The Last Agent

by Robert Dugoni

  “I already have,” Studebaker said.

  Jenkins ran a hand over his face. The whiskers of his beard had grown long enough to be soft to the touch. “Efimov will know our only way out of Finland is by ferry. The ice makes a private boat too risky, even if we could get it out of port, which on first impressions it doesn’t appear we can.”

  “And the temperature is not expected to warm for at least a couple of days,” Studebaker confirmed.

  “Any other options?”

  “Dogsled and skis,” Studebaker said, and Jenkins couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. He studied the ferry schedules on the laptop.

  “At first glance there appear to be five to six different ferry lines leaving from four different ports, but timing limits our options to three or four, at best. And I don’t like those odds any more than I like the thought of getting trapped in Turku, somewhere close by, or being stuck at one of those ferry crossings.”

  “I don’t either,” Studebaker said. “We need to switch cars.”

  “Or use this one to our advantage,” Jenkins said.

  “I had a hunch you might say something like that.”

  Jenkins couldn’t muster a smile. He didn’t feel clever or smug. He remained anxious, knowing that Efimov was sitting someplace doing the same analysis, and coming to the same conclusions. Jenkins had one viable option and a handful of choices within that option. None of which he particularly liked. Each choice involved being stuck on a ferry for at least fifteen hours—more than enough time for the FSB to successfully hunt them down.

  He needed to find a way to increase his odds by increasing his options. If he didn’t, Efimov would surely counter, trapping Jenkins.

  End of game.

  He pulled out the encrypted phone to call Matt Lemore.

  “I need a bottle of Tylenol and about ten hours of sleep. Can you make that happen?” he asked Studebaker.

  “Not for a few days, I’m afraid.”

  46

  A Lubyanka analyst provided Efimov with the short list of vehicles matching the track width and wheelbase of the car that had been parked at the cabin and at the lake. The dimensions at the two locations matched, not that the information came as a surprise. The analyst said the track width was 67 inches and the wheelbase 115 inches, which limited the potential vehicle options to an older model Chevy Suburban made between 1961 and 1965, and a Ford F-100 half-ton truck, the latter of which seemed unlikely if there had been four passengers on the plane. He’d also matched the tire tracks to a Nokian Hakkapeliitta studded LT3 225 75R16.

  Lubyanka analysts further advised Efimov that within the past six hours, a reservation had been made for a man and a woman driving a Suburban that fit the description for passage on a Viking Line ferry leaving the Port of Turku at 5:10 that evening. Moments later, an analyst advised that a second reservation had also been made for a man and woman of a different name, but also driving a Suburban, seeking passage on a Tallink Silja ferry leaving the Port of Turku at 6:10 that evening. A third reservation had been made for a man and woman driving the same car onto a Finnlines ferry leaving Naantali at 6:20 p.m. During the next ten minutes, analysts determined that similar reservations had also been made on three ferry lines leaving Finland from all three ports early the following morning, as well as the ferry leaving from Vaasa, and two ferries leaving Helsinki.

  Mr. Jenkins had thought through his choice of escape, recognized it as limited, and sought to increase his odds by playing another shell game with the SUV, hoping to again spread Efimov’s resources as thin as possible. The car had become a prop.

  Efimov whittled down the potential ferry options by the time each left port.

  “The ferries leaving tomorrow are at present irrelevant,” he told Alekseyov. “Based on his past patterns, Mr. Jenkins will seek to leave tonight, which means he has one of three ferry alternatives. I want four agents at each ferry, two to watch the cars boarding and two to watch the passengers walking on board. You and I will focus on the ferry leaving tonight from Naantali.”

  At 6:15 p.m., Efimov had received word from FSB officers searching the Viking Line ferry leaving the Port of Turku at 5:10 p.m., and from officers watching the Tallink Silja ferry leaving the port at 6:10 p.m. An older Suburban had not driven onto either ferry, nor had Jenkins or Ponomayova been spotted walking on. Efimov left orders that two officers remain on ship for each crossing, in case Jenkins and Ponomayova were again wearing disguises.

  With the sun now a fiery red and setting behind Finland’s many islands, Efimov directed his binoculars to the tail end of the line of cars loading onto the Finnlines ferry, a line he had dutifully checked since boarding began. This time, however, he watched an older model Chevy Suburban drive to the back of the line. Pale blue with a white hardtop, the vehicle had dents and patches of rust, indicating it to be well used. The windows had also been tinted, clearly not a standard option in the 1960s. Efimov focused his binoculars on the windshield, but the glare of the sun off the glass made it difficult to identify the driver or the passenger with any degree of certainty.

  Efimov may have just gotten lucky; Jenkins might not have considered the possibility that they could identify the car from the tracks left in the snow. He lowered his binoculars and quickly moved to the ferry’s metal door leading down to the car deck. Alekseyov followed, and their descending footsteps echoed with the footsteps of passengers ascending the staircase. When he reached the lower car deck, Efimov pushed open the ferry door into a cold breeze and stepped onto a deck that smelled of diesel fumes. A crew member in an orange vest directed the Suburban to park at the back of the car deck, then set an orange cone behind the rear bumper.

  Efimov moved quickly between the cars, coming up behind the Suburban on the driver’s side, keeping his gun low, and watching the car’s side mirror as he approached. Alekseyov approached the passenger side doing the same. When Efimov reached the rear bumper, both car doors opened simultaneously. A man stepped down from behind the wheel. Short and fit, he matched the photograph of Rod Studebaker sent to Efimov’s phone. Efimov assumed the woman stepping from the passenger side to be Nea Kuosmanen. She walked around the hood of the vehicle to where Studebaker stood smiling, his eyes glancing at the gun at Efimov’s side. He looked like an elf, especially next to the much-taller woman.

  “Mr. Studebaker, I presume,” Efimov said.

  “Do we know one another?” Studebaker asked. “I’m detecting a Russian accent.”

  “Let us not play games and pretend we do not know one another, Mr. Studebaker. You are the pilot who flew Mr. Jenkins and Ms. Ponomayova from Saint Petersburg to the lake in Finland.”

  “Flew them? First, I’m retired. Second, have you seen the recent weather reports? A pilot would have to be crazy to fly in weather like this.”

  “Perhaps,” Efimov said. He didn’t have time to debate it. The ship would depart in minutes. “Where are Mr. Jenkins and Ms. Ponomayova?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t recognize either name.” He turned to Kuosmanen. “Tunnetko nuo nimet, kultaseni?” Do you recognize those names, darling?

  She shook her head. “Ei.” No.

  “Who are they?” Studebaker asked.

  “Would you mind if we searched your car?” Efimov said.

  “Ordinarily I would. But I’m feeling cooperative. Have at it. The doors are unlocked.”

  Efimov motioned for Alekseyov to search the car, though it was now a formality. He was certain Jenkins had considered that the car could be identified and had used it as bait. The young officer pulled open the back door and searched the interior. Efimov stared at Studebaker, who returned his gaze. Alekseyov stepped down and shut the door with a thud. He shook his head.

  Efimov directed his attention back to Studebaker. “I ask again. Where are Mr. Jenkins and Ms. Ponomayova?”

  “And I’ll tell you again. I don’t recognize those names. But let’s assume, just for the moment, and only to appease you, that I did recognize them. Do you think this Mr. Je
nkins fellow would be stupid enough to tell me anything?”

  “You violated Russian airspace and illegally transported criminals wanted by the Russian government out of Russia. These are serious offenses, Mr. Studebaker, and carry harsh penalties.”

  “Prove it.”

  “Perhaps I will prove it while you wait in Lefortovo.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “Consider it as you wish. We can place your car and your tire tracks at a road by the lake on which you landed your Cessna 185.”

  “Can you? Those are studded Nokian Hakkapeliitta tires, which I think you’ll find to be quite popular in the winter here in Finland. And I no longer own a Cessna 185. As I said, I’m retired. Third, I don’t like your tone. So I’m going to consider what you said to be a threat. And the way I see it, it’s like this: I’m a Finnish citizen on a ferry seeking to vacation in Sweden with my Finnish girlfriend. Oh, and did I say your gun doesn’t impress me?” Studebaker pulled back his coat, revealing a large firearm holstered to his side. Kuosmanen did the same. “I’ve been threatened by people a lot worse than you. So, unless your intent is to start an international incident, and explain to a Finnish court what you’re doing on a Finnish ferry making threats to Finnish citizens, I’d get off this ship, while I still could.” Studebaker looked at his watch. “In my experience Finnish ferry captains are obsessed with punctuality, which leaves you about two minutes to make up your mind. Otherwise, you have a fifteen-hour ride ahead of you. In which case, I hope you booked a sleeping compartment. Sitting up all night in those chairs can get mighty uncomfortable.”

  47

  Charles Jenkins stepped inside what looked like a college dorm room on the C deck of the large container ship. Immediately to his right was a small bathroom. Chief Mate Martin Bantle pulled open an accordion door on the left, revealing an empty closet, then considered the unkempt appearances of both Jenkins and Paulina. “I’ll get you both a change of clothes.”

  The rest of the room consisted of two beds, a desk and computer screen below a window, a small fridge, and some cabinets. Jenkins looked out the porthole to the deck.

  “I’ll also get you some toiletries from the store,” Bantle said. He checked his watch. “The mess hall is on the A deck, but it won’t be open until morning. I’ll have some food brought to your room.” He looked to Paulina. “There’s a medical office on the F deck, but I’ve asked the doctor to come by your cabin and check on you both.”

  “Thanks,” Jenkins said.

  Bantle nodded. “We have three port stops before we head for home. The first is Gdańsk, Poland. The second is Aarhus, Denmark, and the third is Drammen, Norway. That’s eight days before we’re headed to Virginia.” He looked to Jenkins. “If any of the crew members ask, you work for maritime safety and are performing a routine audit. That should be enough to make you radioactive, but don’t worry about it too much; the crew are all American citizens, which is mandated to work on a US-flagged ship transporting goods for a government contractor. They’ve been through this drill before. They’ll keep their heads down and won’t ask questions.”

  Jenkins thanked Bantle, who inquired whether they needed anything else before leaving them.

  Jenkins knew from his conversation with Matt Lemore that the shipping company was headquartered in Virginia. It provided shipping and transport services for the US government and US government contractors throughout the world. Jenkins would have preferred a ship taking a direct route from the port at Rauma, Finland, to Seattle, but beggars couldn’t be choosy. He was just glad to be heading in the right direction and for the chance to recoup and recover. Paulina needed both, as well as medical attention.

  The encrypted phone rang. Jenkins fished it from his coat pocket.

  “I take it you’re not in a Russian prison,” Rod Studebaker said.

  “I was going to ask you the same question.”

  “Sitting in our cabin aboard ship enjoying a good bottle of Lakka and the view.”

  “Any problems?”

  Studebaker described his encounter with Efimov. “He doesn’t sound like he’s ready to give up just yet. Keep your eyes and your ears open.”

  “You do the same. And thanks again for the help.”

  “No worries. I’m paid well, and I’m banking it. Nea’s hoping I’ll retire.”

  “Yeah. You going to?”

  “Let me put it this way . . . I’ve been on this ship for less than an hour, and I’m already antsy and looking for something to do. It confirms I’m not the cruise ship type.”

  “I could have told you that.”

  Studebaker laughed. “I’ll see what comes along. Retirement? I don’t think I got that in me, though I certainly have a very good reason, and that reason just stepped from the shower in nothing but a small towel.”

  Jenkins smiled, thinking of Alex. “That’s my cue to say goodbye. If you’re ever in Seattle, look me up. I owe you.”

  “Buy me a steak dinner and we’ll call it good.”

  “I’ll do that.” Jenkins disconnected and set down the phone.

  “They are safe?” Paulina sat on her bed across the room.

  Jenkins explained what Studebaker had told him of his confrontation with Efimov on the ferryboat.

  “He has much at stake if he fails. We will need to be guarded.”

  Jenkins agreed. “Why don’t you use the shower before the food and fresh clothing arrive?”

  “I’m not sure I will get out from under the water,” she said, smiling. Just a few minutes on the ship, and already Paulina showed glimpses of the tough, defiant woman he had first encountered in Moscow. “I can’t recall the last time I took a warm shower.”

  “Take as long as you need,” Jenkins said. “I’m going to get on the computer for a bit, then call home.”

  Paulina stood from the bed and started for the bathroom. She stopped after a few steps. “Your daughter’s name?”

  Jenkins nodded. “Elizabeth Paulina. Elizabeth was my mother’s name.”

  “I feel it is a great honor.”

  “So did I,” Jenkins said. “Naming my daughter after you was a way to remember the sacrifice you made so I could see her birth.”

  “I did so willingly.”

  “That’s what made it a sacrifice,” he said.

  She gave him a thin smile. “I should like to meet your daughter, and your wife and son.”

  “You will.”

  “For years I was a woman without a family, without a home, without even a country. All I had was my routine each day to keep me busy. Now no longer that.”

  Paulina looked worried, and Jenkins knew what she was going through. When he left the CIA those many years ago and returned to Camano Island, he got up every day wondering how he’d keep himself busy. “I understand,” Jenkins said. “I know it can be overwhelming to think about, but I can provide you with the first three, and we’ll find you a new routine to keep you busy.”

  Paulina wiped at tears. “Why would you do this, Charlie? This I do not understand.”

  Jenkins thought of Studebaker’s comment that he’d go stir-crazy standing on the deck of a cruise ship waiting to die. He wondered if that was the reason for Nea Kuosmanen, because she made an old man feel young. He knew people thought the same thing about him and Alex. Studebaker had also said he didn’t like to think about the future too much—not because he feared it; Jenkins doubted there was much that struck fear in “Hot Rod” Studebaker. The pilot had served in Vietnam and that meant Studebaker knew, as did Jenkins, what it was like to get up each morning and wonder if it would be his last day on earth. After a while you stopped wondering. Then you stopped caring. You figured what was to be was already written, already a part of God’s plan, and there wasn’t much reason to worry since there wasn’t a damn thing you or anyone else could do to change it.

  So you learned to live in the present, much like the Buddhists.

  “It’s the right thing to do,” he said.

  48

&nb
sp; Alekseyov sat in Efimov’s office in Lubyanka listening to Efimov’s telephone conversation with the deputy director. Though only privy to Efimov’s side of the conversation, Alekseyov could tell it was not going well. Dmitry Sokalov was not happy, and Efimov was taking the brunt of that anger. But Alekseyov knew he, not Efimov, would ultimately be deemed responsible for losing Jenkins and Ponomayova, and it was his head that would roll.

  This is your case.

  Efimov had elected to return to Lubyanka rather than remain in Finland. He had analysts searching for other options Jenkins could have taken out of Finland, and scouring what camera footage they could obtain to detect where Jenkins and Ponomayova had parted company with Studebaker. Efimov was clearly trying to convince the deputy director that the chase was not yet over.

  “An analyst has confirmed that a United States cargo ship sailed under a US flag from the Port of Rauma at roughly the same time as the last of the car and passenger ferries,” Efimov said. “Satellite footage of the Port of Rauma showed the Suburban arriving at the shipyard and two persons exiting the vehicle and boarding the ship.”

  Alekseyov had obtained the ship’s European ports-of-call schedule, and Efimov now provided Sokalov with that information, though for what purpose Alekseyov did not yet know.

  “I believe the best option is to get someone on board when the ship is in port in Gdańsk to load and offload cargo,” Efimov said. He looked tired, frustrated, and angry. He listened for another moment, then said, “I do.” Another pause. Alekseyov could hear Sokalov’s voice coming through the speaker, though not well enough to understand anything being said.

  Efimov’s free hand flexed repeatedly. “No, of course not.” Efimov sat back. “Because Mr. Jenkins and Ms. Ponomayova need to remain alive until the ship reaches Aarhus. This man will disembark and be gone before they show signs of illness.”

  Signs of illness?

  Again, Efimov listened to the deputy director. “No. He has no connection to any agency or any person. Very dependable. Da,” he said. After several more seconds, Efimov hung up, though it was clear the deputy director had done so first.