The Good Spy (8 page)

CHAPTER 17

D
AY
5—F
RIDAY

“T
his is incredible—how could it have happened?” asked Minister of Defense Volkov, addressing the guest who had just arrived in his mammoth Moscow office.

“Sir, we don't know anything other than what the case officer from the San Francisco Consulate reported.”

Nick Orlov's report on the
Neva
's mishap had rocketed up the Russian military chain of command.

“What's this place called—Point what?”

“Point Roberts.” The chief of the Russian Navy reached into his briefcase and removed a document. He unfolded the U.S. government navigation chart that his staff downloaded gratis from a National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration website. He continued, “Point Roberts is a tiny peninsula, connected to Canada, very close to Vancouver. It's about—”

“But it's American territory?”

“Yes.” Admiral Mayakovsky pointed to the upper center of NOAA chart 18421. “See it here?”

“Where did it sink?”

“We don't know the exact location, only that it is south of Point Roberts in two hundred plus meters of water.”

“Can't they use escape equipment?”

“According to the report, they're too deep for the gear aboard.”

“What about the rescue capsule?”

“It's not equipped with one—it's an older boat. Only our newer boats have them.”

Minister Volkov sank back into his chair. “How many alive?”

“Thirty-seven on board plus the one who managed to escape.”

“How'd he get out—if the others can't?”

“He's a diver and an intelligence officer. The boat is equipped with lockout diving gear, part of his mission equipment but just for him.”

For the next twenty seconds the defense minister pondered what he'd learned. He then reengaged. “I don't understand . . . didn't the mission orders call for self-destruction?”

“Yes, sir. If the
Neva
were detected and trapped by the Americans or Canadians.”

“So why didn't they fulfill their duty?”

“The Americans and the Canadians know nothing about this incident. The
Neva
has not been detected, or trapped. It's actually marooned. There's a difference.”

Volkov reluctantly nodded. He said, “So what can we do about this?”

“I have a plan, sir. It's rough at this point but I think it might . . .”

* * *

Volkov sat alone in his office. He had approved Admiral Mayakovsky's action plan. Later in the afternoon, he would brief the president on the Asian crisis. He speculated on how his boss would react to the new wrinkle the
Neva
represented.

The United States and Japan continued to taunt Russia with Deep Blue, now in its fifth day. Just the hint of a possible invasion of the Southern Kuril Islands had traumatized the Kremlin. Thinly deployed in the Far East, Russia's military forces would be crushed if the Americans decided to repossess Japan's Northern Territories.

Russia had grabbed the Japanese islands in the final weeks of World War II. Japan claimed that it never ceded sovereignty. The dispute simmered until recent offshore exploration hinted of a petroleum bonanza in the island chain. Japan wanted the islands back more than ever. The United States supported Japan's claim for return of the Southern Kurils.

As long as the oil and gas flowed, Russia's energy-based economy would get by. But should the hydrocarbon prices once again decline or production falter, the Russian economy would tank. After having crawled out of the poverty pit, Kremlin leaders were horrified by the specter of the Russian populace forced back into the sludge.

Russia had about ten years to prepare. By investing carefully, reducing corruption where it could, and gradually cutting back on public subsidies, the financial performance models predicted a stable economy. But paramount to that success was
increased
petroleum production.

The new discovery in the Southern Kurils represented a potential godsend. If it proved to be a mega-elephant field, the recovered hydrocarbons would be readily accessible to conventional offshore drilling and production equipment. The infrastructure needed to bring the oil and gas to market already existed on Russia's nearby oil-rich Sakhalin Island. The Southern Kurils could bolster Russia's economy—or maybe not.

Japan, aided and abetted by the United States, had again upped its rhetoric, demanding return of its Northern Territories
.
It, too, needed the Kurils' natural riches. Japan continued to suffer from the aftermath of another killer earthquake and tsunami that had ravaged Honshu's east coast from Tokyo to Kobe.

Volkov pulled up the hidden keyboard to his PC and clicked on a shortcut. The desktop screen flashed to current world energy market prices. “Good,” he said, relieved. Crude oil continued to climb out of the pit that hamstrung Russia's economy.

The minister knew his boss monitored the price of oil. Up $1.10 from the previous day, it was likely the president would be in a good mood for their upcoming meeting. That portended well for the
Neva
's crew.

CHAPTER 18

“H
ow many times has he done this?” asked Yuri.

“Too many,” Laura said.

“The man is a vermin, hitting you like that.”

“He's sick—alcohol is a poison to him. He can really be a nice guy when he's not drinking.”

“Still, that's no excuse. You should have left him a long time ago.”

“I know.”

Yuri and Laura were in the living room, sipping coffee after lunch. Yuri found he enjoyed his daily dialogue with Laura. She had just detailed her failed marriage.

“The divorce—how long will that take?”

“My attorney says it could take over a year to finalize.”

“Why so long?”

“Ken will be out to get as much as he can from me.”

“Money?”

“Yes, most likely he'll be after my stock in the company. Most of it I earned before we were married, but that won't stop him. He knows the potential. We've had several unsolicited offers to be purchased—offers beyond my wildest dreams.”

“So you would be rich.”

“Very comfortable.”

“Hmm.”

Yuri and Laura remained in the living room as Laura revealed more about her family and past. She told Yuri that her adoptive father had succumbed to a heart attack in her junior year of high school; it happened at her soccer game. William Wilson, MD, collapsed on the sidelines just after Laura scored a goal. He died in the ER.

“I'm sorry for your loss,” Yuri said.

“Thank you.”

“Does your mother still live in California?”

“Yes, she moved to Santa Barbara. My brother and his family live there. They have three daughters—they're wonderful.”

Ten years older than Laura, the Wilson's biological son Thomas followed his father's profession; he was a neurosurgeon.

“Wow, three girls. Your brother and his wife must have their hands full.”

“They are blessed.”

“Yes, they are.”

“Do you have siblings?” Laura asked.

“No.”

“Do you see your parents?”

“Not really. My mother passed away when I was very young.”

“I'm sorry to hear that.”

“It was a long time ago.”

“Do you see your father?”

“Rarely. We're not close.”

* * *

Yuri leaned against the deck railing gazing seaward. To ward off the afternoon chill he wore a jacket commandeered from the Sea Ray. Laura napped in the living room a few steps away. He allowed her to sit on the sofa by the fireplace, ankles hobbled.

Admiring Laura's intellect, Yuri remained mystified as to her choice in men. How could she have ever married an idiot like that?

Touched by Laura's adversity and recognizing her goodness, Yuri regretted involving her in his affairs. Nevertheless, she remained his prisoner. All of his training told him he couldn't trust her. Or could he?

Racked with decompression sickness and on the verge of passing out, he'd overtly threatened her only once with his dive knife. Following that crude warning, just the presence of the knife perpetuated the threat.

Meanness was not in Yuri's nature, and during the past several days he showed compassion where he could. Laura responded with obedience and recently expressed interest in his welfare, especially his injured leg.

Yet, he remained cautious.

Again, he wondered if he could trust her.

She was an American citizen and therefore his enemy.

What should he do?

With lives of the crew at risk, he would eliminate the threat Laura represented if it came to that. His instincts, however, conveyed another message: If motivated, she could be useful.

Now that Orlov and Krestyanova were working on the problem, real help would be on the way. Or would it? Yuri recognized that the
Neva
's fate eventually would be determined at the highest levels of the Russian government.

If Moscow approved, a rescue team would be mobilizing soon. But lingering doubts remained. Because of those misgivings, he could not afford to dismiss any option.

As Yuri shuffled back into the living room, he made a decision. If Moscow wavered, he would start working on Laura.

* * *

“Who the hell is that?” Ken Newman muttered to himself.

He hid behind the sidewall of a vacant beach house just east of Laura's rental.

An hour earlier, he'd spotted Laura's BMW in the driveway. After parking on the shoulder of the road, he walked to the home's entry, a fresh bundle of flowers in hand. He almost knocked on the door, when he heard muffled voices: Laura talking with someone inside—a male.

From his hideout, Ken had just watched the stranger step back inside the house. Despite the limp, he saw enough to set off alarms. Tall, lean, and fit with a good-looking face, the man contrasted sharply with Ken's developing beer gut, double chin, and receding hairline.

His imagination shifted into overdrive: “She's cheating on me!”

CHAPTER 19

A
steady drizzle blanketed the dark and chilly Point Roberts peninsula. Ken Newman shrugged off the wetness from his parka as he walked along the water's edge. He would have been shivering if he hadn't traded his nylon windbreaker for the down-filled water-repellent REI jacket he kept in the Corvette.

Ken approached the west side of the beach house. The lower floor blazed with light. He cautiously climbed over the collection of slime-coated logs and jagged rock riprap that fronted the house.

On his hands and knees, Ken crawled across the drenched lawn. Within seconds, the knees and lower halves of his Levis were soaked. But Ken remained focused:
Who's that son of a bitch with my wife?

Ken reached the side of the house, just below a living room window. He could hear an exchange between two people. Although muted by the window glazing, he recognized one of the voices. He stood up. Despite the glare from the interior lighting, he could see enough.

“Ah shit, I knew it,” he muttered under his breath.

* * *

Laura kneeled as she faced Yuri. He sat on the couch half-naked, having removed his trousers; a towel covered his groin. Laura worked her right hand up and down his lower left leg while applying a white cream squeezed from a plastic tube.

“Do you feel anything yet?” she asked.

“No—nothing.”

“It may take awhile for this work. It helped me when my legs bothered me.”

“We'll see.”

Laura stood and rubbed her hands together. Already the Deep Heating sizzled in her palms. She turned and walked into the kitchen, where she washed her hands.

Laura returned to the living room. She sat in a chair by his side. “Anything?” she asked.

“Nothing.”

“Well, I guess my idea isn't going to work.” Laura frowned. “Just what did you do to yourself, anyway?” She'd asked this before.

“It's nerve damage.”

This was a new admission. “But how?”

“Don't worry about it.”

“John, if you don't level with me, there's nothing I can do to help you.”

“I'll be all right.” Yuri leaned forward and pulled up his trousers. He stood and took a step. His left leg buckled; he collapsed back onto the sofa.

“It's getting worse, isn't it?”

A reluctant, “Yes.”

Laura offered her right hand. “Let me help you up.”

He grasped her hand and launched himself off the couch.

* * *

Ken watched as his wife helped the stranger shamble across the living room, her right arm grasping his waist. They disappeared around a corner.

Ken slid down from the window and squatted on the ground next to the house. The drizzle streamed off his nose in a tiny rivulet, but he was too stunned to notice.

CHAPTER 20

T
he Russian submarine
Barrakuda
patrolled along the northern California coastline at 2143 hours local time when the extremely long frequency radio wave engulfed the hull. The three-hundred-meter cable streaming behind the vessel intercepted the signal.

Five minutes later, the communications officer entered the central command post—the sub's nerve center. He approached the commanding officer, who sat in a pedestal chair near the center of the compartment. A dozen men sat at electronic consoles on either side of the CO.

“Captain, we just had Flash traffic on the ELF circuit.”

“What've you got?”

The comms officer handed over the message. It read:

 

ECHO ONE ABLE
.

 

Echo
represented the mission call sign for the
Barrakuda
;
One Able
was a directive from the squadron commander at the Rybachiy Naval Base in Petropavlovsk.

“I guess we'd better find out what the boss wants.”

“Yes, sir. I'll get the VLF buoy ready.”

The
Barrakuda
ascended to a depth of one hundred meters. The ELF cable was reeled into the stern pod and the very low frequency cable deployed. The buoy at the trailing end of the cable bobbed five meters below the ocean surface.

The encrypted data stream from the VLF transmitter on Russia's Kamchatka peninsula broadcast continuously. It took the sub's commanding officer two minutes to decrypt the message, using a laptop computer in his cabin. He sat at a compact desk and reread the message, astonished at its content.

“Rescue mission,” he mumbled. “How do they expect me to do that?”