The Last Agent Read online

  Lavrov said, “I assure—”

  “You assure nothing. Your prisoner has escaped, and you and your guards will be held accountable. Now clear this office!”

  Lavrov issued orders clearing the office, leaving a young guard who introduced himself as Dementi Mordvinov. An older, heavyset officer with pockmarked skin similarly introduced himself as Ravil Galkin. “Why did you not accompany the prisoner in the ambulance?” Efimov asked.

  “The FSB officer ordered us not to,” Galkin said. “He said the prisoner was his responsibility, that he was acting upon the orders of the deputy director for counterintelligence and the president, and that I was interfering with his investigation.”

  Efimov looked to Alekseyov and Volkov. He had his answer. Federov was complicit.

  “Play the footage of Federov’s interrogation of Ponomayova yesterday afternoon,” Efimov said to Lavrov. Lavrov leaned across Efimov and struck several keys on the keyboard. While the footage played, Efimov spoke to the younger of the two guards. “Tell me what happened.”

  “Colonel Federov was interrogating the prisoner when she slumped forward, suddenly unconscious,” Mordvinov said.

  “Was she unconscious?”

  “She did not appear to be breathing.”

  “Did you check her pulse, her vital signs, anything?”

  “No. Colonel Federov did so and said it was a heart attack. He ordered me to summon the doctor immediately. I left the interrogation room to do so.”

  Efimov looked to the second guard. “Did you check the prisoner’s vital signs?”

  “She was alive, but her pulse was weak and her breathing minimal,” Galkin said.

  “You confirmed this yourself?”

  Galkin paused. A lie. “I—”

  Efimov turned his attention back to Mordvinov. “Had Ponomayova complained of any chest pain before she collapsed?”

  “No.”

  He looked to Galkin. “Did Federov instruct you to call an ambulance?”

  “No,” Galkin said.

  “You do not know how it arrived?”

  “It arrived through the front gate,” Galkin said.

  Idiot. He returned his attention to Mordvinov. “Did you summon the ambulance?”

  “No.”

  Efimov looked to Galkin. “You remained in the room. What did Federov tell you to do?”

  “He ordered me to unlock the prisoner from the floor bolt and to remove her shackles.”

  “And you did this?”

  “I protested. I told Colonel—”

  “I do not care what you told him,” Efimov said, rising from behind the desk. “Did you do it?”

  “Yes.”

  Efimov swore. Ponomayova was no longer restrained, making it far easier for her to flee.

  “Stop the tape.” Efimov directed his attention to the screen. “Go back ten seconds.”

  Lavrov did so.

  “Stop.” Efimov hit “Play.” On the tape, Federov stood from his seat behind the table, movement that had caught Efimov’s initial attention. Federov looked to have photographs in his hand. “What is he doing?”

  “He is about to show the prisoner photographs,” Mordvinov said, pausing the tape.

  “Photographs of what?”

  “Men who worked for the KGB in Mexico City,” Mordvinov said. “Ponomayova identified one of them.”

  Efimov hit “Play,” listening as Federov continued his interrogation, surprised that Ponomayova was speaking without seeming reluctant. A further trick. He hit “Stop” and reversed the tape when a card fell from Federov’s hands and fluttered to the ground.

  Ponomayova spoke in a bold voice. “Yes. I have heard that name before.”

  Efimov rewound the tape and again hit “Play,” peering closely at the computer screen. The photographs had been a diversion, he was sure of it, but from what? So, too, had been Ponomayova’s affirmation that she recognized one of the men in the photographs. She had spoken to redirect the guard’s attention away from the fallen photograph and to give Federov time to retrieve it. Efimov hit “Play.” This time the tape proceeded slowly, frame by frame. Federov gestured with his right hand. Efimov hit “Stop.” “Look at his finger,” he said.

  “I don’t see . . . ,” Alekseyov said. Then, “It has a bandage.”

  “Watch closely.”

  The men in the room leaned forward, watching the tape progress frame by frame. Efimov hit “Stop.” “Did you see?”

  “It looks as though he slid the top photograph from the others,” Alekseyov said.

  Efimov hit “Play” and they watched a card flutter to the floor, but Galkin stepped forward, blocking the camera’s lens. “The third one,” Ponomayova said. “He looks familiar.”

  Efimov glared at Galkin, who retreated a few steps. Efimov turned his attention back to the screen. What had Federov been up to? In Efimov’s office Federov had suggested that Sergei Vasilyev might have been a former KGB officer who had served in Mexico City. Efimov watched the tape for another minute, then said, “Show me the tape of this morning’s interrogation.”

  Again, Lavrov complied. The tape ran for several minutes. Efimov hit “Fast Forward” and watched Ponomayova’s head slump forward, roll back, and fall to her shoulder. She pitched forward, striking her forehead on the table. He slowed the tape.

  “Are you all right?” Federov asked. “Ms. Ponomayova?”

  Efimov watched the aftermath, Federov issuing orders, Galkin’s tepid challenge. Then he said, “Show me the film of the ambulance arriving in the prison grounds.” He slid back the desk chair to give Lavrov space. Lavrov opened a second window, pulled up the video taken of the prison courtyard, and hit “Play.” The ambulance drove in and a paramedic stepped out. He was roughly the same height as the doctor and the two prison guards. Charles Jenkins was six feet five inches. “You said there were two paramedics?” Efimov asked Mordvinov.

  “Yes. One never left the back of the ambulance.”

  “Describe him.”

  “He wore the same uniform and hat.”

  “Was he black?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Still smoldering over the guard unlocking Ponomayova from her chains and blocking the view of the camera, Efimov looked to Galkin. He struggled against an urge to strike him. “Did you see him?”

  “Not well.”

  “Was he black?”

  “He might have been.”

  “Was he black?”

  “I don’t . . .”

  “You don’t know?”

  “Not for certain.”

  Efimov moved toward the door while speaking to Alekseyov. “Have the tapes delivered to Lubyanka. Tell the analysts to break them down frame by frame.” At the door he turned back to Lavrov and pointed to Galkin. “Fire this man. Immediately. Or I will have you replaced.”

  26

  The ambulance driver, a CIA asset in Moscow secured by Lemore, drove into an underground parking garage beneath a private building near Komsomolskaya Square. The parking kiosk was unmanned, as expected—every move to this point choreographed. The driver pressed a fob to a plate to raise the gate, then drove down the ramp to one of the lower floors, tires squealing on the slick concrete. He parked in a designated space for the disabled between two cement pillars at the back of the garage floor. The overhead light had been broken, and though the garage was equipped with security cameras, the camera on that floor had also been disconnected.

  As Jenkins continued to work to revive Paulina, he could hear the man stripping the bar of lights from the roof, then peeling off the red striping, the red cross, and the blue universal medical signs on the back panels. When he had finished, the vehicle would be a plain white van. The driver opened the passenger door and tossed everything on the floor, then went to work removing and replacing the license plates. When he’d finished, he opened the back doors of the van.

  “Why haven’t you changed?” he asked Federov and Jenkins in English but with a strong Russian accent. “We need t
o move.”

  “She’s not coming to.” Jenkins looked to Paulina, who remained unconscious on the stretcher. The doctor lay unconscious on the floor, hands zip-tied behind his back, a rag shoved in his mouth.

  The driver checked his wristwatch. He removed his blue jumpsuit as he spoke. “Your train will leave Leningradsky station precisely at 1:15. Moscow trains are punctual. We have timed this to the very minute. We have a head start on the FSB, but they will make up time quickly. You need to move.”

  Underneath the jumpsuit the driver wore nondescript clothing—boots and jeans. He pulled on a black leather jacket and a knit skullcap and shoved black leather gloves into his coat pocket. Then he peeled off the beard and threw it and the glasses into the back of the van.

  “Go,” Jenkins said. “Your job here is done.”

  The man again checked his watch. He handed Jenkins train tickets. “Remember. The train will leave on time. Not a minute after 1:15. Misinformation is being spread. Everything is timed to give you the best chance to get through the station and to the train. You must be on it.”

  “I understand,” Jenkins said.

  The man lit a cigarette, then shut the van doors.

  Jenkins looked to Federov. “You go also.”

  Federov had peeled off his suit and threw the clothes on top of the doctor. He wore jeans, boots, and a blue down jacket over a second coat. He would abandon the down jacket at some point. He went to work putting on a mustache, which he checked in a mirror, then fit glasses onto the bridge of his nose and pulled a black Adidas baseball cap low on his brow. Disguise complete, he opened the back door and stepped from the van. “I wish you luck, Mr. Jenkins.”

  “I’ll wire the rest of your money into the account when I’m stateside.”

  Federov smiled. “I would argue with you, but a deal is a deal, no? I have four million reasons to hope you are successful. Udachi.” Good luck. He slammed the doors shut.

  Jenkins checked his watch, then put a finger to Paulina’s carotid artery. Her pulse had grown stronger, a good sign, he hoped. He leaned close. Her breathing remained steady. He didn’t know whether to give her more naloxone; whether it could harm or even kill her.

  Outside the van, he heard the sound of tires squealing and wondered if it was FSB coming for them. Yes, he had a head start, but as the driver had said, it would not be for long. Federov said the FSB had access to traffic cameras installed all over Moscow, the most sophisticated system in the world, not that it would be needed to find an ambulance, even on busy Moscow surface streets. He and Lemore had taken that into account to buy them as much time as possible.

  He reached for the nasal spray. He’d have to take the chance. He inserted the nozzle into Ponomayova’s nostril, but she pulled her head back sharply. Her eyes fluttered open. Her arms flailed. Jenkins subdued her before she hurt herself.

  “Paulina. Paulina,” he said softly. “It’s okay. It’s okay. You’re all right.” She looked frightened, confused, and uncertain. The pupils of her eyes remained dilated. “It’s me. It’s Charlie. Charles Jenkins.”

  She looked at him as if she didn’t know him. Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes. She shook her head sadly. “No,” she whispered. “No.”

  “We have to move. Can you walk?”

  “You should not have come back,” she whispered. “You should not have come back, Charlie.”

  His heart fluttered and Jenkins thought of what Alex had worried about. Had the Russians leaked news of Paulina surviving to lure him back? He didn’t have time to consider it. “Can you walk?”

  “Yes, I believe so.”

  “There are clothes here for you, a wig. Can you see without your glasses?”

  “Yes. Well enough.”

  “Do your best. Hurry. We have a train to catch.”

  They quickly changed into winter clothing. Paulina pulled on a light-brown, shoulder-length wig. The fur-lined hood of her fashionable jacket would also help to obscure her face. Jenkins knew his disguise was like trying to camouflage a grizzly bear. Given his physical size and his skin color, he would remain an easy target. To try to offset his build he pulled on a bulky, military-green jacket. To reduce his height, he would stoop over a cane. A gray hairpiece beneath a hat would complete his transformation to an old man.

  He handed Paulina a passport with train tickets and a small pocketbook. Inside was her Russian identification and an assortment of expected items including rubles, a cell phone, lipstick, hairbrush, and breath mints.

  “We’ll walk separately to the train station and travel separately on the train, but I’ll be close by should anything happen.”

  “Should anything happen, do not expose yourself,” she said.

  “Everything is timed. The train schedules have been studied to maximize our chances. Things are in play to help us, but we have to move to make it work.” Jenkins explained the scenario in further detail as they stepped from the ambulance. He pointed to a door. “The staircase leads up to Komsomolskaya Square.”

  “This is my home, Charlie. Once I am above ground, I will know my way. But you must be careful. Moscow has facial-recognition cameras that the FSB will use. Keep your head down.”

  “I’m aware of that, and we have a plan in place.”

  Jenkins handed her a duffel bag that she fit over her shoulder. She stumbled, off-kilter, and had to grip the edge of the ambulance to maintain her balance. She took several deep breaths.

  “Can you make it?” Jenkins asked. He had considered the possibility that Paulina’s weakened physical condition could impact her abilities, but in the end he didn’t have much choice or any other options. He was counting on the tough woman he had met in Moscow, and who had resisted Efimov’s interrogation, to rise to the occasion.

  She took a deep breath, steeling herself. “You named your daughter after me.”

  “Yes,” Jenkins said.

  She smiled, and Jenkins saw a glimpse of the woman who’d nearly killed him in a Moscow hotel room. “Then I am eager to meet her. Let’s go.”

  27

  Efimov stepped from the elevator onto the third floor of the main Lubyanka building toward the conference room when an administrative assistant intercepted his approach. “The deputy director wishes to speak to you.”

  Efimov swore under his breath. He didn’t have time for what would surely be an administrative beatdown. He needed to get eyes on the ambulance if they were to have any chance of determining where Jenkins and Ponomayova were headed, and how far they were behind.

  “Go,” he said to Alekseyov and Volkov. “Get me the tape of the ambulance leaving Lefortovo. Find it.”

  Efimov followed the assistant down the hall and into an anterior office, brushed past her, and pushed open the door, stepping in.

  Dmitry Sokalov stood behind his desk, looking angry and uncertain. Without his suit jacket, he also looked six months pregnant, his shirt buttons about to give way from the bulge of his belly. Sokalov had always enjoyed his food and his alcohol, and his position now accorded him ample opportunity to dine at the government’s trough.

  This office, or the equivalent, should have belonged to Efimov, but Sokalov had political decorum Efimov lacked. He could bullshit, tell others what they wanted to hear, rather than what they needed to hear. More important, he had the ear of both the director and the president, and that meant he had power over Efimov. Power he would no doubt seek to impose.

  “Is it true?” Sokalov said. “Has Jenkins gotten Ponomayova out of Lefortovo?”

  Word traveled quickly at Lubyanka. Efimov spoke calmly, as if everything remained under control. “That is what I am attempting to determine.”

  “Do not withhold information, Adam. I am to report to the president in ten minutes. Tell me what happened.”

  “It appears that Mr. Jenkins is working with Viktor Federov.”

  “Federov?”

  “That is the initial assessment.”

  “Why?”

  “I suspect it relates to t
he ten million dollars Mr. Jenkins stole from two accounts at the UBS in Moscow.”

  “But has he successfully removed Ponomayova from Lefortovo?”

  “I have confirmed that personally.”

  Sokalov swore three times, a habit. Then he said, “Tell me what you know.”

  “With all due respect—”

  “Tell me what you know!”

  Efimov bit his tongue and let Sokalov have his temper tantrum. “Ponomayova faked a heart attack, a drug most likely. Given her recent willingness to provide information, the prison did not hesitate to rush her to the hospital to keep her alive. It was the right decision, though poorly executed. Federov used the authority of the FSB to travel with her by ambulance. Unfortunately, the ambulance that arrived was not legitimate.”

  “And Jenkins?”

  “He, too, I suspect, was in the ambulance.”

  “Where is it now?”

  Efimov stifled a retort and chose his words carefully. “That is what I was attempting to determine when your assistant summoned me.”

  “Shit. Shit. Shit.” Sokalov put his knuckles on the desk, bracing himself. “And Ponomayova is talking?”

  So the deputy director had at least done his homework, or had someone do it for him, and now had his chance to dress down Efimov.

  “Nothing of significance. I believe it to have all been part of the plan to get her out of Lefortovo.”

  “We shall see, Adam, if that is in fact true.”

  “I can assure you—”

  “Of nothing,” Sokalov interjected. “She did not speak to you, and so you can assure me of nothing, especially not now.” He stepped from behind his desk, checked his watch, and pulled his jacket from the coat-tree, slipping it on while repetitively swearing. “Find that ambulance, Adam, immediately.”

  “Do not worry, Dmitry—”

  “I will not worry,” Sokalov said, raising a hand and his voice to speak over Efimov. He pointed a finger, further reducing Efimov’s status to a schoolboy being disciplined. Efimov resisted the burning urge to reach out and snap the digit. “Because it will not be my head that rolls if you do not find Ponomayova and Jenkins. It will be yours. I cannot protect you any more than I already have, and the president will not risk the political fallout by stepping in. Not for you. Not for this. This is your last chance. You have burned too many bridges. Fail, and it will fall on your shoulders, whatever punishment the president decides, and we both know his temper can be as bad if not worse than your own.”