The Good Spy (5 page)

CHAPTER 11

Y
uri waited all afternoon for a callback from the embassy. Finally, at 4:04
P.M
., Laura's cell phone rang. He answered on the second ring.

“Hello,” Yuri said in English.

“John Kirkwood?”

“Yes.” Yuri had selected his alias from a phonebook he'd found in the kitchen.

“I'm from the embassy. We talked yesterday.”

The caller worked for the SVR—
Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki
. As the successor to the former First Chief Directorate of the KGB, the SVR served as Russia's CIA. The intelligence officer was in a safe house in Arlington, Virginia. He took extreme measures to insure that he did not pick up a tail and he used a new cell phone.

“I've been waiting for you,” Yuri said.

“Sorry, but it's taken us awhile to check things out.”

Encrypted signals between Moscow and the embassy in Washington repeatedly bounced off Russian communication satellites all day. The minister of defense had ordered an immediate full-scale investigation.

The SVR officer continued, “As you requested, I've been checking on that individual you called about, the accident victim, Professor Tomich.” He vacillated. “How is he?”

“Poorly. They're going to have to operate soon or he won't make it.”

“Well, I have some information on his background that might be helpful to the doctors. However, I need to verify something first.”

“What?”

“Did Dr. Tomich happen to mention what he was working on at the Vega Institute in Saint Petersburg?”

This was the final test, the decisive moment. Moscow remained skeptical, suspecting a trap.

Yuri smiled, knowing they'd solved his puzzle. “Yes,” he replied, “I believe he said it was called Anaconda.”

Knowledge of Anaconda had been limited to ten senior defense ministry officers in Moscow, Vladivostok, and Petropavlovsk. Aboard the
Neva
, just Captain Tomich, executive officer Gromeko, and Yuri knew.

“Okay, thank you. It turns out that we happen to have a specialist in thoracic trauma who is visiting California this week, San Francisco. Dr. Nicolai Seliskov. He's agreed to consult on the Tomich case. We've already e-mailed him Tomich's medical records. He can fly to Seattle tomorrow morning.”

Yuri considered the caller's carefully constructed report: They were sending someone from San Francisco, probably the Consulate. That made sense.

“Tell him to fly to Vancouver, not Seattle.”

“What?”

“I'll explain when he gets here.”

“Okay, Vancouver—British Columbia, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Can you meet him at the airport?”

“No.”

“What do you suggest?”

“Have him call this number when he arrives. I'll tell him what to do.”

“All right.”

The call ended. As Yuri slipped the cell phone back into his pants pocket, he speculated on who controlled Seliskov.

He hoped for GRU but expected SVR.

* * *

Laura Newman had never been so cold. Half-soaked, her legs vibrated uncontrollably and her teeth chattered. Her stomach roiled, too.

She'd been in the aluminum runabout for about an hour. It was 10:28
P.M
. She sat on the center bench, her back to the bow. John squatted next to the outboard engine a few feet away. His right hand gripped the tiller. The boat headed north, back to the beach house.

Earlier in the evening, he'd informed Laura of the excursion. He needed help with the boat. She looked forward to it—anything to be rid of the bindings and maybe get a chance to escape.

They had struggled to launch the skiff through the churning waves. Both waded to above their knees and hauled themselves into the boat in between the two-foot-high wave crests. He barely made it, his injured leg deadweight.

Not once did he explain where they were going or why. After clearing the breakers, now soaking wet, freezing, and furious, she'd demanded answers.

He had peered at the oncoming seas, ignoring her.

Half an hour later, the boat slowed. How he found the buoy, black like the sea, mystified Laura. She could barely see it from ten feet away. She helped him moor the runabout to the buoy.

And then the strangest thing of all occurred. He retrieved a wire from the buoy's cable, hooked it up to a telephone, and spoke into the handset.

Between the wind and sea sounds, she couldn't hear much. From what she did hear, she knew he did not speak English.

He spoke for about ten minutes and then disconnected. A couple of minutes later the boat began the return trip.

Laura turned to the side, peering over the bow. The shore approached fast. She would soon be drenched again; landing the boat would be even trickier than launching. But that didn't worry her. Instead, her thoughts focused on a single question: Who was he talking to out there?

CHAPTER 12

D
AY
4—T
HURSDAY

A
leksi Zhilkin had just turned eighteen when he was drafted. Seven months earlier, thousands of others from the Volgograd Oblast had joined him during one of Russia's semiannual roundups. All males between eighteen and twenty-seven were subject to conscription. Draftees made up about one-third of the non-officer military. Volunteers accounted for the balance, lured by flashy ads on television and YouTube rebroadcasts that promised adventure, travel, and girls.

Aleksi had been an exceptional student, but that didn't matter to the civilian administrator responsible for assigning draftees to the fleet. Submarines needed cooks.

No cooking occurred aboard the
Neva
now. The ship's galley and mess had flooded, along with almost everything else in Compartments One and Two. When the
Neva
bottomed out, Aleksi had been fortunate to be off duty. Otherwise, he would be a soggy corpse, like the rest of the galley watch.

Over ninety percent of the boat's foodstuffs had been stored in Compartment Two but they might as well be on Mars. The remaining supplies were in Compartment Eight. Those cases of canned meat, vegetables, and fruits sustained the remaining crew. A stash of English tea in a central command post locker supplemented the canned provisions.

Aleksi and one other surviving galley rat had busied themselves with feeding the crew. They doled out measured rations of cold fare into paper cups and whatever containers they could find. For tea, the only hot concession allowed, a blowtorch from engineering fired the kettle.

Now off duty, Aleksi lay on his bunk in Compartment Seven. He occupied the middle berth of a three-high unit. He'd closed the curtain partition of the coffin-size unit when he'd climbed in ten minutes earlier. The black fabric provided the only privacy he or the other sailors had aboard the
Neva
. A feeble reading light just above his head illuminated the space. He stared at the pine boards that supported the upper berth.

Even with the wool blanket and his winter coat, he still shivered. With the continuing power problem, the temperature inside the hull had plummeted to near ambient conditions—just a few degrees above freezing.

The headache had been building for the past hour. He'd swallowed a couple of aspirin earlier but they had no effect.

Miserable, Aleksi reached up and flipped off the light switch. In the darkness, he rehashed the scuttlebutt from his last watch.

Engineering had restarted the reactor but the plugged seawater cooling lines limited its output, forcing the electrical generating unit to operate at a bare minimum level. The ship still leaked more seawater than it could pump out. The one officer who'd managed to escape had yet to offer any real hope of rescue.

Dread gripped Aleksi's core.
We're all going to die down here.

* * *

It was half past nine in the morning. Yuri and Laura were inside the BMW. The sheaved dive knife tucked in the waistband of Yuri's trousers ensured her cooperation. She drove while he sat in the passenger seat. Spent from their late-evening excursion, Laura would have slept until noon if he hadn't intervened.

Point Roberts, U.S.A., was not much in area, only about five square miles, but politically it was unlike anything Yuri had ever encountered.

After driving north on South Beach Drive, Laura turned onto Benson and headed west. About two minutes later, she made a right turn onto Tyee Drive.

“This is the main road into and out of Point Roberts,” Laura said, continuing her rundown on the American enclave.

“The only way you can drive here from America is to go through Canada?”

“That's right. I came through the border at Blaine, then drove around the lower mainland of British Columbia, and passed through a second border crossing.”

“It has its own border, too?”

“Yeah, the U.S. and Canada both have customs and immigration people at the end of this road. The U.S. checks everyone who comes into Point Roberts and the Canadians check everyone who departs.”

Dismayed by Laura's revelation, Yuri felt a chill flash down his spine. The border meant U.S. federal agents were nearby.

They bypassed the American border station and drove along a portion of the 49th parallel. The contrast between the two sides was stark. Expensive, modern homes occupied the north side of the borderline; sparse development characterized the opposite side.

Yuri soon discovered that most of Point Roberts was rural. The town center offered a smattering of retail stores and restaurants, a grocery store and bank, and several gas stations. About fifteen hundred full-time residents called the Point home, but during the summer, the population swelled to nearly five thousand. The beaches were the attraction.

Unlike most of Point Roberts's interior, its water perimeter was developed. Hundreds of cabins, beach houses, and McMansions lined its three coastlines. Many of the homes were vacation getaways owned by Canadians from nearby Vancouver. About a dozen eateries and drinking establishments also occupied the Point's waterfront.

After exploring the western shore of Point Roberts, including the golf course and Lighthouse Park, they now drove along the south shore. Heading east on Edwards Drive, Yuri noticed the masts first.

“What are those?” he asked, pointing with his right hand at the approaching forest of fiberglass and aluminum sailboat masts projecting above the land in the distance.

“It's the marina,” Laura said. “A big one, and very nice.”

Laura turned onto Marina Drive and proceeded northward along the edge of the small craft harbor. Located near the center of the peninsula's south shore, and just a couple hundred meters west of Laura's rental house, the dredged backshore boat basin provided sheltered moorage for hundreds of vessels ranging from runabouts to megayachts. This morning the tide was out, so the boats were riding low in the water; most of their hulls could not be seen from the roadway.

Yuri's outlook rebounded as Laura drove past the marina. The skiff he'd been using to visit the
Neva
was marginal at best. With such a magnificent harbor close by, surely he could find a more appropriate vessel to commandeer.

* * *

Later, when he and Laura returned to the beach cabin, the revelation hit.

During Yuri's first day at the beach house he had pried open a locked storage closet in the pantry that contained the homeowner's personal property. Besides household items, he discovered a key chain hanging on a hook. Linked to the chain were an electronic keycard, a couple of metal keys, and a round plastic orange ball about two inches in diameter; Yuri originally dismissed the finding but now reconsidered. The ball could be a float, designed to prevent the key chain from sinking if dropped into water. And maybe—just maybe—the owner of the beach house also had a boat in the marina. Tonight he would find out.

* * *

The passenger peered through the viewport. He sat on the left side of the cabin, forward of the wing. The clear skies resulted in exceptional visibility. Two hours earlier, when he'd departed San Francisco International at 11:25
A.M
., the Bay Area had been foggy with drizzle.

The northbound Airbus 320 just passed over Anacortes, Washington. It had been in a slow descent for the past twenty minutes.

The passenger glanced down at the map in his lap; the consulate had supplied it. He verified another landmark. It wouldn't be long now.

He worked for the SVR, a sixteen-year veteran. The consulate's SVR
rezident
had ordered him to identify the mystery person who'd called the embassy and find out what he really wanted.

Nicolai Mironovich Orlov craned his head to the side, trying to peer farther ahead through the window. It took a moment for the seascape to register. He checked the map and returned to the window.

Officially listed as the consulate's technical services director, Major Orlov's real job was to recruit agents—spies. He targeted the high-tech engineers and scientists of nearby Silicon Valley. His hunting grounds included the bars, clubs, gyms, and other Bay Area establishments that attract computer techs in their off hours.

Recruited by the SVR's Foreign Intelligence Service just after completing his university studies, Orlov rarely spent time in Russia. His last duty assignment had been in London, before that Paris, and before that Tehran. Single with no strong family ties to the homeland, he found that his itinerate lifestyle suited him.

The Airbus descended to five thousand feet. It sped past the San Juan Islands and cruised over a huge inland sea. The Strait of Georgia, the north arm of the Salish Sea, and massive Vancouver Island filled Orlov's viewport. Several points left of the aircraft's heading, a long narrow peninsula jutted several miles into the strait. Beyond the peninsula lay a vast metropolis bracketed by jagged snowcapped peaks.

* * *

Captain Lieutenant Yuri Kirov ignored the drone of the jetliner as it passed to the east. He stood on the deck fronting the living room, gazing at the seascape. Sipping from a steaming mug of tea, he considered what he'd discovered earlier in the morning. The American border station continued to vex him. The presence of federal police so close was an oversight on his part. It was something he had not planned for or anticipated but should have if he had planned his mission thoroughly.

Yuri checked his watch: half past one. The contact would be calling soon. He walked back into the living room and headed up the stairs. He needed to check Laura's bindings.

He'd sensed something odd about her behavior today. After the tour, Laura had inquired about his family and asked if his injured leg was any better, as if she really cared.

Another caution flag went up.

* * *

Despite the crowds, she eyed the visitor when he walked out of the arrival terminal for U.S. flights at Vancouver International. His handsome facial features and trim black hair matched the pdf color ID photograph she held. His build also matched the physical report e-mailed from Moscow: 188 centimeters and 83 kilograms.

“Dr. Seliskov . . . over here, please,” she called out in English, using his cover name. She extended an arm, signaling.

Nicolai Orlov made eye contact and walked toward the young woman. He'd already passed through the Canada Border Services and Immigration holding area with just a glance at his expertly fabricated Canadian passport that displayed his alias: Nicolai Seliskov, MD.

“Ms. Krestyanova, I presume,” he announced as he approached the striking blonde.

“Yes, and please, just call me Elena.”

“Sure, Elena, and it's Nick for me.” He smiled and she returned her best.

“Okay, Nick. Did you check your baggage?”

“No. Just this.” He raised an overnight bag suspended from his right hand.

“Good. Let's go to my car.”

Five minutes later, they approached a late-model jet-black Mercedes-Benz sedan. Both climbed into the vehicle, she behind the wheel and he in the front passenger seat. With her skirt hiked up to mid-thigh level, her long perfect legs presented a stirring sight.

“Our Trade Mission must be doing very well up here,” Orlov offered in Russian as he settled into the luxurious leather seat.

“We do a lot of entertaining. This helps.”

He smirked. “Back at the consulate all I get to drive are pool cars—Chevys and Fords.”

After crossing the North Arm of the Fraser River and turning north on Granville Street, Elena said, “The caller John Kirkwood, what can you tell me about him?” She'd only received a cursory briefing on the new case.

“He's one of ours. Voice analysis of his calls with the embassy indicates a ninety-two percent probable match with the test recording in the file.”

Orlov reached into his coat pocket and removed a four-by-six color print of a young male in civilian dress. He held up the photograph. “His real name is Kirov—Yuri Ivanovich. He's a captain lieutenant.”

She stole a quick look. “A military officer?”

“Navy—submarines. He's done well for being so young; only twenty-nine.”

“What else do you have?”

Orlov cited Kirov's stellar education, secondary and academy levels, and his fluency in English. He continued with the rundown. “After earning his commission, Kirov received a year of postgraduate training in electronics and communications at a technical institute in Moscow. Then spent sixteen weeks training with a naval dive unit based out of Sevastopol on the Black Sea.”

“He's a diver?”

“Apparently he's some kind of underwater Intel expert. He's assigned to a sub from Petro.”

“GRU?”

“He's a naval officer assigned to the GRU's Pacific Fleet Intelligence Directorate.”

Traffic was building, almost stop and go. Elena braked and turned toward Orlov. “What's his personal background? Married, family?”

“He's single. No siblings. Mother's deceased; his father is retired Army—a light colonel. Lives in Moscow.”

Orlov continued to rubberneck, amazed at the approaching vista. Ultra-modern glass and steel spires jutted into the crystalline sky, back-dropped by the emerald waters of the False Creek inlet.

Vancouver was an exquisite city. Elena ignored the cityscape. As an eight-month resident, she had become immune to the metropolis's charms. Instead, she focused on processing Orlov's verbal report. A few minutes away from their destination, she asked the question that had been gnawing at her. “Major, if he's with submarines, what in the world is he doing here?”

“He's supposed to be aboard a sub right now.”