The Last Agent

by Robert Dugoni

  Studebaker pulled off the headset. He flipped switches and adjusted the plane’s wing flaps. “When we land, I’m going to try to keep the plane on the left ski for as long as possible. Grab the yoke when I tell you but don’t muscle it. Leave that to me. I want your strength to help hold it in place.”

  Again, Studebaker’s voice showed no signs of alarm.

  The nose of the plane lifted.

  The wind whistled, and Jenkins realized Studebaker was, once again, flying into gusts to keep the plane aloft for as long as possible.

  They closed in on the lake, flying over a multilane highway with the first cars of the morning. Jenkins could only imagine what those commuters were thinking, seeing the plane so low. Past the highway loomed the tops of white-flocked trees, then the roof of a red barn, so close Jenkins thought the two remaining skis would scrape it. They dropped lower, approaching the trees at the water’s edge. Branches snapped and cracked beneath the plane.

  “Everyone brace yourself,” Studebaker said. Then he turned to Jenkins. “Grab the yoke.”

  Jenkins did so, just as the first ski hit the frozen surface. Studebaker tweaked the yoke to the left, and Jenkins let him do it, then held it in position, fighting the weight of the plane on the right side. The plane glided on the ice, bumping and bouncing.

  Halfway across, as the plane reduced speed, physics took over and the right side dropped, like someone, or something, had snagged the wing with a grappling hook. The plane spun hard to the right, centrifugal force pushing them all to the left. The yoke yanked from Jenkins’s grasp. His shoulder smashed into Studebaker. The plane spun a second time. The wing lifted on the left side. Jenkins pitched to the right, certain the plane was about to roll, but just as suddenly as the wing had lifted, it violently dropped.

  The plane came to a jarring stop. So, too, did Jenkins. The force whiplashed him around the interior and he smacked his head against the top of the plane, momentarily seeing stars. His right shoulder ached like he’d smashed it against a concrete wall.

  After a moment, Studebaker let out a sigh. Then he turned to Jenkins. The son of a bitch had a grin on his face. His eyes sparkled. “Just like we rehearsed it,” he said. “Welcome to Finland, everybody.”

  Then he pushed open his door and started to sing “Light My Fire.”

  44

  Jenkins briefly contemplated hiding the plane, but the barren lake didn’t look to have any place to do so, and with Efimov in a helicopter close by, they didn’t have time. Jenkins had no doubt Efimov would land and pursue them. They needed to keep going. They hiked from the plane, all of them moving a little slow, their bodies sore. Jenkins felt as if he’d been put in a blender and spun. Dizzy, he had trouble finding his balance. His back ached and his head throbbed from where he’d struck the ceiling of the Cessna, more than once. He had cut Federov from his bindings, and the man groaned as he stepped out of the plane, clutching his back. Together they helped Paulina. Remarkably, she seemed to be doing better than all of them, still weak, but relatively unscathed by the landing. She walked without assistance to a dirt-and-gravel road.

  There, a woman got out of a beat-up, older model Chevy Suburban, greeting Studebaker with a kiss and a hug. She had to be six feet, a good four inches taller than Studebaker, blonde, with unblemished skin and a youthful demeanor that seemed incongruous with the BFR .450 Marlin revolver holstered at her hip. BFR, Jenkins knew, stood for Big Frame Revolver, though gun owners usually used a profanity instead of “Frame.”

  The gun was that and more.

  The woman spoke Finnish. Jenkins couldn’t understand a word, but from the grin on Studebaker’s face, Jenkins surmised the pilot was telling her their adventure had been no big deal, and he was just fine. They climbed inside the Suburban, and Studebaker picked up another handgun from the passenger seat before he got in, a brushed-chrome Desert Eagle .50 caliber. Jenkins would hate to be the burglar who walked into their house uninvited.

  Paulina sat in the back between Jenkins and Federov.

  “I’m guessing this car isn’t exactly inconspicuous, given its age,” Jenkins said.

  The woman made a U-turn and sped down the snow-covered road.

  “No, but it will drive through just about anything nature has to offer, and trust me, that is the voice of experience,” Studebaker said. “Besides, we don’t plan to drive for long.”

  Studebaker rummaged through a black backpack between his feet, then passed it over the seat to Jenkins. “British passports for the two of you, euros, and food.” He looked to Federov. “You weren’t expected.”

  “No, I was not. Though I appreciate the ride, terrifying as it was. Drop me in a major city. I can find my way.”

  “Your FSB will have every asset in every Scandinavian country looking for the three of you.”

  “Yes,” Federov said. “And three people are easier to find than one, which is why I am as anxious to be rid of you as you are of me. No offense, of course. Unlike you, Mr. Jenkins, if I am caught, there will be no trial for betraying my country. The only trial will be how much pain I can take before they shoot me in the head. This I do not wish to find out.”

  Jenkins handed Paulina a bottle of water and an energy bar. “Is there any place she can rest?” he asked Studebaker. “Even for a day.”

  “I’m fine,” Paulina said. “I’m getting . . . how do you say . . . my wind again.”

  “Only in the car,” Studebaker said. “We don’t have time to stop. That helicopter will likely find the plane, and even if it can’t, it won’t be hard to find me.”

  “How would they find you?” Jenkins asked.

  Federov answered, “They will look for pilots crazy enough to do what he just did. No offense.”

  “I can’t think of anyone else,” Studebaker said.

  It made sense to Jenkins. “Will you be safe?” Jenkins asked Studebaker.

  “As you may have gathered by now, I don’t worry about the future or dwell in the past. I live in the here and now, and I never stick around to see what the future holds. Nea and I will get lost in Alaska. That’s our second home. We’ll come back when this dies down.”

  “Alaska? Not exactly snowbirds then, are you?” Jenkins said.

  “We like the winter. Nea hunts, and she loves to pickle just about anything and everything she kills. Speaking of which, you all should eat and drink something. And when’s the last time you slept?”

  Jenkins couldn’t remember the last time he had slept, but it had been many hours. He was running on empty, his thoughts becoming dull.

  Studebaker checked his watch. “You’ve got a little time to do so now.”

  Efimov stood outside what amounted to a log cabin, a four-room home on the edge of a lake surrounded by trees, wilderness, and a lot of snow. The home was registered to a fifty-two-year-old woman, a Finnish national, Nea Kuosmanen, but according to FSB assets in Finland, a seventy-two-year-old American pilot, Rod Studebaker, also lived here. Studebaker had once worked for the CIA, and Efimov suspected he still did. The isolated log cabin was a good way to remain anonymous.

  It took their Finnish assets little time to target Studebaker as the pilot most likely to have accepted the assignment—and the only pilot with the requisite skill, mental fortitude, and balls to have successfully completed it on one front ski.

  FSB assets in Finland described Studebaker as so talented he “could shoe a flea.” They also said Studebaker was “Hullu.” Crazy. As Efimov had suspected, Studebaker had more than forty years of clandestine aviation for and on behalf of the CIA, flying military transport planes in Vietnam, which made Efimov wonder if Jenkins and Studebaker had served together, or at least previously knew one another, since Jenkins, too, had served in that American debacle. After Vietnam, Studebaker flew for Air America, the airline covertly owned and operated by the US government that had been used for CIA operations in Indochina.

  Not that any of Studebaker’s past mattered now.

  Efimov walked through the rooms of t
he house after officers determined it had not been rigged with explosives or cameras. He didn’t have to worry about nosy neighbors because there were none, at least none that could see the cabin. In a central room Efimov found a desk, numerous aviation maps, and equipment. He clicked the keys of a computer, but the screen remained black, likely programmed to wipe clean the drives. Efimov had no doubt that the computer had been open to a high-speed data link to a Finnish radar feed that had allowed Kuosmanen to communicate with Studebaker, which explained the plane’s sudden evasive maneuvers as the helicopter closed ground.

  The fact that neither Studebaker nor Kuosmanen were at the cabin was a further indication Studebaker had been the pilot, and relatively fresh tire tracks in front of the cabin indicated Kuosmanen had just recently left. Efimov also had assets searching for the downed plane, or for news of a light aircraft crash, which became less likely with each passing minute.

  Efimov left the house and descended the porch steps to where Alekseyov talked on his phone. He covered the mouthpiece and spoke to Efimov. “They found the plane,” he said.

  “Where?”

  “Close. It crash-landed on a lake approximately five kilometers southeast of here.”

  “Any bodies?”

  “No. Multiple sets of footprints leading away from the plane to a dirt-and-gravel service road with fresh tire tracks.”

  Efimov turned and considered the tire tracks at the front of the cabin but spoke to Alekseyov. “Have someone measure the track width—the distance between the center of the left front and right front tires. Also have him measure the wheelbase—he’ll have to estimate the center point of the front axle to the center point of the rear axle. I want it compared to the tracks left at the landing site. Also get photographs of the tire tread. I want to know the manufacturer, make, and model.” He turned to another officer. “I need a map of the area where the plane landed. If they are driving, they have limited options with the freeze and will seek to move as quickly as possible to a large city with different transportation options.”

  Minutes later, Efimov analyzed a map on a laptop computer. “They are most likely headed for E18,” he said. “Most likely to Turku.”

  “Why Turku?” Alekseyov asked.

  “Turku is close and has multiple ferry crossings. It provides them the most options to flee. They can either drive on and drive off the ferry or walk on and walk off. Find out if the ferries are currently running. If so, provide me with the times of each crossing from each terminal.” When Alekseyov made a face, Efimov said, “You have doubts?”

  “The ferry seems too obvious a choice,” he said.

  “Because it is their only choice? If they intended to take another small plane it would have awaited them on the lake, or someplace nearby. It did not, because their original intent had been to leave Saint Petersburg by boat, not by plane. The sudden change in plans was fortuitous for them. It prevented us from scrambling military aircraft out of Kaliningrad.” Efimov referred to the military base on the Baltic Sea between Lithuania and Poland established during the years of the Soviet Union. Russia had steadfastly maintained the base and had recently fortified it to increase its imprint in the Baltic region.

  Efimov continued. “Another plane is no longer an option. Mr. Jenkins or the pilot now know we are monitoring radar, and the weather has improved. They will not risk having a second plane diverted or shot down. A commercial flight is also not likely because of Ponomayova’s health, and because she and Mr. Jenkins would be too easily identified. They cannot escape by private boat for the same reason they could not leave Neva Bay. Even if they could, the ice would make a crossing too dangerous. Train stations present the same problem as airports.” He pointed to the map. “The most direct road from where the plane landed is E18, which travels from east to west to Turku and its ferry ports. I know of at least two departure points, one leaving from Naantali and the other from the Port of Turku.”

  “They could have driven somewhere to wait for the thaw—a cabin, or a hotel,” Alekseyov said.

  “You said yourself that Mr. Jenkins will keep moving, that he will not stop until he is safe.” Efimov zoomed in on the map and tapped the computer screen. “I want to know how long it takes to drive from where the car picked them up to each ferry terminal. They will travel the speed limit so as not to attract attention.”

  Minutes later, an officer presented Efimov with a computer screen showing the various Turku ports and sailing times. There were two daily ferry sailings between the Port of Turku and Sweden, one operated by Tallink Silja and the other by Viking. There were also two daily crossings between Naantali and Kapellskär, but one ferry had sailed at 6:15 that morning. The other did not leave until 6:15 in the evening.

  The officer continued typing. “The ferry reservation sites require the make and model of the vehicle, if it is to be driven on board, as well as the name of each passenger.”

  “Get officers to each terminal,” Efimov said. “Tell them to book passage on each ferry. Tell them we will provide them with the potential makes and models of the SUV they are looking for, as well as the type of tires.”

  “They could change cars,” Alekseyov said.

  “If they believe we can track the car they are driving,” Efimov said, “then they will, which is why I also want officers on board each ferry. Call Lubyanka. Have an analyst determine every vehicle that has booked a crossing for each terminal within the past six hours. Tell them to cross-reference each vehicle’s track and wheelbase measurements with the measurements we obtain here and at the lake. If we can reduce the potential cars to one or two, we can confirm it by the tire, assuming Jenkins drives on board. If not, we are searching for two passengers, a man and a woman.”

  “What about Federov?” Alekseyov asked.

  “Federov will go his own way. Given Ms. Ponomayova’s physical condition, Jenkins will not be so fortunate. If we can detain them in Finland, we shall do so. Otherwise we will detain them on the ship. The crossing is fifteen hours.”

  45

  The drive to Turku on the southwest coast of Finland took just under an hour and a half. They traveled most of that time in silence. Paulina had closed her eyes, and within minutes her head fell to the side, hitting Jenkins halfway up his torso. It reminded him of CJ falling asleep on the couch while they watched television together. Federov, too, slept, or at least he’d closed his eyes and slid down in his seat, putting his head back against the headrest. The driver, Nea, checked her mirrors frequently. Occasionally she glanced over at Studebaker, but the pilot had also given in to fatigue and shut his eyes. Jenkins, too, was exhausted, but he knew sleep would not come, not yet. He did not have the luxury. He needed to figure out a way to get out of Finland.

  He typed on Nea’s iPad as he considered Efimov’s likely next move, and what moves he could make to counter him. It would not be easy. Their possible mode of transportation out of Finland was severely limited by both the weather and geography. The one viable option, the ferry, presented an array of possibilities—a total of about two dozen ferry crossings that would take more than nine different routes to four different ports in Sweden, as well as to the port in Travemünde, Germany. Jenkins was going through those options, determining which routes remained viable, and thinking of diversions and misinformation he could spread to increase their odds of escape.

  He quickly decided that it wouldn’t be enough.

  Nea spoke, drawing Jenkins’s attention. Studebaker awoke from his catnap and took a moment to get his bearings. They drove along a frozen river. Studebaker spoke Finnish while pointing to a parking lot. Nea turned into the lot, drove behind an industrial building, and parked at the far end, away from other cars.

  Federov awoke as soon as the car slowed. Paulina did not wake until Studebaker spoke. “This is where we say goodbye, Mr. Federov.”

  Federov squinted at the bright winter sun reflecting on the ice of the frozen river. He cleared his throat, but his voice remained raspy. He had a heavy five-o’c
lock shadow and bloodshot eyes. “Then I thank you for the rides, interesting as they have been.”

  “Don’t mention it. And I mean that, literally,” Studebaker said without humor.

  Federov smiled. “Yes. I’m sure you do.”

  “You going to be okay, Viktor?” Jenkins asked.

  “I have many contacts, Mr. Jenkins, and many different ways to disappear. I am like the Hot Rod, here. I don’t plan the future. I prefer to live it. Hopefully I will. Don’t be surprised if one day I make it to Seattle for that toast we have talked so much about, but for the present, it is best that we do not communicate.”

  “I’ll look forward to it,” Jenkins said.

  Federov pushed open the back door and stepped from the car. He shoved his hands inside his coat pockets and hunched his shoulders against the cold, leaning down to peer into the back seat. “Do not underestimate Efimov. He is the best for a reason, Mr. Jenkins, and he will not hesitate to kill you both if he cannot capture you alive.”

  Jenkins smiled. “I thought you were the best, Viktor.”

  “Yes. But now I am retired.” Federov grinned and shut the door.

  Paulina slid to Federov’s seat as Nea backed from her parking spot and drove off.

  “Can he be trusted?” Studebaker asked Jenkins.

  Jenkins didn’t truly know. Federov was an enigma. There was a time when Jenkins would have said about Federov what the former FSB officer had said about Efimov, that Federov would not have hesitated to shoot Charles Jenkins if he could not capture him alive. Had Federov truly changed? Or did he just want Jenkins to believe he had? Had he just been an FSB officer doing his job to the best of his ability?

  One thing was certain. Jenkins had no intention of giving Federov an opportunity to prove him wrong. “Let’s assume he can’t be,” Jenkins said in answer to Studebaker’s question.