The Forever Spy

by Jeffrey Layton

  “I don’t see anyone obvious, but I’m sure some of those characters are security.”

  “There seems to be a lot of activity on the decks.”

  “Yes, it’s like they’re getting ready for something.”

  Yuri and Nick watched as crew members scurried about the lower and main decks. Two men walked down the yacht’s gangway onto the floating pier. One headed toward the bow and the other to the stern.

  “What are they up to?” Nick asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  When the man at the stern knelt onto the concrete dock, Yuri figured it out.

  “They’re releasing the mooring lines from the cleats.”

  Nick cursed. “It must be leaving.”

  The two crewmen returned to the gangway and stepped up to the main deck landing.

  Yuri yanked the Colt from his coat pocket and moved forward, but Nick grabbed his left arm. “No, Yuri.”

  Yuri turned to face Nick, enraged. “They’re getting away. I’ve got to go now.”

  “Not like this. They’ll cut you down before you get aboard.”

  Yuri relaxed, his blind fury checked. Nick released his grip.

  Both men watched as a crewman on the main deck activated a hydraulic drive that raised the gangway. Once it was secure in its hull mounting, potent surges of water jetted from the stern and the bow, propelling the 3,300-ton vessel sideways from the dock.

  About a minute later, the Yangzi’s twin propellers thrust the yacht past the southern end of the marina’s offshore rock breakwater. She then proceeded on a northwestward heading across Elliott Bay.

  Deflated, Yuri lowered his head and stared at the concrete dock.

  Nick put his arm around his friend’s shoulder. “Don’t give up. We’re going to get Laura and Maddy back.”

  * * *

  The Yangzi ran northbound in mid-channel at twelve knots. Under way on Puget Sound for nearly an hour, the yacht was abeam of Point Wells near the City of Edmonds. The captain stood at the center of the control console, monitoring the autopilot. The navigator manned his station on the right side of the captain.

  The ship’s control console rivaled that of a jumbo jet, with myriad LED screen displays facing the captain and navigator. Although both men wore civilian garb, they were commissioned officers in the People’s Liberation Army-Navy.

  The crimson lighting inside the wheelhouse helped with the night conditions; it minimized glare and aided in the identification of objects on the blackened water surface. The rising fractional moon further enhanced sea visibility.

  Kwan Chi and Wang Park sat side by side on a bench seat at the starboard side of the pilothouse. A steward brought a fresh pot of tea and two porcelain mugs and placed them on the compact table that fronted the bench. They quietly observed as the ship headed north. After a textbook departure, the Yangzi and its crew remained in sync. The ship’s crew members were just hours away from executing the most important mission of their careers.

  Unlike other superyachts, the Yangzi required a minimal complement. Normally, a crew of thirty would staff a vessel of her size. The Yangzi required just eighteen. Like the captain and navigator, the crew were hand-picked from the PLAN’s officers’ corps and the NCO ranks. Although military, they carried civilian passports and were never in uniform while aboard. Kwan Chi, his personal steward, and two MSS security officers were the only nonmilitary staff on the ship.

  “How long will it take to deploy the device?” Kwan asked after taking a sip from the stinging hot green tea.

  “Once we’re on station, the entire operation should take no more than five to ten minutes.”

  “I suppose there is no way for us to remain incognito at that time.”

  “No, sir. Because of our size, we will have eyes on us during the entire trip. The U.S. Coast Guard is tracking us now. Later, when we enter the Strait of Georgia, the Canadians will take over.”

  “What happens when we stop for deployment?”

  “If we were to stop for more than the planned five minutes, the Coast Guard might notice and we would likely be queried by radio, especially if there is other vessel traffic in the area. I have spoken to the captain about this contingency. If questioned, he will report a minor issue with an electrical generator that resulted in the need for a short engine shutdown. Once we resume normal cruising operations, the Coast Guard’s concern will cease.” Wang took a quick sip from his mug. “So, it’s best that we make the deployment quickly.”

  “Perhaps we shouldn’t stop. Can you do it while the ship is moving?”

  “No. With the tender door open, there won’t be much freeboard left. It’s best to operate the overhead gantry system without the boat moving. Besides, the anchor is heavy and awkward to work with. By stopping, it will be manageable with the equipment we have aboard.”

  “Just how critical is the location?”

  “For the Mark Twelve, it won’t matter that much. As long as it is within a one-kilometer radius of the bottom coordinates, it will be fine.”

  “That’s excellent, Commander. Let’s hope it all goes as planned.”

  * * *

  Yuri and Nick stood on the edge of the shore and watched the Yangzi as it powered across Elliott Bay, its upper decks still lit up like a Broadway musical. When the hull lighting muted, they followed the yacht’s progress by watching its running lights. Once the Yangzi cruised past West Point, they lost track. That’s when they returned to the Jeep, parked near the western edge of the marina’s parking lot.

  “I bet they’re not going far,” Nick said.

  “That’s a world-class boat. It could be going just about anywhere.” Yuri, behind the wheel, stared at Elliott Bay through the opening of his rolled-down window. The water was as black as his spirit.

  Nick took a hit from a Winston and exhaled through his open window. “It doesn’t make sense to me that they would abandon all that work you were doing for them. I think something did come up.”

  “Why did Elena take off like she did? If they really planned to reschedule the exchange, she’s out of the picture. She’s been the intermediary since day one.”

  Nick took a final puff and crushed the butt in the ashtray. “I agree; that’s a concern. She should have remained behind in Seattle or stayed aboard the yacht.”

  Yuri faced Nick. “But she’s on her way to Vancouver.”

  “It does appear that’s where she’s headed.”

  The two SVR officers following Elena had phoned in ten minutes earlier. Elena’s Mercedes was northbound on I-5 passing through Everett, making what appeared to be a beeline for the BC border at Blaine.

  “I’ve screwed this up so badly . . . dear God, I don’t know what to do now.”

  “Don’t give up, Yuri. We’re going to get them back.”

  “So where the hell is that boat going and why?” Yuri turned away.

  Nick was at a loss on how to comfort his friend, when a thought flashed. The boat, where is it going? That’s the key. He reached into his pocket and retrieved his iPhone, the one he used for official consulate business. He called up Bing and entered a search request. He tapped on the link. A minute later, he struck gold.

  “I’ve got it!”

  “What?” Yuri said, turning back.

  “The boat—the Yangzi. Here, look.”

  Nick held up the phone’s screen. It displayed a tiny map of Puget Sound.

  Nick pointed with his right index finger. “That, my friend, is the Yangzi. It’s near Edmonds heading north.”

  “What is this?”

  “It’s a public tracking system for marine traffic. I learned about it last year when we were on the Hercules —from Miller. Boats over a certain length are required to have a special transmitter on board that broadcasts its real-time GPS coordinates. It’s to help prevent collisions, kind of like what they do for airplanes.”

  “That’s fantastic. What other information does it have?”

  “Just a sec.”

  Yuri wait
ed, his heart thundering.

  “Son of a bitch.” Nick met Yuri’s eyes. “It’s headed to Vancouver.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Nick expanded the screen. “See right there under Destination.”

  “Vancouver—what are they up to there?”

  * * *

  After Laura nursed Maddy, her watchers re-anchored her to the bunk by each outstretched limb. The metal restraints locked onto her wrists and ankles again chafed her skin. Before leaving with Maddy, the female guard checked each manacle, ensuring there would be no repeat escape.

  Laura lay alone on her back in the dark. The only visible light was a turquoise glow emitted from the fire and smoke detector mounted in the overhead.

  The yacht was still under way, its ride silky smooth and vibration free. The last vessel Laura had sailed on—a commercial workboat—rode like a freight train compared to the Yangzi. She could hear the occasional wave slap the side of the steel hull as the yacht plowed ahead.

  Laura closed her eyes, wishing that she would fall asleep. But it was useless. Her mind was a whirlwind of thoughts. What happened—why was the exchange called off? Who are these people? Where’s this damn boat going?

  She had no answers.

  Laura flushed the questions, concentrating instead on the positive.

  They have not hurt me and are taking good care of Maddy.

  I just need to hang on.

  I’ve been through worse.

  Born chocolate in a black-and-white world, traumatized by an abusive husband, and thrust into an international incident that nearly resulted in a war and her demise, Laura Newman was a survivor—she never gave up. Central to Laura’s tenacity was faith—faith in her God and faith in her lover.

  I can do this.

  Yuri will find us!

  Please help him, Lord!

  CHAPTER 63

  It was half past ten in the evening. Yuri and Nick were in the rented Jeep Cherokee, headed north on I-5. Vancouver was ninety minutes away. Yuri had the wheel.

  “I’m worried about the border crossing,” Yuri said.

  “You shouldn’t have any trouble.”

  “The passport is Canadian, but my Washington driver’s license is in another name. That could be a problem. Plus this is a rental car.”

  “I doubt the Canadians will care. All they’ll be interested in is if you’re bringing back any merchandise purchased in the States—to collect an import tax. But you’ll have nothing to declare, so that won’t be an issue.” Nick recalled another concern. “If they ask about weapons in the car, just say no.” Nick stuffed Yuri’s Colt semiautomatic deep inside the Jeep’s dashboard.

  “I guess that will work, but still the mismatch in names . . .”

  “If it comes up tell them you lost your BC license and you borrowed the car from a colleague.”

  “But what if they decide to run a check on my passport?” Yuri had grabbed his Canadian passport this morning at the house, alone with Laura’s U.S. passport and Maddy’s birth certificate. He also liberated the five thousand dollars in cash that Laura kept in their bedroom safe. “For contingencies,” he had reasoned.

  Nick said, “It should be fine. I still use a Canadian passport for travel between the States and Canada—like what we did last year. I used it last week when I flew to Vancouver. I didn’t have any problems and you won’t, either.”

  Nick had procured the passport for Yuri the year before. Manufactured by a special unit in the SVR’s Illegals Directorate, the passport booklet was authentic. Two hundred blanks were purchased from an agent recruited at a Canadian government office in Ottawa. The mid-level manager was paid $400,000, which the SVR considered a bargain.

  “Why do you use a fake passport to get into Canada?” Yuri asked.

  “It’s a huge hassle to get visa clearance to come back into the States with my Russian passport. No problem if you’re Canadian.”

  “Okay, I guess it will work out.” Yuri was still not convinced.

  Nick said, “Maybe I should be in the driver’s seat when we cross the border.”

  “Yes, that sounds good. You’re much better at that stuff than I am.”

  They drove in silence until Yuri thought of another issue. “What about coming back into the States? I’ve heard that the Blaine station can be difficult.”

  “You’re worrying too much, my friend. We’ll work it out at that time.” Nick shifted in his seat, stretching his back. “At the next exit we come to, why don’t you take it? We can switch and I’ll get us through the border. Besides, you need to rest.”

  “Thank you.”

  * * *

  Elena Krestyanova returned to her condominium apartment at 10:40 P.M. Worn out from the drive, she reclined in the tub. While savoring the sizzling therapeutic fluid that pulsed from the bathtub’s half dozen jet nozzles, she sipped from a glass of California merlot.

  It was a whirlwind day. Elena had yet to close her deal with Kwan Chi; her $5 million payday remained just beyond her grasp. Somehow, Yuri Kirov had screwed up the exchange to get Laura and the infant back. But Kwan provided no details, only that it had been postponed.

  Kwan told Elena to return to Vancouver, promising to call her after the Yangzi arrived.

  Elena thought it was odd that he did not ask if she would like to remain aboard the yacht as it cruised to Vancouver. Instead, he politely but firmly requested that she disembark.

  Kwan was up to something, but what?

  Yuri Kirov could not be trusted, this Elena knew from her history with him.

  While on the drive north, Elena was tempted to call Kirov to get his side of the story. But she decided against it. This was Kwan Chi’s op. The less she was privy to the dirty details, the better it would be for her if the mission tanked. Besides, Yuri would never level with her. The distrust between each other was mutual.

  And what about the SVR and FSB?

  The threat from the homeland’s intelligence services was always on Elena’s mind. Unlike traitors in the United States or other Western nations, Russian Federation turncoats were not locked up in prison or given work release. Instead, they were disposed of with a bullet to the base of the skull, just as in the old Soviet Union.

  So far, Elena remained confident that her treachery had not been detected. Still, her sixth sense instilled insecurity and trepidation.

  Maybe it was time to kiss off the big payday and bug out.

  Elena had already prepared for a quick exit. Her collection of passports, credit cards, and cash was stored inside a high-tech wall safe in the bedroom closet. She kept a “go bag” in the same closet. Within minutes, she could be in her Mercedes heading east.

  Long ago, Elena had decided she would avoid Vancouver International if she ever had to flee. Instead, she would drive to Calgary or Regina or even Winnipeg and take a flight to Europe. She could access the $5 million she had salted away in Luxembourg anytime she needed through wire transfer. It wasn’t as much cushion as she’d planned, but it was workable.

  Still, the lure of the prize that would double her assets remained heavy on her mind.

  A half hour went by. Elena dried and powdered herself, put on a full-length bathrobe, and relocated to the living room. Her high-rise apartment had a stunning view of downtown Vancouver. The backdrop of city lights was particularly spectacular in this late evening.

  Elena sipped the last of her second glass of merlot while listening to Gustav Holst’s The Planets from the condo’s built-in stereo system. Deliciously drowsy, she settled into the sofa’s comfy cushions.

  She’d just closed her eyes when her cell chimed from the coffee table. She reached for the phone; the display announced a new text. Elena tapped on the screen. It was from Chi, inviting her to dinner the next evening at a Vancouver restaurant.

  Maybe she would stick around for a little while longer after all.

  CHAPTER 64

  Half a world away from Vancouver, it was late morning in Moscow. Two men sat in ornate chairs f
acing each other over a mini-table that extended from an expansive mahogany desk in the Kremlin office. The president of the Russian Federation preferred the seating arrangement for one-on-one visits to his office. It allowed him to make intimate eye contact with those seeking an audience.

  Today the minister of defense occupied the hot seat.

  “The Americans are lying,” the president said. “You cannot trust them.” In his mid-fifties and of medium height with thinning black hair, he was losing the battle of the bulge.

  “I agree, sir. Everything points back to them.” Almost a decade older and several inches taller than the president, Marshal of the Russian Federation Ivan Volkov remained nearly as slim as when he had commanded a Red Army infantry platoon some forty years earlier.

  “What is this new evidence you have?”

  “It’s from the blood sample that was recovered. First, we confirmed that the bandage with the blood on it was a standard field dressing issued by the U.S. military. But the same dressing is also used widely in NATO as well as by the military in Iraq and Afghanistan and several other allies of the Americans.” Volkov shifted position. “So it could be argued that the dressing came from more than a dozen other countries besides the United States.”

  “But we know it was them!”

  “Yes, and now we have the supplemental evidence to make our case.” Minister Volkov glanced down at his notes. “The DNA profile on the blood was most interesting.”

  “It’s American—correct?”

  “It’s not that simple. The way I understand it is that DNA cannot reveal the race of an individual. However, it can provide ‘markers’ that tell where the ancestors of a person came from. The technical term used for the blood sample is ‘autosomal marking.’ The technique was developed in the United States to determine the amount of a person’s ancestry from three distinct demographic sources.” The defense minister again consulted his notes. “The groups are African, European, and Native American.”

  “What do you mean by ‘Native American’?”

  “The indigenous tribes in the United States, various clans that inhabited North America before the Europeans arrived.”