“I imagine our position on the oil spill is a sore point for the Canadians,” Elena offered.
“Yes. Most of the oil is now offshore of Alaska and Canada. The president has made it clear that he holds the U.S. responsible for the sabotage of our well and will not contribute a ruble to the cleanup in their waters. I think he has a point.”
Elena nodded her agreement but knew otherwise—the USA was innocent. Prior to embarking on her new assignment, the SVR director instructed Elena to perpetuate the hoax.
The trade envoy took another draw from his tea glass. “There is some good news on the trade front. Our Chinese friends have stepped up and are really helping out.”
Elena smiled. “I know. That’s what I’ve been working on.”
“I thought so. What can you tell me?”
“Moscow has tasked me to work with China about a cooperative arrangement to develop our offshore Siberian oil reserves.”
Popov’s eyes widened. “That’s impressive, Elena.”
“It’s a reflection on you and your office, sir. You’ve had much success in Canada.”
“Well, thanks, but your prior work in China has put you in the driver’s seat.”
“You helped train me, Alexi.”
Popov was hooked. “How can I help with your assignment?”
They talked for fifteen minutes and then Elena returned to her office. It remained just as she’d left it earlier in the year. As directed by Moscow, the trade mission continued the payments on her apartment and the lease of her Mercedes.
Elena settled into her chair and turned on her PC. She keyed in the password to gain access to the desktop. It still worked. She opened her documents file, displaying two dozen folders. So far, so good. She had feared the SVR had erased her working files after copying the contents.
Elena selected a file. After keying in another password, the encrypted document opened. She found the color photograph and stared at the image of Kwan Chi. “Hello, lover,” she whispered.
* * * *
It was evening at the Newman residence. Dinner was over and Laura had just rocked Maddy to sleep. She slipped her daughter into the crib in the nursery and joined Yuri on the deck fronting the living room. Yuri sat in a lounge chair, taking in the view. It was twilight and a comfortable seventy-eight degrees Fahrenheit. A runabout raced across the lake surface, towing a water skier making one last run. The sun had dropped behind the Olympic Mountains five minutes earlier. As the boat sped away, Yuri took a deep draw from a bottle of Redhook.
Laura sat in a deck chair beside Yuri. She had changed into cargo shorts, T-shirt, and sandals after arriving home from work. She was drinking a chilled glass of lemonade.
Laura sensed that something was wrong at dinner but let it pass. She decided it was now time to probe.
“Honey, you seem to be a little down this evening. Is there a problem at NSD?”
Yuri turned to face Laura. “We’re doing well… My only concern is that we’re a bit behind with testing for the Guardian. We need it to get certified so we can ship it north.”
Laura was privy to the delivery issue for the replacement AUV. “I’m sure Aurora will give you some additional time—you’re a hero to them!”
“Maybe, but I don’t want to ask unless it’s absolutely necessary. I made a promise.”
Laura crossed her ankles. They sat quietly, enjoying the solitude of the evening as the sun’s afterglow receded. A few minutes into darkness, Yuri confessed. “Nick called me today.”
“At the office?”
“Sent me a text first. I called him back on my burner.”
“What’s going on?”
“I have to meet with him at the consulate tomorrow afternoon.”
“In Houston?”
“Yes.”
“Oh no… you can’t go.”
“I have to. Orders from the Navy.”
“What do they want?”
“An interview.”
“About what?”
“Nick doesn’t know—or has been ordered not to say. Anyway, I have no choice in the matter.”
“Yes, you do. We can fly to D.C. instead. This morning I authorized the attorneys there to set up an asylum interview with the State Department.”
“No. I don’t want to do that. It’ll just drag you further into my mess.”
Laura was about to protest when Yuri stood up. “We both know this day has been coming for a long time. I need to deal with the situation directly.”
Laura rose and stood beside Yuri. “You can’t trust them. They could make you return to Russia.”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Then I’m coming with you. They wouldn’t dare do anything knowing I’m around.”
“Absolutely not. I have to do this on my terms. I don’t want to be worrying about you and Maddy.”
Yuri headed inside.
“Where are going?”
“To pack. My flight leaves at 5:35 in the morning.”
Chapter 8
Day 3—Tuesday
The Boeing 737 touched down at Houston’s George Bush Intercontinental Airport a few minutes before noon. Yuri made his way through the crowded terminal to the designated place. The United Airlines counter was stacked three deep with customers. He stood aside, waiting as instructed.
The woman made contact two minutes later. “Mr. Kirkwood?” she asked with a glowing smile, her eyes veiled by sunglasses. The cute brunette in the professional pantsuit was in her late twenties, five-foot-six, and slim.
“Yes,” Yuri said, responding to his alias, John Kirkwood.
“I’m Marina, from the consulate. Nicolai sent me.”
“You work for Nick?”
“I do.” She smiled again. “Any luggage at baggage claim?”
“No, all I brought was my carry-on.” Yuri gestured to the wheeled case resting at his side.
“Very good. We can head to the parking garage and I’ll drive you back to the consulate.”
She led the way.
* * * *
“Now who do you suppose that turkey is?”
“No idea. No hits on the database.”
The two U.S. Customs and Border Protection agents in the Department of Homeland Security’s operations center at Houston International stared at the wall-mounted video screen. Yuri Kirov’s HD image filled the display.
A recently installed beta test version of a new facial recognition software system at the airport identified Yuri’s escort when she entered the terminal from the parking garage. The software ignored the wig and Ray-Bans she wore. Marina Kazakova’s Russian passport photo had been scanned into the system four weeks earlier when she arrived from Moscow. Classified as a clerk, she worked in the Houston consulate’s visa section. The FBI speculated that she really worked for the SVR. Homeland Security had followed Marina’s progress through the terminal with overlapping closed-circuit cameras. The CBP agents watched the pair as they walked back to the parking garage. Five minutes later, another camera captured the Ford Expedition as it pulled onto a southbound lane of John F. Kennedy Boulevard. The Russian consulate was thirty minutes away near downtown Houston via the Hardy Toll Road and I-610.
As directed by the consultant’s security officer, Marina wore a disguise. She also rented the SUV rather than drive one of the pool cars with diplomatic plates—an automatic red flag to the Feds. Not known to Russia’s intelligence services, however, was how well DHS’s new facial software worked.
“Do you want me to notify the FBI field office?” the junior agent asked.
“Yeah, let ’em know there’s a new player in town. Maybe they can figure out who he is.”
“Will do.”
* * * *
“I’m honored to meet you, Captain-Lieutenant Kirov.”
Yuri reached forward
and clasped the offered hand. “Thank you, Captain.”
Yuri settled back into his chair as the forty-two-year-old Russian naval officer took a seat on the opposite side of the table next to Nick Orlov. They were inside a secure conference room in the consulate. It was 2:04 P.M. Prior to the scheduled interview, Yuri and Nick lunched privately in Nick’s office. They used the forty minutes to prepare for the meeting.
Captain First Rank Vladislav Zhilkin was the naval attaché assigned to the Russian embassy in Washington. A bear of a man, he stood six-foot-four and weighed a muscular 220 pounds. His tailored dark suit hugged his athletic build. Zhilkin opened his briefcase and removed a file folder, placing it on the table. He extracted a ten-page document from the folder and glanced at Yuri. “I assume that you’ve had a chance to review Major Orlov’s briefing report on the incident.”
“Yes, sir. I read it during lunch.”
Zhilkin removed another document, a color photograph of a bulky cylindrical object resting in a steel cradle. The image of the torpedo mine came from a classified Russian Navy weapons catalogue. Zhilkin passed the photo to Yuri. “You’re certain that the unit deployed was a Mark Twelve?”
Yuri glanced at the photograph. “Yes, sir. No question about it. I trained with it while at Sevastopol.”
The attaché shook his head, puzzled. “How the devil did they get hold of it?”
“No, idea, sir. We found a manual aboard the yacht but nothing to indicate how they acquired the weapon.”
Zhilkin removed another color photo, a screenshot from a Seattle television station news broadcast. He passed it to Yuri. “This was your work?”
Yuri stiffened as he took in the image of the blazing yacht. “I don’t know for certain but I expect that I may have been responsible.”
“Serves the pricks right. Good job, Kirov.”
Nick joined in. “They deserved it, that’s for sure.” Nick lost four of his men on the mission—the first casualties he’d ever suffered in his seventeen-year career with the SVR.
Zhilkin asked several follow-up questions regarding the sinking before moving on. “Tell me, Kirov, what do you think the Chinese were really up to?”
Yuri expected the question. He and Nick discussed it during lunch and he’d thought about it numerous times during the past several months.
“It’s my opinion that the Chinese government deliberately tried to start a war between us and the Americans.”
Zhilkin clasped his hands. “The Kremlin agrees with you—and so do I.”
Nick responded. “Captain, if Yuri had not intervened when he did, that war might have gone hot. We were that close.”
“I agree.” Zhilkin again looked Yuri’s way. “We are indebted to you for your quick thinking.”
“Thank you,” Yuri said, flattered—and at the same time perplexed about the praise. Where is all of this headed?
He soon had his answer.
“Well, Kirov,” Zhilkin announced, “it’s now time for payback—and we need your assistance.”
Damn!
Chapter 9
The two FBI special agents just connected. The on-call duty agent who initiated the telephone call was in his office at the Houston Field Office. The recipient was in her office at headquarters in Washington, D.C. The call came in just before Ava Diesen planned to leave for the day.
“We don’t have anything in our system about this guy,” Diesen said. The forty-four-year-old mother of three leaned back in her chair. She caught a reflection of her sandy blond hair in a nearby window. She needed to make an appointment for a trim and coloring.
“He’s obviously someone important,” the caller said. “They sent a car for him.”
Counterintelligence specialist Diesen took another look at her desktop computer screen. Yuri Kirov’s image stared back. She had just run the image through the Bureau’s catalogue of known Russian spies and come up with zilch.
“All I can suggest for now is running through the airport’s surveillance system. Maybe you can ID the aircraft that he flew in on and backtrack from there. That assumes, of course, that was the reason he was at the airport.”
“I was afraid of that. I just hoped we might get lucky.”
“Sorry. I’ll make a few more inquiries here. But working from your end looks like the best option at this time.”
“Thanks for checking.”
“You’re welcome.”
Supervisory Special Agent Diesen hung up the phone. Yuri’s photo remained on the computer display. You’re handsome. Just who are you and what are you up to?
All Russian outposts in the United States were under extraordinary scrutiny. Relations between the two nations were dismal. The two presidents remained distrustful of each other over spilled oil in the Arctic and the catastrophic damage to their respective nations’ oil and gas infrastructures. Saber rattling seemed to escalate weekly.
Alerted by Homeland Security, the FBI’s hidden cameras monitoring the Russian consulate picked up the Ford Expedition when it drove into the garage of the eighteen-story office building on West Loop Street. Agents from the Houston Field Office would continue to track the visitor until he was identified and the purpose of the visit determined.
Diesen decided to make a few inquiries tomorrow. Maybe her contacts at CIA or DIA could shed some light on the mystery man. She didn’t expect much to come of the effort.
He’s probably some kind of consultant or maybe a lobbyist—yeah, that’s probably it!
Ava shut down her computer and stood. It was time to head home—ninety minutes earlier than usual. Her middle child had a must-attend event this evening. She’d promised ten-year-old Ella that she would not miss the last competition of her squad at the summer cheerleading camp.
* * * *
After meeting with Captain Zhilkin, Yuri and Nick relocated to Nick’s office. It was 3:35 P.M. During their earlier face-to-face, there was little time to catch up. They now had half an hour. Yuri stretched out his arms as he sat in the chair that fronted the oak desk. Nick drank from a cup of tepid tea. The spacious office contained a desktop computer, a two-drawer metal file cabinet and a hanging plant next to the window. A painting of a three-mast square-rigged tall ship charging through a turbulent sea dominated the wall next to Yuri. There were no photographs of loved ones or family memorabilia on display in the office. The only personal item was a San Francisco 49ers gold mini speed helmet. About the size of an orange, it sat on the right-hand corner of the desk.
Yuri reached forward and picked up the helmet. “Nice,” he said as he examined the faceguard and chinstrap.
“Gift from a friend.”
“I bet this doesn’t go over well in this town.”
Nick laughed. “No one cares here. None of the consulate staff are into American football.”
“So, it’s just you and your beloved Forty-Niners.” Nick remained an ardent fan of the Bay Area pro team.
“Yep.”
“Do you think they’ll have a better season this year?”
“I can only hope.” The NFL preseason was a month away.
“You still have season tickets?”
“Yeah, I kept them.” Forced to vacate the San Francisco consulate with the other staffers, Nick relocated to the Houston consulate. Assigned to watch over the closed outpost, Nick made periodic visits to San Francisco to conduct security checks of the seven story Pacific Heights building that remained in the ownership of the Russian government. Russia planned to reopen the consulate when the U.S. regained its senses.
Yuri returned the helmet. “How do you like Houston?”
“People are nice—real friendly. Weather sucks. Too humid for me.”
“Miss San Francisco?”
“I do.”
Yuri took a draw from a plastic water bottle. Grimacing, he changed subjects. “I thought for sure Zhilkin
would grill me about the Neva. But he barely mentioned it.”
“He’s Navy. You remain a hero for saving the crew.”
Yuri wrinkled his brow. “But I’m AWOL.”
“I think that’s all in the past. Taking care of the Mark Twelve cancelled that indiscretion.”
Yuri was not convinced, but let it go. “The charter Zhilkin arranged, what kind of aircraft is it?”
“Gulfstream. Very nice.”
“You should come along. I could use the help.”
Nick laughed again. “Right, a landlubber like me with all of you Navy guys running around the North Pacific. No thanks. Plus, my boss would have a fit if I took off now.”
Yuri tugged on his beard “I’m worried about Laura. Who knows how long I’ll be gone? I don’t like leaving her alone. There are too many loose ends.”
“China?” Nick asked.
“Yes.”
“Kwan’s dead, and so is Wang. You took care of that problem with the little surprise you left aboard the Yangzi. And their whole op was blown. If anything, China’s going to remain low-key. If the Americans ever find out…”
“They should be told. That was my original plan.”
“I understand,” Nick said. “But Moscow does not want to risk it now. Maybe when things cool off.”
“The Neva’s mission?”
“Yes.”
Over a year earlier, Yuri was aboard a Russian spy sub that penetrated deep into Puget Sound and the Strait of Georgia. He was tasked with spying on U.S. and Canadian naval installations. Yuri said, “The Americans need to know what China was up to—how close they came to pulling it off.”
“I know, but not now.”
Yuri raised another troubling item. “Zhilkin is over-optimistic about this new mission. What he laid out is going to be a nightmare to pull off. The chances of success are dismal.”
Nick frowned, unsure of where Yuri was headed.
Yuri continued, “I have no choice but to participate, which I will do. The promise of allowing me to retire and return to the U.S. is the incentive. But if I don’t survive it will devastate Laura.”
The Faithful Spy Page 3
