The Last Agent Read online

  “What do you need?”

  “Another boat, preferably with a portable ramp to bridge the gap.”

  “What gap?”

  “The gap between the boat and where you will be hanging off the side of this ship.”

  “What am I doing hanging off the side of this ship?”

  “Holding on to a rope ladder . . . hopefully.”

  “I don’t like this idea already.”

  51

  Efimov sat in Dmitry Sokalov’s office. The chair to his left was vacant. Alekseyov was not there, and Efimov had not been able to reach him by phone.

  “Where is Alekseyov?” Efimov asked.

  “He has resigned,” Sokalov said.

  The news caught Efimov by surprise, and he wondered if Alekseyov’s resignation had been strategic, and if Alekseyov had had anything to do with the failed attempt to poison Jenkins and Ponomayova, though he could not immediately think of any way he could have warned them. “Resigned?”

  Sokalov adjusted his considerable weight in his chair and looked to be taking pleasure in delivering this news. “You did not know this?”

  “No. But it makes me wonder.”

  “About?” Sokalov asked, though Efimov was certain the deputy director knew the answer to his own question.

  “Our man did not get off the ship at the Port of Aarhus,” Efimov said. “He was to disembark before Jenkins or Ponomayova showed signs of illness.”

  “When did you last hear from him?” Sokalov asked, and Efimov again sensed the deputy director already knew the answer. He was toying with him, trying to determine to what extent Efimov had control over this investigation.

  “He provided confirmation that the tea had been delivered to their room on ship.”

  “Nothing since?”

  “No. Nothing.”

  Sokalov leaned forward and rested his forearms on his desk. “Did we pick up anything on the ship’s communications?”

  The FSB had been monitoring the ship’s communications since learning Jenkins and Ponomayova were on board but reported no transmission regarding the man attempting to poison them.

  “There has been nothing of interest,” Efimov said.

  “No unexpected stops?”

  “None.”

  Sokalov sat back. “Then we have to assume your man has been caught.”

  Efimov picked up the deputy director’s subtlety. “There is no connection between this man and the FSB, or any other agency.”

  “Not yet,” Sokalov said. “But make no mistake, Adam. There is a definite connection to you.”

  Efimov did not respond.

  “Assuming he was caught,” Sokalov said, “why would they not turn him over to Danish authorities when the ship arrived in port?”

  Again, Efimov suspected Sokalov was asking a question to which he already knew the answer, treating Efimov like a pupil hauled before the teacher. He bit back his anger. Exploding on Sokalov would only justify whatever the deputy director intended.

  “Mr. Jenkins would know that the man would be handled much less severely in Denmark than in the United States. He would possibly even be released, if Danish police had no evidence to bring charges.”

  “Which is a problem you assured me we would not face,” Sokalov said, throwing Efimov’s assurances at him.

  Efimov said, “The Americans will have no choice but to remain silent, or risk the embarrassment that they are aiding fugitives. Political pressure can be applied to gain his return.”

  “Yes, but after he has been questioned.”

  “He will reveal nothing.”

  “Is that another promise, Adam?”

  Efimov did not respond. He would not allow Sokalov to bait him. At the moment, something else continued to bother him. “What did Alekseyov say when he resigned?”

  Sokalov waved it off. “I’m told that he had to return home to care for the family farm. His father is sick.”

  Sokalov’s tone indicated he did not believe the excuse but it served his purpose, which was to place blame for this matter directly on Efimov.

  “The timing is suspicious,” Efimov said.

  “I believe you have more pressing problems,” Sokalov said. “Jenkins and Ponomayova remain alive. That is your immediate problem. And this is your case.”

  “They won’t remain on ship and risk the possibility of being arrested at the Port of Drammen,” Efimov said. “They will seek to get off before then.”

  “You said there were no other port stops before Drammen.”

  “There are none, but Jenkins will find a way. We need to alert our assets in Norway.”

  Sokalov looked around his office, then to the empty chair beside Efimov. “Do you see anyone else in this office, Adam?”

  Efimov bristled but kept his mouth shut.

  “If this were my case, I would get to Norway and personally handle this matter. I would get eyes and ears on that ship and on every marina along the Oslo Fjord. I would see this as a final chance to end this. Once and for all. But it is not my case. It is yours.”

  Efimov stood and started for the door.

  “And Adam.”

  Efimov turned back around.

  “I would not expect your friendship with the president to somehow protect you,” Sokalov said. “Should you fail.”

  52

  Late at night, a day after leaving the Port of Aarhus, Charles Jenkins and Paulina Ponomayova stood on the lower cargo deck, near a ten-foot-by-five-foot hull hatch ordinarily used to load and offload cargo by crew members in port. The opening stood about twenty feet above the water, and the scenery outside it reminded Jenkins of the San Juan Islands in the Pacific Northwest—many islands of all shapes and sizes, some inhabited, some with lights sparkling in dwellings, some covered in trees, others barren rock. Though the scenery was not his focus or his concern. His concern was hanging from the rope ladder dangling out the side of the ship above the foaming water.

  Martin Bantle and two other crew members stood with them, peering out the hatch and waiting for Jenkins and Paulina’s transport. Bantle looked as though he had a headache at the back of his eyes. Jenkins had no doubt the chief mate would be glad when this was finished.

  Bantle had explained to Jenkins in private that, to his knowledge, what they were about to do had never been done before. He explained that when ships boarded a pilot, the pilot stood on the end of a portable ramp on the ice. As the ship passed, the ramp was extended and the pilot grabbed the rope ladder on the side of the ship and climbed up into the hull hatch. Bantle had even shown Jenkins a video clip of the pickup being performed. It looked simple enough, but they both knew that it didn’t minimize the dire consequences of a mistake. Slip from the ramp, or from the ladder, and you could be pulled under the ship and crushed.

  Bantle also told Jenkins that getting off the ship would be a lot trickier than getting on. For one, getting off required stepping from the rope ladder onto a moving ramp. As Bantle explained it, a boat would approach the cargo ship and match the ship’s speed but keep a safe distance from the hull. The boat would then extend a ramp from its bow to the rope ladder. Paulina, then Jenkins, would climb down the rope ladder and, when the ramp reached them, step on it and walk across onto the boat. Simple in theory, but practice was another ball game.

  To complicate things, a breeze had stirred up the fjord, creating rolling waves—nothing that the massive container ship couldn’t churn through, but Jenkins wondered how the waves would impact a smaller boat, and the stability of the ramp.

  The ship had slowed to fifteen knots when it entered the Oslo Fjord, but cold air blew through the opening. Jenkins and Paulina had dressed in lightweight clothing—insufficient to stave off the cold, but necessary for them to remain nimble for the task at hand. They each wore life jackets, not that a jacket would do either of them much good if they slipped from the rope ladder.

  Minutes into their wait, a green light on the water indicated an approaching boat. A second later, a white light flashed th
ree times.

  “There’s your ride,” Bantle said.

  Jenkins shook Bantle’s hand. “Thanks for the lift. Sorry to have caused you any trouble.”

  Bantle smiled. “I spent a career finding interesting things to do with my life, and I’ve lived several lifetimes as a result. I can add this to the list.”

  Jenkins helped Paulina climb down the first rungs of the rope ladder. Though the ladder had wooden steps to help stabilize it, the rope swayed with each of her movements. Given that Jenkins outweighed Paulina by 125 pounds, he wondered how much more the ladder would sway with him on it.

  “Be sure of your steps,” he called down to her.

  She looked up at him and gave him a cocksure smile. It could have been bravado, or it could have been her way to keep him from worrying. It could have been the old Paulina he’d first encountered—defiant and confident.

  Jenkins dropped to his belly as the boat approached. He estimated the craft to be forty feet in length, with an enclosed pilothouse, but it looked like a miniature next to the cargo ship. Two men dressed in dark clothing stood on the bow as the boat slowly closed the distance to the hatch hole. After another minute of maneuvering, when the boat appeared to have matched the ship’s speed, the two men swung open a section of the railing on the bow and extended the platform, which rolled out in sections, roughly eight feet in length with a handrailing. The gap from the rope ladder to the platform was approximately two feet, but the platform also rose and fell anywhere from six to eighteen inches with each cresting wave.

  On board, one of the crew members used his hands to signal to the boat the distance of the ramp to the rope ladder. The platform inched closer. When the platform was within less than a foot, and relatively stable, the crew member shouted down to Paulina, “Grab the railing.”

  Paulina did so, then extended her left leg. The crew member had told them to commit at this point, not to delay. He didn’t want them to get caught in between, with one leg on the platform and the other on the rope ladder.

  Paulina did not delay. She let go of the rope with her right hand, grabbed the handrail, and stepped onto the platform. Once on, she quickly and safely crossed to the boat, where the two men grabbed her and helped her step down onto the bow. She turned and looked back to the ship, smiling. Piece of cake.

  Once Paulina boarded the boat, Jenkins descended the rope ladder, feeling it sway with each movement. The wind gusted in his face and he could feel the cold on his exposed skin. He had to be certain of his footing before he removed a gloved hand from the rope, what the crew member had called maintaining three points of contact with the ladder. On the bottom step, Jenkins turned, waiting for the boat captain to maneuver the platform closer to the ladder. As the captain did, the ship passed to the far side of an island, which Jenkins quickly realized had served as a windbreak during Paulina’s transfer. Without the island and trees, the wind picked up, and so, too, did the size of the waves. The rise and fall of the platform became much more severe.

  The platform inched closer. Jenkins timed his step, reached out, grabbed the handrail with his right hand, and stepped with his right foot. In that split second, however, the platform dropped into a trough, and his foot dangled above it. The platform rose on the crest of the next wave. Jenkins planted his foot and committed. He let go of the rope with his left hand, grabbed the platform railing, and stepped with his left foot, but as he turned, one of the snaps on his life vest caught on the rope ladder. In that split-second delay, the wave fell and the platform dropped in the trough. Jenkins’s feet, momentarily suspended, dropped off the front of the platform, though he managed to hang onto the railing with both hands, now dangling beneath the ramp.

  The boat captain slowed to keep Jenkins from getting sucked under the ship and crushed by the hull, should he fall into the water. Voices shouted to him, but he could not understand them. Jenkins tried to pull himself onto the ramp, but the railing, not built to take the full weight of a 225-pound man, bent and threatened to collapse.

  Jenkins swung his legs up, trying to get the heels of his boots over the platform’s sides to take the weight off the handrail. He missed, however, and his leg fell, hitting the water. His weight caused the handrail to bend more severely. Jenkins sensed it was about to snap. He kicked again. The heel of his boot found the platform, and he swung his left leg up onto the other side just before the handrailing snapped. Jenkins’s upper body dropped, but he grabbed the platform with both hands, now firmly beneath it. He turned his head, looking forward, and watched a large wave hurl toward him. The front of the boat dipped, and he held his breath. The wave hit him, the water freezing cold.

  The ramp popped back up. The boat slowed, then stopped, bobbing like a cork in the waves. One of the men crawled out onto the platform on his belly and grabbed Jenkins’s arm and his boot. Another wave crashed over them. With the man’s help, Jenkins managed to drag himself onto the ramp and crawl backward onto the bow of the boat.

  Jenkins rolled onto his back, breathing heavily from the adrenaline rush. He looked at the two men, who stared at him shell-shocked and uncertain. When Jenkins got to his feet, Paulina stepped forward and hugged him. Jenkins thought of Hot Rod Studebaker and his bravado landing the airplane.

  He smiled. “Piece of cake.”

  Efimov sat in a car in Oslo, Norway, monitoring the frequency being used by the FSB’s assets he had dispersed throughout the piers and marinas along the fjord. His cell phone rang and he picked it up from the seat.

  “Two people were just removed from the container ship by boat,” the caller said. “The ship is proceeding to Drammen, but the boat is headed to Oslo.”

  “Describe the boat.”

  “White, approximately forty feet in length, with a pilothouse. The boat’s name is Suicide Blonde.”

  “You are following it?”

  “At a distance. Without running lights.”

  “Let me know when and where it docks. Do not intercept it. Do not let them know you are following.”

  “You don’t want us to intercept it?”

  “No,” Efimov said.

  “We have four armed men on board.”

  “Do as I have ordered,” Efimov said, disconnecting. He stared out the windshield, thinking again of his meeting in Sokalov’s office. He would not give the fat bastard the pleasure of having others capture Jenkins and Ponomayova, would not give Sokalov an excuse to demean and denigrate him ever again. Efimov would end this personally. He’d kill Jenkins, but he would return to Russia with Ponomayova and bring her not to the deputy director, but to the president’s office. Vladimir could not ignore him, not if Efimov stood outside his office with the one person who they now knew could provide the president with answers to questions that had existed for decades—the names of the remaining four sisters.

  He contemplated Sokalov’s final words to him. An ultimatum. So be it. His father had issued many. Efimov had survived him. He would survive the deputy director as well.

  53

  The container ship continued toward the Port of Drammen, a deepwater harbor forty-five kilometers to the southwest of Oslo. Jenkins and Bantle hoped it would draw anyone following the ship with it.

  Jenkins and Paulina sat in the pilothouse, warmed by a propane heater and mugs of coffee. Jenkins thanked the captain, a woman with a thick, dishwater-blonde braid running down the center of her back.

  “I feared for a moment we had lost you,” she said in a Norwegian accent.

  “So did I,” Jenkins said.

  “We have fresh clothes for you to change into. And weapons.”

  A radio mounted over her head crackled. Jenkins nodded to it as he removed his vest and his shirt. “Have you heard anything?”

  “There has been some chatter,” she said. “Nothing out of the usual, but we are listening carefully. If the Russians suspect you will seek to get off the cargo ship they will watch the marinas closely. We will avoid those. My instructions are to bring you to the pier just beneath the Ake
rshus Fortress. You will cross the street to a cobblestone ramp. Walk up the ramp to the fortress. Someone will make themselves known to you.”

  “How?” Jenkins asked, slipping off his pants and handing them to a crew member, who handed him another pair.

  “Look for the church. When the person makes himself known to you, ask ‘Is it too late for a tour of the church?’ This person will answer ‘Yes, but not too late for confession.’”

  “And from there?”

  “I know nothing more,” she said. “We are thirty minutes away. There is more coffee.”

  Half an hour later the boat turned off its running lights and docked in front of the bow of a massive cruise ship moored across the street from a brick-and-stone fortress high on the hill. The Akershus Fortress looked orange in color from the glow of spotlights, and its mirror image reflected on the surface of the fjord’s dark water. The two crewmen on board helped Jenkins and Paulina climb from the bow of the boat up onto the concrete pier, above the ship.

  “Cross the street,” one said in a hushed voice. “Look for the cobblestone ramp.” Then he jumped down onto the bow, and the boat pulled away.

  In Oslo’s inner harbor, the wind was mild and the evening quiet. A full moon, partially obscured by passing clouds, illuminated the night, rendering everything an indigo blue. Jenkins was dressed in a black turtleneck and warm knit hat. He searched the street, looking for anyone who appeared to be loitering or homeless, or for people sitting in parked cars. Seeing no one, he nodded to Paulina, and they crossed the street.

  Fifty feet down the block, following the stone wall of the fortress, they found the cobblestone ramp. Jenkins pulled the gun from his waistband; Paulina did the same. They pointed the muzzles at the ground as they walked up the cobblestone ramp, passing beneath a brick arch, a church on their right. They walked into a courtyard at the top of the ramp and looked about, seeing no one. Jenkins didn’t like being out in the open, with nothing to hide them, and he quickly made his way toward an inner stone courtyard.