The Good Spy (6 page)

“There's something wrong here,” Elena offered.

“I agree.”

CHAPTER 13

C
aptain Borodin's orders called for at least one officer to stand watch in the central command post every hour of the day, even with the boat glued to the bottom. This watch was no exception; the
Neva
's lowest ranking officer staffed the CCP alone. During past watches, at least two sailors would staff the control center with an officer. This afternoon, however, the rest of the crew rested in their bunks—captain's orders. Exhausted from cleaning the clogged seawater intakes, the men had earned a respite.

The twenty-three-year-old sat in the captain's leather-lined chair near the center of the compartment. He scanned the control panel displays, readouts, and gauges that still functioned inside the sub's nerve center.

The junior lieutenant turned abruptly to his right; a new blinking red light caught his eye. He leaned forward, focusing on the escape trunk display. The readout indicated that the aft escape chamber was open to the sea and flooding. He reached to pick up a microphone and call the captain—normal watch protocol. But his hand froze in mid-air. Borodin had retired to his cabin at the beginning of the watch; he'd been awake for fifty hours straight. The lieutenant's supervisor had warned him not to bother the captain unless there was a real emergency.
“Nyet fignjá!”
—no bullshit—he'd ordered.

He tapped the light with his right forefinger. Its intensity remained unchanged. He checked other displays, looking for anything that might offer an explanation. Nothing.

The officer leaned back in the chair, convinced that the wiring in the escape trunk panel had a fault; scores of other displays had malfunctioned because of the accident. He took a full minute to look over the other monitors and readouts. When he finished, he peered back at the suspect panel. The ruby eye winked back.
Govnó!

* * *

Seawater blasted into the chamber with the force of a fire hydrant. Already it had reached seaman-cook Aleksi Zhilkin's knees. He backed off the manual flood valve, trimming the flow. It inched upward toward his thighs.

Aleksi inhaled and exhaled at an accelerated rate, the result of near blinding fear and the rising pressure inside the steel cylinder. The rapid breathing helped equalize the pressure in his ears; otherwise, he would blow out his eardrums.

He wore two layers of everything under his standard issue blue jumpsuit: pants, shirts, underwear, and socks. The Hydro Suit covered his clothing, isolating him from the four-degrees-Celsius water. The combination dive suit, breathing apparatus, and lifeboat had a maximum operating depth of 180 meters—600 feet. The
Neva
was 220 meters deep, just over 720 feet.

The water level had just reached his waist. His breath fogged the plastic viewport of the emergency escape suit, but he could see well enough. The submerged battle lantern on the opposite side of the chamber broadcast a silky jade.

Aleksi floated when the water reached his abdomen, buoyed by the air-inflated suit.

Thirty seconds later, as he bobbed inside the cocoon, his upper spine slammed into an unseen metal fitting. The sting of the collision annoyed him, but the prospect of puncturing the suit's rubber lining supercharged his already racing heart.

He grasped the rungs of the ladder with his hands as the rising water engulfed his torso. When the water surged past his head he shouted, “Thank you, God.”

No leaks.

* * *

The junior officer ignored the indicator light as he kept watch, but his thoughts leapfrogged.

Forget it; it
's
probably nothing.

* * *

Eerily quiet now; the roar of the incoming water had ceased when the chamber reached ambient pressure. Completely submerged, Aleksi remained anchored to the ladder with his hands and feet. The battle lantern continued to illuminate the escape trunk. The steel tube was about four feet in diameter and seven feet high.

Aleksi panted, almost hyperventilating. A tendril of vomit surged upward but did not quite erupt. He swallowed hard; the residual sourness burned his throat.

What should he do?

It all came back in a flurry: Charge the suit one more time; trigger the manual hatch release. Wait for the air trapped under the hatch to purge. Hang on to the ladder until clear of the . . .

Aleksi had learned how to work the escape chamber from a friend. The nineteen-year-old from Kazan assisted the two Russian intelligence officers who used the aft escape trunk for their seabed excursions. Modified for lockout work, the chamber could be operated by the divers independent of the controls located inside the pressure casing.

Aleksi rotated his head back and peered upward. He could see the circular opening of the outer hatch. The gray steel had just rotated upward, leaving a ring of blackness. Once through the opening, he would water-rocket to the surface.

Fear of what might lie outside consumed him: How would he see? Was it even daylight on the surface? He didn't know where he was; they said America but where in America? Would he be imprisoned? Would they return him to Russia? Was he a traitor?

He could shut the hatch and drain the chamber. No one would know.

For nearly two minutes, Aleksi clung to the ladder debating. Finally, a soothing calmness engulfed him, like a warm bath. He had to continue; it was the only way.

* * *

The junior lieutenant's eyes remained fastened on the escape trunk console. Another red light blinked on. The aft outer hatch was open to the sea. He started to make the call but again remembered his orders not to disturb Captain Borodin.

Was it an emergency? Maybe someone was using the trunk for something else. But what?

* * *

Aleksi rechecked his equipment and charged the escape suit with another blast of compressed air from a hose connected to a valve in the escape trunk. He'd been exposed to the full pressure of the depth for almost five minutes.

Aleksi summoned the courage to release his grip on the ladder and enter the void.

He'd just managed to pass into the outer hatchway when a fresh wave of nausea hit. He stopped, weaving his left ankle through the next to the last ladder rung as an anchor. The buoyancy of the air trapped inside the escape suit was ready to blast him out of the hatch. He took another deep breath, trying to clear his head.

Aleksi's skin smoldered. Several seconds later, his vision narrowed as if peering through a keyhole. And then he blacked out.

A few seconds passed before he convulsed. The seizure lasted about thirty seconds, triggered by oxygen toxicity brought about by breathing air compressed over twenty times normal.

A quarter of a minute went by before another full body quake hit—this one a 9.0.

With his ankle trapped, Aleksi's torso and arms flailed inside the hatchway. His teeth clamped down, ripping his tongue. His eyes rolled back into their sockets. His forehead slammed into the steel handle of a nearby valve fitting.

A stream of bubbles burst from the escape suit. Within a minute, the suit flooded and Aleksi inhaled a lungful of seawater.

* * *

“What?” asked Captain Borodin, answering his cabin intercom.

“Sir, the control panel indicates that the outer hatch on escape trunk two is open to the sea.”

The CCP watch officer braced himself for the captain's wrath.

“How the hell can that be?”

“I don't know, Captain.”

“Send someone to check.”

“Yes, sir.”

CHAPTER 14

“Y
ou're sure this cell is clean?” asked Nick Orlov.

“Yes,” Elena Krestyanova said. She sat at her desk with Orlov on the opposite side. “It's prepaid—never been used.”

“Good, then let's call him.”

“Okay.”

It was mid-afternoon. The SVR officers were inside Elena's office in the Russian Trade Mission. Located in downtown Vancouver, the mission's primary goal was to promote trade between western Canada and Russia.

Orlov engaged the speakerphone option of the cell and punched in the number.

Four rings. “Hello.”

“Mister Kirkwood?” asked Orlov, speaking English.

“Who is this?”

“I'm your contact . . . from San Francisco.”

“Where are you?”

“Vancouver, but I'm ready to meet with you at your convenience.”

“You come to me.”

“Okay, but where?”

“I'm in Point Roberts. I'll meet you at a restaurant called the Georgia Straits . . . in the bar, an hour from now.”

Nick looked at Elena with a puzzled expression and mouthed
Point Roberts
?

She whispered, “It's close by.”

Nick continued, “The Georgia Straits . . . how will I find this place?”

“It's near the marina. Just ask around. Someone will tell you.”

“Okay but what about our injured friend. How's he doing?”

“Be here in an hour and then you'll know.”

The line went dead.

Orlov turned to face Elena. “He's being careful—saying nothing more than needed.”

“I agree.”

Orlov stood. “What is this Point Roberts place?”

“I've never been there but heard about it. It's south of Vancouver, about thirty minutes away.” She paused. “Point Roberts is part of the U.S. but it's isolated from the mainland. You have to drive through Canada to get to it.”

“Really—what do you think he's doing there?”

“I have no idea.”

“Do you know what he was talking about—the Georgia Straits place?”

“No, but let's see what we can find out; should be easy.”

Elena turned to her desktop computer and initiated a Bing search. Within half a minute she'd found the restaurant's website. “Here it is, the Georgia Straits. It has a bar called the Pod Room.”

“Good, let's go.”

* * *

The Russian intelligence officers occupied an idling Chevrolet Suburban. Elena sat behind the wheel. She turned to face Nick and said, “The best way to deal with this is to not say anything unless you're asked.”

“Got it.”

Elena had traded the Mercedes sedan for the SUV. The big Chevy provided plenty of room for Orlov to crouch down when they drove out of the parking garage, just in case the RCMP monitored the mission. The Mounties, however, were busy elsewhere.

The Suburban inched forward in the holding lane. There were six automobiles ahead.

Orlov could see the U.S. border station in the near distance. A single lane was open. The Customs and Border Protection officer staffing the check-in station interrogated every driver who entered Point Roberts this afternoon. Just beyond the station, Orlov spotted a Toyota Camry parked in a turnout. The vehicle's driver and two passengers—all of East Asian descent—stood by as two uniformed CBP officers searched the car.

Five minutes later, Elena handed their passports to the federal officer. Like Nick, she also carried a manufactured Canadian passport using an alias. It simplified access between Canada and the United States. Use of their real passports would be problematic.

To minimize detection further, the Suburban and Elena's Mercedes were both registered to a Canadian shell corporation instead of the Trade Mission.

“Where are you heading today?” asked the female CBP officer as she accepted the passports.

“Ah, we've never been here before. We thought we'd drive around and maybe have dinner some place.”

The officer eyed Elena and checked the passport photo. She repeated the process with Nick and handed the passports back.

“Enjoy your visit.”

“Thank you.”

* * *

Three cars behind Elena's Suburban, a sleek Chevrolet Corvette idled while Metallica pulsed from the surround sound system.

The “arrest me red” Corvette pulled forward into the holding lane next to the check-in station. The CBP officer typed in the license number on her computer. Ten seconds later, the registered owner's driver license photo and ID data appeared on her monitor: Kenneth Lawrence Newman, Washington State resident, age thirty-four, Caucasian, five-foot-ten, 185 pounds, blue eyes, blond hair, organ donor.

She turned away from the screen and said, “Your travel documents, sir?”

“What?”

“Turn your radio off,” she ordered with a raised voice.

Instant silence.

“I need to see your passport.”

“Oh.” Ken reached into his shirt pocket, removed his U.S. passport, and handed it over.

The officer swiped the ID through the scanner on her computer. She read the output data and then turned back to face Ken. “How long have you been in Canada, Mr. Newman?”

That took Ken by surprise. “Gee . . . I guess half an hour or so. I just drove from Blaine.”

“What's your business at Point Roberts?”

“Ah . . . ah looking for . . .” Ken was taken aback by the question. He'd almost blurted out “looking for my wife.” He corrected himself. “I'm just looking around, nothing in particular.”

Not at ease with Mr. Newman, the officer leaned forward and examined the interior of the two-seater.

“Sir, drive forward and park by those officers.”

“What for?”

“Just drive forward and wait.”

“All right.”

* * *

Yuri noticed them as soon as they passed through the entryway into the Pod Room: A tall, well-built male in his late thirties and a curvaceous woman with a golden mane in her early thirties. While the other bar patrons wore casual garb, the new arrivals could have stepped out of a Fortune 500 company board meeting.

Yuri had spotted the Georgia Straits earlier in the day while touring Point Roberts with Laura. He selected the restaurant because of the water view.

He watched as the couple searched for him. Eventually, the male walked toward Yuri's booth, located in a quiet corner with no nearby patrons. The woman followed.

“Mr. Kirkwood?” asked Major Orlov, using English.

Yuri gestured to the vacant half of the booth. “Sit down, please.”

The female slid across the vinyl bench seat, followed by Orlov.

Orlov started to speak, when Yuri held up his right hand. Switching to Russian and in a hushed voice he said, “Before we go any further, identify yourselves.”

“I'm Nicolai Orlov, from the San Francisco Consulate.”

“And I'm Elena Krestyanova. I work in Vancouver at the Trade Mission.”

“Who sent you?”

“The Washington embassy,” answered Orlov. “We're here to help you with Dr. Tomich.”

“What did they tell you?”

“Dr. Tomich, he's from the Vega Institute in Saint Petersburg. He was in some kind of automobile accident, a severe chest injury.”

Yuri leaned forward. “So who am I?”

Elena responded, “You're Captain Lieutenant Yuri Ivanovich Kirov, a naval intelligence officer.”

Nick finished, “You're based out of the Rybachiy Naval Base at Petropavlovsk-Kamchatskiy. At this moment you're supposed to be aboard a submarine engaged in a highly classified mission. So, what's going on?”

Yuri leaned back a few degrees. “Welcome to Point Roberts, comrades.”