The Forever Spy

by Jeffrey Layton

  “I can’t. Aurora wants my direct involvement. I have to brief the CEO and his key people tomorrow in Anchorage.”

  “That’s not a public meeting. You should be okay.”

  “Probably.”

  Laura sipped the last of the juice. “I don’t think you have anything to worry about. Just tell Bill and his crew that Aurora wants NSD to remain low profile and that they are not to speak with the press. If you stay in the background you should be fine.”

  “That’s what I told Bill.”

  “Good.” Laura grinned. “Besides, with your lovely beard and longer hair no one will recognize you.”

  “Maybe I should try wearing some fake glasses.”

  “Sure, why not?”

  * * *

  Dinner was over. Yuri was in the bedroom, packing. Laura sat on a sofa in the living room. Maddy was crawling on the carpet near her feet—exploring. As Laura sipped from a mug of decaffeinated tea, she worried.

  The risk was real. If Yuri were spotted, it would place everything in jeopardy. They needed more time to make the transition.

  Laura had a specialty law firm in D.C. working on the problem, but it was a delicate subject. In the end, it would likely reach Secretary level at both Departments of State and Defense, and maybe even the White House.

  Laura loved Yuri deeply and would do everything in her power to protect him. But he would be on his own in Alaska.

  He can do it! Laura thought, knowing Yuri had already been tested to the extreme. Alaska would be a cakewalk. Just stay in the shadows and no one will know.

  Laura drained the mug and was about to pick up Maddy and join Yuri when another loose thread tugged at her conscience. She had intended to tell Yuri about her meeting with the private investigator but then thought better of it. Yuri had too much on his mind already. She didn’t want him to worry about the PI dredging up old wounds. She would take that burden alone.

  Besides, her ex was the root of that problem.

  CHAPTER 6

  DAY 3—WEDNESDAY

  The Alaska Air 737 departed Seattle fifteen minutes earlier. Bound for Anchorage, it was over the southern end of Vancouver Island nearing its cruising altitude of thirty-four thousand feet. The morning was cloudless. The view from the right side of the fuselage was exceptional. In the far distance, the Cascades were in full bloom, their jagged peaks icy white. The mega-metropolis of Vancouver lay at the northerly base of the mountain range. In the foreground, the emerald waters of the Strait of Georgia—the north arm of the Salish Sea—filled the viewport.

  Yuri Kirov leaned toward the porthole. South of Vancouver, a long narrow peninsula jutted several miles into the Strait of Georgia. Yuri focused on the vast inland sea. It was right there, he thought, eyeing a patch of water south of Point Roberts.

  Yuri turned away, leaning back in his seat, eyes shuttered. Sweat beaded on his forehead. He gripped the armrests with both hands, heart pounding.

  It had happened fifteen months earlier. Fifty-three lives snuffed out in just minutes.

  The Neva was deep inside hostile waters—it was Yuri’s mission—spying on American and Canadian naval installations. An accident sent the Russian submarine to the bottom over seven hundred feet down. Using high-tech diving equipment from his espionage operations, Yuri escaped the underwater tomb—barely.

  Suffering from decompression sickness, alone, and a hundred miles inside enemy lines, Yuri’s new mission was to rescue the Neva’s remaining three dozen survivors before the U.S. Navy discovered the marooned spy sub. He never could have done it without Laura’s help.

  Yuri took a deep breath and opened his eyes. He leaned forward and pulled up his briefcase from under the forward seat. He opened it and removed a copy of NSD’s contract with Aurora Offshore Systems.

  The boring reading would help flush the lingering effects of the flashback.

  * * *

  The two men stood near the shoreline and peered at the Chukchi Sea. It was noon, yet the sun hovered just above the horizon. There was enough light to make out the distant ice ridges. The nearest fold jutted a dozen feet above the sheet of ice that stretched to the horizon.

  “It looks bleak out there,” offered the taller man.

  “No kidding,” said his companion. A head shorter and in his bulky white ice suit that amplified his ample belly, he mimicked a walking snowball.

  “How far do we have to go?”

  “At least a mile, maybe two.” Bill Winters squinted, probing deeper into the dimness. “We need to be able to get beyond the grounded ice to launch but at the same time remain on the landfast ice for retrieval.”

  “How thick is the ice out there?”

  “The University of Alaska people said it should be about a meter at the launch site.”

  “That should be easy to get through with the chainsaws.”

  “Right.”

  The men stood in silence, both thinking about the work that lay ahead. The assistant finally said, “This place looks much tougher than I expected.”

  “Once she gets under the ice, she’ll be fine.”

  “I don’t know, Bill, it just seems extreme to me.”

  Winters turned to face his companion. “Don’t worry about it. Deep Explorer can do it.” He grinned. “Believe me, this project is going to put us on the map.”

  “Are you really going to do that interview with that TV reporter?”

  The previous evening, Winters had treated the NSD team to pizza and beer. They sat next to a table with a network television crew.

  “Sure, it’ll be great publicity for the company.”

  “But I thought we were supposed to keep a low profile.”

  “This oil spill is going to be the company’s ticket to the big times.”

  “Okay, but I’d be careful. You can’t predict what those people will do.”

  “It’ll be okay.”

  * * *

  The helicopter patrolled the shoreline, although it was difficult to determine just where the land and the ice met. The smoothness of the snow covering both the ground and adjacent frozen Chukchi Sea obscured the interface. The pilot and his observer worked for the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. Their task was to monitor polar bear activity between Point Hope and Barrow. It was winter and the prime hunting season for the apex predators. But Ursus maritimus was in peril. Thinning ice sheets and extended ice-free summers had sharply reduced populations, forcing the Service to list polar bears as threatened under the Endangered Species Act.

  The MD-500 was twenty miles south of Barrow, heading southward. So far there had been no sightings, but that was about to change.

  “Wow, look at that,” the pilot said.

  “What?” asked the biologist. In her early twenties, she was a recent graduate from the University of Washington.

  “Two o’clock, fifteen hundred yards.”

  She spotted the distant target: a black splotch on a field of white. “What is that?”

  “I don’t know. Let’s take a closer look.”

  The helicopter landed on the ice about a hundred feet from the sighting. The passenger exited and worked her way under the still whirling rotors. She carried the 12-gauge but it wasn’t needed.

  The boar was huge—easily twelve hundred pounds. He’d had his fill of seals but was frozen solid.

  The biologist knelt next to the carcass and ran her gloved hand over the fur. It had once been snow white but was now coal black. She raised the glove to her nose. Despite the harsh conditions, the stench of crude oil remained potent. “Oh dear God,” she mumbled.

  Soon the chopper was airborne. The biologist-observer couldn’t wait. She was on her portable VHF radio, speaking with her supervisor in Barrow over a public channel.

  “It’s just awful, Mike.”

  “Are you sure it’s oil?”

  “Absolutely, he was drenched in the stuff. I took samples as well as a ton of photos.”

  “Injuries?”

  “Nothing obvious, and he certainly
wasn’t starving.”

  “He probably ingested the stuff. We’ll know more after the necropsy.”

  “Can you get a team out here soon?”

  “Tomorrow, weather permitting.”

  “Good,” said the biologist. “Mike, there must be more of them out there like him.”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  * * *

  “Holy shit! Tell me you got that!”

  “I got it, boss.”

  The network TV crew was in a hotel room in Barrow. The producer, her soundman, and cameraman were running equipment checks. The correspondent was in the bathroom working on her makeup. Out of habit from a twenty-plus-year career at an NYC affiliate, the producer brought along her police scanner. The receiver had just picked up the public radio conversation between the wildlife biologist and her supervisor.

  “They must have been talking about a polar bear,” the soundman said as he cued up the recording.

  “I’m certain of it. Somehow that bear managed to get into the stuff.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “I need to call New York. Upload that recording ASAP.”

  “Will do.”

  The producer turned to the cameraman. “Get ahold of that chopper pilot you were talking with. I want to be airborne in half an hour.”

  “I’m on it.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Yuri Kirov walked into the restaurant. A comely brunette in her mid-twenties standing by the reservation desk greeted him. “Good evening, sir. May I help you?”

  “I’m John Kirkwood,” Yuri said, using his alias. “I’m looking for Chuck Matheson.”

  “Oh yes. He’s expecting you. Right this way.”

  Yuri followed the hostess through the four-star Anchorage restaurant. About half the tables were occupied, mostly couples with a few singles. Directed to a table in a far corner of the dining room, Yuri approached the two men occupying it.

  “John, so nice to finally meet you,” said Charles “Chuck” Matheson as he stood with an extended right hand. The CEO of Aurora Offshore Systems was in his early fifties, a fit and trim six-footer with all of his hair. His tailored wool suit, silk shirt, and Armani tie clearly identified his station.

  Yuri shook his client’s hand.

  “Good flight?”

  “Great, the weather was clear nearly the entire way up. The Chugach Range was spectacular.”

  “That it is. All checked in?”

  “Yeah. At the Captain Cook. Very nice.”

  “Indeed.” Matheson turned to his side and introduced his other guest. “John, this is Jim Bauer.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you in person, Jim,” Yuri said as he gripped the offered hand of AOS’s Alaska operations manager.

  “Likewise.”

  Bauer was about forty-five and a tad heavy for his five-foot-nine frame. He wore a blue blazer with an open collar shirt.

  Yuri also hadn’t bothered with a tie. He slipped out of his parka, laying it on an adjacent chair.

  Yuri ordered a glass of Riesling. Matheson was on his second. Bauer preferred bourbon.

  “I understand your crew is on-site in Barrow,” Matheson said.

  “Yes. They arrived yesterday. I spoke with the project manager just after landing. They plan to launch tomorrow, weather permitting.”

  “Excellent. I assume you have all of the location information.”

  “Right. Jim provided coordinates for the entire field. They have been preprogrammed into Deep Explorer ’s CPU.”

  “How long will it take for the survey?”

  “About forty-eight hours.”

  “What about seeps?”

  “Once the wellheads have been checked, Deep Explorer will start the tract survey looking for seeps. Because of the size of the lease, that’s what will take the most time.”

  “That oil has to be coming from a seep,” said Bauer. He referred to an opening in the earth where natural hydrocarbons escape.

  “It’s vital that we find the source of the oil to prove it is not coming from our operations,” added Matheson. “We’re just getting killed in the press over this thing.”

  “Right,” said Bauer. “Guilty until proven innocent.”

  They were halfway through the meal, all enjoying the Alaska king crab special. The restaurant had filled up. A young couple was seated nearby. The stunning blonde in a short, tight red skirt caught all of their eyes when she walked by.

  The table conversation morphed from the offshore oil business to the new superyacht Matheson had commissioned. It was under construction in Seattle. The 180-footer was about a year away from launch.

  “You must be planning to take a long cruise once it’s completed,” Yuri said.

  “Eventually, but until I retire I plan to keep it close by—in the Gulf or Caribbean so I can get to it without a lot of flying. It’ll have a complete office with all the latest communication toys so I can continue to run the company from just about anywhere.”

  “Sounds great.”

  “I’m really looking forward to it. Delta Marine is doing a fabulous job.”

  Yuri was about to ask another question when the blonde in the crimson dress at the next table stood up and approached their table. She was five-foot-eight, slim, with all the right curves. She held a black leather purse in her hands.

  She smiled and said, “Mr. Matheson?”

  “Yes,” Chuck replied.

  “I have something for you.” She opened her purse and in a flash withdrew a soup can–size container and hurled its liquid contents at Matheson.

  The charge of used motor oil splattered the front of his suit. Black stinky goo streamed down his jacket, shirt, and tie. Splatter peppered his face.

  Yuri steered clear of the spill zone but Jim Bauer caught blowback.

  Speechless, Chuck stood up.

  “This is just a sample of what you are doing to our environment, you miserable polar bear killer!” said the blonde, turning away.

  Yuri noticed her companion standing at the table. He held a smartphone in his right hand; it was aimed at Matheson.

  “Govnó!”—Shit.

  * * *

  Laura Newman was home. She’d showered, slipped on her pajamas, and climbed into the bed. With Yuri not at her side, the huge bed swallowed her slim form. Maddy slept in a second crib she kept in the master.

  Laura spent most of the evening in her home office, editing a report that was due in a couple of days. Although exhausted, she was not yet ready for sleep. After placing a pair of headphones over her ears, she keyed a remote, turning on the wide-screen television mounted to the wall at the opposite end of the bed. She clicked through a couple of channels, settling on the late evening news from a local Seattle station. The male newsreader’s voice broadcast through the mini–ear speakers:

  “Breaking News from Alaska. We now bring you a live report from our affiliate in Anchorage.”

  The screen changed to an attractive female reporter dressed in a heavy parka with her station’s logo stenciled on it. She stood on a downtown Anchorage street next to the entry of a building. She made her report:

  “About an hour ago, the CEO of Aurora Offshore, Mr. Charles Matheson, was ambushed by an eco activist while at dinner in this restaurant. The attacker tossed what appeared to be oil onto Mr. Matheson as he sat at a table, apparently in response to the oil spill offshore of Barrow. The incident was captured by cell phone video and then went viral on YouTube. Here is a clip of the assault.”

  Laura watched in horror as the rerun of the sneak attack played out in vivid color and full sound. Matheson was clearly the center of attention, but Yuri was also videoed.

  Stunned, Laura sat up and reached for the bedside phone. She dialed Yuri’s cell. It went to voice mail.

  “Oh dear Lord,” she whispered. “What do we do now?”

  CHAPTER 8

  DAY 4—THURSDAY

  The view of Hong Kong’s harbor was beyond spectacular, but Elena Krestyanova remained the cent
er of attention. A dozen people were seated around the teak conference table on the pinnacle floor of the thirty-story office building. They spoke in English, a common second tongue for all in attendance.

  She had arrived twenty-five minutes earlier with the other four members of the Russian trade delegation. The greeting rituals were over and her team had just concluded their PowerPoint presentation. It was now Q&A, always a challenge with the Chinese.

  As the lead delegate, Elena was the designated chief responder.

  “Ms. Krestyanova, regarding salmon output, what can we expect on an annual basis?” Elena’s counterpart from Beijing sat across the table. Like Elena, she was in her early thirties—and equally beautiful.

  Elena met Yu Lin’s ebony eyes and said, “We can guarantee you forty thousand metric tons.”

  “And the species distribution?”

  Elena expected the question. “Fifty percent Kamchatka sockeye, thirty percent coho, and the balance Chinook.”

  Ms. Yu kept her poker face, but several of her assistants, all males, nodded approvingly at Elena’s response.

  The next series of questions centered on price and quality issues. Then the discussion proceeded to timber exports—and eventually oil and gas, which everyone had been anticipating.

  “I’m sorry, but our Sakhalin Island facilities are already fully committed,” Elena said.

  “To the Japanese?” asked Yu.

  “Yes, we have long-standing supply contracts.”

  “There is no surplus?”

  “Not at this time. But we are developing additional resources on the Island and will be starting production in the Kuril Island chain soon.”

  “What about the Arctic?”

  “Eastern Siberia?”

  “Yes.”

  “We are just getting under way there and hope to conduct new exploration operations in the near future.”

  “We would like the opportunity to joint venture with your oil and gas enterprises. We have much to offer.”

  Elena understood Yu’s probe. China Inc.’s Achilles’ heel was energy—it continued to thirst for hydrocarbons. Oil and gas imports had fueled its meteoric growth. If China didn’t continue to grow, Yu’s superiors in Beijing—the Politburo Standing Committee of the Communist Party—could lose their grip on the country. No army or police force could hope to contain half a billion pissed-off peasants.