The Vigilant Spy

by Jeffrey Layton

  Chapter 2

  Day 1—Wednesday

  It was great to be home. Absent for over six weeks, Yuri Kirov relaxed alone on the spacious deck. Perched at the crest of the suburban hillside east of Seattle, the 5,000 square foot contemporary had a fabulous view of Lake Sammamish. Water skiers towed by high-powered runabouts blazed across the azure lake waters as the sun retreated.

  Yuri took a long pull from the chilled bottle of Redhook Big Ballard IPA, his second of the afternoon. After arriving home an hour earlier, he had changed into a tank top and a pair of cargo shorts. Ray-Bans covered his slate-gray eyes and sandals encased his feet. A strapping six-footer with jet-black hair and a rugged square-jawed face, 31-year-old Yuri Ivanovich Kirov was a fine-looking man.

  As Yuri reclined on the lounge chair, he luxuriated in the warmth of the sun. It was the end of August and it wouldn’t be long before the dreary rainy season returned. He tolerated the damp. Compared to the bleak winters of frozen Russia, the Puget Sound region’s wet, temperate climate was a blessing.

  Yuri took a final swallow of the beer and set the bottle on the deck beside the other empty. He settled into the lounge chair’s back cushion. Utterly exhausted, all he wanted for the time being was a nap.

  * * * *

  “Yuri…Yuri, wake up!”

  Yuri had been asleep for nearly an hour when awakened. “Hi, sweetie,” he said, addressing his lover and best friend who stood at the foot of the chair. He never tired of looking at Laura Newman.

  The professional pantsuit and sheer silk blouse that Laura wore flattered her sleek five foot eight frame. A striking blend of Scandinavia and Africa, she had inherited her Swedish mother’s high cheekbones, full ripe lips, azure eyes, and russet hair. Her father’s tall willowy frame and cocoa skin, all linked to his distant Bantu ancestors, complemented Laura’s birth mother’s genes.

  “How was work today?” Yuri asked.

  “You haven’t heard, have you?” Laura cast a stern, anxious look. She was two years older than Yuri. Adopted as an infant, she was raised by a Caucasian couple in northern California.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Something’s happened in China. I heard about it on my car radio when driving home.” Laura glowered. “An explosion. Very large.”

  “In Qingdao?!”

  “Yes.”

  “Govnó!”—shit, muttered Yuri.

  “Let’s go inside. I already turned on the TV. It’s on just about every news channel.”

  Yuri and Laura scrutinized the kitchen television. Tuned to a network news channel, the wall-mounted screen displayed the image of a male correspondent. He provided an update:

  “We have just confirmed with a source at the Pentagon that the explosion in Qingdao, China was from a nuclear device. The detonation occurred about an hour ago. It’s Thursday morning in China at this time.

  “No damage reports have been issued yet but thousands could have been killed and wounded.”

  The television screen flashed to a Google Earth image that displayed a bird’s eye view of Qingdao. The correspondent continued his report. “Qingdao is a seaport city, one of the busiest in China. It was the host city for sailboat racing during the 2008 Summer Olympics.

  “The location of the detonation is unknown at this time and our efforts to contact the Chinese government for comment have been fruitless. China has issued a state of emergency, shutting down all internet activity and curtailing international communications. The government also closed all Chinese stock exchanges.

  “Our calls to the White House regarding the U.S. defense posture have not yet been returned. However, we have some indication of what might be happening at the Pentagon right now.”

  The television switched back to a split screen with the correspondent and another individual. The retired U.S. Air Force four-star general was introduced. The news anchor said, “General, please provide our viewers with your thoughts on the dire events in China.”

  “Well, it’s really too early to know what happened other than some type of nuclear device was detonated in Qingdao. The yield of the weapon . . .”

  Yuri muted the television. He massaged his brow while leaning against the kitchen counter.

  “This is horrible,” Laura said. “Do you think it had anything to do with the mission you were on?”

  “I’m sure it did. The device planted in Qingdao was similar to what was left behind at Pearl Harbor.”

  Laura looked down at the hardwood flooring. “The FBI must not have believed you.”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  For five days, Yuri was grilled around the clock by a squad of U.S. government representatives from the FBI, CIA and the Department of Defense. During the interrogations, Yuri warned that Russian commandos might have left a nuclear bomb in China.

  Yuri walked to the refrigerator and opened the freezer compartment. He removed the bottle of Stolichnaya. After locating a shot glass in a cupboard, he poured the chilled vodka into the glass. He downed the alcohol in a single gulp.

  Laura was on instant alert. Oh, no! Yuri rarely touched hard liquor, preferring beer and usually just a couple per week. She opened a cabinet and grabbed a package of crackers. She slid the container across the counter.

  “Thanks,” Yuri said as he opened the packet and munched on a saltine.

  Laura was familiar with the Russian ritual.

  Yuri poured a second shot. He hammered it back and chewed another cracker. He made no offer for Laura to join him, knowing she did not care for vodka.

  “When will Maddy and Amanda be home?” Yuri asked.

  Laura glanced at her wristwatch. “Soon.”

  Laura’s one-year-old daughter and her twenty-six-year-old nanny spent the afternoon at a children’s animal farm in nearby Redmond. Discreetly following the pair was a two person FBI security detail.

  “Good,” Yuri said. He poured a third shot, gulped it and consumed another cracker. He returned the bottle to the refrigerator.

  Laura did not comment on Yuri’s uncharacteristic action, praying it was nothing more than a consequence of stress. She recognized all of the warning signs—her ex was an abusive alcoholic.

  Yuri picked up the TV remote and clicked to another channel. He turned up the volume. The comely female reporter in New York City said, “We just received cell phone video of the explosion.”

  The screen switched to a fuzzy image of a classic nuclear mushroom cloud, a broiling brownish-black mass rising into the overcast sky. Shot from miles away overlooking a vast cityscape, it was not possible to determine the extent of damage.

  “Oh, dear Lord,” Laura whispered.

  Yuri’s stomach flip-flopped, aided by the sizzling Stoli. He managed to suppress the urge to vomit but a veil of guilt engulfed his well-being. Thousands may have been killed—and I was part of it!

  Chapter 3

  While Yuri returned to the same lounge chair on the deck, Laura tended to the kitchen stove. The string beans in the steam pot were almost ready. Thick salmon filets from Costco broiled inside the right-hand oven of the professional grade stainless steel gas range.

  As Laura retrieved the internal container from the steamer, she heard the front door open. Amanda Graham strolled into the kitchen with Maddy riding her right hip.

  “Hi, Laura,” Amanda said. A cute brunette with bangs, she was slightly overweight for her five foot four height.

  Laura turned. “How was the farm?”

  “Great. We had fun, didn’t we Maddy?”

  Laura’s daughter beamed, her trademark dimpled cheeks in full bloom. Madelyn Grace Newman had ash blond hair, sapphire eyes and fair skin. Laura’s ex-husband was the child’s biological father, but Yuri treated Madelyn as his own—a blessing Laura cherished.

  Amanda lowered Madelyn Grace to the floor where she rushed to her mother. Laura reached down
and scooped up her daughter. “Hi sweetie pie. What animals did you see today?” Laura asked as she stroked Maddy’s angel soft hair.

  “Goats and piggies.”

  Articulate for just over a year old, Maddy already had an impressive vocabulary.

  As Laura and Madelyn conversed, Amanda spotted the muted TV. A pair of talking heads jabbered silently while a looped video of the mushroom cloud played in the background.

  “What happened?” Amanda asked.

  “Nuclear explosion in China.”

  “Oh my God!” Amanda took in the images. “Do they know how it happened?”

  Laura reached for the remote and restored the sound. Amanda stepped closer to the television to hear the latest news.

  Laura had just taken the salmon out of the oven when a cell phone announced its presence in the adjacent living room. The tone was distinctive—a shrill, high-pitched tone. It was the special phone the FBI gave Yuri.

  Laura picked up the phone and answered. “Hello.”

  “Who am I speaking to?” asked the female caller.

  “You know who this is. Now who are you?”

  “Ms. Newman, this is Special Agent Michaela Taylor. We met on Sunday. Please give this phone to Mr. Kirkwood. We know he’s home.” John Kirkwood was Yuri’s cover name.

  “Just a minute.”

  Laura stepped onto the deck; she carried the cell but had muted the caller function. Yuri was again stretched out on the lounge chair. “Yuri, there’s a call for you—on the special phone.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Taylor.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “She must be calling about China.”

  “No doubt.”

  Laura unmuted the phone and handed it to Yuri.

  Holding the phone next to an ear, he said, “Hello, agent Taylor.”

  Laura listened to the one-sided call.

  “Yes, it’s all over the news.

  “Tonight?

  “All right. I’ll be ready.”

  Yuri switched off the phone and inserted it into a pocket of his shorts.

  “What does she want?”

  “They want to meet with me about Qingdao. They’re sending a driver to pick me up in forty-five minutes.” Yuri stood. “I need to shower and change clothes.”

  “Okay, but I have dinner ready for you now. You should eat before meeting with them.”

  “Sounds good.”

  Laura followed Yuri back into the house. He was steady on his feet but she could tell the alcohol had taken its toll. Dog-tired when he was finally released yesterday, Yuri was spent. The FBI had promised they would let him relax for the rest of the week before resuming the debrief.

  Laura’s worry quotient spiked knowing Yuri’s delicate liaison with the American government, as well as her own predicament with the U.S. Justice Department, remained hanging in the balance.

  I better make him a pot of coffee, too!

  Chapter 4

  The conference room was spacious, at least three times larger than the interview room Yuri Kirov occupied earlier in the week. The mahogany table could seat twenty but this evening it was just Yuri and three others. FBI Special Agent Michaela Taylor sat on his right side. In her late thirties, Taylor’s jet-black hair brushed her shoulders. The Ann Taylor pantsuit with matching jacket she wore flattered her shapely figure.

  Michaela was part of a four-person team that had interrogated Yuri for nearly twenty-six hours, spread over three days. During the debrief, he was confined to a holding cell at the FBI’s field office in downtown Seattle. Prior to the Seattle questioning, the Navy had grilled him for two days at Joint Base Pearl Harbor-Hickman.

  Two additional members of the interrogation team sat on the opposite side of the table. U.S. Navy Captain Robert Clark and CIA Counterintelligence officer Steve Osberg.

  Clark was in his late forties. A bit stocky for his five-foot eight height, he was not in uniform. He wore tan slacks and a short sleeved polo shirt. His straight nose, high cheekbones and round firm chin personified his image as a distinguished senior military officer, marred only by the receding hairline of his salt and pepper mane.

  Osberg was the oldest in the room at fifty-six. His lush, slightly grayed blond hair, Nordic facial features, and sleek, tall frame suggested a younger man. He wore designer blue jeans with a navy-blue blazer.

  Michaela checked her wristwatch: 7:09 P.M. “The conference will commence in about a minute,” she announced.

  All in attendance turned toward the wall-mounted home theater sized screen at the far end of the conference table. The FBI logo filled the screen. When the logo disappeared, the view of another conference room appeared. A dozen were seated around the table in the FBI Headquarters Building in Washington, D.C. Nearest to the video camera was Supervisory Special Agent Ava Diesen—the fourth member of Yuri’s original interrogation team. In her mid-forties, the mother of three had sandy blond hair. Diesen retained her youthful form by regular jogging and, when her scheduled allowed, attending Jazzercize at a mall outlet near her Fairfax home. She had returned to the east coast the previous evening.

  “Good evening,” Diesen said, addressing the Seattle contingent. She spent the next minute introducing the FBI Headquarters participants, which included the assistant FBI director and the executive assistant directors for the National Security Branch, Intelligence Branch, Science and Technology Branch, Information Technology Branch, and the Criminal, Cyber, Response and Services Branch.

  Michaela Taylor made the Seattle introductions.

  With the preliminaries concluded, Ava Diesen kicked off the meeting, directing her comments to the Seattle audience. “As you all know by now, a nuclear weapon detonated in China today at the city of Qingdao. It exploded about three hours ago. The director will be meeting with the president and the National Security Council later this evening. The purpose of our meeting is to provide the director with our assessment of the event.” SSA Diesen peered directly into the video camera. “Because of Mr. Kirov’s association with the similar event that occurred in Honolulu last week, we believe there is a direct connection to what happened at Qingdao.”

  Ava turned to a nearby aide and issued a request. The video screen in Seattle changed to a color aerial photograph. Yuri recognized the image. Less than a month earlier, he had conducted an underwater espionage mission for the Russian Navy at China’s Qingdao Naval Base.

  Ava continued, “This is a satellite image of Qingdao recorded yesterday. The city has a population of just over nine million and is one of the world’s busiest ports. It also has…”

  Yuri squirmed in his seat. I warned these people that this could happen. They didn’t believe me.

  * * * *

  Five thousand four hundred miles across the Pacific from Seattle and fifteen time zones ahead, the Central Military Commission of the People’s Republic of China met in a secure underground facility northeast of Beijing. It was 10:18 A.M. The CMC was responsible for the command and control of the People’s Liberation Army. The PLA was China’s armed forces, which consisted of five branches: Ground (Army) Force, Air Force, Navy, Rocket Force and Strategic Support Force.

  Several hours earlier, the Commission’s assembly of military officers and government officials were whisked from their Beijing offices and residences to the bunker by a caravan of vehicles—armored Mercedes Benz sedans and Range Rover SUVs. The entire sixty-mile route from city center to the CMC’s emergency operations center was underground. For the past twenty years, the PLA constructed a 5,000-mile-long military tunnel system across the vast nation. The network allowed the PLA to transfer troops, weapons and equipment to key areas within China undetected by spy satellites and without notice by its citizens. The maze of passages and caverns, bored through rock hundreds of feet below the surface also housed most of China’s land based nuclear forces. Mobile launchers wi
th nuclear tipped ICBMs could race to the surface launch sites in tunnels at up to sixty miles an hour.

  The Commission had been in session for thirty minutes. Configured to duplicate the layout of the CMC’s war room at the Ministry of Defense headquarters building in Beijing, twenty-one individuals occupied a U-shaped table within the subterranean chamber. All but four attendees wore uniforms. A mammoth flat panel screen was mounted on a wall opposite the open end of the table. A satellite image of the northeastern coast of China filled the display.

  The CMC Vice Chairman Admiral Soo Xiao stood at the lectern next to the screen. He also served as Chief of Staff of the People’s Liberation Army-Navy. At fifty-eight, Soo was the eldest in the room. He maintained a trim build that reflected regular exercise, healthy eating habits, moderate drinking and complete disdain for cigarette smoke.

  Admiral Soo clicked the remote he held and a new image materialized on the screen. He turned toward the occupant at the center of the table. “Comrade President, this is a series of photos of the event. They were recorded by one of our weather satellites. The images are high altitude and wide range.” He turned back to the screen. “This photograph was recorded about ten minutes before the blast.” Soo used the laser pointer on the remote to highlight a metropolitan area along the coast of the Yellow Sea. “Qingdao is right here.” He advanced to the next image. “This one is less than a minute from the event.”

  The third image appeared on the screen. A brilliant flash dominated the upper center quadrant of the photo. Gasps and mumblings erupted from the audience.

  Soo said, “Obviously, this was the instant of detonation.” He moved to the next slide. The new image revealed a circular brownish black smudge near the shoreline. “This shows the debris cloud rising into the atmosphere from Jiaozhou Bay. Preliminary analysis of the blast indicates the weapon had an explosive yield of around eight kilotons of TNT—about half of the power of the Hiroshima bomb.”