The Forever Spy

by Jeffrey Layton

  “We’ll know more soon, Mr. President.”

  POTUS next turned his attention to the DOD chief. He peered at the wall-mounted video monitor at the end of the table and said, “Bill, what’s the latest on that Russian helicopter?”

  “Ah, Mr. President, the Russians have said nothing about the incident, but our listening posts picked up chatter from the Cuban military. They sent two patrol boats to the crash site and recovered several bodies.”

  “Russian military?”

  “That’s our take. There was at least one reference to ‘commando’ in the Cubans’ radio talk.”

  “That freighter still hanging around?”

  The Joint Chiefs chairman, a four-star admiral, responded. “Yes, sir. It continues to loiter about fifty miles east of the crash site.”

  “You’re confident that it was a special operations unit?”

  “Correct, sir. We tracked the military transport from Saint Petersburg to Havana. It was a naval Spetsnaz unit.”

  “How capable were they?”

  “Very proficient—similar to our SEALs.”

  “What happened?”

  “It appears to be a mechanical failure. The Hind was flying low to avoid radar. Something happened, we don’t know what. Anyway, it went down quick at high velocity. The crew never had a chance.”

  An American military reconnaissance satellite tracked the Russian helicopter during its entire flight. The president had already viewed the video recording of the crash.

  The Central Intelligence Agency provided the initial lead. A Russian naval officer in Saint Petersburg tipped off a CIA case officer about the elite special operations unit.

  “Admiral, do you remain convinced that this commando unit was bound for the Mercury Oil Complex?”

  “I do, sir. It was on a direct heading for the converted tank-ship. The helo went down about forty miles short. There was about one point five million barrels stored aboard the vessel.”

  “An easy target.”

  “Indeed. Assuming the Spetsnaz operators were familiar with the technology, a unit like that would have her in flames in just a few minutes and on the bottom within an hour and still leaking crude.”

  “That would have been a real disaster.”

  “A nightmare, sir. Probably worse than the Deepwater Horizon blowout.”

  President Magnuson directed his next question to his director of National Intelligence. “Madison, anything new to report on the Sakhalin incident?”

  “It’s quieted down considerably, but the Kremlin continues to blame the attack on Chechen separatists. However, we’ve also picked up chatter about a possible Ukraine connection.” She consulted a notepad on the tabletop. “Although the Chechens are well motivated, we are not convinced they carried out the operation. The attack was military-like and carried out flawlessly. The Chechen fighters are brawlers—tough to be sure but lacking in precision. The Ukraine military, on the other hand, is well trained.”

  President Magnuson cocked his head. “Ukraine attacked Russia?”

  “We don’t know. We have nothing tying them to the attack, or for that matter the Chechens, only rumors reported by our agents plus intercepted communications. There are Ukraine Army units capable of making the attack, but the logistics of carrying it out would have been a stretch for them, and a near impossibility for the Chechens.”

  “Well, at least they aren’t blaming us for it, like they did for that oil well blowout in the Arctic.”

  The DNI frowned. “Well, sir. I’m not so sure about that. The CIA ran some war gaming simulations based on Russian military protocols. One scenario was particularly troubling. I reviewed it last night, it was to be in your daily briefing today. If a Ukrainian special ops unit were transported to Sakhalin by submarine, it would work.”

  “Do they have that capability?”

  “No—but we certainly do.”

  POTUS leaned back in his chair, taken aback by the comment. “Russia thinks we assisted Ukraine with blowing up their plant?”

  “The simulation suggests that they might be considering it.”

  The president turned his attention to the national security advisor. “Peter, what about this situation Madison suggested?”

  “She called me earlier today and told me about it. With the attack on the pipeline, it suddenly made sense to me. It could have been part of a two-pronged operation by the Kremlin to avenge the Sakhalin attack.”

  “You think the Russians are behind the Alaska pipeline sabotage as well as blowing up the Alaskan Star?”

  “We can’t discount it at this point, regardless of what the informant in Portland told the FBI. It fits the pattern of escalation.”

  President Magnuson looked toward the video monitor linking the Pentagon to the conference.

  “Bill, based on the current events, what is your recommendation?”

  “Mr. President, the admiral and I are in agreement that the Kremlin’s intentions are unpredictable. It is likely there may be additional attacks on our infrastructure or even military. The physical attacks could continue or they could switch to cyber or both. Given that uncertainty, we recommend raising DEFCON from four to three.”

  “That’s a big change. It will spook the Russians.”

  An alert system used by the U.S. military, DEFCON or defense readiness condition, consisted of five levels ranging from the lowest state of readiness, DEFCON 5, to imminent nuclear war, DEFCON 1.

  “We agree, sir.”

  “I’m not comfortable with that—at least at this point.”

  “I have a suggestion, sir,” the admiral said.

  “Yes.”

  “Perhaps the Air Force could remain at DEFCON four but all other forces would transition to level three.”

  DEFCON 3 required Air Force bombers and fighters to be ready to mobilize within fifteen minutes’ notice.

  “That sounds better to me. Not so hair trigger.”

  “Yes, sir. Under level three, we’ll be able to get our slower units under way, particularly our ships and subs, and also get our quick-reaction Airborne and Marine units in place.”

  “All right, Admiral, let’s proceed in that direction.”

  CHAPTER 73

  Yuri and Nick stood near the shore, looking northward at the black waters of Coal Harbour. It was chilly at half past two in the morning. Frosty plumes marked their exhalations.

  They walked along the boardwalk that ringed the pocket park. Yuri wore his wetsuit under a parka. The duffel bag strapped over his right shoulder concealed the rest of his diving gear.

  With no direct vehicle access, they parked the Jeep a couple of blocks away and hoofed it. Although they had Cardero Park to themselves, Yuri could not risk being seen in full diving attire strolling along the public walkway.

  “I see why you picked this place,” Nick said as he stared at the rock-covered embankment. It sloped downward to the water.

  “This is a lot easier than trying to get over a bulkhead or a pier. I can ease into the water.”

  They spoke in low tones, not wishing to alert any nearby live-aboards. The western end of Coal Harbour Marina was just thirty meters away.

  Yuri lowered the duffel bag onto the grass and dropped to his knees.

  “What can I do to help?” Nick asked.

  Yuri removed the air tank and handed it to Nick. “Hang on to it while I strap myself in.”

  “You got it.”

  Five minutes elapsed. Yuri stood beside Nick, decked out with a combination SCUBA tank and buoyancy compensator backpack, a stainless dive knife secured to his right calf, an illuminated compass banded to his left wrist, and a wetsuit hood encasing his head. A face mask and a companion snorkel were temporarily parked on his forehead while a demand regulator and a backup regulator from the air tank both dangled over his chest. Attached to the air tank with cable ties was a waterproof bag stuffed with additional gear. Beneath the wetsuit jacket, Yuri wore a neoprene vest for extra insulation.

  To Nick, Yur
i looked like he was ready for a moonwalk. “Where’s your weight belt?” he asked.

  Yuri patted his waist with both hands. “It’s built into the BC.”

  Integrated with the buoyancy compensator were forty-five pounds of lead weights. By pulling ripcord straps on each side, he could easily jettison thirty pounds in an emergency.

  Yuri stretched out his six-foot-plus frame. He was uncomfortably warm but that would soon change.

  Nick held a plastic bag. “You ready for this?”

  “Yes, go ahead and stuff it in.”

  Nick stuffed the double-ziplock bags containing the Colt .45, extra magazine, and Yuri’s cell in the open wetsuit jacket. He zipped the jacket closed, forcing the zipper over the bulge. Yuri reached up to check the seal. He said, “Gloves, please.”

  Nick helped Yuri slip on the dive gloves. They were a tight fit over the sleeves of the wetsuit jacket.

  Nick reached into the duffel bag and removed a dive light and a pair of fins. He handed them to Yuri and said, “I think you’re set now.”

  “I am.” Yuri stretched again, testing the various fasteners securing the gear. Satisfied, he said, “Time to go.”

  “Be careful, Yuri Ivanovich.”

  “You, too, my friend.”

  Gripping his fins and light, Yuri waddled to the embankment and descended, stepping from one rock slab to the next. When he reached the water’s edge, Yuri stopped to slip the fin straps over the heels of his booties. He eased himself into the water.

  In the dimness, Nick watched Yuri swim under the deck of the circular public view pier that marked the seaward end of the park. Before long, Yuri submerged.

  “Udai!”—Good luck, Nick whispered.

  * * *

  Elena stood next to the arched window wall of the master stateroom, taking in the city lights. She wore a stylish white bathrobe with YANGZI embroidered in scarlet thread over her left breast. She’d just stepped out of the shower—a spectacular arrangement of plumbing that had invigorated her skin with steaming pulsed jets followed by cascading sheets of treated silky water. Her damp blond hair hung straight, the ends brushing the robe’s collar.

  Kwan Chi remained in the bed fast asleep, lying on his side with just the back of his black mop exposed.

  The sex was intense. Chi was a superb lover. He took time to ensure that all of Elena’s needs were met—three times—before he peaked. From their prior coupling, she expected that he would sleep soundly for the next several hours.

  Too keyed up to sleep, Elena couldn’t stop thinking about the money. During nightcaps, Kwan showed her where he’d parked the funds—$5 million U.S. It was in an offshore online escrow account, made payable to Elena’s Cayman Islands bank account. Just one click on the Authorization to Release Funds tab from his phone would transfer the funds. No humans involved.

  All that remained to guarantee Elena’s payday was for Yuri Kirov to hand over the data he had in return for the release of Laura Newman and her child. A simple trade, yes, but still dangerous for all concerned, especially Elena.

  She did not trust Yuri. Bullheaded, cagey, and exceedingly creative, he had confronted an impossible situation and pulled off a near miracle. It was not in his nature to back away from adversity.

  If Yuri ever learned that Elena was responsible for embroiling him in his current predicament, he would never stop looking for her.

  * * *

  Yuri swam about two meters above the bottom, unhurriedly pumping his legs. Holding his dive light at waist level, he directed the beam downward. The bulk of his body helped shield the luminous sphere generated by the light ray. The eight meters of murky water above Yuri absorbed the residual photons before they reached the surface, preserving his stealth.

  To minimize his presence further, Yuri paced his breathing, taking shallow breaths and slowly exhaling. Compared to a typical SCUBA diver, Yuri left a bubble trail that created minimal disturbance when it reached the surface. The bubbles burst with a barely audible spatter.

  As Yuri advanced into the gloom, a flounder covered by a lens of silt burst to life just ahead. It scurried away, leaving a muddy wake. Yuri chuckled. Sorry to wake you up like that, little fellow.

  Yuri checked the compass. He was on course. A check of his watch verified he’d been swimming for about six minutes. It was time to check his bearings. He pitched upward, switched off the light, and ascended. When he broke the surface, he was facing northward. He saw no familiar landmarks. He kicked his fins and pirouetted in place.

  A mountain range of glimmering skyscrapers filled his face mask. In the foreground, silhouetted by city lights, was the sleek profile of the Yangzi. It was about sixty meters away.

  Yuri checked the compass, establishing a new bearing. He released a charge of air from his buoyancy compensator and sank below the surface.

  * * *

  Nick Orlov leaned against the guardrail, peering seaward into the murk from the public boardwalk. He had relocated to the east end of Coal Harbour Marina, near Harbour Green Park. Even in darkness, the sheer bulk of the Yangzi dominated all other watercraft in the marina—a massive shadow ringed with subdued lighting.

  Nick raised the night vision device that hung from a leather strap around his neck. He’d purchased the Bushnell Lynx binoculars from a Vancouver sporting goods store after Yuri visited the dive shop. Even with most of the superyacht’s lighting switched off, the combined monotone green image in the viewfinder revealed dim objects with striking clarity.

  “There you are,” he muttered after switching on the Bushnells’ infrared illuminator, tagging the guard who stood at the top of the gangway in the shadows. He next spotted the roaming sentry near the stern.

  Nick lowered the binocs and checked his wristwatch: 3:05 A.M. It was time. He reached into his coat pocket and retrieved his cell phone. He hit the speed dial.

  “Allo?” broadcast from Nick’s phone after the first ring.

  “Are you in position?” he asked, continuing in Russian.

  “We are.”

  “Proceed.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Nick waited, observing the marina’s floating walkway without need of the NVD. He spotted the two SVR officers. Walking side by side, they casually worked their way seaward. One of his men tripped and almost tumbled onto the concrete float before catching himself.

  Nick laughed quietly. Nice move, Pyotr.

  Ordered to mimic a couple of drunks caught up in late-hour revelry, the two men from the San Francisco consulate who’d trailed Elena for the past two days carried out Nick’s instructions. Both in their late twenties, the SVR officers carried bottles of Molson and took occasional swigs as they staggered toward the Yangzi.

  Despite the distance, Nick could hear his men verbally acting out as they approached the yacht’s bow.

  “Look at the size of that thing,” Fredek called out in English.

  “Big some bitch all right,” Pyotr said, slurring his words.

  Pleased with the performance, Nick pulled up the NVD binocs. Here they come!

  The sentry on the main deck near the ship’s gangway stepped out of the shadows. He walked down the gangway and stepped onto the floating pier. The lookout watching the stern headed forward along the starboard side deck to back up his partner.

  Nick’s impostors now stood opposite the towering bow of the Yangzi.

  “Some fat cat must own this monster, eh?” offered Fredek.

  “I heard it’s a Chinaman.”

  “Chinese own everything around here.”

  The sentry approached the counterfeit drunks. Although the SVR men were both six-footers, the Asian had half a foot on them and fifty pounds on the larger of the pair.

  “Gentlemen, this dock is reserved. You need to turn around and head back to shore.”

  “Bullshit,” Pyotr said. “We can walk out here if we want. I have a boat moored here, too.”

  The Russian spy’s statement was partially true. Earlier in the afternoon, he rented a vacant sl
ip on the same pier, paying two month’s rent and a damage deposit in advance for a new boat he had just purchased. An electronic key card that allowed access to the marina was included. There was, of course, no new boat. Having the key eliminated the need to scale the security fencing.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but you cannot continue. You need to return to your boat.”

  “You own this monstrosity?”

  Nick looked past his men, studying the other sentry, who remained at the head of the ship’s gangway. He checked his watch. The timing was perfect.

  Okay, Yuri, now’s your chance.

  * * *

  Yuri kicked with both fins, launching his body upward onto the stern platform between a pair of guardrail stanchions. He pulled himself onto the teak planking, and on his hands and knees he surveyed his surroundings. The floating dock to his right remained deserted. Centered overhead on the adjacent bulkhead, the yacht’s silver nameplate glimmered in the residual light.

  So far, so good.

  Yuri pulled off his fins and stood up. Just below the nameplate was a watertight door. It connected with the ship’s garage. From the deck diagrams Nick had provided, Yuri knew the hatchway provided access along the lower deck—the ship’s second level—through the tender compartment and the engine room to the crew quarters in the bow. He remained convinced that Laura and Madelyn were in one of the crew cabins.

  Yuri examined the hatchway and located a recessed handle. He pulled on it but nothing happened. It was secured from inside.

  That called for plan B.

  While in the water, Yuri had removed his combo air tank and buoyancy compensator, strapping the gear to one of the stern platform’s guardrail stanchions. The equipment dangled just below the surface, suspended by a short section of poly line. Yuri knelt on the deck by that line and pulled the tank until it was awash. He detached the waterproof bag from the tank and used another section of line to secure his fins, light, and face mask to the tank’s valve stem.

  After submerging his gear, Yuri opened the bag and removed a black canvas backpack. He stood and slipped it on. He partially unzipped his wetsuit jacket, reached inside, and removed the Colt .45 from the plastic Baggies.