The Good Spy (7 page)

CHAPTER 15

“T
hat sucks!” Ken Newman mumbled as he accelerated away from the Point Roberts border station.

He'd waited for half an hour while the CBP officers searched his Corvette. They found nothing significant, just a pocketknife, a pencil, and several wrappers from Snickers candy bars.

Little did Ken know he happened to fit the profile, just more rotten luck.

The FBI had developed a catalog of likely personality profiles of criminal types. In Ken's case, what sent the border agent's “bad guy” meter ringing had been his obvious nervousness—the bungled response about his reason for visiting Point Roberts. His body language didn't help, either. He'd radiated deception and the CBP officer had picked it up.

Ken shifted into third as he headed south on Tyee Drive. Huge stands of evergreens lined the asphalt roadway, but in the distance he spotted a smidgen of blue. He checked the dashboard GPS display. His destination was just a couple of miles away.

* * *

“You mean it's stranded on the bottom . . . out there?” Nicolai Orlov gestured with his right hand at the adjacent window in the Pod Room. The Strait of Georgia was about thirty feet away.

“Yes, but south of here,” Yuri answered. They now spoke English but in muted tones.

“How far down is it?” asked Elena Krestyanova.

“Over two hundred meters.”

“That's deep,” Nick said, astonished at Yuri's tale.

Yuri continued, “The crew was able to restart one of the reactors yesterday but they're still fighting the fouled seawater intakes so it's throttled way back.”

“What fouling are you talking about?” Nick asked.

“The ship's seawater cooling system for the reactors and electrical generators. The inlets are located on the bottom of the hull and buried in mud. The suction from the pumps pulls in bottom sediments along with the water. That gunk plugs everything up.”

Nick shifted position in the booth, slumping to one side. “So they don't have much power.”

“Yes. There's just enough to run life support and to power the bilge pumps. Nothing for the heating system. It's like living inside a refrigerator down there.”

“How long have they been marooned?” Elena asked.

“This is the fourth day. I left on the second.”

She mulled over that tidbit. “If you made it, why can't the others do the same?”

“It's too deep to try without a rebreather. Plus you have to be trained to use it.” Yuri took a sip from his glass. They all had ordered vodka martinis. Russian-style vodka, chilled and neat, would have been too obvious. “Even with my experience, I barely made it. And we also lost another diver.”

“What happened?” Nick asked.

“Viktor Skirski, a warrant officer . . .” Yuri's forehead wrinkled. “He volunteered to try. Viktor had more deep-diving experience than I do so it made sense.”

Yuri took another sip. “He made it through the escape chamber but after that I don't know what happened.”

“Maybe he did make it up and ended someplace else.” Elena pointed seaward. “There are countless islands out there. He could be anywhere.”

Yuri stared at the inland sea.

His assistant . . . No, Viktor had been more than that. His friend and companion of nearly two years most likely drowned. Or maybe he threw an embolism and had a heart attack or a brain attack. Or maybe his rebreather malfunctioned and he sucked in a lethal dose of oxygen. There were just too many ways to die at that depth.

Orlov straightened his shoulders. “Captain Lieutenant Kirov, you have presented us with a difficult problem. Just what is it that you want us to tell our superiors?”

Yuri turned back, eyes blazing. “They've got to get them out. There are thirty-seven men down there—still alive!”

* * *

The GPS unit guided Ken straight to the rental house. He parked in the driveway and climbed out of his Corvette. He carried a colorful garland of freshly cut flowers, purchased from the local grocery store.

The two-story beach house appeared new. Expecting Laura's BMW, he found no vehicles in the driveway but did note the attached double stall garage. As Ken approached the home's entryway, he peeked through a window panel on one of the garage doors. No Bimmer.

Ken knocked on the front door. Receiving no response, he walked along the narrow alleyway on the west side of the house toward the placid waters of the Strait of Georgia. He peered through several sets of windows into the living room: nothing, no one inside.

Five minutes later, Ken returned to the Corvette where he rechecked the address. He had the right place, but where could Laura be? He considered checking with the occupants of neighboring residences but then thought better of it. They might tip her off to his presence.

Ken's plan to win Laura back would only work if he could surprise her. He knew that, given advance warning, she'd flee.

Ken loathed what he'd done. Laura embodied the best part of his life and he'd ruined everything, his alcohol addiction the root cause.

His last blowup remained a blur but its aftermath still rocked him. Although he couldn't recall much of that night, the affidavit that Laura had signed and attached to the restraining order set the record. How could he have hurt her like that—using Laura as a soccer ball, and calling her all of those ugly things?

Ken feared that he'd lost Laura for good this time.

He hadn't had a drink in three days—a new milestone.

Ken would make it this time . . . if Laura would just give him one more chance.

* * *

Nick and Elena followed in the Suburban, careful to remain out of Yuri's sight. They watched as he drove around the marina's east side and disappeared.

“What now?” Nick asked.

“Let's wait a couple of minutes for him to park. Then we'll check.” Laura pulled off the road onto the shoulder. She opened her purse and removed the tracker.

Nick eyed the device. It was the size of a cell phone. “How does it work?”

“It's a transceiver. Has a range of around two hundred meters.”

Embedded within the logo of Elena's business card she'd given Yuri was a minuscule radio frequency identification chip. When energized by a unique RF signal emitted by the transceiver, the nanotech RFID tag broadcast its location.

* * *

Laura remained a prisoner in the master bedroom. Twenty minutes earlier, she'd heard the knock at the front door but could not respond. Before leaving, her captor had anchored her to the bed on her back with arms and legs moored to each corner of the frame with rope. Tape once more sealed her lips.

Laura shifted her torso, trying to get comfortable. She turned her head toward the nightstand and checked the clock: quarter past four. A couple of hours had passed since “John” left.

Laura took several deep inhalations, trying to relax. It didn't help. The pressure in her bladder was increasing but she'd just have to hold it until he returned.

Perhaps tonight she would get her chance.

Laura was waiting for the right circumstances. But they had not yet occurred. She remained patient. He would eventually slip up and she'd escape.

Laura wouldn't bother with the local deputy sheriff. She planned to head straight for the U.S. border station, running if she had to; it was only a couple of miles away.

They would have FBI agents here in no time at all
.

CHAPTER 16

C
aptain Borodin entered the
Neva
's engineering compartment. “Has there been any improvement?” he asked.

“No, Captain,” the reactor officer said. “Unit Two's barely maintaining itself. If the efficiency drops much more, it'll automatically shut down.”

Restarted the day before, the starboard nuclear reactor's heat output remained a fraction of normal. Just enough seawater streamed into the
Neva
's cooling system to keep the reactor from redlining. If the flow increased, more bottom sediment would be ingested, further plugging the condensing units. The cooling system efficiency would deteriorate, initiating an automatic shutdown. Without heat from the reactor, the steam-powered generating plant would stop producing electricity—the ship's lifeblood.

“How are the batteries?” Borodin asked, referring to the reserves in Compartment Five; the mains had fried, shorted out by seawater when the first two compartments flooded.

“They're about fifty percent recharged so far, but I don't trust 'em. They were due for replacement last year.”

“I know.”

Deferred maintenance was the norm for the
Neva
. Within three years, the nuclear cores for both reactors would be spent but they would not be refueled. The ship would be retired soon. Held in reserve for eight years after commissioning due to military funding limitations, the
Neva
had been in active service for nearly two decades. It had performed well above the standard for its class thanks to an advanced propeller design secretly purchased from the West and to several acoustic-quieting upgrades to its running gear. Because of its superior stealth, the
Neva
had become an ideal platform to conduct covert reconnaissance. Nearly half of the submarine's patrols during the past eight years involved espionage.

As Borodin headed aft, continuing his once every two hours tour of the boat, the reactor officer asked, “Sir, the man that tried to escape, what happened to him?”

“Drowned. Somehow he punctured his suit and it flooded.”

“What was he thinking—we're too deep to try that.”

“I know. Scared I assume. Can't really blame him, but he was doomed from the moment he flooded the chamber.”

The officer said, “Any updates from Yuri Ivanovich?”

“I'm expecting to hear from him soon.”

“Yuri's a good man, sir. He'll get us help.”

“Yes, he will.”

* * *

Nicolai Orlov was in the Vancouver Trade Mission. He occupied the code room alone; Elena Krestyanova had relocated to her office. It was early evening.

Orlov sat at a computer console. He'd been composing the report for half an hour, addressing it to the SVR
rezident
at the San Francisco Consulate. But Orlov really wanted to talk directly with Moscow. Vancouver Station had that capability thanks to the parabolic dish on the building's roof. When aimed at a Russian military satellite in a geostationary orbit over the North Pacific, it could transmit and receive encrypted voice signals to and from SVR headquarters.

As much as he'd like to short-circuit the process, Orlov followed standard operating orders. In the next few minutes, he would send the report to his boss with a copy to Moscow.

Orlov leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. They were blurry from staring at the screen. He leaned forward and typed out the final lines.

Orlov e-mailed his report to the San Francisco Consulate and the SVR's main directorate in Moscow. The algorithm used to encrypt the message was based on the latest efforts of the Russian Federal Security Service—
Federal'naya Sluzhba Bezopasnosti
. The FSB served as Russia's FBI and then some.

He attached an encrypted snapshot of Kirov to the report. Nick had used his cell phone to photograph Yuri while in the Pod Room. He also included a second attachment, a photo of a beach house located by the RFID tracker.

Yuri had not volunteered his hiding place, only acknowledging that he'd found shelter in a vacant house. And he'd said nothing about Laura.

* * *

About twenty miles south of downtown Vancouver, Ken Newman watched television from his hotel room bed. He had planned to stay overnight at Point Roberts but discovered the Point lacked public accommodations. No motels or hotels, and the handful of bed-and-breakfasts were already booked.

Forced to drive back into Canada, he found the hotel near the north end of town. Although Tsawwassen bordered sleepy Point Roberts, you'd never know it. The town of twenty thousand thrived as a bedroom community to Vancouver.

“Dammit!” Ken mumbled as a thought flashed. He would have to stop again at the U.S. border station tomorrow. He hoped the witch that had detained him would be off duty.

Ken turned away from the TV screen and eyed the mini-bar, the longing always at hand—especially in the evenings. But he was okay, even proud of himself. Earlier, after having dinner in the hotel's restaurant, he noticed the neon signs across the street. A new nightclub had just opened up. He had resisted temptation and returned to his room.

* * *

“I'm sorry to have to do this but I have to leave again.”

“How long?” asked Laura. She lay on the bed. John hovered over her, reattaching the lashings.

“A couple of hours.”

He returned at sunset. After removing her restraints, he allowed her to use the bathroom and then he fed her sausages and more fried potatoes.

“Please, not too tight on that wrist.”

He adjusted the knot. “Better?”

“Yes, thank you.”

* * *

Flat on her back with each limb reattached to the bed frame's corners, Laura heard John drive off in her BMW five minutes earlier. He left a table light on next to the bed. She stared at the ceiling, a fresh strip of duct tape resealing her mouth.

Laura sensed John did not relish his role as captor. On his return, he carefully removed the tape that had sealed her mouth. It would have been easier to rip it off. He also allowed Laura to apply hand cream to her wrists and ankles before he reapplied the rope bindings.

Besides his thoughtfulness, something else caught Laura's eye—something that ran counter to her common sense. She found him attractive.

Laura also recognized that she must have presented a ghastly appearance in her current condition: no makeup, stringy hair, and frumpy clothing—a pair of tattered blue jeans and a wrinkled long-sleeved shirt.

Realizing it was silly to worry about her personal appearance, Laura again focused on her captor.

* * *

Yuri piloted the thirty-one-foot powerboat southward in the marina channel. The offshore breakwater was just ahead.

The key chain discovered in the pantry led him straight to the Sea Ray. The dock and slip numbers were hand-printed in black ink on the key chain's float. The electronic card opened the parking gate and dock gate. The other keys opened the cabin door and turned the ignition.

He considered the finding a godsend.

Yuri guided the boat around the southwest tip of the breakwater and goosed the throttle. The boat accelerated to thirty knots.

Twenty-five minutes later, Yuri reestablished communications with the
Neva
. Using the buoy-com line, he just briefed Captain Borodin on his meeting with Major Orlov. There wasn't much to report. Nevertheless, Borodin's spirits rebounded.

“Yuri Ivanovich, there's no way we can ever thank you for what you have done. When Orlov makes his report, Moscow will certainly send
Kaliningrad
. If we can just hold out, we'll be okay.”

“Right,” Yuri replied. “I'll help pilot her right to you and we'll use the mini to make the transfer—the Americans will never know.”

“And then we can all celebrate back in Petro!”

“It will be a great party!”

Yuri did not share his colleague's optimism but never let on. The rescue sub was iffy. The Pacific Fleet's sole rescue submarine was a former missile boat recently converted to carry a hybrid
Priz
-
Mir
class submersible. Home-ported at the Vladivostok Naval Base, the
Kaliningrad
was designed for rescue in Russian coastal waters, not a covert operation over a hundred miles behind enemy lines. Yuri doubted Moscow would authorize its use. Nevertheless, if he were in Borodin's position, he, too, would have expected the
Kaliningrad
's immediate deployment.

After Borodin briefed Yuri on the
Neva
's ongoing battle with the fouled seawater intake system and the efforts to keep the reactor online, he lowered his voice and said, “Please, Yuri, tell them to hurry. Some of the men are clawing at the bulkheads. We even had an escape attempt today; drowned before he could exit the aft trunk.”

“Who?”

“One of the cooks, a conscript.”

“Aleksi?”

“Yes.”

“Oh no . . . he was good man.” Yuri taught chess to Aleksi and two other crew members.

“Yuri, we can't stay down here much longer, functioning reactor or not.”

“I know. I'm going to get everyone out.”

After returning the Sea Ray to its marina slip, Yuri sat inside the cabin sipping a beer. He found the six-pack of Heineken inside a locker in the galley.

He took a long pull from the bottle as he recalled the events of the day. His meeting with Orlov and Krestyanova dominated
.
He was leery of the pair. They were SVR—not military. Because their actions might not be in the best interests of the
Neva
's crew, Yuri decided he would not reveal the submarine's exact location and depth. It was to ensure he would remain involved in the rescue and not rushed back to Russia.