The Good Spy

by Jeffrey Layton

  Forced to drive back into Canada, he found the hotel near the north end of town. Although Tsawwassen bordered sleepy Point Roberts, you’d never know it. The town of twenty thousand thrived as a bedroom community to Vancouver.

  “Dammit!” Ken mumbled as a thought flashed. He would have to stop again at the U.S. border station tomorrow. He hoped the witch that had detained him would be off duty.

  Ken turned away from the TV screen and eyed the mini-bar, the longing always at hand—especially in the evenings. But he was okay, even proud of himself. Earlier, after having dinner in the hotel’s restaurant, he noticed the neon signs across the street. A new nightclub had just opened up. He had resisted temptation and returned to his room.

  * * *

  “I’m sorry to have to do this but I have to leave again.”

  “How long?” asked Laura. She lay on the bed. John hovered over her, reattaching the lashings.

  “A couple of hours.”

  He returned at sunset. After removing her restraints, he allowed her to use the bathroom and then he fed her sausages and more fried potatoes.

  “Please, not too tight on that wrist.”

  He adjusted the knot. “Better?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  * * *

  Flat on her back with each limb reattached to the bed frame’s corners, Laura heard John drive off in her BMW five minutes earlier. He left a table light on next to the bed. She stared at the ceiling, a fresh strip of duct tape resealing her mouth.

  Laura sensed John did not relish his role as captor. On his return, he carefully removed the tape that had sealed her mouth. It would have been easier to rip it off. He also allowed Laura to apply hand cream to her wrists and ankles before he reapplied the rope bindings.

  Besides his thoughtfulness, something else caught Laura’s eye—something that ran counter to her common sense. She found him attractive.

  Laura also recognized that she must have presented a ghastly appearance in her current condition: no makeup, stringy hair, and frumpy clothing—a pair of tattered blue jeans and a wrinkled long-sleeved shirt.

  Realizing it was silly to worry about her personal appearance, Laura again focused on her captor.

  What is he up to now?

  * * *

  Yuri piloted the thirty-one-foot powerboat southward in the marina channel. The offshore breakwater was just ahead.

  The key chain discovered in the pantry led him straight to the Sea Ray. The dock and slip numbers were hand-printed in black ink on the key chain’s float. The electronic card opened the parking gate and dock gate. The other keys opened the cabin door and turned the ignition.

  He considered the finding a godsend.

  Yuri guided the boat around the southwest tip of the breakwater and goosed the throttle. The boat accelerated to thirty knots.

  Twenty-five minutes later, Yuri reestablished communications with the Neva. Using the buoy-com line, he just briefed Captain Borodin on his meeting with Major Orlov. There wasn’t much to report. Nevertheless, Borodin’s spirits rebounded.

  “Yuri Ivanovich, there’s no way we can ever thank you for what you have done. When Orlov makes his report, Moscow will certainly send Kaliningrad. If we can just hold out, we’ll be okay.”

  “Right,” Yuri replied. “I’ll help pilot her right to you and we’ll use the mini to make the transfer—the Americans will never know.”

  “And then we can all celebrate back in Petro!”

  “It will be a great party!”

  Yuri did not share his colleague’s optimism but never let on. The rescue sub was iffy. The Pacific Fleet’s sole rescue submarine was a former missile boat recently converted to carry a hybrid Priz-Mir class submersible. Home-ported at the Vladivostok Naval Base, the Kaliningrad was designed for rescue in Russian coastal waters, not a covert operation over a hundred miles behind enemy lines. Yuri doubted Moscow would authorize its use. Nevertheless, if he were in Borodin’s position, he, too, would have expected the Kaliningrad’s immediate deployment.

  After Borodin briefed Yuri on the Neva’s ongoing battle with the fouled seawater intake system and the efforts to keep the reactor online, he lowered his voice and said, “Please, Yuri, tell them to hurry. Some of the men are clawing at the bulkheads. We even had an escape attempt today; drowned before he could exit the aft trunk.”

  “Who?”

  “One of the cooks, a conscript.”

  “Aleksi?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh no . . . he was good man.” Yuri taught chess to Aleksi and two other crew members.

  “Yuri, we can’t stay down here much longer, functioning reactor or not.”

  “I know. I’m going to get everyone out.”

  After returning the Sea Ray to its marina slip, Yuri sat inside the cabin sipping a beer. He found the six-pack of Heineken inside a locker in the galley.

  He took a long pull from the bottle as he recalled the events of the day. His meeting with Orlov and Krestyanova dominated. He was leery of the pair. They were SVR—not military. Because their actions might not be in the best interests of the Neva’s crew, Yuri decided he would not reveal the submarine’s exact location and depth. It was to ensure he would remain involved in the rescue and not rushed back to Russia.

  CHAPTER 17

  DAY 5—FRIDAY

  “This is incredible—how could it have happened?” asked Minister of Defense Volkov, addressing the guest who had just arrived in his mammoth Moscow office.

  “Sir, we don’t know anything other than what the case officer from the San Francisco Consulate reported.”

  Nick Orlov’s report on the Neva’s mishap had rocketed up the Russian military chain of command.

  “What’s this place called—Point what?”

  “Point Roberts.” The chief of the Russian Navy reached into his briefcase and removed a document. He unfolded the U.S. government navigation chart that his staff downloaded gratis from a National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration website. He continued, “Point Roberts is a tiny peninsula, connected to Canada, very close to Vancouver. It’s about—”

  “But it’s American territory?”

  “Yes.” Admiral Mayakovsky pointed to the upper center of NOAA chart 18421. “See it here?”

  “Where did it sink?”

  “We don’t know the exact location, only that it is south of Point Roberts in two hundred plus meters of water.”

  “Can’t they use escape equipment?”

  “According to the report, they’re too deep for the gear aboard.”

  “What about the rescue capsule?”

  “It’s not equipped with one—it’s an older boat. Only our newer boats have them.”

  Minister Volkov sank back into his chair. “How many alive?”

  “Thirty-seven on board plus the one who managed to escape.”

  “How’d he get out—if the others can’t?”

  “He’s a diver and an intelligence officer. The boat is equipped with lockout diving gear, part of his mission equipment but just for him.”

  For the next twenty seconds the defense minister pondered what he’d learned. He then reengaged. “I don’t understand . . . didn’t the mission orders call for self-destruction?”

  “Yes, sir. If the Neva were detected and trapped by the Americans or Canadians.”

  “So why didn’t they fulfill their duty?”

  “The Americans and the Canadians know nothing about this incident. The Neva has not been detected, or trapped. It’s actually marooned. There’s a difference.”

  Volkov reluctantly nodded. He said, “So what can we do about this?”

  “I have a plan, sir. It’s rough at this point but I think it might . . .”

  * * *

  Volkov sat alone in his office. He had approved Admiral Mayakovsky’s action plan. Later in the afternoon, he would brief the president on the Asian crisis. He speculated on how his boss would react to the new wrinkle the Neva represented.

  The U
nited States and Japan continued to taunt Russia with Deep Blue, now in its fifth day. Just the hint of a possible invasion of the Southern Kuril Islands had traumatized the Kremlin. Thinly deployed in the Far East, Russia’s military forces would be crushed if the Americans decided to repossess Japan’s Northern Territories.

  Russia had grabbed the Japanese islands in the final weeks of World War II. Japan claimed that it never ceded sovereignty. The dispute simmered until recent offshore exploration hinted of a petroleum bonanza in the island chain. Japan wanted the islands back more than ever. The United States supported Japan’s claim for return of the Southern Kurils.

  As long as the oil and gas flowed, Russia’s energy-based economy would get by. But should the hydrocarbon prices once again decline or production falter, the Russian economy would tank. After having crawled out of the poverty pit, Kremlin leaders were horrified by the specter of the Russian populace forced back into the sludge.

  Russia had about ten years to prepare. By investing carefully, reducing corruption where it could, and gradually cutting back on public subsidies, the financial performance models predicted a stable economy. But paramount to that success was increased petroleum production.

  The new discovery in the Southern Kurils represented a potential godsend. If it proved to be a mega-elephant field, the recovered hydrocarbons would be readily accessible to conventional offshore drilling and production equipment. The infrastructure needed to bring the oil and gas to market already existed on Russia’s nearby oil-rich Sakhalin Island. The Southern Kurils could bolster Russia’s economy—or maybe not.

  Japan, aided and abetted by the United States, had again upped its rhetoric, demanding return of its Northern Territories. It, too, needed the Kurils’ natural riches. Japan continued to suffer from the aftermath of another killer earthquake and tsunami that had ravaged Honshu’s east coast from Tokyo to Kobe.

  Volkov pulled up the hidden keyboard to his PC and clicked on a shortcut. The desktop screen flashed to current world energy market prices. “Good,” he said, relieved. Crude oil continued to climb out of the pit that hamstrung Russia’s economy.

  The minister knew his boss monitored the price of oil. Up $1.10 from the previous day, it was likely the president would be in a good mood for their upcoming meeting. That portended well for the Neva’s crew.

  CHAPTER 18

  “How many times has he done this?” asked Yuri.

  “Too many,” Laura said.

  “The man is a vermin, hitting you like that.”

  “He’s sick—alcohol is a poison to him. He can really be a nice guy when he’s not drinking.”

  “Still, that’s no excuse. You should have left him a long time ago.”

  “I know.”

  Yuri and Laura were in the living room, sipping coffee after lunch. Yuri found he enjoyed his daily dialogue with Laura. She had just detailed her failed marriage.

  “The divorce—how long will that take?”

  “My attorney says it could take over a year to finalize.”

  “Why so long?”

  “Ken will be out to get as much as he can from me.”

  “Money?”

  “Yes, most likely he’ll be after my stock in the company. Most of it I earned before we were married, but that won’t stop him. He knows the potential. We’ve had several unsolicited offers to be purchased—offers beyond my wildest dreams.”

  “So you would be rich.”

  “Very comfortable.”

  “Hmm.”

  Yuri and Laura remained in the living room as Laura revealed more about her family and past. She told Yuri that her adoptive father had succumbed to a heart attack in her junior year of high school; it happened at her soccer game. William Wilson, MD, collapsed on the sidelines just after Laura scored a goal. He died in the ER.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” Yuri said.

  “Thank you.”

  “Does your mother still live in California?”

  “Yes, she moved to Santa Barbara. My brother and his family live there. They have three daughters—they’re wonderful.”

  Ten years older than Laura, the Wilson’s biological son Thomas followed his father’s profession; he was a neurosurgeon.

  “Wow, three girls. Your brother and his wife must have their hands full.”

  “They are blessed.”

  “Yes, they are.”

  “Do you have siblings?” Laura asked.

  “No.”

  “Do you see your parents?”

  “Not really. My mother passed away when I was very young.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “It was a long time ago.”

  “Do you see your father?”

  “Rarely. We’re not close.”

  * * *

  Yuri leaned against the deck railing gazing seaward. To ward off the afternoon chill he wore a jacket commandeered from the Sea Ray. Laura napped in the living room a few steps away. He allowed her to sit on the sofa by the fireplace, ankles hobbled.

  Admiring Laura’s intellect, Yuri remained mystified as to her choice in men. How could she have ever married an idiot like that?

  Touched by Laura’s adversity and recognizing her goodness, Yuri regretted involving her in his affairs. Nevertheless, she remained his prisoner. All of his training told him he couldn’t trust her. Or could he?

  Racked with decompression sickness and on the verge of passing out, he’d overtly threatened her only once with his dive knife. Following that crude warning, just the presence of the knife perpetuated the threat.

  Meanness was not in Yuri’s nature, and during the past several days he showed compassion where he could. Laura responded with obedience and recently expressed interest in his welfare, especially his injured leg.

  Yet, he remained cautious.

  Again, he wondered if he could trust her.

  She was an American citizen and therefore his enemy.

  What should he do?

  With lives of the crew at risk, he would eliminate the threat Laura represented if it came to that. His instincts, however, conveyed another message: If motivated, she could be useful.

  Now that Orlov and Krestyanova were working on the problem, real help would be on the way. Or would it? Yuri recognized that the Neva’s fate eventually would be determined at the highest levels of the Russian government.

  If Moscow approved, a rescue team would be mobilizing soon. But lingering doubts remained. Because of those misgivings, he could not afford to dismiss any option.

  As Yuri shuffled back into the living room, he made a decision. If Moscow wavered, he would start working on Laura.

  * * *

  “Who the hell is that?” Ken Newman muttered to himself.

  He hid behind the sidewall of a vacant beach house just east of Laura’s rental.

  An hour earlier, he’d spotted Laura’s BMW in the driveway. After parking on the shoulder of the road, he walked to the home’s entry, a fresh bundle of flowers in hand. He almost knocked on the door, when he heard muffled voices: Laura talking with someone inside—a male.

  From his hideout, Ken had just watched the stranger step back inside the house. Despite the limp, he saw enough to set off alarms. Tall, lean, and fit with a good-looking face, the man contrasted sharply with Ken’s developing beer gut, double chin, and receding hairline.

  His imagination shifted into overdrive: “She’s cheating on me!”

  CHAPTER 19

  A steady drizzle blanketed the dark and chilly Point Roberts peninsula. Ken Newman shrugged off the wetness from his parka as he walked along the water’s edge. He would have been shivering if he hadn’t traded his nylon windbreaker for the down-filled water-repellent REI jacket he kept in the Corvette.

  Ken approached the west side of the beach house. The lower floor blazed with light. He cautiously climbed over the collection of slime-coated logs and jagged rock riprap that fronted the house.

  On his hands and knees, Ken crawled across the dren
ched lawn. Within seconds, the knees and lower halves of his Levis were soaked. But Ken remained focused: Who’s that son of a bitch with my wife?

  Ken reached the side of the house, just below a living room window. He could hear an exchange between two people. Although muted by the window glazing, he recognized one of the voices. He stood up. Despite the glare from the interior lighting, he could see enough.

  “Ah shit, I knew it,” he muttered under his breath.

  * * *

  Laura kneeled as she faced Yuri. He sat on the couch half-naked, having removed his trousers; a towel covered his groin. Laura worked her right hand up and down his lower left leg while applying a white cream squeezed from a plastic tube.

  “Do you feel anything yet?” she asked.

  “No—nothing.”

  “It may take awhile for this work. It helped me when my legs bothered me.”

  “We’ll see.”

  Laura stood and rubbed her hands together. Already the Deep Heating sizzled in her palms. She turned and walked into the kitchen, where she washed her hands.

  Laura returned to the living room. She sat in a chair by his side. “Anything?” she asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Well, I guess my idea isn’t going to work.” Laura frowned. “Just what did you do to yourself, anyway?” She’d asked this before.

  “It’s nerve damage.”

  This was a new admission. “But how?”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “John, if you don’t level with me, there’s nothing I can do to help you.”

  “I’ll be all right.” Yuri leaned forward and pulled up his trousers. He stood and took a step. His left leg buckled; he collapsed back onto the sofa.

  “It’s getting worse, isn’t it?”

  A reluctant, “Yes.”

  Laura offered her right hand. “Let me help you up.”

  He grasped her hand and launched himself off the couch.

  * * *

  Ken watched as his wife helped the stranger shamble across the living room, her right arm grasping his waist. They disappeared around a corner.

  Ken slid down from the window and squatted on the ground next to the house. The drizzle streamed off his nose in a tiny rivulet, but he was too stunned to notice.