly go through preflight checks, Efimov’s four words sent shivers up and down his spine. This is your case.

  Efimov was obsessed now—whether with catching Jenkins and Ponomayova or Viktor Federov, Alekseyov did not know, but like the fictional Captain Ahab and his quest to kill Moby Dick, Efimov’s obsession would get them all killed, forcing the pilots to fly in these conditions. Even if Alekseyov lived, his career might not. The fact that Efimov had uttered those four words now, as Jenkins and Ponomayova neared Finland, was a sure sign Alekseyov would be the scapegoat if they failed to apprehend them. Alekseyov knew well what that meant. He’d witnessed it with the firing of Viktor Federov.

  This is your case.

  A head would roll. This time that head would be his.

  If Efimov didn’t kill him first.

  As the pilot had warned, the
weather conditions were abysmal. Crosswinds rattled and shook the helicopter, and the gusting snow had reduced visibility to next to nothing. What made this trip even more absurd was that the helicopter radar’s limited range showed no trace of the Cessna. They had no way to even know its current position, where it was headed, or how to cut it off. Efimov had surmised that the plane was headed toward Finland, but he had no real basis for that to be the case. He was guessing, and hoping to get lucky.

  Alekseyov had picked a seat a row behind Efimov rather than one directly across the aisle. He wanted to get out of Efimov’s line of sight, if only for a few minutes.

  “Anything?” Efimov again asked the copilot monitoring the radar.

  The copilot turned and looked back at him. “Nothing.” Another minute passed before the copilot spoke again. He raised a finger, listening intently. “I have something.”

  Efimov leaned forward, peering between the seats at the helicopter’s instrument panel. The copilot pointed at a tiny screen. “There. You see? Now it is gone again.”

  “Someone attempting to evade radar?” Efimov asked.

  “Possibly.”

  “Are there any other planes or helicopters in the air?”

  “Not this far out. Not in this weather.”

  “Where did you see it?”

  “Roughly one hundred thirty kilometers from the coast of Finland.”

  “How fast is it traveling?”

  “Not fast. Under eighty knots.”

  Efimov sat back. He looked to be contemplating his strategy. After a moment he said, “Can you radio the plane?”

  “We can broadcast over the Finnish emergency frequency,” the copilot said. “In this weather, the pilot might be listening. We’ll have no way of knowing if they’ve heard us, however.”

  “Do it.”

  Jenkins had likened the ride on the snowmobile to flying. Now he realized how wrong he had been. He’d also wrongly concluded that the snowmobile ride would be the most uncomfortable and terrifying of his life. That ride paled in comparison to flying into turbulent winds just fifty feet above the ice. As Studebaker had warned, the morning light had not tempered Jenkins’s fear. It made it worse. The light gave him a better, but not necessarily wanted, perspective. Every so often a dark shape appeared in the windscreen, and Studebaker would jerk the plane up and to the right or to the left, past a ship frozen in the gulf or an island—some just rocks, some with structures. It was a sobering reminder of how small Studebaker’s margin for error actually was.