The Good Spy (10 page)

CHAPTER 25

K
en Newman sat in his parked Corvette at a waterfront park near the southwest tip of Point Roberts. Like the turbulent seascape he faced, his thoughts roiled.

He didn't mean for Laura to fall; it was an accident.

The ferocity of the attack remained fresh.
That prick blindsided me; if I'd seen him coming, I would've cleaned his clock. I had no choice but to back off.

The incident ripped open a long festering wound, taking him back to Coronado; he'd just turned twenty.

For two grueling weeks, Ken had endured the challenges: four-mile-long timed runs along the California beach, exhausting obstacle courses that never got easier, swimming a couple miles in the freezing Pacific every other day, and carrying that damn rubber boat on top of his head—and those of the other six members of his boat crew—just about everywhere.

He watched others DOR—drop on request. They dropped their helmet liners next to a pole with a ship's bell mounted to it and rang the bell three times, signaling their surrender.

But Ken was determined. He would make it.

Aptly named Hell Week, the third week of Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL (BUD/S) training was five and a half days of nonstop exertion with just a total of four hours of sleep.

Ken lasted fifty-six hours and then rang the bell.

He flushed those hurtful thoughts with a long swig from the beer bottle. He would have just one to help calm down before driving home. He could handle it. He knew his limits.

Ken refocused on Laura's protector. All doubt had evaporated.

Ken took a long gulp, draining the bottle.

Ken tossed the empty aside. He rearmed, removed the cap, and took another bolt.

* * *

Laura rested on the bed.

How did he find me? she wondered.

They met nearly three years earlier at a dinner party hosted by one of Laura's girlfriends. Ken Newman drew in Laura with his warm smile, teal eyes, and shock of blond hair. Outgoing and upbeat, the real estate professional had represented a welcome diversion to the typical men she'd dated, geeky tech-heads.

During the six-month courtship, Ken had lavished attention on Laura like no other suitor.

The first hitch occurred in the spring following their marriage. Ken lost the listing on a Bellevue office park to a rival. Already drunk from an afternoon bender at a local bar, he'd slapped Laura around at home, tearing a lip and bruising an arm.

When he sobered up, Ken pleaded ignorance and begged forgiveness. Eager to save her marriage and optimistic that she could turn Ken around, Laura conceded.

Ken ran straight and true for about a year but went off course, again—a hot stock tip turned toxic and he lost forty grand overnight. After bingeing, he took it out on Laura. She worked from her home office for a week until the black eye healed.

Ashamed, Ken voluntarily sought treatment and joined AA.

Laura loved Ken. If she just gave him time, he would change.

All went well until earlier in the current year when an office building deal Ken had shepherded went south. He'd been counting on the fat commission; he hadn't scored in months.

Laura again took the brunt of Ken's bad luck after another whiskey spree. She called 911 that time and Ken spent the night in the King County jail, booked for domestic violence.

Laura banned Ken from their home but declined to pursue prosecution. He again committed himself to an alcohol treatment clinic. Laura's insurance paid for the rehab.

Once detoxed, Ken eagerly attended joint sessions with their marriage counselor. Heartened with his progress, Laura prayed that Ken had passed a milestone and their marriage could be saved. They even talked about having a child. But then he lost it again.

Ticketed for speeding in his sports car, his third time in a year, Ken drowned his hard luck in bourbon. Later that evening—just a few weeks earlier—he used Laura for soccer practice.

That's when Laura finally realized she'd been living with Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.

Laura thought of Yuri.

CHAPTER 26

N
ick Orlov watched the daily NFL briefing on cable TV while stretched out on his hotel bed. He'd become an ardent 49ers fan after attending a home game while wooing a prospective agent. The Google engineer rejected his pitch but Nick ended up hooked. He now held season tickets. The 49ers were ten and one. Tonight's tube chatter hinted the team might be on its way to another Super Bowl.

Nick's cell buzzed. He muted the television and picked up the phone. The SVR officer was calling from a pay phone in the lobby of a downtown San Francisco hotel.

“So what's going on?” Nick asked, speaking in English.

“A marketing plan is being prepared.”

Both men spoke in code, designed to avoid NSA and FBI interest.

“But what am I supposed to do?”

“Wait for further instructions.”

“That's all I've been doing up here—waiting.”

“Same for me. Headquarters is in a frenzy over something happening in the Tokyo office. They're consumed with it. We're on the backburner.”

“Chërt voz'mí!”—
Dammit—Nick said, violating his own security protocol.

“I know but try to relax; Vancouver's a great town.”

Nick did not reply.

Nick's colleague switched gears. “You've got to tell me: Is she as good as she looks?”

“What?”

“Elena. I saw her file today.
Klássnyy!
” Classy.

“She's okay.”

“Just okay? I'd be sniffing around that every chance I had.”

Nick ignored the innuendo. “Do you have anything else for me?”

“No, I'll call you in the morning with an update.”

“All right, good night.”

Nick couldn't fault his coworker's desire for Elena Krestyanova, aka Nastasia Vasileva. He, too, read her file before heading north. Recruited for both her beauty and her smarts, she worked exclusively undercover.

Elena's assignment called for her to assist the chief of mission with promoting Russian fisheries and mineral exports to Canada. Her real orders originated from the SVR.

Directorate X in Moscow selected Elena's target. The fifty-seven-year-old headed an electronics company based in Vancouver. The corporation had over fifteen thousand employees with manufacturing plants located throughout North America. It provided satellite communication systems to the U.S. Department of Defense and other NATO countries.

Elena met her target at a party arranged by a Canadian accomplice affiliated with the Trade Mission. As planned, the CEO took the bait. He had a stale thirty-three-year marriage and was starving. Elena knew exactly how to satisfy that craving.

They had sex twice, both times at Elena's apartment. Each liaison was videoed. Her SVR handler wanted one more encounter before confronting the target.

The handler would make the tender up front and to the CEO's face: Provide access to his company's secrets, or else.

The “else” would be the transfer of the videos to a hundred plus digital videodiscs. The DVDs would be mailed anonymously to the CEO's wife, his four grown children, his firm's board of directors, his fellow church elders, and every member of his Rotary club.

The honey trap was an old espionage tactic but one that still produced results.

Nick slipped off the bed and headed to the shower. Elena had arranged another working meeting this evening: “Dinner for two at the Four Seasons and then we'll see.”

Even though cheating went against his grain, Nick couldn't resist the temptation.

Svetlana Petrova would be returning to the consulate in early December. The previous week, she flew back to Moscow for a month of training; she worked in the consulate's cryptographic section. Nick had been sleeping with her for nearly half a year.

* * *

“If you make that shot I'll kiss your ass.”

While leaning against the pool table, Ken Newman turned to his right and peered over his shoulder. He grinned at the tall Canadian lumberjack standing behind him. Ken turned and lined up the cue stick. With a flick of the wrist, he hammered it into the ball. The ivory sphere blasted across the table, rebounded from the opposite side, and raced past a cluster of his opponent's balls. It kissed his target. The eight ball dribbled into the corner pocket.

“Son of a bitch!” the loser called out in unbelief. The crowd of spectators surrounding the table erupted in laughter.

Ken bent to the side, aiming his right buttock toward the loser. He patted it with his hand and while grinning said, “Pucker up, man!”

“No way!”

Ken broke the pose and stood. “Just buy me another beer, Clive, and we'll be good.”

“My kind of Yank!”

Ken was in a watering hole located along the western shore of Point Roberts. It was half past eight in the evening. There were about sixty patrons, mostly Canadians.

On his way home earlier, he drove past the Tides, a tavern and eatery that had been constructed the previous year. Its parking lot was packed, typical for a Saturday afternoon. Although Ken had already killed a six-pack while sitting in his Vette, he decided to have one more for the road.

After downing a beer and playing several rounds of video games Ken began playing pool, the one game he excelled at. All thoughts of Laura and her lover had dissolved, replaced by an all too familiar buzz.

Ken took a long pull on a fresh bottle. He belched loudly and called out, “Who's next?”

A tall redhead with stunning jade eyes, fire engine red lips, and blue jeans glued to her exquisite butt strolled up to the table. “My turn, love,” she said, her “down under” accent clearly marking her.

She appeared to be in her early forties. Crow's feet around the eyes were the only distractions to her otherwise pleasing face.

She stood by his side, cue stick in her right hand. “What are we playing?”

“Eight ball, you break 'em.”

“Okay, sounds good.” She offered her right hand. “Hi, I'm Emma.”

“Ken,” he muttered, shaking her hand.

“Nice to meet you, Ken.”

“Same here.”

“You live here—at the Point?” she asked, rubbing the end of the cue with a chalk block.

“Nahh. I'm from the Seattle area, up here looking around. How about you?”

“Just across the border, Ladner.”

Ken leaned against the table.

Emma unbuttoned the top two buttons of her blouse and slipped her right hand inside. She removed a folded U.S. fifty-dollar bill and unfolded it with her long, manicured fingers. Ken's eyes tracked her every movement.

She placed the bill on the edge of the table and said, “Kenny, love, what do you say we make our game a little more interesting?”

He met her eyes and again looked down at the fifty. “Okay, I'm game.”

Ken placed two twenties and a ten on top of her bill.

Emma set up the rack and leaned forward, lining up for the break. Ken's heart almost skipped a beat. Her blouse remained partially unbuttoned, and cleavage oozed from the opening.

She made a clean break and as Ken took up position for his first shot, she walked over to his side and whispered into his left ear. “Kenny, if you beat me two out of three games, you can take me home, too.”

CHAPTER 27

D
AY
7—S
UNDAY

L
aura had been seasick once before, during a sailboat excursion on San Francisco Bay while in high school. But what she endured this evening dwarfed that experience.

For the past fifteen minutes, she'd locked herself inside the head—the Sea Ray's lavatory. Both arms embraced the bowl as she dry-heaved. Laura had already emptied her stomach and flushed the contents.

Laura took a deep breath, her nose and mouth seared by vomit. “Oh Lord,” she moaned, “I think I'm going to die!”

* * *

Yuri avoided motion sickness but he worried over Laura's welfare. The storm's four-foot waves bore down on the thirty-one-foot fiberglass cruiser out of the southeast, the course he steered. With the engine throttled back, they'd been plowing into the oncoming seas for almost half an hour but had another twenty minutes to go.

Yuri slipped off the captain's chair, transferring most of his weight onto his right leg. With his right hand on the wheel and his good leg braced against the instrument panel, he leaned forward, ducking his head into the open companionway that led into the main cabin. The door to the head remained shut.

“Laura, are you all right?” he yelled.

The door flew open and Laura poked her head out, still on her hands and knees.

“No, I think I'm—” But before she could finish another spasm racked her stomach and she turned around. The boat rolled and the door slammed shut.

Yuri returned to the helm. He thought about turning about and running with the waves. It would be a more comfortable ride. But he dismissed the idea. They had to tough it out, no matter how sick she got. His crewmates were counting on him.

* * *

Ken Newman didn't have a chance. Emma fleeced him two games straight, collecting one hundred dollars. He later met a couple of Tides regulars, both Americans living at the Point. That's when Ken learned that to their collective knowledge she'd never lost a game.

Ken decided to call it a night at half past one. Too wasted to drive home, Ken wanted only to get back to the hotel in Tsawwassen and crash.

He was halfway down Gulf Road when a Whatcom County deputy sheriff pulled him over. His Corvette had strayed across the centerline but not because of the wind and rain.

As the deputy approached, the headlights from the cruiser flooded the interior of the sports car. Ken sensed peril. “Oh shit,” he muttered.

* * *

The
Barrakuda
crossed into the territorial waters of Canada at 0147 hours local time. The submarine cruised northeasterly one hundred meters below the surface at a stealthy five knots. It closed on a deep-water channel that skirted the southern boundary of the Swiftsure Bank.

To ensure quiet conditions, crew members not on essential duty occupied their bunks. The galley and mess had been shut down.

Captain Second Rank Oleg Antipov stood beside the chart table in the central post. The tallest man aboard at six-foot-six, he had thick blond hair that brushed the undersides of the cables and piping suspended from the overhead. During his twenty-year career in submarines, he'd developed a sixth sense about ducking to avoid obstacles.

The ship's navigator was at Antipov's side; they both studied the Canadian Hydrographic Service chart. It depicted the southwestern coast of British Columbia's Vancouver Island and the northern shoreline of the United States. In between lay the Strait of Juan de Fuca. The
Barrakuda
would enter the shared waterway in a few minutes.

“Once we reach the one hundred and thirty meter contour, turn east and head in on Backdoor,” Antipov ordered.

“Yes, sir,” the navigator replied.

Antipov picked up a microphone. “Sonar, control. What's your status?”

“No change, Captain. We're still tracking five primary targets, two inbound and three outbound—all classified as merchantmen. There are three secondary contacts. All are consistent with commercial fishing craft or recreational boats.”

“Very well.”

Antipov again studied the chart. Although top quality, as were the multitude of other Canadian and U.S. charts stored in the flat files under the table, it didn't measure up.

Once the
Barrakuda
reached the 130-meter bottom contour, the navigator would switch to a computerized chart system. The digital underwater roadmap had an accuracy of one meter vertically and two meters horizontally.

Such precision was crucial. To avoid the U.S. Navy's acoustic arrays positioned along the length and breadth of the Strait of Juan de Fuca, the
Barrakuda
would take a serpentine route.

Predecessors of the
Barrakuda
had mapped the way, nine separate probes in total with each new survey built on the work of the previous excursions. Code-named
Backdoor
, the underwater path represented one of the most decisive espionage operations ever conducted by Russia. It extended to the very doorstep of the U.S. Navy's most potent weapon system.

A squadron of
Ohio
-class ballistic missile submarines home-ported at Naval Base Kitsap-Bangor located on Hood Canal. Armed with twenty-four Trident intercontinental ballistic missiles with each missile carrying up to eight nuclear warheads, just one
Ohio
boat could inflict a near deathblow to the Russian Federation's strategic forces.

The prime mission for the
Barrakuda
and its sister subs was to make certain that never happened. But it now had a new mission, one never anticipated or planned for in the Russian Navy.