The Good Spy

by Jeffrey Layton

  CHAPTER 20

  The Russian submarine Barrakuda patrolled along the northern California coastline at 2143 hours local time when the extremely long frequency radio wave engulfed the hull. The three-hundred-meter cable streaming behind the vessel intercepted the signal.

  Five minutes later, the communications officer entered the central command post—the sub’s nerve center. He approached the commanding officer, who sat in a pedestal chair near the center of the compartment. A dozen men sat at electronic consoles on either side of the CO.

  “Captain, we just had Flash traffic on the ELF circuit.”

  “What’ve you got?”

  The comms officer handed over the message. It read:

  ECHO ONE ABLE.

  Echo represented the mission call sign for the Barrakuda; One Able was a directive from the squadron commander at the Rybachiy Naval Base in Petropavlovsk.

  “I guess we’d better find out what the boss wants.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll get the VLF buoy ready.”

  The Barrakuda ascended to a depth of one hundred meters. The ELF cable was reeled into the stern pod and the very low frequency cable deployed. The buoy at the trailing end of the cable bobbed five meters below the ocean surface.

  The encrypted data stream from the VLF transmitter on Russia’s Kamchatka peninsula broadcast continuously. It took the sub’s commanding officer two minutes to decrypt the message, using a laptop computer in his cabin. He sat at a compact desk and reread the message, astonished at its content.

  “Rescue mission,” he mumbled. “How do they expect me to do that?”

  CHAPTER 21

  “Good night,” Laura said. She leaned across the bed and switched the light off.

  Yuri didn’t reply. He rested on the carpet near the base of the bed. A blanket covered his body. A thought struck him, his knife—he’d left it downstairs.

  Before removing his trousers for the leg massage earlier in the evening, he’d slipped the dive knife with its scabbard into the folds of the sofa. He needed to retrieve it. But he didn’t have the energy, especially for the stairs. It would have to wait until the morning.

  He should have tied Laura up, too. But he also reasoned that away, confident that he’d hear her if she tried to escape.

  Yuri rubbed his right foot against his left shin; it remained inert. If the deterioration continued, he would have to fabricate a crutch to get around.

  He had planned to head out to the Neva this evening, but his leg would not cooperate. Besides, he told Borodin the previous night he might not be able to make contact every night. Still, he carried the guilt.

  Having to rely on others annoyed Yuri. He’d waited all day for a callback from Major Orlov—nothing. He’d called Orlov’s cell several times but only got voice mail. He tried texting but received no reply. Finally, at a quarter past seven the SVR officer phoned. Nick reported that he’d not yet received new orders and that he would check in with Yuri in the morning.

  Yuri tried to relax but remained anxious. Everything took too long. More than ever, he feared for the welfare of his shipmates.

  His thoughts shifted to Laura. Grateful for her help tonight, Yuri was comforted to know he could call on her for additional assistance should his leg worsen.

  But could he really trust her?

  * * *

  They occupied a table in a downtown Vancouver hotel bar. The nearest patrons, another couple, were three tables away and by the sound of their chatter, giddy from drink.

  Elena Krestyanova and Nicolai Orlov, on the other hand, had been drinking vodka most of the evening yet both remained nearly sober. Their Russian blood had long ago pickled, resulting in astonishing levels of tolerance.

  The SVR operatives spent the afternoon at the Trade Mission waiting for new orders. But nothing happened. There had been no reply to Orlov’s status report of the previous day from either the Washington embassy or the San Francisco consulate.

  Nick and Elena eventually left the mission at seven thirty. She treated him to dinner at a waterfront restaurant on Coal Harbour and they visited a packed jazz bar. After driving back to his hotel, Nick invited Elena in for a nightcap.

  They both slugged down another round of Beluga—chilled and neat, and Elena said, “I still can’t believe what Kirov told us.”

  “I know . . . it’s a wild story.”

  “If it’s true, what do you think Moscow will do?”

  Orlov shrugged. “I don’t think there’s much they can do.”

  Although they could talk freely, they spoke intimately and in English, adhering to their spy schooling.

  “You don’t think they’ll just leave them there, do you?”

  Nick gestured with his hands, signaling his frustration. “What can they do? Or for that matter, what can we do? A rescue operation would take enormous resources; it’d be impossible to hide.”

  “There’s no easy way out of this.”

  “No, I’m afraid not.”

  Ten minutes passed. Elena pried out a personal disclosure from Nick.

  “You live on a houseboat!” she said.

  “Yeah, I rent a small one in Sausalito; that’s just across the bay from downtown. I commute on a ferry.”

  “Wow. Living on the water . . . that must be a fun lifestyle.”

  “It is—I love it there.”

  Elena considered her options. Attracted to Nick, she wondered if he might have mutual interest. There had been no overt signals so far. He’d remained aloof. More spy training camouflage or could it be that he’s seeing someone else? Maybe, but so far he had not mentioned it. That encouraged Elena.

  “Tell me, Nicolai Mironovich,” she said, flashing a bewitching smile, “where did you grow up?”

  “Nizhny.”

  She toyed with a strand of hair, twirling a finger. “How many siblings?”

  “Two older sisters.”

  “Ah, you were the baby of the family.”

  * * *

  “Captain, I’m worried. Some of the men are in trouble.”

  Stephan Borodin looked up from the cramped desk of his former CO’s quarters, facing the Neva’s senior warrant officer. “What do you mean?”

  “They’re terrified, sir. They’re convinced the boat is doomed.”

  “How many?”

  “Just a few right now. But it’ll spread—I’m certain of it.” He paused. “Once it starts, I won’t be able to control them. Anything could happen.”

  “Are you thinking mutiny?”

  “Yes!”

  Of the remaining thirty-six survivors, two-thirds were just eighteen- to twenty-year-olds with at best the equivalent of a high school education. Too few officers had survived to maintain control. If the crew mutinied, Borodin and the others would be overwhelmed.

  With the officers eliminated, the mutineers could release the emergency buoy.

  Although Captain Tomich had padlocked the buoy’s release mechanism when the Neva entered hostile waters, a bolt cutter could easily sever the lock.

  Once on the surface and still tethered to the Neva, the buoy would broadcast an SOS. The U.S. Navy would be on top of them in a matter of hours.

  “So what do you suggest?” asked Borodin.

  “Maybe you could address the crew again—another report on Yuri’s progress.”

  “But I don’t have anything new to report. He may not even come out here for another day.”

  “I know, sir. But maybe we could go into the radio room and raise the antenna buoy, like we have a new report from Yuri. We’ll make up something, anything to give them hope.”

  Borodin reluctantly gave in. Dima’s suggestion grated him; nevertheless, he understood its utility. “If Yuri doesn’t show up at the usual time, we’ll try it.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  * * *

  The Tsawwassen nightclub was a madhouse this late in the evening, thanks to a dozen girls in the lineup. The first few had already paraded their silicone-enhanced wares in front of the rowdy
booze-guzzling crowd.

  Ken Newman sat two tables back from the stage, a glass of premium Canadian whiskey in his right hand. The drink had cost twenty bucks U.S., the price of the T & A show.

  “Son of a bitch!” Ken mumbled as he again thought of Laura and the man at the beach house. Her betrayal gutted him. He seethed at the thought of her in bed with another.

  He flushed those images as a new dancer strutted out on the runway: a nineteen-year-old brunette, 34-D cup. The raucous music ramped up and she worked the pole. Kenny swigged down the remaining Crown Royal and held the glass up. The barmaid homed in on him with the precision of a cruise missile.

  CHAPTER 22

  DAY 6—SATURDAY

  Laura’s bladder woke her at 4:40 A.M. She drank three full cups of water before bed, counting on the consequences. Yuri remained on the floor. She listened for the next few minutes, his breathing slow and steady.

  She’d been waiting for this opportunity. It was time.

  Laura slipped out of the bed and retrieved her jeans, blouse, and deck shoes, all stacked neatly on the dresser top. She walked gingerly toward the door, skirting Yuri’s inert form.

  In the dining room, she packed her laptop and filled her briefcase with the work papers that had been scattered across the table.

  She already retrieved her purse from the floor next to her briefcase and was almost ready to leave. Where’s the key?

  Laura walked into the living room. A single table lamp emitted just enough light to see. No SmartKey for her BMW.

  She stepped back into the kitchen. The light fixture over the stairway flashed on. She looked up; Yuri stood at the top of the stairs.

  Laura froze.

  “Laura, I’m sorry to have involved you in my troubles. I had no right to keep you here. You’re a good person.”

  Yuri’s words did not yet register. Laura remained dazed. Her ploy had been discovered. He was perched near the top of the stairway, hands fixed to the railings.

  As Laura stared upward, all she could comprehend was a singular thought: Where’s the knife?

  Yuri continued, “The key to your automobile is in my coat pocket.” He gestured with his right hand toward the closet by the front door. With one hand on a rail, he wobbled on his feet—his lower left leg still useless. “I’m not going to stop you.” He inched his way closer to the staircase. “But please, Laura, know this: If you report me to the authorities you’ll be condemning three dozen men to their deaths.”

  Yuri stepped down onto the first stairway tread. His left leg buckled. Caught off guard, he fell forward. The right side of his head clipped the wall-mounted handrail, tearing his scalp. Stunned, he tobogganed down the stairs on his belly. He landed in a heap on the oak floor at the base of the stairway. Blood gushed from the head wound.

  * * *

  Laura headed north on Tyee Drive. The U.S. border station was just a minute away. She didn’t bother with her suitcase or anything else in the upstairs bedroom. She’d grabbed the laptop, recovered her electronic car key, and dashed through the front door.

  She’d ignored him as she exited. Yuri lay on the foyer, moaning. Blood from his head wound pooled on the oak flooring.

  But now, five minutes later, Laura had calmed down enough to consider what had happened.

  He let me go—why?

  What did he mean I would be condemning men to their deaths if I reported him?

  CHAPTER 23

  Elena Krestyanova stood by the hotel room’s balcony door. Except for an oversized long-sleeved shirt that she wore—his shirt—she was naked. Elena peered around an edge of the curtain. A mini-monsoon ravished Vancouver this early morning.

  She turned around and took in the other view. Nicolai’s tapered torso and broad shoulders remained on full display as he lay facedown on the queen-size bed.

  Elena was tempted to climb back and arouse him to wakefulness, one of her specialties. Maybe later, she thought as she walked into the bathroom.

  * * *

  Ken Newman lay faceup on his Tsawwassen hotel bed. A pillow covered his head. Tears pooled in his eyes.

  Nursing his hangover from the four whiskies he’d downed at the nightclub, Ken relived the all too familiar low points of his life: the beatings by his father that had spawned self-doubt, which seeped into everything he touched; his early addiction to alcohol that continued to plague him; his dream career in the U.S. Navy that had sunk when he washed out of the special training program, forcing him to finish his enlistment as an ordinary seaman; his less than stellar academic performance, including his failure to complete his university degree; his boyhood dreams of grandeur quashed, replaced with mediocrity.

  Now the one positive element of his life—his passport to Easy Street—was in jeopardy.

  Laura had a lover! How long had she been sleeping with him? Was he the reason for the divorce?

  Ken tossed the pillow aside, the green-eyed monster taking form.

  Energized and dry-eyed, Ken schemed.

  * * *

  Half a mile south of Ken’s hotel, Laura occupied a booth in a café just off Fifty-sixth Street. Her right hand trembled as she sipped from the coffee mug; she reran the events of the last hour.

  When Laura approached the U.S. border station, she hesitated for half a minute before driving into the bypass lane. The Canadian border agent granted her passage into British Columbia.

  She could go back right now and tell them everything. Then again, Yuri’s warning remained up front and center.

  How could Laura be responsible for the deaths of thirty-six people?

  There’d been no time for explanations nor had Yuri been in any position to offer one. Blood gushed from his head wound. Laura hadn’t tried to assist him, not even offering a towel to help stem the flow.

  She couldn’t ignore what had happened.

  But what could she do?

  CHAPTER 24

  “You need stitches,” Laura said.

  “No. I’ll be all right.”

  “You could start bleeding again.”

  “I’m okay.”

  “I don’t know about that.” Yuri rested on a sofa in the living room. It was sunrise but the beach remained in the dark.

  Laura used a pillowcase to bandage his head. With the white fabric knotted to the side and blood soaked, he looked like a pirate.

  Laura sat in a chair facing Yuri. She made eye contact, took a deep breath, and said, “So, just who are you?”

  “My name is Yuri Kirov. I’m an officer in the Russian Navy.”

  “You’re Russian?”

  “Yes.”

  “What are you doing here—in Point Roberts?”

  “I was aboard a submarine that was on patrol when there was an accident. It sank. I’m the only one that made it out so far. The rest of the survivors—thirty-six men—are still aboard.”

  “They’re on a submarine—a Russian submarine?”

  “Yes, it’s called the Neva.”

  Laura felt bewildered. “Where is it . . . where did it sink?”

  He gestured toward the windows and the sea beyond. “It’s on the bottom south of here.” Yuri explained how he’d escaped and ended up in her beach house.

  Laura connected the dots: the offshore boat trips, the stereo speaker in the pressure cooker, his mysterious calls on her cell phone.

  “What were you doing here . . . in your submarine?”

  “We were on a reconnaissance mission.”

  Laura countered, “You were spying on us, weren’t you?”

  “No, not America—Canada.”

  “Canada?”

  “Yes, a torpedo testing station near Nanaimo in Nanoose Bay.”

  Laura cocked her head to one side.

  “We were careful to stay out of American waters,” Yuri continued, improvising.

  “Why?”

  “The U.S. Navy has too many sensors for us to risk it—the submarine base at Bangor.”

  “The one on Hood Canal?”

  �
�Yes.”

  “So just to be clear, you were not spying on the United States and you stayed in Canadian waters the whole way here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where exactly is your submarine right now?”

  Yuri reached up with his left hand and adjusted the head bandage. “During the accident, we lost navigational control and drifted with the current. We bottomed out in Canadian waters but close to the border with America.”

  “How close?”

  “About two hundred meters.”

  Laura cupped her forehead with both hands and stared at the floor.

  * * *

  Yuri left the living room to use the bathroom. Laura stood by a window. Whitecaps dotted the seascape and gray-black clouds boiled across the post-dawn sky.

  If not rescued soon, Yuri’s submates would perish. But how could he hope to save them? He could barely walk.

  And what were they really doing in that sub? Yuri and his shipmates were spies. He said they were checking on a Canadian naval base. What else were they up to?

  And the part that distressed Laura the most: Yuri had asked for her assistance with the Sea Ray later in the evening.

  What should she do?

  * * *

  Yuri lay stretched out on the sofa in the living room. Laura sat at the dining room table, working. He’d built a fire and welcomed its therapeutic warmth. His head still ached but new pain radiated from his shoulders and lower back. His tumble down the stairs had levied a new tax on his already beat-up body.

  Thankful that Laura had agreed to help him with the boat tonight, he thought ahead to the mission. What am I going to tell Stephan? Yuri called Nick Orlov but the SVR officer had nothing new to report regarding any rescue effort.

  Everything’s taking too long. They don’t have much time left. What should I do?

  Yuri regretted the lies and half truths he’d told Laura. She was innocent. He wished he didn’t have to involve her in his business.

  Nevertheless, he needed her help.