The Experts Praise
THE GOOD SPY
By Jeffrey Layton
“The excitement never stops in The Good Spy by Jeffrey Layton. Richly detailed and bristling with fascinating political intrigue, the story sweeps between the United States and Moscow as the danger intensifies. This is high adventure at its very best.”
—Gayle Lynds, New York Times bestselling author of The Assassins
“An explosive high-stakes thriller that keeps you guessing.”
—Leo J. Maloney, author of the Dan Morgan thrillers
“Layton spins an international thriller while never taking his eye off the people at the center of the tale. A page-turner with as much heart as brains.”
—Dana Haynes, author of Crashers, Breaking Point, Ice Cold Kill, and Gun Metal Heart
“Breathless entertainment—a spy story with heart.”
—Tim Tigner, bestselling author of Coercion, Betrayal, and Flash
“A fast-paced adventure that will challenge readers’ expectations and take them on a thrilling journey—even to the bottom of the sea. Written with authority, The Good Spy is a visceral yet thoughtful read about an unusual pair of adversaries who join forces in an impossible mission.”
—Diana Chambers, author of Stinger
Cover Copy
A spy without a country . . .
Yuri Kirov is a wanted man. A former intelligence officer for the Russian Navy, he is living incognito in the United States. But the Russians are not through with him. He is recalled to duty and ordered to complete one last mission: infiltrate a Chinese naval base and install spy hardware on their newest nuclear submarine.
As a Navy veteran and expert in underwater technology, Yuri is the perfect man for the job. But with his family in danger in the U.S., he is also the perfect pawn. By the time Yuri discovers the true purpose of his mission, it is too late. A new Cold War is heating up. And it’s about to go nuclear . . .
Visit us at www.kensingtonbooks.com
Books by Jeffrey Layton
*The Forever Spy
*The Good Spy
Vortex One
Warhead
Blowout
The Faithful Spy
*Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
The Faithful Spy
A Yuri Kirov Thriller
Jeffrey Layton
LYRICAL PRESS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
Contents
The Experts Praise
Cover Copy
Books by Jeffrey Layton
The Faithful Spy
Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Don’t miss the next exciting Yuri Kirov thriller
Chapter 1
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
Lyrical Press books are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp. 119 West 40th Street New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2018 by Jeffrey Layton
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
All Kensington titles, imprints, and distributed lines are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchases for sales promotion, premiums, fund-raising, and educational or institutional use.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Special book excerpts or customized printings can also be created to fit specific needs. For details, write or phone the office of the Kensington Special Sales Manager:
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Attn. Special Sales Department. Phone: 1-800-221-2647.
Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
LYRICAL PRESS Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
Lyrical Press and the L logo are trademarks of Kensington Publishing Corp.
First Electronic Edition: October 2018
eISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0558-8
eISBN-10: 1-5161-0558-3
First Print Edition: October 2018
ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0560-1
ISBN-10: 1-5161-0560-5
Printed in the United States of America
Dedication
To my sisters, Pamela and Julie
Chapter 1
The interrogation cell reeked of stale vomit and rotting urine, leftovers from the previous occupant. A bulle
t to the back of the skull was the routine measure dispensed here for traitors.
Chilled to fifty-eight degrees Fahrenheit, the twelve-foot square unfinished basement room was buried deep under the Lubyanka Building in the Meshchansky District of Moscow. A single light bulb dangling from the ceiling illuminated the drab concrete walls and floor. Nastasia Vasileva sat on a metal chair, her left wrist handcuffed to the bracket bolted to a table. She wore a paper-thin oversized gray jumpsuit that concealed her curvy, sensuous frame. Sneakers sans socks and laces encased her feet. Other than plain cotton panties, no under clothing was allowed.
To complete the humiliation, they had sheared her mid-back length golden locks to a butch bob.
Nastasia shivered, an expected reaction to the frosty environment and her skimpy attire, but gut-churning dread amplified her body quakes. She struggled to maintain bladder control. She waited for nearly half an hour before he returned.
A stub of a man, Mikhail Kireyev was bald, rail-thin, and in his early forties. He worked for the Federal Security Service—Federal’naya Sluzhba Bezopasnosti. The FSB was the Russian Federation’s FBI—and then some. Kireyev sat in the chair on the opposite side of the table. A major in the FSB, he was not in uniform today. Instead, he wore an off-the-rack dark wool suit with a starched white shirt and nondescript red tie. Kireyev placed the file folder he carried onto the tabletop and looked his captive in the eye. “I don’t believe you,” he said, his tone arctic. “We have not been able to verify your story. You are lying.”
“No, that’s not true. I was working to turn him, just what my directive required.”
“We know you made at least three unauthorized visits to Seattle to collaborate with him.”
“It was my mission. I had operational control. I did what was required.”
Kireyev, an expert in counterintelligence interrogations, opened the file and removed a color photo. He held up the print of a mammoth yacht. “What was he doing with this boat?”
“He used it as his home base when he was in North America.”
“How did he acquire the Mark Twelve?” He’d asked this particular question numerous times during previous interviews.
“I don’t know anything about it. I never saw it and he never mentioned it.” Nastasia reached up with her free hand and caressed her left shoulder. The post-operative ache remained. Her shattered clavicle, reassembled with metal pins and plates, refused to heal. Major Kireyev rubbed the stubble of his chin while staring at the woman he considered a turncoat. Nastasia looked away, knowing he’d already decided her fate.
Kireyev pushed his chair away from the table and stood. He collected the file and without another word exited the room. The steel door slammed shut with a shudder that signaled finality.
* * * *
The two men watched as Major Kireyev departed. A closed-circuit high-definition camera mounted in a basement ceiling corner provided live audio and color video of the interrogation of Russian operative Nastasia Vasileva—cover name Elena Krestyanova.
The directors of the brother intelligence agencies sat in posh chairs inside a well-appointed office half a dozen levels above the subterranean holding cell. They drank tea while staring at the 65-inch wall-mounted flat panel screen.
“I agree with Kireyev,” FSB General Ivan Golitsin said. “She’s obviously dirty.” A month beyond sixty with thinning blond hair, Golitsin wore a black business suit that did nothing for his thick, stocky build.
“Maybe, maybe not,” said Borya Smirnov. In his early fifties, he wore a Savile Row navy herringbone classic fit suit. The custom tailor-made ensemble complemented his lanky frame.
“Come on, Borya, I know she was one of your stars, but Kwan obviously turned her. Your own man in the field said as much.”
“She was granted broad authority, like she said. He’s a juicy target and her mandate was to bring him over, whatever it took.” Smirnov was the director of the SVR and Nastasia’s—Elena’s—boss. The SVR—Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki—was the successor to the former First Chief Directorate of the KGB. Responsible for foreign intelligence operations, the SVR functioned as Russia’s CIA.
General Golitsin studied Elena’s video image. The thirty-two-year-old woman remained seated at the table with her head slumped forward—defeated.
“Perhaps she got too close to Kwan. Could she be in love with him? That would explain much.”
“No. She’s not capable.”
“Her training?”
“That plus all those years in the orphanages—she was abandoned at two years old.”
“Orphanages—nasty business,” Golitsin offered.
The men studied the video image of the prisoner. SVR chief Smirnov set his empty cup on a side table. He turned to face his counterpart. “I believe there may be a way to salvage this situation.”
Golitsin leaned forward, his head angled to the side. “What do you have in mind, Borya Mikhailovich?”
Chapter 2
Day 1—Sunday
Laura Newman sat in a lounge chair on the expansive deck of her hillside home, overlooking the tranquil waters of Lake Sammamish.
It was half past six and the July sun arced low in the western sky. With temperatures still in the high eighties, it was the tenth day of the “heat wave” for the Puget Sound region—a rarity for the Pacific Northwest. Laura luxuriated in the warmth, wearing a bikini halter top and low-rise bottoms. Even with her chocolate complexion, she took precautions, applying sunscreen over every square inch of her exposed skin.
An exotic blend of Scandinavia and equatorial Africa, Laura had inherited her Swedish mother’s high cheekbones, full ripe lips, azure eyes, and russet hair. Her father’s tall willowy frame, broad nose, and cocoa skin, all linked to his distant Bantu ancestors, complemented her mother’s genes.
Laura cherished the downtime. This was the first weekend in several months that she didn’t bring her work home. She’d promised Yuri that she would avoid all email and switch her cell off. Still, she couldn’t help but think about the coming week. The pressure cooker would ramp up tomorrow morning when she returned to the downtown Bellevue high-rise that served as the headquarters for Cognition Consultants. As one of the three owners of the two thousand-plus-employee IT firm, Laura was in high demand. Grateful for her company’s phenomenal success—and the enormous financial rewards she benefitted from—Laura grew weary from the daily grind. Nevertheless, she would soldier on. Only thirty-three, she envisioned running full-throttle for another ten years and then maybe backing off. Yuri wanted her to put the brakes on now. She’d already accumulated more wealth than they would ever need—for several lifetimes.
Laura glanced at the color monitor on the deck table next to her chair. The image of her daughter asleep in the nursery filled the display. Two weeks shy of her first birthday, Madelyn Grace Newman had ash-blond hair, sapphire eyes, and when she smiled, the cutest dimples any mother could wish for. Laura’s ex-husband was the child’s biological father, but Yuri treated Madelyn as his own—a blessing Laura cherished.
Laura would limit herself to just one glass of wine. She was still nursing Maddy, but tonight she would use a warmed bottle of her own milk stored in the freezer. They had decided it was time for a nanny. Laura interviewed nearly a dozen candidates before making her choice. The references and background checks were now completed. A twenty-six-year-old from Bellingham would start work the following week. Laura hoped that Maddy and Amanda would connect, but not so much that Laura’s own bond would suffer. Laura had promised herself—and Maddy—that she would not become a part-time mom, no matter what demands her business generated.
Thinking ahead to a critical meeting she would chair tomorrow afternoon at Cognition, Laura’s thoughts clicked on pause when Yuri walked onto the deck from the living room. A strapping six-footer with slate-gray eyes, jet-black hair, and a trim beard that complemented his square-jawed face, Y
uri Ivanovich Kirov was a couple years younger than Laura was. He wore a tank top and swim shorts that revealed his well-muscled, athletic build. He carried a platter of thick steaks, New York strips from Trader Joe’s.
“Time to barbeque,” Yuri said as he stepped to the built-in gas grill at the end of the deck. A trace of his Russian accent remained.
Laura sat up. “You need help?”
“I’ve got everything covered—just relax.” Half an hour later, they sat together at the deck table enjoying Yuri’s feast—sizzling beef, corn on the cob, Caesar salad, and grilled vegetables. Maddy continued to sleep.
“This is wonderful,” Laura said. “Thank you for making dinner.”
“My pleasure.”
“Did you talk with Bill this afternoon?” Laura referred to Bill Winters, chief engineer for Northwest Subsea Dynamics. Laura owned the controlling interest in NSD. Yuri managed the company for her.
“Yes, we caught up.”
“Does he still want you to go to Barrow?”
“He does, but I was able to put it off for a couple of weeks.”
Laura shifted her legs. “How’s the cleanup going?”
“It’s still a mess. Pockets of oil are continuing to leach from the remaining ice as it melts. There’s an armada of cleanup vessels but they’re not enough.”
NSD was under contract with the U.S. Coast Guard to monitor an enormous oil spill in the Chukchi Sea offshore of Barrow, Alaska. An oil well blowout in nearby Russian territorial waters during the previous winter had contaminated large swaths of the Arctic with crude oil. For the past several months NSD’s autonomous underwater vehicles had kept track of the oil-laden ice that reached Alaskan waters.
“So, this could go on for some time,” Laura said.
“I’m afraid so. The ice pack moves around so much that the remaining floes containing oil might freeze up in the fall. The whole mess could start over again next spring.”
Laura arched her eyebrows, knowing the awful toll the renegade oil had already taken on the environment. Videos of oil-soaked birds, seals, whales, polar bears, and other wildlife frequented the nightly news.
Dinner was over. Laura and Yuri sat side by side in lounge chairs enjoying the retreating sun. Laura held Maddy as she nursed from a bottle. Yuri was enjoying an ice-cold bottle of Redhook ale.
The Faithful Spy Page 1
