The Good Spy (26 page)

CHAPTER 66

T
he
Hercules
was docked. The crew reassembled in Captain Miller's stateroom.

Miller remained unconscious, sprawled out on his bunk. His right pupil did not react to light. Blood still seeped from the tear in his scalp and it had crusted inside an ear.

“We need to call for an ambulance,” Laura said. She sat on the side of the bunk caressing Miller's forehead with a moist cloth. “He needs to be in a hospital.”

“We can't do that,” Elena countered. She stood next to the bunk with Nick at her side. “If we call for an ambulance, it'll probably come from the States, maybe even here, but not Vancouver. Remember, this is Point Roberts. Do you realize how much of a hassle that will be?”

Laura did not reply.

“I guarantee you,” Elena continued, “that if you call for help we'll have the local cops here plus the entire volunteer fire department, and then all the issues of getting him across the border crossing. We'll be filling out paperwork for hours.” Elena scowled. “How long do you think it will be before someone decides to check on Nick and me? Our cover legends are good but not that good. Besides, Miller knows too much. We can't let him out of our sight.”

“What do you mean he knows too much?” Laura said with an acid tone. “You want to get rid of him, dump him overboard like garbage?”

“He's expendable.”

Laura jumped to her feet, ready for battle. “You're not going to harm him, do you understand?”

Elena backed up a step, startled at Laura's fury.

“Hold on, both of you!” Nick said as he stepped between the women. He addressed Laura first. “Miller is not going to be harmed. I promise you that.”

“But he needs help!”

“I know he does, and we're going to take care of that.”

He turned to face Elena. “Where's the nearest hospital.”

She told him.

“Okay, here's what we're going to do.”

* * *

Yuri Kirov remained in the
Neva
's aft escape trunk. He'd weaned himself from the rebreather and now inhaled heliox supplied from oxygen and helium flasks stored at the base of the escape trunk. The shipboard gas blend and its constant partial pressure of oxygen mimicked the rebreather's supply. The new mask he used and a spare had been stored on a shelf inside the trunk before Yuri's dive. He and Viktor used the masks during their work.

Yuri had been decompressing for about two hours. Fifty-six hours remained.

He dreaded the ordeal. The escape trunk's chilled environment hadn't yet seeped through his dry suit, but it would. For every breath inhaled through the mask, an equal amount of exhaled gas vented to the steel chamber, which increased the carbon dioxide level. Because the trunk did not have a scrubber system, CO2 would eventually build up to a lethal concentration despite periodic decompression venting.

As long as the gas supply to Yuri's breathing mask flowed, he would be fine. If it stopped, forcing him to inhale trunk air, he would not survive.

Despite the risks, Yuri remained optimistic. Earlier he spoke with Borodin, who had reported on his plan to seal up tube five and head north to the abandoned munitions dumpsite. The crew would transfer to the
Hercules
and then Borodin and two other officers would scuttle the
Neva
. The two plus days it would take to accomplish those tasks dovetailed with Yuri's decompression schedule.

But best of all, Laura would be waiting when he reboarded the
Hercules
.

Yuri leaned back against the curved steel wall and listened. Earlier he'd asked the sailor operating the escape trunk's control panel to tie in the
Neva
's master intercom to the chamber's loudspeaker. That way he could monitor the ship's communications. The traffic was routine, mostly status reports and change of watch matters. Nonetheless, he took comfort in listening to the familiar voices.

Yuri was home, back with his crew and fellow officers.

* * *

The Canadian border agent watched as the SUV pulled into her interview lane. She waited for the driver to roll down his window.

“Good morning,” the man offered while handing her three passports.

“Where are you headed, sir?” she asked.

“Back to Vancouver.”

She looked past the driver. The female in the passenger seat had her eyes shut and her head rested on the door column. The male in the backseat also slept; his head slumped to the side.

None of this appeared unusual to the agent. The taverns and bars had closed half an hour earlier and these were the last of the stragglers. Another Saturday party night at the Point had run its course.

The border agent glanced at the passports and addressed the driver. “Sir, how long have you been in Point Roberts?”

“Ah, we just came down this evening. We had dinner with some friends that have a beach house and then we went out for a few beers.”

The driver spoke without slurring his words and no odor of alcohol escaped the vehicle. Any suspicious drivers would be ordered to pull over and the Delta District Municipality police summoned.

She handed the passports back. “Okay, sir, you're free to enter.”

“Thanks.”

* * *

Nick Orlov pulled out of the Canadian border station and turned onto Fifty-sixth Street. The Suburban headed north into Tsawwassen.

He heaved a sigh and commented, “That wasn't so bad.”

“Right,” Laura agreed. She sat next to Nick. “Is that Elena?” she said, peering over the hood. A Mercedes sedan had just pulled away from the curb in front of them.

“Yes.”

Elena had crossed the border about ten minutes earlier.

“How long will it take to get to the hospital?” asked Laura.

“Half an hour or less.”

“Good.”

Laura turned around to glance at Captain Miller. He breathed shallow and perspiration had beaded on his forehead.

CHAPTER 67

N
ick found the vacant wheelchair parked outside the ER next to the ambulance entrance. He rolled it two blocks back to the parked Suburban. Elena's Mercedes was just around the corner. Out of view of the hospital's security cameras and with help from Laura and Elena, Nick loaded Captain Dan Miller's inert form into the chair. To keep Miller upright, Nick removed his jacket and lashed it around Miller's chest and the chair's seatback.

Nick returned to the ER, pushing Miller through the entrance. To help conceal Nick's face from the surveillance cameras, he continued to wear a broad-brimmed hat and a pair of sunglasses, both liberated from Captain Miller's cabin. During the transit from the Suburban, Miller had slumped to the right side of the chair but remained upright for the most part.

Thankfully, the emergency room was crowded this early morning—leftovers from Saturday-night revelry in Vancouver Metro. Dozens sat in chairs and milled about the lobby waiting to see a physician.

Nick rolled Miller to a quiet corner next to an Asian woman sitting in a chair. She read a magazine.

Kneeling next to the unconscious Miller, Nick said, “Dan, I need to use the restroom. Just wait here. I'll be right back.”

Two minutes later, Nick returned to the Suburban and drove off.

* * *

Ken Newman's eyes rolled open and stared into the dimness. The sun would not rise for another hour.

Ken sat slumped in the driver's seat of his parked Corvette. The crown of his skull pulsated and his mouth tasted like a two-week-old cat box. He opened the door and climbed out, leaning heavily against the car to steady himself. A few seconds later, he unzipped the fly to his jeans and relieved the pressure in his bladder.

During the long seconds of urination, Ken managed to recall fragments of the previous evening. Back at the Pod Room, he'd chatted with a thirty-something legal secretary from Vancouver. But it never went anywhere. Just before midnight, and after he bought a round of drinks, Allison and her three friends exited the bar.

Ken continued to order a succession of Crown Royals. His binge only ceased when the bar closed. Already tagged with one DUI at the Point, Ken retained enough sense not to be a repeat offender. He slept in his car, parked in the back lot away from the road, without moving it.

Ken stomped his feet on the gravel and pulled his arms close to his chest. He was cold and stiff from sleeping in the car. His head throbbed. Ken knew from experience that the hangover would get much worse before it ended. He cursed himself and climbed back into the car. It was time to find a cup of coffee.

* * *

“Do you think we can rent what they need at that place?” asked Laura.

Nick sipped from his coffee mug. “Yeah, that's what Elena said.”

They were in a café on the outskirts of downtown Vancouver. Their booth was in the back, away from the crowds.

Laura checked her wristwatch: 6:57
A.M
. “I wonder if they might open early?”

“I doubt it—it's Sunday. We're lucky it's open at all.”

Laura finished the last slice of her toast. She'd already polished off the omelet and hash browns, her body craving nutrition. Nick pushed aside his half-empty plate of scrambled eggs and Canadian bacon. Preferring caffeine to calories, he sipped the last of his second cup of coffee.

“What's going to happen when Dan wakes up?” Laura asked. “You know the first thing he's going to want to know is where his boat is.”

“Don't worry about that. We'll be done with it soon. It'll be there, waiting for him.”

“I hope so.”

Laura drained her mug and meeting Nick's eyes said, “He'll get the right care, won't he?”

“Absolutely, Canada has first-rate coverage.”

“But he's American; won't that be an issue?”

“No, there's no ID on him. They'll treat him as a John Doe—a Canadian John Doe. He'll get the same care as any other citizen.”

“Good, that makes me feel better.”

A waitress refilled their coffee mugs.

Laura took a couple of sips and still at unease she said, “He must have a fractured skull—the blood coming out of his ear and that wound to his head.”

“You're probably right. It looked pretty bad to me.”

Laura slumped in the bench seat. “I hope he makes it.”

“He's in good hands, Laura. We've done all what we could for him—like I promised you.”

“I know—thank you.”

Laura sat up straight, stretched her arms, and asked, “What's Elena doing this morning?”

“She's at the mission. She'll return to Point Roberts later today.”

“Is she working on the escape plan for the crew?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Laura exhaled. “I'll be so relieved when this is over.”

Nick flashed a friendly smile. “We all will be.” He leaned forward. “Yuri—he's an amazing fellow, risking his life to save his submates.” He beamed again. “And you, helping Yuri and his crew, you are the truly amazing one.”

Laura broke eye contact, gazing down at the tabletop.
What am I doing?

She'd just shared a meal with a foreign intelligence officer after having given away a whopping chunk of her money to help a group of strangers—spies—all because a man who had held her hostage had asked. He would soon go away with his crew and she'd probably never see him again.

Orlov read Laura's dejection. “Do not be so hard on yourself. You and Yuri did a noble deed. If both of you had not persisted, the
Neva
would still be on the bottom and the crew close to, if not, dead.”

Laura raised her head. “You and Elena would have helped them.”

“We don't have your skills. Plus, Moscow has been moving slowly. The crew might have perished.” He skirted the Kremlin's decision to sacrifice the crew.

“Laura, you have much to be proud of.”

* * *

After driving around the commercial core of Point Roberts, trying to buy a cup of coffee, Ken gave up. Nothing had opened yet so he opted for Tsawwassen.

He was turning north onto Tyee Drive when a new thought occurred. He made a U-turn. Three minutes later, he drove past the beach house. As expected, he observed no cars in the driveway or lights on inside the house.

Ken parked his Corvette a couple of blocks to the east. He walked down the public walkway to the water's edge and made his way to the house, using the exposed beach as his cover.

Standing on the deck, he jimmied the frame of the locked sliding glass door and yanked open the slider. The sun was just peeking above the Cascades when Ken slipped inside Laura's rental.

Ken searched the house, concentrating on the upstairs. When he opened the closet door in the master bedroom, he found a collection of Laura's garments hanging on the rack: a couple of dresses, her favorite skirt—it showed off her shapely legs—and several blouses.

He opened the chest of drawers and discovered more of her clothing: rows of panties and bras neatly folded and stacked—again, just like at home.

Maybe he would wait right here.

Too tired to bother with coffee, Ken commandeered the bed.

As he sank into the mattress, welcoming sleep, a new suspicion materialized.

Just before succumbing to fatigue—and the residual alcohol in his blood, he knew what he had to do.