The Good Spy

by Jeffrey Layton

  “I can’t stand our government. It’s going to drag us into a war for sure. Russia needs all the help it can get, so I decided to . . .”

  Laura delivered her punch line. “Ken. If you turn me in, the government will confiscate everything I own. That means all of the stock will go away. You’ll get nothing.”

  CHAPTER 73

  The Neva surfaced inside Canadian waters. Captain Borodin and his observation team climbed to the bridge atop the sail.

  Borodin raised his night vision scope and peered northeastward. The beacon at Lighthouse Point, Point Roberts, flashed every quarter minute.

  Borodin set his NVD aside and picked up the portable radio set. He keyed the microphone and began transmitting. The encrypted UHF signal had an effective range of about twenty kilometers—deliberately limited to minimize detection.

  “Tiger, this is Lion. Come in, over.” Borodin spoke in Russian, using the pre-arranged code names that he and Orlov had agreed on the previous night.

  No response.

  Borodin repeated the call.

  No response again.

  He waited thirty seconds and tried again, “Tiger, this is Lion, acknowledge, over.”

  * * *

  “What the hell is that about?” Ken Newman said as he eyed the portable radio on the galley table. Orlov had set the Russian military radio on standby mode after checking the unit earlier. A tinny voice had just broadcast foreign call signs through its speaker.

  “Don’t answer it,” warned Laura.

  “Why not?”

  “You say the wrong thing, and they’ll come and kill us all.”

  “Is that your spymaster calling?”

  “Worse—it’s a detachment of Russian commandos. They’re waiting offshore on a boat to rendezvous with us.”

  “Dammit, Laura! What are you mixed up in?”

  “Walk away from this—you’ll live. Keep poking around and you won’t.”

  * * *

  Borodin prepared to make another transmission when his radio speaker burst to life: “Whoever is out there jabbering on this channel, speak English.”

  “What’s this?” Borodin muttered, baffled at the response.

  The two portable radios and their encryption software were unique to each other; the chances of a third party picking up the initial transmission, decoding it, and resending on the same frequency were out of this world.

  Borodin had limited English-speaking skills. “I talk with Orlov,” he said. “Put on frequency, please.”

  “He’s not available. You’re going to have to deal with me.”

  Something’s wrong here, Borodin thought. “Stand by,” he replied in English, and set the portable radio aside. He called the Neva’s electronic countermeasures officer over the main intercom: “Fyodor, I need a fix on the next transmission from the portable unit. Can you do it?”

  “Affirmative, Captain. Give me thirty seconds to set up an intercept.”

  Borodin activated the portable radio. “Tiger, Lion. Who is speaking, please?”

  “A concerned citizen. Now, who are you and what do you want?”

  Borodin waited for his ECM officer. It took just ten seconds.

  “Captain, the signal originates from the northeast—in line with Point Roberts.”

  Borodin activated the transmitter. “Put Orlov on frequency now!”

  Twenty seconds passed and no response.

  Borodin repeated the call.

  * * *

  Ken was about to respond when a voice from behind called out a warning: “Step away from that radio or I’ll shoot you!”

  Elena Krestyanova stood in the open aft doorway to the main cabin. She held a pistol with both hands, aiming at Ken’s chest.

  Ken dropped the microphone and raised his hands in stunned surrender.

  “Where’s Nicolai?” Elena demanded as she stepped farther into the cabin.

  “Who?” Ken asked.

  Laura answered, “He’s in Captain Miller’s cabin, tied up.” With her bound wrists, she pointed to the closed door ahead of Elena.

  As Elena walked forward, Laura noticed that Ken was staring at the bulkhead to his left. Mounted to the wall just a step away was a red-handled fire ax with a wicked pick end and a fire extinguisher. Oh no!

  Elena stood next to Miller’s cabin door. With her left hand still gripping the Beretta, she released her right hand from the grip; the pistol remained targeted on Ken. She reached for the door. As soon as she turned the knob, Ken made his move.

  With common sense and ordinary fear muted by alcohol, Ken yanked the twenty-pound fire extinguisher from its wall mount and hurled it at Elena. The steel cylinder smacked her rib cage under her extended left arm. The Beretta spilled onto the deck and she dropped to her knees.

  As Elena scurried to retrieve her pistol, Ken fished for something inside his coat pocket. Laura watched horrified as he pulled out Miller’s .45. Before Laura could yell, he pulled the trigger. The slug plowed into a mahogany deck plank six inches from Elena’s left thigh. The report rang. The stink of gunpowder flooded the cabin.

  Elena froze in place.

  “All right, blondie,” Ken said with the smoking Colt still pointed her way. “You just sit tight right there or I might have to punch a few holes in those lovely tits of yours.”

  Elena, on her knees, remained motionless.

  The portable radio broadcast in English: “Tiger, Lion. Come in.”

  Ken faced Laura. “Tell your Russian buds that we’re going off the air for a while.”

  * * *

  Captain Borodin was about to repeat his call, when an English-speaking female voice broadcast from the speaker: “Lion, this is Tiger. We have a situation here. We’ll get back to you later. Out.”

  What are they doing over there?

  CHAPTER 74

  Laura was in the galley, ordered by Ken to make him a sandwich. He and Elena were in the wheelhouse. Laura could have made a run for it, but Ken threatened to shoot both Elena and Nick if she bolted. Nick remained tied up in Miller’s cabin and Ken had locked the door.

  As plastered as Ken was, Laura heeded his warning—almost.

  She knelt next to the cabin door and whispered through the louvered vents, “Nick, are you all right?”

  “Get me a knife.”

  * * *

  Ken, Laura, and Elena occupied the Herc’s wheelhouse. Elena sat on the deck cross-legged, her hands bound behind her back. Laura stood on Elena’s right; she leaned against the chart table. Her wrists remained bound in front. That way she could function as Ken’s gopher.

  After wolfing down the ham and cheese and guzzling through another bottle, Ken reached for a fresh Redhook. Half a dozen bobbed in an ice-filled container on the deck at his feet. Laura hauled it up the companionway stairs when the trio relocated to the bridge.

  * * *

  Nick was on his right side, his ankles and wrists lashed together at the base of his spine. He gripped the four-inch paring knife with his left hand. Unable to see, he’d already sliced his right wrist. Blood dripped onto the deck. He ignored the sting as he continued to attack the rope.

  * * *

  Ken sat on the edge of the captain’s chair and rotated it so he could face the women. He held the .45 in his right hand; a fresh Redhook, his fifth, filled his left palm.

  He took a swig and belched.

  “All right, blondie”—his words slurred—“let’s try this again. I want to know who you really are and what you’re doing with my wife.”

  Elena stared at the deck. She offered nothing, not even her name.

  Frustrated, Ken faced Laura. “Who is this bitch?”

  “She works at the Russian Trade Mission in Vancouver.”

  “She KGB?”

  “I don’t know—probably, but they don’t call it that anymore.”

  Ken took another gulp. “So what are you supposed to be doing—the three of you here on this boat?”

  Laura did not respond.

  “
Laura, answer me—Now!”

  “We’re supposed to meet up with a ship that’s coming into Vancouver tonight. Transfer some operatives off it and then bring them down to the Seattle area.”

  “Are these the commandos you were talking about?”

  “Yes.”

  “So what are they up to?”

  “I don’t know, they didn’t tell me. I just follow orders.”

  “What about the submarine they left here—where’s it at?”

  “It’s gone.”

  “Gone where?”

  “I don’t know, back to the ocean I guess.”

  Ken teetered on the chair. “What are you doing? You give away software secrets and now you’re helping Russians infiltrate our country.”

  “I’m in over my head, Ken. I can’t get out. If you persist with this, you won’t get out, either.”

  “Well, screw that. I’m going to put an end to this.”

  Ken turned and set the half-full beer bottle onto the nearby chart table. With his gun hand still aimed at the women, he fumbled with the controls to the VHF radio. Although his brain remained alcohol fogged, he knew that the Coast Guard monitored Channel 16.

  “What are you doing?” Laura asked, alarmed.

  “I’m going to have a little chat with the good old U S of A Coast Guard.”

  “No, don’t do that!”

  He ignored Laura as he flipped on the Power switch; the radio had been pre-set to Channel 16. He picked up the coiled microphone and leaned toward Elena. “You’re going to rot in a prison for a million years.”

  Ken eyed Laura. “And you, you keep your mouth shut, and just maybe I can keep you out of the can. But it’s going to cost you. You drop the divorce and sign over control of all your stock to me. If you don’t, I’ll turn you in and then you’ll join your two Russki friends in Leavenworth.”

  Ken keyed the mike. “Calling U.S. Coast Guard, calling U.S. Coast Guard, over.”

  The reply was immediate. “Channel sixteen traffic, this is Coast Guard Group Port Angeles, identify yourself.”

  Ken again activated the microphone. “Never mind that. You just need to know that something’s going down in the Strait of Georgia, offshore of Point Roberts. There’s some Russian spies that are coming in tonight on a ship plus there’s a sub running around somewhere up here, too. You should send—”

  Ken never finished. Electrical power to the Hercules clicked off in an eye blink. The wheelhouse blacked out and the VHF radio died.

  “What the hell?” Ken bellowed. Residual illumination from a pole-mounted pier light allowed him to see Laura’s and Elena’s faces.

  “We were on shore power—the dock breaker must have tripped,” Laura offered.

  Ken noted that the marina’s dock lights remained lit. “So how do you turn the lights back on in this thing?”

  “I’ll have to start the generator; it’s in the engine room.”

  “Get going.”

  “I’ll need a flashlight. There’s one up here someplace.”

  Laura was opening a nearby drawer when a shadowy form charged from the companionway.

  Nick crashed into Ken, knocking him to the deck.

  CHAPTER 75

  The workboat exited the marina and ran on a southwesterly course at ten knots. With the running lights just extinguished and the AIS switched off at the dock, only radar could track the vessel as it faded into the dark.

  Laura had the helm; Nick stood at her side. Elena was below in the galley making sandwiches.

  Ken Newman occupied the deck inside Captain Miller’s cabin, still drunk and banged up from Nick’s sneak attack. Nick took pleasure in cinching up the rope.

  “How long do you think it will take to get there?” Nick asked.

  “About an hour.”

  “Good.”

  Laura leaned to her right to check the radar display. She noted the faint return a couple miles offshore of an island inside Canadian waters. The track line matched the heading of the Hercules.

  Nick stepped up the radar unit. “Still there?”

  “Yep.”

  * * *

  The six-man detail descended into the torpedo room. Clad in coveralls with wet suits underneath, each man wore a full-face fire response respirator and lugged a portable air tank on his back. They also carried half a dozen plastic body bags.

  After assembling on the partially flooded upper deck, the men surveyed the carnage. Three intact corpses along with a horrific blend of scorched body parts bobbed in the waist-deep water.

  “Okay, guys,” the leader shouted through his face mask, “you know what needs to be done, so let’s do it.”

  In silence, the men set about the grizzly task. They collected the remains of their submates with reverence, placing them inside the bags.

  * * *

  Laura guided the Hercules alongside the Neva’s starboard hull. The workboat’s three-foot-diameter rubber fenders cushioned the impact. She cut the power and walked onto the port bridge wing.

  Standing below on the side deck at amidships, Nick tossed the spring line to one of the sailors standing on the Neva’s deck. The crewman secured the line to a retractable cleat on the sub’s outer skin.

  Nick scurried forward and repeated the same arrangement with the bowline.

  As Nick headed aft to secure the stern line, Laura finally noticed the heavyset man standing on top of the Neva’s sail. He wore a gray sea coat, and an officer’s cap covered his head.

  At eye level with Laura and just thirty feet away, he raised his right hand to his brow and saluted.

  Laura waved back in response.

  * * *

  Captain Borodin watched as the woman stepped back into the pilothouse. Thank you, kind lady, whoever you are.

  He had yet to speak directly with anyone aboard the Hercules, but already his crew busied themselves with preparing to transfer its cargo. The man who had just handled the mooring lines assisted them.

  Borodin noted the three portable pumps with their coils of suction and discharge hoses laid out on the aft deck. Also stored nearby were four plastic five-gallon containers that he assumed contained gasoline. But what peaked Borodin’s interest the most was the portable welder. A heavy-duty unit, it was exactly what they needed. Because of its bulk, the welder would have been a struggle to haul aboard by hand. However, the workboat’s deck-mounted crane could handle it.

  Captain Borodin looked away from the Hercules, peering westward. Thankfully, the sea remained calm and the skies were clear. He could see lights on the nearest shore—Mayne Island, one of the hundreds that made up Canada’s Gulf Island archipelago.

  Behind and above Borodin’s perch, he heard the muted whine of the dual search radars as they probed the darkness. Other than a freighter steaming southward in the main shipping lanes four miles to the east, the Neva and Hercules remained alone in this section of the Southern Strait of Georgia.

  So far, so good.

  * * *

  Laura and Elena stepped out of the cabin onto the workboat’s main deck. Nick sat at the control station for the crane. He lifted one of the gas-powered pumps and transferred it to the Neva.

  Elena said, “This is surreal; I still can’t believe we’re doing this.”

  “No kidding,” Laura said as she watched the Russian sailors guide the pump onto the deck of the submarine.

  * * *

  “Chief, how long?” asked Captain Borodin. It was a quarter to midnight. He stood on the Neva’s outer skin next to the forward escape trunk. The head and shoulders of a chief petty officer projected from the hatch opening.

  “We should be complete in half an hour.”

  “How’s the patch holding?”

  “Ivan did a superb job. We’ll need to run some live tests but I think it’ll hold just fine.”

  “And the flooding?”

  “We should have it pumped out soon.”

  “That’s good news, Chief. Well done.”

  “Thanks, sir. I better get
below.”

  “Go ahead.”

  Captain Borodin watched as the sailor descended into the torpedo room. He looked back across the deck toward the sail. The pumps and welder covered the foredeck. The drone of multiple gas-powered engines filled the otherwise tranquil night.

  Borodin took one last look downward into the open hatchway, holding his nose. An awful concoction of electric arc exhaust gases, chlorine, and putrid flesh flowed out of the opening. Portable lighting inside revealed the metal grating of the torpedo room’s upper level.

  What a hellhole.

  * * *

  After storing the body bags inside an empty and dry upper level torpedo tube and installing a pumped fresh air hose system, the six-man detail continued its work. Their first order of business called for temporarily plugging tube five. The detail used an inflatable life raft, stuffing it inside the open breach and then triggering the compressed air bottle.

  The next phase involved dewatering Compartment One. The repair team employed the portable pumps transferred from the Hercules. With a combined capacity of nearly two hundred gallons per minute, the two rental pumps and the Herc’s emergency unit expeditiously drew down the water level in the torpedo room. The Neva’s bow gained over six feet of freeboard after pumping, leaving tube five almost dry. The temporary plug dammed off most of the flow, but seawater still trickled through the tube into the compartment.

  Although the two-hundred-pound steel breach door was blown off its hinges during the accident, the repair team manhandled it back onto torpedo tube five. A wet-suited welder spent over an hour welding the entire circumference of the door onto the rim of the tube and its deformed locking ring.

  Diagonal steel braces welded to the breach door and to the deck and overhead reinforced the plug. Captain Borodin instructed the crew chief to make certain that door would not blow off under one hundred meters of seawater.

  With the torpedo room no longer open to the sea, the crew began pumping out the remainder of Compartment One. When the water reached the lowest level of the torpedo storage space, the men again donned their emergency breathing apparatus. Borodin wasn’t sure what would happen when the main battery compartment was dewatered.

  The worry was a release of chlorine gas—deadly stuff for sure. Fortunately, nothing dire happened when the batteries were exposed, just whiffs of the gas—like at a public swimming pool.