The Good Spy

by Jeffrey Layton

  Yuri retrieved the smartphone and typed in the Web address, one that he had memorized long ago. He smiled when the image appeared. Admiral Fedorov’s official portrait reflected his tough no-nonsense warrior pose, but Yuri still adored it. The private website, owned and maintained by retired Russian naval officers, honored their beloved brethren. Grandfather Semyon was among the most honored.

  For a fleeting moment, Yuri was tempted to send the e-mail—a quick message to one of his comrades back in Petro, informing the officer of the Neva’s fate. It would be so easy to do with Laura’s phone. But he soon dismissed the thought, knowing the risk was not worth it. He would continue to follow protocol and work through the embassy.

  Thanks to Grandfather Semyon’s influence, Yuri attended the Nakhimov secondary school in St. Petersburg. He then entered the Higher Naval Submarine School located on the St. Petersburg Naval Base campus for five years of officer training.

  Those were marvelous times for Yuri. He embraced military life, excelling in his studies and bonding with his future brother officers. Semyon died during Yuri’s fourth year, passing in his sleep.

  Over three thousand attended Admiral Fedorov’s memorial service in St. Petersburg’s Naval Cathedral at the Church of St. Nicholas. Although invited, Yuri’s father had been a no-show.

  After the funeral and in the privacy of his grandfather’s apartment, Yuri wept, mourning the loss of his mentor and best friend.

  The Russian Navy was now Yuri’s only family. The officers and men of the Neva were his brothers.

  CHAPTER 9

  “That’s weird.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve got an anomaly on one of our sensors in the South Georgia Straits area.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  The twenty-four-year-old University of British Columbia research assistant looked up from his laptop’s screen to face his boss. They were inside a conference room in the Fisheries Centre of the Vancouver campus; it was mid-afternoon. Stacks of files and reports covered the table where they sat. “It looks like some kind of underwater outburst, a pretty big one. Take a look.”

  He flipped the Apple around and slid it across the table. The attractive thirty-two-year-old assistant professor of marine zoology leaned over and eyed the LCD monitor. “That is odd. When did this happen?”

  “Monday, one thirteen a.m.”

  “Hmm.”

  “I wonder if it’s one of those geophysical companies testing equipment again.”

  “No way,” the professor said. “That pressure spike and its duration are way beyond any normal equipment testing levels.”

  For the past three years, she had been studying the effect of manmade underwater sounds on marine life, orcas in particular. The Greenpeace grant had allowed her to install eight hydrophones along the length of the 150-mile-long Strait of Georgia.

  “Maybe it’s the military—some kind of new sonar test,” offered the RA.

  “Yes, that could be it. Can you pinpoint the source?”

  “No, just that it originated south of Vancouver, probably in deep water.”

  “What about Venus?”

  “I checked earlier this morning; it’s still down and there’s no estimate of when it might be online again. Apparently, they don’t have a clue as to what’s wrong.”

  Venus, a cabled undersea research laboratory system, transmitted video, acoustic, and real-time oceanographic data from seafloor instruments via fiber-optic cables to the University of Victoria. One of its arrays was located on the bottom of the Strait of Georgia near Vancouver.

  “Too bad,” the professor said, again eyeing the acoustic output on the Apple. “Whatever this event was, it occurred right in their backyard.”

  “I know,” he said.

  The professor keyed the laptop, initiating a search. The webpage downloaded. She flipped the laptop around, displaying a newspaper article titled “U.S. Navy’s Sonar Lethal to Sea Life.”

  “Americans?” the RA asked.

  “Could be, especially in the middle of the night.”

  “Trying to hide what they’re doing?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, what would you like me to do?”

  “Cross-check everything first and prepare me a summary.”

  “You going to blow the whistle on this one?”

  “Damn right. The U.S. Navy is not supposed to be doing any sonar testing near the Gulf Islands. It’s bad enough that we let them operate at Nanoose Bay.” She shook her head. “The arrogance of those Pentagon bastards—thinking we wouldn’t find out.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Ignoring the no contact court order, Ken Newman searched for his wife. He staked out her office, the house, and even her attorney’s office. He’d also made two trips to Sea-Tac International, on the lookout for Laura’s BMW. Ken even considered checking the private parking lots that surrounded the airport but abandoned that idea; there were too many. Ken tried hacking into her banking and e-mail accounts—he knew Laura’s Social Security number—but ran into cyber brick walls.

  No solid leads, until now.

  “I wonder if you could help me,” Ken Newman said, addressing the receptionist. He’d just walked into the lobby of a property management agency in downtown Kirkland at 3:25 P.M.

  “I’ll try, sir.”

  “I’m tracking down some unauthorized charges on my wife’s credit card. One of them was made by your firm.” Ken held up a billing statement.

  “Let me see if I can get you some help.”

  “Okay.”

  Desperate to find Laura, the previous evening Ken drove to their Redmond residence. He couldn’t get in because she’d changed the door locks. But Laura forgot about the locking mailbox by the driveway. Ken still had a key. Luckily, it contained a Visa card statement along with the usual junk mail. He didn’t think twice about stealing the statement.

  Ken sat at a table in the conference room staring at a wall, when the office manager entered.

  “I’m so sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Newman. It took awhile to download the files.” Holding up a stack of hard copies in her right hand, she seated herself across from Ken. “I don’t think you have anything to worry about, at least for this charge. Your wife did pay for the rental.”

  “How can you be sure of that? Some punk snatched her purse and used her credit cards. Laura couldn’t have made that charge. I would’ve known about it.”

  The manager heaved a sigh. “The rental agreement and credit card authorization form were e-mailed to your wife last week. She signed both and then e-mailed them back.”

  “I don’t understand,” Ken said, lying.

  “Sir, we have concrete proof that the charge was legitimate. The property owner required Mrs. Newman to sign the rental agreement.” She held up a collection of papers in her left hand, then removed a credit card receipt clipped to the papers and handed it to Ken. “As you can see, your wife authorized the charge.”

  The manager laid the pdf copy of the contract on the tabletop but did not offer it to him.

  Ken examined the Visa card e-receipt but used it as a diversion. As a commercial real estate agent he’d become adept at reading contracts upside down while explaining deal points to his clients. He used that skill to scan the first page of the contract.

  Ken handed the receipt back. “I’d like a copy of that please, and a copy of the rental contract, too.”

  “I’m sorry but I can’t do that. The account is in your wife’s name only.”

  Ken frowned. “Could you at least tell me where the rental is located?” He’d already memorized the address but the more information he could glean, the better.

  “All I can say is that it is in Washington State.”

  “Is it a condo, house, or what?”

  “It’s a beach house.”

  “Oh, Laura,” Ken whispered, just loud enough for the manager to hear, “what are you up to?”

  The manager froze in place, not offering anything else.

/>   Ken grimaced, pushed away from the table, and stood. “I’m sorry to have bothered you. I didn’t know about this.”

  “No trouble at all.”

  By the time Ken climbed into his Corvette, his hangdog pout had transformed into a broad grin. He’d pulled it off.

  Point Roberts, Ken wondered as he started the engine. Where the hell is that?

  CHAPTER 11

  Yuri waited all afternoon for a callback from the embassy. Finally, at 4:04 P.M., Laura’s cell phone rang. He answered on the second ring.

  “Hello,” Yuri said in English.

  “John Kirkwood?”

  “Yes.” Yuri had selected his alias from a phonebook he’d found in the kitchen.

  “I’m from the embassy. We talked yesterday.”

  The caller worked for the SVR—Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki. As the successor to the former First Chief Directorate of the KGB, the SVR served as Russia’s CIA. The intelligence officer was in a safe house in Arlington, Virginia. He took extreme measures to insure that he did not pick up a tail and he used a new cell phone.

  “I’ve been waiting for you,” Yuri said.

  “Sorry, but it’s taken us awhile to check things out.”

  Encrypted signals between Moscow and the embassy in Washington repeatedly bounced off Russian communication satellites all day. The minister of defense had ordered an immediate full-scale investigation.

  The SVR officer continued, “As you requested, I’ve been checking on that individual you called about, the accident victim, Professor Tomich.” He vacillated. “How is he?”

  “Poorly. They’re going to have to operate soon or he won’t make it.”

  “Well, I have some information on his background that might be helpful to the doctors. However, I need to verify something first.”

  “What?”

  “Did Dr. Tomich happen to mention what he was working on at the Vega Institute in Saint Petersburg?”

  This was the final test, the decisive moment. Moscow remained skeptical, suspecting a trap.

  Yuri smiled, knowing they’d solved his puzzle. “Yes,” he replied, “I believe he said it was called Anaconda.”

  Knowledge of Anaconda had been limited to ten senior defense ministry officers in Moscow, Vladivostok, and Petropavlovsk. Aboard the Neva, just Captain Tomich, executive officer Gromeko, and Yuri knew.

  “Okay, thank you. It turns out that we happen to have a specialist in thoracic trauma who is visiting California this week, San Francisco. Dr. Nicolai Seliskov. He’s agreed to consult on the Tomich case. We’ve already e-mailed him Tomich’s medical records. He can fly to Seattle tomorrow morning.”

  Yuri considered the caller’s carefully constructed report: They were sending someone from San Francisco, probably the Consulate. That made sense.

  “Tell him to fly to Vancouver, not Seattle.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll explain when he gets here.”

  “Okay, Vancouver—British Columbia, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you meet him at the airport?”

  “No.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “Have him call this number when he arrives. I’ll tell him what to do.”

  “All right.”

  The call ended. As Yuri slipped the cell phone back into his pants pocket, he speculated on who controlled Seliskov.

  He hoped for GRU but expected SVR.

  * * *

  Laura Newman had never been so cold. Half-soaked, her legs vibrated uncontrollably and her teeth chattered. Her stomach roiled, too.

  She’d been in the aluminum runabout for about an hour. It was 10:28 P.M. She sat on the center bench, her back to the bow. John squatted next to the outboard engine a few feet away. His right hand gripped the tiller. The boat headed north, back to the beach house.

  Earlier in the evening, he’d informed Laura of the excursion. He needed help with the boat. She looked forward to it—anything to be rid of the bindings and maybe get a chance to escape.

  They had struggled to launch the skiff through the churning waves. Both waded to above their knees and hauled themselves into the boat in between the two-foot-high wave crests. He barely made it, his injured leg deadweight.

  Not once did he explain where they were going or why. After clearing the breakers, now soaking wet, freezing, and furious, she’d demanded answers.

  He had peered at the oncoming seas, ignoring her.

  Half an hour later, the boat slowed. How he found the buoy, black like the sea, mystified Laura. She could barely see it from ten feet away. She helped him moor the runabout to the buoy.

  And then the strangest thing of all occurred. He retrieved a wire from the buoy’s cable, hooked it up to a telephone, and spoke into the handset.

  Between the wind and sea sounds, she couldn’t hear much. From what she did hear, she knew he did not speak English.

  He spoke for about ten minutes and then disconnected. A couple of minutes later the boat began the return trip.

  Laura turned to the side, peering over the bow. The shore approached fast. She would soon be drenched again; landing the boat would be even trickier than launching. But that didn’t worry her. Instead, her thoughts focused on a single question: Who was he talking to out there?

  CHAPTER 12

  DAY 4—THURSDAY

  Aleksi Zhilkin had just turned eighteen when he was drafted. Seven months earlier, thousands of others from the Volgograd Oblast had joined him during one of Russia’s semiannual roundups. All males between eighteen and twenty-seven were subject to conscription. Draftees made up about one-third of the non-officer military. Volunteers accounted for the balance, lured by flashy ads on television and YouTube rebroadcasts that promised adventure, travel, and girls.

  Aleksi had been an exceptional student, but that didn’t matter to the civilian administrator responsible for assigning draftees to the fleet. Submarines needed cooks.

  No cooking occurred aboard the Neva now. The ship’s galley and mess had flooded, along with almost everything else in Compartments One and Two. When the Neva bottomed out, Aleksi had been fortunate to be off duty. Otherwise, he would be a soggy corpse, like the rest of the galley watch.

  Over ninety percent of the boat’s foodstuffs had been stored in Compartment Two but they might as well be on Mars. The remaining supplies were in Compartment Eight. Those cases of canned meat, vegetables, and fruits sustained the remaining crew. A stash of English tea in a central command post locker supplemented the canned provisions.

  Aleksi and one other surviving galley rat had busied themselves with feeding the crew. They doled out measured rations of cold fare into paper cups and whatever containers they could find. For tea, the only hot concession allowed, a blowtorch from engineering fired the kettle.

  Now off duty, Aleksi lay on his bunk in Compartment Seven. He occupied the middle berth of a three-high unit. He’d closed the curtain partition of the coffin-size unit when he’d climbed in ten minutes earlier. The black fabric provided the only privacy he or the other sailors had aboard the Neva. A feeble reading light just above his head illuminated the space. He stared at the pine boards that supported the upper berth.

  Even with the wool blanket and his winter coat, he still shivered. With the continuing power problem, the temperature inside the hull had plummeted to near ambient conditions—just a few degrees above freezing.

  The headache had been building for the past hour. He’d swallowed a couple of aspirin earlier but they had no effect.

  Miserable, Aleksi reached up and flipped off the light switch. In the darkness, he rehashed the scuttlebutt from his last watch.

  Engineering had restarted the reactor but the plugged seawater cooling lines limited its output, forcing the electrical generating unit to operate at a bare minimum level. The ship still leaked more seawater than it could pump out. The one officer who’d managed to escape had yet to offer any real hope of rescue.

  Dread gripped Aleksi’s c
ore. We’re all going to die down here.

  * * *

  It was half past nine in the morning. Yuri and Laura were inside the BMW. The sheaved dive knife tucked in the waistband of Yuri’s trousers ensured her cooperation. She drove while he sat in the passenger seat. Spent from their late-evening excursion, Laura would have slept until noon if he hadn’t intervened.

  Point Roberts, U.S.A., was not much in area, only about five square miles, but politically it was unlike anything Yuri had ever encountered.

  After driving north on South Beach Drive, Laura turned onto Benson and headed west. About two minutes later, she made a right turn onto Tyee Drive.

  “This is the main road into and out of Point Roberts,” Laura said, continuing her rundown on the American enclave.

  “The only way you can drive here from America is to go through Canada?”

  “That’s right. I came through the border at Blaine, then drove around the lower mainland of British Columbia, and passed through a second border crossing.”

  “It has its own border, too?”

  “Yeah, the U.S. and Canada both have customs and immigration people at the end of this road. The U.S. checks everyone who comes into Point Roberts and the Canadians check everyone who departs.”

  Dismayed by Laura’s revelation, Yuri felt a chill flash down his spine. The border meant U.S. federal agents were nearby.

  They bypassed the American border station and drove along a portion of the 49th parallel. The contrast between the two sides was stark. Expensive, modern homes occupied the north side of the borderline; sparse development characterized the opposite side.

  Yuri soon discovered that most of Point Roberts was rural. The town center offered a smattering of retail stores and restaurants, a grocery store and bank, and several gas stations. About fifteen hundred full-time residents called the Point home, but during the summer, the population swelled to nearly five thousand. The beaches were the attraction.

  Unlike most of Point Roberts’s interior, its water perimeter was developed. Hundreds of cabins, beach houses, and McMansions lined its three coastlines. Many of the homes were vacation getaways owned by Canadians from nearby Vancouver. About a dozen eateries and drinking establishments also occupied the Point’s waterfront.