The Faithful Spy

by Jeffrey Layton

  “Don’t talk like that. You’ve been through much worse.”

  “I was lucky. But luck always runs out.” Nick was about to protest when Yuri continued, “If I don’t make it, you’ll have to tell Laura. No one else will be around to do it.”

  “Of course, but it’s not going to be needed.”

  “One other request, Nick. If the worst happens, please watch over Laura and Maddy as best you can.”

  “I will.”

  “Thank you, my friend.”

  Chapter 10

  “Hi, honey—just checking in.” Yuri parked his cell phone next to an ear. He sat in a chair inside the plush lobby of a private airport west of Houston. It was late afternoon. Captain Zhilkin stood at the counter twenty feet away, checking on the status of their flight.

  “How did it go?” Laura was in her Bellevue office.

  “Okay—about what I expected.”

  Nick Orlov arranged for the clandestine delivery of Yuri and Zhilkin to the airport. Knowing the FBI monitored the consulate twenty-four-seven, Nick and his staff took precautions to evade the snooping Americans. An NOC—non-official cover—Russian operative whisked the naval officers out of the consulate’s parking garage, hiding them in the back of a rental van disguised as a florist’s delivery vehicle. At the same time, Marina Kazakova drove Yuri’s double in the Ford Expedition to a home in nearby Piney Point Village. The three million dollar residence served as guest quarters for visiting Russian diplomats and bureaucrats. The SVR officer masquerading as Yuri wore a wig and a false beard; he easily passed as Yuri from a distance.

  “Are you coming home tonight?” There was hope in Laura’s voice.

  “No, I’m sorry—I’ve been recalled.”

  “Damn!” Laura rarely swore. “I knew this was going to happen.”

  “It’s going to be okay. I need to help out for a couple of weeks and then I’ll be back for good.”

  Laura’s voice quavered. “Just where are you going?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “When do you leave?”

  “I fly out tonight.”

  “Two weeks—are you sure about that time?”

  “It’s just an estimate.”

  “Will Nick be with you?”

  “No.”

  Laura’s moan vibrated over the speaker. “Can you call me to let me know how you’re doing?”

  “That won’t be possible.”

  “How about email or text?”

  “Unlikely.” Yuri hesitated. “I know this is troubling, but it’s a chance for me to take care of the outstanding issues—for good.”

  “You can’t trust them… you said so yourself.”

  Yuri sensed Laura was losing it. “It’s going to be okay. Please trust me.”

  Yuri asked Laura to relay instructions to Bill Winters regarding NSD operations during his absence. They talked for five more minutes, both continuing to use care with their words for fear of electronic eavesdropping. Captain Zhilkin turned away from the counter and made eye contact with Yuri.

  Yuri raised a hand in acknowledgment.

  “Sweetie, it’s time for me to go.”

  “Promise me you’ll be careful.”

  “I promise.”

  “Remember, I’m expecting you home in two weeks.”

  “I want to be home by then, too.”

  “I love you.”

  “I love you.”

  Yuri returned the phone to his coat pocket and stood up. Zhilkin stepped toward Yuri. “It’s time to board.”

  “Okay.” Yuri reached down beside the chair and grabbed his carry-on bag. Yuri and the Russian Navy captain walked through the private gate with just a nod from the attendant. The gleaming Gulfstream 650 sat on the tarmac fifty feet away.

  Chapter 11

  Day 4—Wednesday

  “Kirov, wake up. We’ll be landing soon.”

  Yuri blinked open his eyes. Captain Zhilkin stood in the aisle beside Yuri’s chair. “How long?”

  “We touch down in ten minutes.”

  “Thanks.”

  Zhilkin returned to his seat on the opposite side of the aisle.

  Yuri rarely slept on aircraft. But the ride that carried him and Zhilkin across the Pacific was a posh flying carpet. The seats in the G650 were incredibly comfortable, allowing him to catch six solid hours of sleep. They had the luxurious twelve-seater to themselves.

  Ownership of the charter jet was officially listed as a holding company based in Belgium. But that was just the beginning of the chain of title, which extended to eight successive entities. At the end was a Russian billionaire. To remain in favor with Kremlin, he made the jet available at very favorable rates without any questions. Before departure, the pilots filed the flight plan as a non-stop trip to Seattle. The total time in Seattle was fifty minutes. After filing a new flight plan and topping off the fuel tanks, the G650 commenced the transpacific flight.

  The jet was capable of flying direct from Houston to Vladivostok but the first stop was orchestrated to throw off the FBI. If the Houston Field Office checked with the private airport, the flight to Seattle would not raise alarms.

  Yuri stretched out his arms and faced the adjacent oval window. The Gulfstream was descending as it flew westward over the Bosfor Vostochnyy Bridge, approaching Vladivostok. Although it was 8:50 P.M., the summer twilight conditions provided plenty of light to view the port city. The ocean-fronting bridge spanning the Eastern Bosporus Strait, coupled with the sheltered inner harbor areas and the hilly terrain, had earned the city a catchy moniker: Vladivostok—Russia’s San Francisco.

  As the G650 sped by, Yuri spotted the naval base tucked away in Uliss Bay, just inside the Bosfor Vostochnyy Bridge. He knew the base well from past deployments; it served as the principal moorage for Russian nuclear submarines.

  After passing over the city, the twin-engine jet turned right and headed north up Amur Bay. Their destination was a couple of minutes away. Yuri leaned across the aisle. “Are we landing at Uglovoye?”

  “No. Orlov recommended against that. It would be a problem for the pilots. We’ll be using the civilian airport.”

  “Okay.”

  In the past, Yuri had always landed at and departed from Uglovoye. It was easier that way—no issues with customs or border entry. The Russian Air Force base was home to several squadrons of top of the line fighters. Vladivostok International Airport was four miles away.

  Yuri reached into his coat pocket and removed his credentials. Nick had provided Yuri with new updated papers identifying him as an active Russian naval officer. The written orders directed him to report to Pacific Fleet Command for a new assignment. Yuri also carried a thousand U.S. dollars in cash, two credit cards, and his fake IDs—a Washington State driver’s license in the name of John Kirkwood and a Canadian passport in the cover name of Peter Kirkinski from an earlier op. Yuri made eye contact with Zhilkin. “Where are we staying tonight?’

  “I have a driver waiting for us. We’ll drop the pilots off at a hotel in the city and then take you to the Headquarters BOQ. There will be a room for you.”

  “Okay.” Yuri knew from experience the bachelor officers’ quarters near the Pacific Fleet Headquarters building would be spartan. He expected that Zhilkin had a lavish hotel room reserved for his personal use. The next day, the charter pilots would make a deadhead run to Singapore for a new charter.

  As the Gulfstream passed over the north end of Amur Bay, Yuri peered through the window. He could see the runway ahead, lit up with a string of strobe lights. Although he had slept during half the flight, fatigue again settled in. The time zone issue was part of it, but not knowing what lay ahead sapped his mental well-being. Russia was out for blood, and he was at the tip of the Kremlin’s spear, about to be hurled at the enemy’s heart.

  * * * *

  “
Is he still there?” asked the FBI supervisor. She called from her office in the Houston Field Office.

  “Yes, ma’am,” replied the special agent. “We followed him from the consulate to the residence yesterday afternoon. We’ve had eyes on the house all night and through the morning. He has not come out yet.”

  “Anyone else staying there?”

  “Not that we’re aware of.”

  “Maybe they’re coming to see him. Keep on it. Call me the minute he shows his face or if he has any visitors.”

  “Will do, ma’am.”

  It was half past noon. The FBI team surveilling the Russian consulate’s guest quarters occupied a nearby residence in the high-end neighborhood west of downtown Houston. Several days would pass before the FBI discovered the ruse.

  * * * *

  Laura Newman sat on a sofa in the living room working with a laptop when her cell phone chimed. She checked the caller ID. “Hi, Bill,” she said.

  “Good evening, Laura,” Bill Winters replied. “Please excuse my late call. I’ve been out of the office and just got your voicemail about John.”

  “Don’t worry about it. You can call me anytime.” Laura glanced at her daughter. Maddy cavorted on the carpet near Laura. “John had to leave suddenly for a family emergency. His sister in Denmark is gravely ill.”

  “Sorry to hear about that… Any idea when he’ll be returning?”

  “It’s up in the air but at least a week.”

  “Will he be available to talk by phone?”

  “It’s pretty stressful for him right now. I’d like to let him deal with the situation there without having to worry about company matters—at least for a while.”

  “Got it. So, do you have a few minutes to talk about our contract with Aurora?”

  “Absolutely.”

  The conversation ended ten minutes later. Laura provided Winters with the direction he needed regarding an ongoing project in Alaska for Aurora Offshore Systems.

  Laura relocated to the nursery. She changed a diaper and dressed Maddy in her pajamas. Her conversation with Winters lingered. Laura admired Bill, as did Yuri. She didn’t like perpetuating the myths about Yuri’s identity and his sudden departure. Laura carried Maddy into the master bedroom and sat in a chair by the bed. As she nursed Madelyn, she prayed.

  Dear Lord, please watch over Yuri. Keep him safe, and please bring him back home to me.

  * * * *

  Elena Krestyanova stepped out of the shower onto the tile floor. After toweling off, she used the cloth to wipe condensation from the bathroom mirror. She stared at her naked form. The scar across her left shoulder was still inflamed. While showering, she’d directed the nozzle’s steamy flow onto the wounded tissue. Fifteen minutes of pulsed hydro-heat helped mitigate the ache.

  After spending a full day at the mission, she arrived at her high-rise apartment in downtown Vancouver in the early evening. She should have gone home earlier—the pain in her shoulder kicked in full force in mid-afternoon. The over-the-counter meds she relied on failed her today. Elena reached up with her right hand and traced a finger over the revolting four-inch-long blemish. She’d suffered through two surgeries at the same location. The first repaired the clavicle, shattered by a nine-millimeter slug four months earlier while on a mission in North America. The follow-up operation occurred just two weeks ago at an FSB medical facility in Moscow. One of the stainless-steel plates used to stitch bone fragments together had malfunctioned. Its replacement would help heal the festering wound and relieve the chronic pain—or so she was told. That’s when they installed the tracking device.

  A radio frequency identification device embedded within the replacement plate kept track of Elena’s location twenty-four-seven. When energized by a unique RF signal emitted from a remote transceiver, the RFID tag under the skin broadcast a confirming signal. Technicians from the SVR’s Science and Technology Directorate installed the micro transceiver in the cell phone issued to Elena upon her departure from Moscow. The iPhone emailed Elena’s location to an SVR-monitored anonymous address every hour.

  The constant tracking of Elena’s whereabouts was an annoyance, but there was more. Attached to the replacement plate was a plastic capsule filled with a neurotoxin synthesized from an amalgam of venomous marine creatures. Should an attempt be made to remove the capsule or to disable the RFID tag, or should twenty-four hours of consecutive failure to communicate between Elena’s cell phone and SVR headquarters occur, another microprocessor connected to the capsule would release the poison. Once absorbed into the surrounding tissue, the toxin would short-circuit the nervous system, blocking transmission of electrical signals from the brain to the body. The result would be paralysis of the diaphragm and cessation of breathing—an especially awful way to die. SVR director Smirnov made it clear to Elena that should she make a run for it or fail to complete her mission, death was guaranteed.

  Elena put on a terrycloth bathrobe and relocated to the living room. The elevated view of the city was breathtaking. Elena picked up her cell phone from the charger on the desk, verifying it was fully charged. She carried two extra batteries, one in her briefcase and the other in her purse. As long as she remained within fifty feet of the iPhone, she was safe.

  Elena sank into a sofa by the gas fireplace. She used an app on the cell to check the time in Hong Kong and saw it was mid-morning.

  She dialed a number from memory, knowing the recipient would be awake by now. It rang three times before he answered. The dialect was not her native language, but she recognized his voice.

  “Hello, Chi,” she said using English, a common tongue to both. “It’s me—Elena.”

  Chapter 12

  Day 5—Thursday

  “Take a seat, Kirov.”

  “Yes, sir.” Yuri sat in a chair fronting the elegant desk. On the other side of the Italian handcrafted oak writing table sat Admiral Oleg Belofsky. His predecessor accepted the lavish desk and matching chair from the commander of a squadron of Italian warships visiting Vladivostok during a goodwill tour of East Asia.

  Pushing sixty, Belofsky was bald and heavyset. His leathery, wrinkled face telegraphed heavy smoking. He wore wire-rimmed eyeglasses. There were three gold stars on the epaulettes of his uniform jacket.

  Yuri was in uniform, too. When Captain Zhilkin had dropped him off at the BOQ, he was dumbfounded to find his uniform, freshly cleaned and pressed, hanging in the closet. Somehow, it had survived the transpacific crossing aboard the crippled Neva and was rescued before the submarine was scrapped. Yuri had also shaved off his beard this morning, knowing the Russian Navy frowned on facial hair.

  The admiral poured tea from a sturdy pot into two mugs. He passed one to Yuri. They were the only occupants in the office. It was late morning.

  “Thank you, sir,” Yuri said.

  Belofsky sipped his steaming beverage. Yuri followed his lead and gazed out the windows. As head of Russia’s Pacific Fleet, Belofsky occupied a corner office on the top floor of the Fleet headquarters building. The view overlooked Vladivostok’s Golden Horn Bay, a natural inlet that extended about four miles inland from the open bay waters. Yuri spotted the sculpted support towers of the Golden Horn Bridge to the east. The majestic cable-stayed structure spanned the waterway, providing a shortcut to the southern half of the city. Warships lined the quays fronting the headquarters building. Commercial craft were moored alongside the wharves and piers on adjacent shorelines.

  Belofsky met Yuri’s eyes. “I served under your grandfather’s command early in my career. Admiral Fedorov truly was a legend, a terrific leader and an inspiration to all of the junior officers.”

  “Thanks, sir. He encouraged me to join the Navy.”

  “Indeed.”

  Belofsky took another draw from his mug and then picked up one of the several file folders stacked on his desk. He retrieved a document and thumbed through a twenty-fi
ve-page report prepared by the Fleet Intelligence Directorate. He glanced back at Yuri. “I’ve read this briefing on the mission half a dozen times—just incredible work.” He returned the report to its file folder. “I wanted to take this opportunity to personally thank you for your work with the Neva.”

  “Thank you, Admiral.”

  Belofsky picked up another report and scanned the executive summary. “You received treatments in Seattle for your injuries. Tell me about that.” Belofsky referred to Yuri’s bouts with decompression sickness.

  “I had multiple hyperbaric treatments and several months of physical therapy.”

  “Your leg is now healed?”

  “The paralysis is gone.”

  “Good.” Yuri kept waiting for the bomb to be dropped. “Tell me, Kirov, how did you like living in America?”

  “They’re good people, sir. Not unlike us.”

  “I had a chance to visit the United States as a young officer. I too was impressed with the Americans and their wealth.”

  Yuri did not comment, unsure of Belofsky’s track.

  The admiral continued, “The American woman who helped you—is she the reason you remained there so long?”

  “It is, sir. I’m in love with her.”

  Belofsky removed a color photograph of Laura Newman, downloaded from Cognition Consultants’ website. “She’s quite beautiful—and from what I’ve read, a brilliant businesswoman.”

  Yuri decided it was time to launch his defense. “She is, sir, and if she hadn’t assisted me the Neva and its crew would never have survived. She risked everything to—”

  Belofsky cut Yuri off. “Relax, Kirov. I know what she did and I can’t fault you for wanting to remain with her.” He adjusted his glasses.

  Yuri waited for the inevitable “but” that would come.

  Belofsky said, “She certainly was your ally and as you say she risked everything. But can she still be trusted?”