The Good Spy

by Jeffrey Layton

“The satphone didn’t survive the ascent and I can’t risk an unsecure call to the base. The Americans could intercept it.”

  “Govnó!” Shit.

  The U.S. National Security Agency monitored virtually every telephone call, fax, e-mail, text, and tweet into or out of the Russian Federation. Trafficking of fissile materials from Russia’s not so secure nuclear installations petrified the White House. An audit earlier in the year revealed that fifty-five kilograms of weapons-grade uranium had vanished from a nuclear weapons storage facility at Snezhinsk. Al Qaida, the Islamic State, and other terrorists had standing offers of millions for any loose nukes.

  That’s why Yuri had to be so careful. Just one slipup could forever condemn his surviving shipmates to the deep.

  “What about a surface escape if we run out of time?” Captain Borodin asked.

  “You’re too deep. I barely made it with my own equipment.”

  Yuri did not mention his bout with decompression sickness and his paralyzed leg. It would only make matters worse. Because of his extended bottom time, it had taken longer than planned to make his rise—but it hadn’t been long enough to purge all of the helium from his body.

  Trained in deep-diving techniques, Yuri had employed a heliox rebreather system to install and monitor seafloor-based espionage equipment—and to escape. Only Yuri and one other member of the crew had access to the equipment.

  “So the Hydro Suits are still out,” Borodin said.

  “I’m sorry—a decompression stop is an absolute must at the Neva’s depth.”

  Like all military submarines, the Neva was equipped with individual dive gear that would allow the crew to escape in an emergency. The Neva relied on the recently deployed Hydro Suit, which would rocket a sailor to the surface inside a bubble of compressed air.

  Borodin said, “If we can’t swim out on our own, you remain our only hope.”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Well then, my friend, please hurry. We’re running out of time down here.”

  * * *

  Laura used her upper-body mass to rock the chair from side to side while at the same time leaning forward against the restraints. She was halfway across the bedroom. Her goal was the mirror on the vanity. She’d smash it and use a glass shard to slice away her bounds.

  Laura managed to track another foot when she shifted her torso a little too much. The chair teetered on two legs before tipping onto its left side. Laura’s head slammed onto the floor.

  In spite of the carpet, the impact sent her reeling.

  Laura recovered her senses after several minutes and tried righting the heavy chair. She managed to spin in place.

  Now what do I do?

  Laura’s stomach flip-flopped.

  Acknowledging defeat, she felt tears well up and nausea caught in her throat. Now he would know that she’d tried to escape.

  She closed her eyes and swallowed the bile. With her mouth sealed by tape she feared what might happen if her queasy stomach erupted.

  CHAPTER 7

  Two men met on the top floor of a mammoth building in Moscow’s Arbatskaya Square. It was mid-afternoon. They sat facing each other in an office that could have accommodated an infantry platoon at full parade rest. The tall, silver-haired man behind the enormous desk had in fact started his distinguished military career as an infantry junior lieutenant in the Red Army. Some forty years later, he had ascended to its highest rank, Marshall of the Russian Federation. Appointed minister of defense eight months earlier, Ivan Volkov now commanded all Russian military forces.

  Minister Volkov’s guest served as the chief of the Main Intelligence Directorate of the General Staff of the Armed Forces of the Russian Federation. Cue ball bald and portly, General Rybin ruled over Russia’s military intelligence service, the Glavnoye Razvedovatel’noye Upravlenie, aka the GRU.

  Both men drank coffee imported from the USA. The pleasantries were over.

  “What’s so urgent?” asked the minister as he set his mug back on the desktop. He retained his flat belly despite the years. “Is it about this Deep Blue business?”

  Deep Blue was an American Japanese naval war game under way in the western Pacific offshore of Russia’s Southern Kuril Islands. Two U.S. Navy carrier strike groups were in play.

  “No, sir,” the GRU general said, “it’s not Deep Blue—something else, a troubling puzzle.”

  Minister Volkov tilted his head to the side.

  “It started yesterday . . . originated from Washington Station’s security office. Apparently, the embassy received a rather peculiar phone call from . . .”

  General Rybin spent the next few minutes summarizing the coded cable traffic sent to the GRU’s Fifth Directorate. He got to the real news.

  “The accident victim’s connection to this so-called Vega Institute in Saint Petersburg was what first raised Washington Station’s interest.”

  Volkov shifted in his chair. The reference to Vega had his complete attention, too. Vega was a code word for a Russian espionage operation designed to collect intelligence on the perceived plan of the United States to neutralize Russia as a military rival. Russia’s bullying of Ukraine and other neighbors had chilled relations with the West, especially the United States.

  Rybin continued. “When we ran the embassy’s request through our data banks, that’s when the real mystery developed. We entered the crucial word groups from the cable—Tomich, Gromeko, Kirov—and then let the computers chew on it for a while.”

  The GRU general removed a document from a file folder he held in his lap. “This is what the computer spat out.” He handed the report to his boss.

  Minster Volkov scanned the three-page document. When finished he said, “This can’t be right—it must be a coincidence.”

  “That was my first reaction as well but I had my staff analyze it. They tell me it’s possible.”

  Volkov uttered a curse while reaching for the phone.

  * * *

  Eleven time zones away, Yuri Kirov stood in the doorway of the master bedroom. It was a few minutes past three in the morning. Laura Newman lay on the floor, still lashed to the sideway chair. Her gag remained intact. Exhausted, she slept.

  Yuri stepped inside and knelt by the chair. Laura woke, her eyes seemingly expanding to the size of saucers.

  With one hand gripping the top of the chair back and the other cupping Laura’s shoulder, he rotated the chair until it was upright.

  Yuri spent a minute checking her bindings and then left, closing the door.

  Too wired to sleep, Yuri retreated to the kitchen where he enjoyed a cup of tea.

  Standing by a window that overlooked the still dark beach, he sipped from a mug while considering his tactical situation.

  She had tried to free herself.

  If she escaped, it wouldn’t be long before the authorities captured him. That would mean the end for his shipmates.

  One thrust from his dive knife would end the threat.

  No, he wasn’t ready for that—at least not yet.

  * * *

  Defense Minister Volkov and GRU Chief Rybin reconvened their meeting in the minister’s office, now late afternoon. The Navy’s top officer joined them.

  “What do you make of this, Pavel?” asked Volkov.

  Admiral of the Fleet Mayakovsky looked up from the GRU report. “Sir, this is most unusual. I’m at a loss for an explanation.”

  “But could there be something to it? The report says the names fit the Anaconda profile. It can’t be coincidence.” Anaconda was a code name.

  The sixty-two-year-old naval officer fidgeted in his chair. Tallest of the three, he was plagued by residual pain from a lumbar injury aboard a ship two decades earlier. “Pacific Fleet headquarters briefed me after you called. We’ve had no direct communication with the submarine for over ten days. That’s a concern but it’s not unusual, especially for the type of mission it’s on. Sometimes they’ll go ten, twelve days without checking in.”

  “So what is Ana
conda?” asked Minister Volkov.

  “Retrieval and surveillance mission for the Fleet Intelligence Directorate. The boat assigned to this duty is home-ported at Petropavlovsk-Kamchatskiy.” Although Anaconda was a GRU mission, operational control of the submarine remained with the Pacific Fleet.

  “Retrieval of what?”

  “The Neva’s primary mission was to recover the acoustic recording units and replace them with new ones.”

  “For that missile sub base they have . . . what’s it called?”

  “Bangor. It’s near Seattle. The recorders are located in the waterway that their subs pass through to and from the base.”

  “But it shouldn’t take them a week to do that,” General Rybin said. “You’ve had submarines in there before.”

  “Yes. Under normal protocols, they would have been in and out in no more than four days. But the Neva had a second mission.”

  “To do what?” asked Volkov.

  “It was optional for Anaconda, at the discretion of the captain. If the conditions warranted, he was to attempt installation of sensors near a Canadian torpedo testing station.”

  “Where?”

  “North of Vancouver. The Nanoose Bay Torpedo Test Range. The Americans and Canadians jointly run the base. The U.S. Navy has been testing its newest torpedo up there. Apparently, it’s a radical design; we need to find out just how radical it really is.”

  “So what does all this mean?”

  “Sir, I think it’s likely that the Neva hasn’t checked in yet because it’s busy planting the probes. And if I were the captain, I wouldn’t risk any transmission within those confined waterways—I’d wait until I was back in the Pacific.”

  “Why?” asked the GRU chief.

  “The American satellites might pick them up, even a microburst. They wouldn’t be able to read the signals, but they’d know something was up in their backyard.”

  “Okay,” Minister Volkov said, “let’s assume they’re still operating on radio silence. What about these names?” He pointed at the briefing paper on his desk. “How do you explain that?”

  Admiral Mayakovsky picked up the document and stared at the first page. “That’s what is most troubling to me. The reported accident victim, Anatolii Tomich, is, in fact, the same name of Neva’s captain, just like this says.”

  “The other names—Tomich’s so-called uncle in Petropavlovsk . . . Gromeko.”

  “According to the roster, there is a Mikhail Gromeko aboard. He’s the executive officer.”

  “And the physician in Seattle supposedly treating Tomich, what about him?”

  “There’s also a Yuri Kirov aboard; he’s the intelligence officer. This doesn’t say but he’s probably in charge of the probe operation.”

  “He is,” confirmed GRU Chief Rybin.

  Minister Volkov sighed heavily. “How could anyone outside of this Ministry know the names of three key officers on one of our most secret missions? The person that started all of this phoned the Washington embassy yesterday and used all of these names—like a code. Something’s wrong.”

  “Could the Americans be behind this?” asked General Rybin. “With all that crap they’re dumping on us in the Kurils, could they also be screwing with us about the Neva? If they somehow found out about its mission . . .”

  “How about that, Pavel?” Volkov asked.

  “I don’t know. None of this makes any sense to me.”

  “Well, I think you’d better find out just what’s going on. I don’t like the smell of this.”

  “I understand, sir. This will be my highest priority.”

  CHAPTER 8

  “How long have you worked for this company?” Yuri asked. He rested on the sofa by the fireplace; it broadcast an amalgam of snaps, crackles, and pops from a fresh bundle of cedar kindling.

  “Just over ten years.” Laura Newman sat at the nearby dining room table. “I was hired out of college—the sixth employee.”

  “And now there are two thousand.”

  “Yes. We’ve done well.”

  It was early afternoon at the beach house. After freeing Laura from the bedroom chair, he let her shower and change clothes; she wore a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved blouse. He let her eat lunch. After the meal, she’d asked permission to work. A collection of documents covered the tabletop along with a laptop. He’d left her hands untied but bound both ankles together.

  “What are you working on currently?”

  “I’m reviewing the marketing plan for a new product that we’ll be launching in the spring.”

  “What kind of product?”

  “It’s an update of an existing software system that uses seismic data to map subsea oil and gas formations.”

  “You work for oil companies?”

  “About one-third of our business is related to hydrocarbon exploration.”

  “So you must have training in geology,” he said, looking back at Laura.

  “No, but there are around a hundred geologists and geophysicists that work in my division; about half are PhDs. Their work generates unbelievable volumes of data, which is where my computer skills come into play.”

  “Interesting.”

  The oil business, Yuri reflected. No wonder she’s rich.

  He remained on the sofa by the fireplace. The radiant heat helped. Nevertheless, his misery persisted. Most of his joints throbbed and the numbness in his lower left leg endured.

  The bends’ relentless assault continued.

  Laura worked at the dining room table. Before allowing her access to the Dell, he’d disabled the wireless broadband port. He also tucked Laura’s cell phone in his pants pocket.

  He pulled out her 4G smartphone and called up the search engine. The website appeared in a flash. He navigated through the site, keying the About Us icon.

  There she is! He studied the color headshot of Laura Newman, a serious professional portrait that also accentuated her natural beauty. Her company title was Vice President of Operations.

  Yuri devoured the rest of the website’s contents, impressed with the company and in awe of Laura Newman. Wow, she’s really something.

  Yuri set the phone aside and peered out a living room window, taking in the expansive seascape. He thought of his maritime home—mired in abyssal ooze about twelve kilometers to the southeast.

  Yuri had been a member of the Neva’s crew for sixteen months. They were his family and he missed them all, especially Senior Warrant Officer Viktor Skirski.

  Viktor had perished along with fifty-three others. He made the first dive after the accident to inspect the fouled seawater intakes. He never returned.

  Guilt consumed Yuri: He should have stayed aboard. Why should he be the only one to escape? No one else had a chance of making the ascent. He knew that yet it still stung.

  And there was the issue that really tore at Yuri’s heart.

  I should never have moved the deep-water gear to the torpedo room. If they were still by the aft escape trunk, some of the crew might be able to make it to the surface.

  To Yuri’s relief, Borodin had not revisited his blunder during their early-morning talk. Nevertheless, an earlier accusation from one of the other surviving officers still festered.

  It didn’t matter to Yuri that Captain Tomich had approved his request to relocate the ten obsolete IDA59 rebreathers and companion bulky immersion suits to the now flooded first compartment to make room for Yuri’s special spy gear. Nor did it matter that there were not enough IDA59s aboard for everyone or that they required specialized training at depths greater than fifty meters, which most of the crew had never received. Still, that fateful decision haunted Yuri.

  I have to get them help soon or they’ll perish.

  The environmental conditions aboard the Neva were deteriorating. Foul air, near freezing temperatures, and leaks plagued the crew.

  If they can get a reactor online, that’ll buy time.

  Survival of his submates required a reactor restart, which continued to elude
the crew. A source of electricity would mean heat, oxygen generation, and energy to drive the bilge pumps.

  And what about Moscow? Yuri wondered. They had to know by now.

  All morning Yuri grew anxious waiting for a callback from the Russian embassy in D.C.

  They had to send help. But would they?

  The Neva’s mission—spying deep inside U.S. and Canadian waters—was an act of war. The Neva’s orders had been explicit: If detected, exit unfriendly waters immediately. Under no circumstances could the Neva or any of its crew be captured. Should capture be imminent, the submarine and its crew were to self-destruct.

  And that would mean the death of Yuri’s family.

  Yuri had no thoughts of his parents. They had evaporated long ago.

  His mother died almost eighteen years earlier. Ovarian cancer took her over ten miserable months. During most of her suffering, Yuri’s Army officer father had served in the field. Major Ivan Kirov could have requested a hardship assignment to Moscow, but he elected to avoid home.

  Yuri had no siblings and the aunt that helped raised him—his father’s older sister—had been about as warm and loving to him as the Barents Sea in mid-January.

  The one bright spot in Yuri’s early life had been his maternal grandfather, retired Vice Admiral Semyon Nikolayevich Fedorov. During summer vacations, Yuri traveled by train from Moscow to St. Petersburg and stayed with Grandfather Semyon.

  A widower, Fedorov had lived in a well-appointed apartment that overlooked the Neva River. The three consecutive summers Yuri spent with Grandfather Semyon were the best times of his life. They hiked in the country, day-sailed on Lake Ladoga, visited St. Petersburg’s plentiful museums and monuments, spending countless hours in the Hermitage, and took in dozens of performances at the Mariinsky Theatre, the Ballet Theatre, and the Pushkin Drama Theatre.

  Yuri enjoyed their visits to Semyon’s previous command the most. The St. Petersburg Naval Base was one of Russia’s largest naval facilities. Grandfather Semyon’s office had been located in the Admiralty building; its landmark gold-coated spire towered over the lower Neva.

  Yuri’s visits to the naval base and Semyon’s stories of Cold War skirmishes with NATO—he had commanded a submarine—inspired Yuri to follow in his grandfather’s wake.