It was like an Arctic front had suddenly swept across the deck; that was the kind of chill Julie felt pouring off Nikolai as he strode away.
Brrr
.
She didn’t know what he had been more upset by, her unfortunate declaration of love or her tête-à-tête and outing tomorrow with Clint Walker.
Either way, Nikolai had shut down all systems between them.
She sighed. So much for the cherry trees in D.C.
She noticed Walker regarding her. “Sure you wouldn’t like to make that phone call now?” he asked neutrally.
She glanced down at her paper plate. Luckily it was nearly empty. Her appetite had vanished. “How’s the battery on it?” she asked.
“Just charged this afternoon.”
“In that case, yeah,” she said. “I probably should.” She blew out a misty breath and muttered under it, “Before I freeze solid.”
She still hadn’t reported the Chinese sub incident to Thurman. She also had three articles to file and about a zillion photographs to send him. And there was something else she remembered when she thought about their last phone call. Even though she couldn’t for the life of her think how it could be relevant—especially now—she was still curious to know what he had been about to tell her about Nikolai’s mother.
Clint took her plate and pitched it along with his own, then handed her the sat phone and picked up their untouched beers. He jerked his chin toward the front of the deck. “Why don’t we move forward a bit? There are fewer people up there to listen in on your conversation.”
“Not that I have anything to hide,” she said evenly. All the coded stuff was on her own phone’s micro storage card, which she had started carrying in her pocket after misplacing it for half the day yesterday. Besides, she’d been ordered not to transmit anything potentially sensitive over anyone else’s unsecure phone line. So it would just be a carefully worded conversation to see if Thurman had any updates or new intel for her.
Walker nodded. “Don’t forget to keep your cover solid,” he reminded her needlessly. “God knows, our Chinese shadow is undoubtedly listening in on every transmission originating from anywhere near us.”
She straightened and glanced in surprise past the strings of sparkling party lights lining the deck, out to the glittering blueberry meringue of the ocean. “But I thought you and Nikolai chased off the 093 this morning.”
His eyes scanned the dimly lit horizon. “Yeah, and that probably lasted for about five minutes. They’re out there all right. Count on it.”
She frowned. “Wouldn’t Gavrikov pick up a lurking submarine on sonar?”
Walker shook his head. “Not if they’re far enough out. The sonar equipment on
Ostrov
is pretty dated. And we’ve pulled in the towed array.”
“Why?” She knew that without the sensitive sonar receptors normally towed behind the sub in a mile-long tail,
Ostrov
’s ability to “see” into the impenetrable waters around them was severely limited.
“Because we’re stopped,” he answered. “And we’ll be transiting with a short array from here on out because we’re passing over the Emperor Trough and Seamount Chain into the Bering Sea. The geography for the next couple of days will be unpredictable, full of shallows and mounts and canyons. A lot of it hasn’t even been mapped yet. Wouldn’t want to have our leash yanked by getting it caught on something.”
She peered nervously at the surrounding dark void of water and stifled a shiver. “No. I guess not. Still, it’s kind of creepy not knowing what’s out there.”
He grinned. “Nah. That’s what makes it fun.”
God. These navy men. “If you say so.”
They moved forward and found an open spot at the very tip of the deck. At Walker’s urging, she clipped her safety harness to the toe-rail, then punched the CIA contact number for James Thurman into the sat phone’s keypad.
While she waited to acquire a signal and for the call to go through, Walker handed her the plastic mug of beer she’d completely forgotten about. He clicked it with his. “Happy Midsummer’s Eve.”
She knew Nikolai didn’t like or trust Walker, but the man was growing on her. Despite the obvious reasons she shouldn’t, she had also started to trust him. A little, anyway. “Thanks. You, too,” she replied and clicked his mug back. They both drank a few sips.
“So. Ever read
Miss Julie
, the Strindberg play?” he asked with a straight face.
She gave him a dry look. “Ha-ha. You are so very funny.”
Just then James Thurman answered. “Still haven’t gotten your own phone fixed?” his tinny voice asked, echoing from the satellite bounce in a two-second delay. “What phone are you using this time? I was worried about you when we got cut off yesterday.”
“I’m fine,” she said, refocusing. “So far, anyway. This phone belongs to Clint Walker. The ex-navy guy. I’m pretty sure he’s some kind of military spook. He knows too much not to be.”
Walker’s brows rose at that as he took another swallow of his beer. But he didn’t comment. Nor did Thurman.
“Nice of him to let you borrow his phone,” her boss said.
“Yeah. There’s a sudden acute shortage of sat phones on board. Six of them were out of commission as of this morning.”
Thurman whistled. “Mice?” he asked, but his tone conveyed he understood what she was saying.
“A rat, I think. A big one. I think it’s time to set a trap.”
“Careful,” he warned. “Rats are dangerous when cornered.” A sudden burst of laughter from some of the crew standing nearby caused him to ask incredulously, “What on earth is going on out there? Some kind of party?”
“Line-crossing ceremony,” she drawled.
“Ah.” Then, “Wait. You’re at the Arctic Circle already? How is that possible?” He sounded genuinely surprised, and she could hear the rustle of papers on his desk.
“No,” she said. “International date line. Sort of a preparty for the real thing that’s happening in a few days. By the way, thanks for the warning. I am
so
looking forward to being turned into a human icicle again.”
Thurman chortled. “Uh-oh. Guess I forgot about that quaint naval tradition.”
“Accidentally, I’m sure. Anyway. I have three more articles and pictures for the paper, but the SD card doesn’t fit into this phone. You’ll have to wait till next time to get them.”
His voice perked up. “So you found it?”
Oops
. “Sorry, no. I meant my own . . . the one for my phone.”
“I see.” Disappointment rang clearly through the receiver. “Please tell me you’ve at least figured out the, uh, crossword clue we talked about.”
She thought about the mysterious “crown” clue and felt more frustrated than ever. She’d had no headway at all deciphering its meaning. “I think it must be a bad translation or something. No one has any idea what I’m talking about when I ask.”
“Well, keep at it. And get your damn phone fixed ASAP,” he ordered. “I need those articles and photos. They are stirring up some solid environmental interest on this end. What else have you got for me?”
“The captain thinks
Ostrov
is being followed,” she said bluntly, not wanting to risk the phone cutting off again before she told him.
She could almost hear Thurman sit up. “By . . . ?”
“A PRC Shang-class 093, according to both sonar operators on board. Which is very strange, since the Chinese deny it. According to Russian Naval Command, the Chinese government insists their two Shangs are in the Atlantic.”
“But you disagree?”
“The captain believes the sonar. And so does Walker.”
There was a short pause. “You’re sure about this?”
“One hundred percent. Check with our China correspondent. I assume he has a source that can confirm.” By that she meant her section chief on CIA’s China desk.
“I will. Should I be worried about your safety?” Thurman asked, concern coloring his voice.
It was her turn to hesitate. “I don’t think so. But I’d appreciate a little extra coverage.” Hopefully he could arrange some backup. A navy destroyer or a boomer to scare off the bad guys, maybe. Hell, even an American fishing boat tagging along their route would make her feel less alone out here. But his next words dashed any hope.
“Unfortunately that would mean getting the military involved. You know how they feel about us,” he said, “even when we’re helping them on important stuff. And I doubt shadowing this kind of scientific expedition would be a high priority for them.”
Which was spook code for no way in hell would the U.S. Navy brass ever authorize aid for a CIA op, even if they would ultimately benefit from the resulting intel.
“The Russian Naval Command is pretty much ignoring us, too,” she acknowledged with a sigh. “According to Captain Romanov, daily weather reports are about the extent of their support. They’re in total denial about this Chinese sub following us.”
“I’m shocked,” Thurman muttered. “Speaking of Romanov, how are things going otherwise with the captain?”
She turned away from Walker and the merrymakers on deck and faced toward the front of the submarine. On the faroff horizon, the glowing sliver of the midnight sun rested on the sea like a blob of liquid quicksilver on an indigo field. She cleared her throat. “It’s all good. Listen, before we were cut off yesterday, you were going to tell me something about his mother?”
“Oh. Right. Hell of a story.” He paused. “Turns out she was American.”
Julie blinked. Stunned. Wait. “
What?
No. That’s not possible.”
“It is possible, and she was,” Thurman said without a shred of doubt in his voice. “From central New York.”
“But . . . how? When? She would have had to be . . .” Julie’s words skittered momentarily to a halt. Then, “A defector? A communist?”
She could hear Thurman push out a breath. “Not exactly.”
A pregnant silence descended as the implication of that “not exactly” hit Julie square in the chest. She huddled the phone close against her body and whispered so Walker couldn’t hear, “She was
sent
there? As a . . . a foreign correspondent?”
“Yes.”
Yes. Just yes. No further explanation. And Julie couldn’t ask because they couldn’t talk freely.
She slammed her eyes shut. Oh,
shit
. Nikolai’s mother was a
spy
? Sent to, what, infiltrate the local Russian political scene to which his father belonged?
Good Lord.
“No interviews about this,” Thurman warned her firmly. “You cannot tell him.”
Oh. Wow. Seriously? “Why not?”
“It’s classified. Our source would be compromised.”
Source? What was that supposed to mean? She was floundering in the doublespeak and yearned to just come out and ask him the hundred questions doing the Indy 500 through her mind.
“So you want me to lie to him?” she asked, again speaking so no one else could hear. Walker must be getting suspicious by now, but screw it. This was too important.
“Miss Severin,” Thurman said with patient but firm formality, “may I remind you, prevarication is part of your job description . . . as a reporter?”
But no! She
couldn’t
lie. Not to Nikolai! Not about this.
And that was when it hit her. She was starting to feel more loyalty to her Russian lover than to her job!
And
that
was after he’d made it clear he didn’t have any more than superficial feelings for her. She didn’t want to think about what might happen if he ever decided he had the kind of feelings she did.
As she mumbled her reluctant assent and ended the call, she thought about Nikolai’s mother. An American spy married to a Soviet hard-line politician! Good Lord! How had she landed in such a position? Had she just been following orders all along? Or had she gone over to the Soviet Union on an unrelated assignment and somehow fallen in love with Nikolai’s father? Then given up everything—her job, her family, her ties to her own country, her very political beliefs—so she could be with him forever?
Lord. What a sacrifice!
Goose bumps broke out on Julie’s arms. She took a long drink from her beer.
Yes, thank goodness Nikolai
didn’t
return her feelings. Because, really and truly, that was one choice she would never, ever want to be forced to make.
That night, Nikolai didn’t return to their stateroom.
Lying alone in bed Julie sighed, and for the dozenth time counted the knotholes in the wood paneling above the bunk—there were still fifteen—and told herself it was because he was too busy pushing the sub at top speed toward the Aleutians to come and be with her. The Midsummer’s Eve party had lasted until midnight, when they’d toasted the midnight sun and the beginning of the waning of the light, and then
Ostrov
had gotten under way again and they’d officially chugged off the date line . . . and back into yesterday.
Damn, she really wished that meant she had an actual do-over of the day, and the previous version wiped out.
She thought about that appealing prospect. What would she do if she could do yesterday—today—differently than last time?
Would she still sleep with Nikolai . . . again?
God, yes
. She couldn’t imagine missing those amazing hours with him.
Would she still confide her secret mission to him?
Yes, she’d do that, too. She desperately needed his help to find the elusive hidden SD card. Which was even more urgent now that they knew someone else on board was after it, too.
Would she still stupidly, stupidly, unbe
liev
ably stupidly blurt out that she loved him in front of the entire crew and team of scientists?
Yeah, probably not that part.
That’s
when everything had started to go downhill between her and Nikolai.
And what about that last fateful phone call to her boss? Would she still bring up the subject of Nikolai’s mother to James Thurman? And learn the shocking secret even Nikolai didn’t know? A secret that could easily crush him emotionally, calling into question the very foundation of everything he believed in?
Yeah. Probably not that, either. She wished like hell she’d never found out that particular secret.