The Last Agent

by Robert Dugoni

  “You are talking about a poison?” Alekseyov said.

  Efimov did not respond.

  Alekseyov sat forward. “If what you are suggesting is a radioactive poison, as in London, do we not risk potentially contaminating the entire ship and putting all of the crew at risk?”

  “You said it was a US-flagged ship operating on behalf of the US government. Did you not?”

  “All the more reason—”

  “And this ship has allowed two individuals guilty of criminal acts in Russia to board their vessel? Do you think they boarded without the crew’s knowledge?”

  “No, but . . . There are innocent men and women on board. This could create an international incident that would reflect poorly on the Kremlin, and President Putin.”

  “It seems, Simon, that you have lost your nerve,” Efimov said.

  “And it seems that you have become desperate, and potentially careless.” Alekseyov realized that what he had just said could be career threatening, but he no longer cared. He was convinced that Efimov had become obsessed, and his obsession was leading to more and more irrational decisions. But it was Alekseyov who wore the large bull’s-eye on his chest. “You have said this matter was to be handled discreetly, so as not to attract unnecessary attention . . . or blame.”

  “This is your case, Simon.”

  “If it is my case, then why is this not my decision?” Alekseyov shot back.

  Efimov sat back in his chair. “Please. Do you have an alternative?”

  No words came to him.

  “Please. Enlighten me,” Efimov said. “I will call back the deputy director . . . or perhaps I should call the president, and you can tell him of your plans?”

  Alekseyov sat back in the chair, lightheaded and sick to his stomach and uncertain what he might do, but certain he would not be held responsible for what Efimov had just proposed, for the deaths of innocent crew members.

  Arkady Volkov stopped chewing in midbite, a highly unusual occurrence, especially when eating his wife’s golubsti. Yekatarina mixed lean pork with cabbage, then covered the roll with a light sauce of white wine and tomatoes. When his wife made golubsti, Volkov could smell the cabbage as soon as he stepped from the elevator, which only teased his hunger. Volkov looked across the table. Yekatarina, too, looked to have frozen, her fork in one hand, knife in the other. She, too, had heard the knock on the door. Visitors were rare in the Volkov home, but nonexistent during the dinner hour, which remained sacrosanct in Russia, often the only time families sat down together to discuss their day.

  Volkov looked at his watch, then set down his utensils. He wiped the corners of his mouth with the napkin in his lap and set it on the table.

  “Are you expecting anyone?” Yekatarina asked.

  He shook his head. “Nyet. Are you?”

  “Nyet.”

  “Let me get rid of whoever it is.”

  At the front door Volkov looked through the peephole. Simon Alekseyov stood in the hallway looking left and right, like a cat expecting a dog to come around the corner at any moment. The young FSB officer had never been to Volkov’s home. In fact, in all the years that Volkov and Viktor Federov had worked together, Federov had never been to Volkov’s home.

  Volkov pulled open the door. Alekseyov turned at the sound. “Arkady.”

  “Simon?”

  Alekseyov looked flushed. Beads of perspiration glistened on his forehead and above his upper lip. He’d pulled down the knot of his tie and unbuttoned the collar of his shirt. His winter coat looked as if it weighed on him. “I’m sorry to disturb you at your home, Arkady, but may we talk?” He spoke in a hushed tone. His breath reeked of alcohol but he did not look drunk. He looked scared.

  “Da.” Volkov stepped aside and the young officer quickly ducked inside. Volkov shut the door and followed Alekseyov down the hall. Alekseyov greeted Yekatarina, who stood in the doorframe between the living room and dining room.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Volkov. I am sorry for disturbing your dinner. Cabbage rolls,” he said, smelling the air. “My mother used to make them. Forgive me. We have not met. I am Simon Alekseyov. I work with your husband.”

  “Would you care for a plate? Have you eaten?”

  “No, thank you. It is very kind of you to offer, but I don’t wish to be long. I just need a moment of Arkady’s time.”

  Yekatarina looked at Volkov with the same expression as when Volkov told her he could not discuss the details of his day—her mouth pinched and eyebrows raised. Sensing what Alekseyov wished to discuss to be sensitive, Volkov told Yekatarina he would be just a minute and gently eased her into the dining room, then slid closed the dining room doors. The two men moved into the living room of the two-bedroom apartment. At the radio, Volkov switched on music, a classical station. When he turned to face Alekseyov, the young officer held up a piece of paper. On it he had scribbled:

  Is it safe to talk here?

  Volkov nodded but increased the radio volume and lowered his voice. “What is it, Simon?”

  “Do you have a way to get in contact with Viktor Federov?” Alekseyov asked in a hushed whisper.

  Uncertain of the reason for Alekseyov’s question, Volkov displayed no reaction. Inside, however, his stomach and his mind churned. “No,” he said. “Why do you ask?”

  “Something is going to happen . . . Something wrong.”

  Volkov gestured. “Why don’t you sit down and tell me what is going to happen. Can I get you something to drink?”

  Alekseyov shook his head and collapsed onto the floral sofa. Volkov sat in the chair his wife had reupholstered and pulled it close. For the next ten minutes Alekseyov leaned over his knees, speaking in a hoarse whisper and occasionally glancing at the closed dining room doors. Then he said, “I realize that I am taking a chance coming to you, Arkady. But I have a sense that you would agree with me, that Efimov is obsessed and he is using a sledgehammer to crack a nut. When it goes wrong, I will be the next Viktor Federov. Perhaps you as well.”

  Volkov sat back, trying to assess Alekseyov. The young officer looked spooked, but was he sincere? Or was it an act to trip up Volkov and get him to admit that he had known all along that Viktor Federov was Sergei Vasilyev, and that he had not just allowed Federov to escape, but that he had divulged to Federov information on Jenkins and Paulina’s escape to Saint Petersburg and the agency’s knowledge of their subterfuge and the trap they had set there?

  “What is it that you want from me, Simon?”

  Alekseyov sat back. He now looked worried, as if he were no longer certain he had read this situation correctly. His voice took on a more cautious tone. “I don’t know, Arkady, I thought that, perhaps, if you had a way to get in touch with Federov . . . perhaps you could . . . that he might . . .” Alekseyov shook his head and sighed, a deep exhale he looked to have been holding. “I don’t know anything anymore. I thought I wanted this job, but now . . . After what happened to Viktor, after this . . .” He shook his head and gave Volkov a tired and resigned smile. “I’m going to leave, Arkady, before I can be blamed. Before I am fired. Before this incident becomes public.”

  “Leave?”

  “The FSB. Moscow.”

  “What will you do, Simon?”

  “I’m going to go back home to my father’s farm. He needs the help and I wish to do something meaningful again. Something that I can feel with my hands and see progress in with my eyes.” He paused before continuing. “Something I am not ashamed of when I go home at night.”

  Volkov had similar thoughts, but unlike Alekseyov, he had nothing to run to. He’d been KGB, then FSB, all his adult life. “It sounds as if you have given this much thought, Simon.”

  Alekseyov stood. “I am sorry to have disturbed you, Arkady, to have interrupted your dinner. Please, apologize to your wife for me and forget that I have bothered you.” He stuck out his hand. Volkov shook it.

  “It is not a problem, Simon. I wish you the very best in whatever you decide to do.”

  “I�
�m sorry we did not work together longer. I feel there is much I could have learned from you.”

  Volkov walked Alekseyov to the door. “Dobroy nochi,” he said. Good night.

  “Proshchay, Arkady.”

  Volkov shut the door and leaned his forehead against the wood. His scar burned.

  “Arkady?” Yekatarina said from behind him. “Is everything all right?”

  “Are you ashamed of me, Yekatarina?” he asked, still facing the door.

  Her hand rubbed his back. “Ashamed? Arkady, why would you ask me that?”

  Volkov did not answer. He had never brought his work home with him, never shared the gruesome details of his job, what he had to do to extract information, all in defense of the Russian Federation. He turned and gave his wife a closed-lip smile. “Nothing. It is nothing.”

  “What did that young man want? You work together?”

  “Just a little career advice.”

  She smiled. “You see? The young officers now look up to you. They come to you with their questions. That is a sign of respect, Arkady. It is a sign that you have nothing to be ashamed of, that others think so highly of you.”

  “Yes, of course,” he said. A thought came to him, and he walked to the apartment windows and looked down at the street. Alekseyov departed the building, now wearing a hat and gloves. He walked north. Volkov searched the sidewalk in each direction, as well as across the street. No one followed the young FSB officer on foot or by car.

  “Come and finish your dinner before it gets cold,” Yekatarina said.

  Volkov turned from the window. “I am full.” He walked to the hall closet, opening it. “I am going to go out for a cigarette. A walk in the cold weather will clear my head.”

  His wife eyed him with suspicion.

  He pulled on his coat and scarf and retrieved his gloves and cap from the pockets. He held his wife by her shoulders. “Do not look so worried. I won’t be long. I promise. Only a short walk this night.”

  Viktor Federov walked the streets of London in a drizzle that had painted the night nearly black and elongated the lights from the many taxicabs, double-decker buses, and cars. He carried a plastic bag of Chinese takeout. With each block, Federov glanced to his left and to his right. He studied the faces of others walking the street, looking for anyone he had already seen that night, or those who appeared purposefully disinterested and disengaged. He hoped that, with time, he would become less paranoid, but he wondered if that would only make him more vulnerable. He sighed. Had he made the right choice? It was a question he would surely ask himself often. He had long been a man without a family. Now he did not have a country. A man without a country, eating takeout food from Styrofoam containers because he did not trust that his food would not be poisoned if he ordered room service. He would change restaurants each night as well as hotels, always living under one false passport or another.

  What a way to live.

  But what option did he have?

  The FSB had been the only life he had ever known. He had no pension to show for his service, and supporting his wife and his daughters had not allowed him to save any money. What he had was the six million he’d stolen from Carl Emerson, with a promise of more to come. He had done what he had to do to survive. Sometimes you didn’t have the luxury to make the right choice. Sometimes you only had one choice.

  When the traffic light changed, Federov crossed the street and walked up Buckingham Palace Road to the Grosvenor Hotel. The doorman pulled open the door for him, and Federov crossed the enormous throw rug atop the marbled entrance, stepping past an elaborate floral centerpiece. The hotel bar tempted him, but even after two days of downtime, after having slept nearly sixteen hours, he remained mentally and physically exhausted.

  He took the elevator to his room, pausing when the elevator car’s doors pulled apart, his hand beneath his coat, on the grip of his handgun. He searched the hallway in both directions before stepping into the hall and making his way to his room. As he walked, he pulled his phone from his pocket and activated a recently installed app that connected to the iPad he’d also purchased, which now sat on his desk. The cameras on the iPad provided a live feed to the app on his phone, which allowed him to view the inside of his hotel room.

  No one. He reversed the video to the moment he had departed the room, and fast-forwarded to confirm no one had entered his room while he was out. Satisfied, he slid the plastic takeout bag up his forearm to free his hand to grip the gun, if necessary. The “Do Not Disturb” sign hung from the door handle. He swiped the card key, waited a beat, then pushed the door open, pausing before he stepped inside. He checked the threads he’d torn from the pillowcase and placed atop the bathroom door and the bedroom closet. The threads remained. Neither had been disturbed.

  He deadbolted the door and put his gun on the desk along with his dinner. Then he removed his coat and hat and draped the coat over the back of the chair. He looked about the single room. He had the money to rent a suite, but a single room was easier to secure. Besides, who was he trying to impress?

  He walked to the bathroom, unzipped his fly, and relieved himself. A phone rang, a low muffled sound Federov initially thought to be coming from the room next door. He washed his hands at the sink and walked back into his room. The phone rang again, but the sound was not from next door, nor was it the burner phone on the desk, or the room phone. It came from his iPad. The call was being made to a virtual phone number, a number Federov had opened through the cloud when he worked for the FSB; he had not wanted the FSB to monitor his calls, especially those of a sensitive or personal nature.

  Only three people knew the virtual number. His two daughters—neither had ever used it—and his former partner, Arkady Volkov.

  Worried the FSB could be harassing his daughters, as Efimov had threatened, he answered the call, speaking Russian. “Privet?”

  “Viktor?”

  The male voice surprised him. “Arkady?”

  “I was uncertain you kept this number.”

  “So was I,” Federov said. The pit in his stomach lessened somewhat. “Is something wrong?”

  “I do not know, Viktor, but Simon Alekseyov just visited me at my home.”

  “Your home? What did he want?”

  “I am not certain. A trick perhaps.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “Perhaps to test my loyalty.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He wanted to know if I had a way to get in touch with you.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I told him no, of course.”

  “Did he say why he asked?”

  Volkov relayed what Alekseyov had told him. When he finished, Federov said, “Do you believe him?”

  “I don’t easily trust anyone but my wife, Viktor. This you know.”

  “Yes, I do. I’ve often wondered: Why do you trust me, Arkady?”

  “Next to my wife, I have spent more time with you than anyone. But I am not telling you this for you, Viktor, or for Mr. Jenkins or Ms. Ponomayova.”

  “Why then?”

  “I do this for Simon, and for the FSB that I still believe in. If Simon is telling the truth, Efimov is allowing his obsession to influence his decisions, and this will surely get Simon fired, possibly me also, and reflect poorly on all the FSB and, I am sure, the Kremlin, though they will deny any knowledge.”

  “I understand, Arkady.”

  “Do svidaniya, Viktor. I doubt we will talk again.”

  “One never knows, Arkady. Anything can happen.”

  “For you, maybe. For me, not so likely,” he said.

  Federov disconnected the call, then pulled out his desk chair and sat, considering what Volkov had told him. If it was true, and he had no reason to believe it was not, then Charles Jenkins and Paulina Ponomayova were about to suffer a horrible death.

  Federov sat back, thinking of what Volkov had told him and what he might do. Could this be a trap?

  He did not put anything past E
fimov.

  49

  After two days of catching up on his usual daily calories and sleep, Jenkins felt almost like himself again. Paulina, too, looked better, and she said she felt better. The doctor had put her on a round of antibiotics and provided her with protein shakes, which Jenkins ensured she drank, until her appetite returned. She remained painfully thin. A red hue had returned to her cheeks, and her skin was no longer sallow.

  More noticeable than her physical appearance was Paulina’s old demeanor. The woman who had intended to die and who had spent months suffering without giving up any information had slowly receded, replaced by the woman Jenkins had first encountered. Paulina even sounded excited about the prospects of living in the United States and starting her life over.

  They had spent most of the two days in their cabin, reading books Bantle provided and watching movies streamed through the computer. Paulina had become a big fan of The Godfather and The Godfather Part II, which she had never before seen. She wanted to watch the third movie in the series, but Jenkins dissuaded her, telling her it would ruin the first two. They settled instead on a comedy, My Cousin Vinny. Paulina’s pronunciation of certain English words had now taken on a Brooklyn accent.

  At night, with fewer crew members on duty, Jenkins and Paulina walked the deck in the cold breeze to build Paulina’s strength and to clear their minds before going to sleep.

  After leaving the port in Gdańsk, Poland, they were eager to get outside after staying in their cabin all day. They pulled on crew-member uniforms—light-blue jumpsuits and dark knit caps—and went up top to walk the deck. The weather was changing, not nearly as cold, and the sky had cleared. They watched the sun set, painting the horizon a mixture of rich colors, and they saw the emergence of the first stars and planets.

  The cold air invigorated and refreshed him, and Jenkins breathed it in deeply. Something about being out on the water, with the wind on their faces, made them both feel free, though Jenkins knew they were not yet out of danger. They talked about Jenkins’s family, and about life in the United States. Paulina worried about what she might do for a living, but Jenkins assured her that she would be given a new identity and that she would be in demand, with her degrees from Moscow State University in computer science and systems hardware, as well as mathematics.