The Faithful Spy

by Jeffrey Layton

  “He shouldn’t know. The media has no clue about what happened. The weapon detonated deep enough offshore that nothing substantial was observed on the surface.”

  “Who is this guy?”

  “The security detail at the gate assumed he was a crackpot, but then he handed over his credentials.” The admiral reached down to his desktop and retrieved the leather-bound document. “His name is Yuri Kirov. He’s a captain-lieutenant in the Russian Navy—GRU, assigned to submarines.”

  The secretary muttered a curse and said, “The Russians—they’re behind this?”

  “I don’t know. The base commander has him confined. As soon as I hang up, I’m heading over there to find out what’s going on.”

  “Call me ASAP when you know more. I need to update the president soon.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  Chapter 94

  Elena and Nick stood in a corner of the American Airlines departure lounge at the San Diego International Airport. It was late afternoon. The flight to Miami was in the final phase of boarding.

  “I wish you would reconsider,” Elena said.

  “I can’t… I’m not ready yet.” Nick ran a hand across his scalp. His Southwest Airlines flight to Houston would depart in another hour.

  “Well, when you’re ready, you know how to contact me.”

  “The Chinese are still out there.”

  “The plan will work. But if it doesn’t, Smirnov will find another way.” Elena had hatched the plan from their Coronado Bay hotel room via remote secure comms Nick arranged through the Houston consulate. SVR director Borya Smirnov sanctioned the op.

  Nick met Elena’s eyes. “You need to be very careful. I don’t know what Moscow will do.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”

  But Nick would worry. The SVR and FSB were relentless when tracking down wayward agents, especially those who were privy to the highest level of state secrets. To buy Elena time, they had stopped at a U.S. Post Office before driving to the airport. Elena filled out the transmittal form, using her Vancouver mailing address. Inside the mailing box were her cell phone and the RFID tag surgically removed from her shoulder. Because of the international crossing, it would take several days for the package to make the trip north. During that time, the iPhone would transmit hourly locations.

  A loudspeaker broadcast the last boarding call.

  “Well, it’s time for me to go,” Elena said.

  “I’ll miss you.”

  Elena stepped into Nick’s arms and gave him a deep kiss that electrified him. She broke the embrace. “You rescued me, Nick. I’m forever grateful.”

  At the gate she handed the agent her first class boarding pass. Just before heading down the jetway, she turned and flashed Nick a sparkling smile.

  Nick watched as she disappeared.

  Chapter 95

  Day 48 — Friday

  It was evening in Hong Kong. Kwan Chi relaxed in his outdoor hot tub at the peak of the Kowloon high-rise. The Jacuzzi jets massaged his mending body. He was enjoying a splendid California merlot.

  As he took in the city’s dazzling nightly lightshow, he thought ahead to the operation now in motion.

  Soon it will be over.

  At Kwan’s request, Elena had invited the SVR officer to visit her in Vancouver. Kwan electronically deposited an advance payment of $500,000 US into Elena’s anonymous overseas account. The balance of her fee, another half million, would be paid upon completion. It was a payment that would not be made. The MSS hit team was already in place in Vancouver. Both Nick Orlov and Elena Krestyanova were on the target list.

  Orlov, that son of bitch! He’s just as bad as Kirov.

  Kwan would miss Elena, but Guo’s orders were unambiguous—cleanup all loose ends.

  The timer on the hot tub’s jets clicked off. The hiss of the rushing water was replaced by the stillness of the night air.

  But not quite that still.

  Kwan cocked his head to the side, catching the whisper of another white noise source. He set the wineglass aside and peered toward the harbor, probing the darkness. The aberration materialized with a soft purring sound. He faced the drone, now just ten feet away. Its whirling blades sliced the air with a subdued frenzy.

  Kwan stood and shouted a litany of Mandarin curses at the robot while flipping his right middle finger.

  The drone inched forward.

  Kwan was about to grab the nearby wine bottle to bat the aerial pest when the drone fired.

  The nine-millimeter hollow point punched a pencil-diameter hole in Kwan’s forehead. He crumpled, sinking to the bottom of the tub. The gore from the exit wound stained the waters a deep crimson.

  Chapter 96

  Day 50—Sunday

  Four federal employees sat around a table inside a conference room at the FBI’s Seattle field office. A wall-mounted monitor at the head of the table displayed the image of Yuri Kirov, who sat alone inside an interview room located three doors away down a connecting hallway. The interrogation had started at eight in the morning and continued all day with a couple of bathroom breaks. A clerk brought in sandwiches during the noon hour. It was now 4:35 P.M.

  FBI Special Agents Ava Diesen and Michaela Taylor, U.S. Navy Captain Robert Clark, and CIA Officer Steve Osberg had left the interview room five minutes earlier for a quick debrief.

  Ava kicked off the discussion, “Well gentlemen, we’d like your thoughts on Captain-Lieutenant Yuri Kirov’s tale.”

  “Just incredible,” Captain Clark announced. “Everything he said about the nuke matched what Pacific Fleet has been able to reconstruct. The GPS unit on the runabout he used had the entire trip stored in its memory. Our people at Pearl found the abandoned Russian diving gear on the harbor bottom, and they located the tracks in the mud leading to and from the Roosevelt. Everything matches what Kirov said during his original interrogation back at Pearl.”

  Michaela said, “So you don’t believe he was involved in planting the device and then got cold feet?”

  Clark clasped his hands. “I suppose that’s possible but your own people along with Steve’s group traced the charter flight to Vladivostok. That sure looks like a get-out-of-Dodge move to me.”

  Ava faced Osberg. “Steve, what are your thoughts on the charter?”

  “A deliberate ploy. The charter could have made a direct flight to Vladivostok, but that would have left an obvious trail. Filing a flight plan to Seoul wouldn’t raise flags. The South Koreans reported that the two passengers on the flight had Russian passports. After refueling, the charter pilots filed a new flight plan to Vladivostok. Total time on the ground in Korea was just over an hour. That jet could have easily made a nonstop flight to Russia from Hawaii.” Osberg cleared his throat. “I’m inclined to believe Kirov’s story that he discovered the Spetsnaz team’s true mission and then took matters in his own hands. Anyway, it sure appears to me he saved the day at Pearl Harbor.”

  “Okay,” Ava said, “I tend to agree that Kirov was truthful regarding the bomb but what about his warning concerning that other naval base in China?” Ava picked up her notepad. “The base in Qingdao. He said the other divers might have left a nuclear weapon there. Why would they do that?”

  “That bothered me, too,” Clark said. “But if what Kirov suspected is right, Russia was trying to incite a war between us and China. Nuking one of our carriers in Pearl Harbor would call for an immediate response—vaporizing the PLAN naval base at Qingdao, for example.”

  “So that thing could still be on the bottom?” Osberg said.

  “Yes,” Clark said. “My guess is that it can be triggered by an acoustic signal. Drop a hydrophone over a bulkhead. Transmit the code. The bomb arms itself and after a pre-set time, BOOM!”

  “Well, that hasn’t happened,” Michaela said.

  “Right. The Russian mission failed. Pearl Har
bor was not destroyed.”

  Osberg rejoined the conversation. “Of everything Kirov has told us so far, we need to pass along the Qingdao situation to the DOD and the White House ASAP. They will need to decide what to do, if anything.”

  “Agreed,” Ava announced. “As soon as we finish, I will phone Washington.”

  “Good,” Osberg said.

  Ava consulted her notes again. She faced Captain Clark. “Bob, what do you make of his offer to share additional intelligence on Chinese submarines?”

  “Intriguing. If the device he described really managed to penetrate the tunnel on Hainan Island and spy on China’s missile boats, the intelligence could be invaluable to us.”

  Ava suppressed a yawn. She was tired and missed her family. “So, guys, what should we do with Kirov?”

  “Give him a medal. He’s a hero in my book.” Captain Clark grinned.

  “Ditto,” Steve said. “Plus grant him asylum. He’s earned it.”

  Ava glanced at Agent Taylor, who nodded.

  Ava agreed with her companions but kept it to herself. She was also aware that the State Department looked favorably on Kirov’s asylum request. “Well, those decisions are beyond our pay levels. But for now, if you both agree, Michaela and I can grant his immediate request.”

  “For sure,” Clark said.

  “Absolutely,” echoed Osberg.

  Chapter 97

  Yuri stared at the world map taped to a wall in the interrogation room. During the interview, he referred to the map numerous times as he retraced the voyage of the Novosibirsk. Worn out and sleep deprived, he could not determine if the American agents believed his story.

  More than three days had passed since he had turned himself in at the Pearl Harbor naval base. After hours of questioning by the Navy and FBI in Hawaii, the previous afternoon he was placed aboard a U.S. Air Force C-17 cargo transport jet at Hickam Field and ferried to Joint-Base McCord-Lewis near Tacoma, Washington. A caravan of U.S. Marshals and FBI agents drove Yuri to the FBI field office in downtown Seattle, where he was placed in a holding cell.

  Yuri closed his eyes, hoping for a quick catnap before the next round of questioning.

  Two minutes later, he roused as the door to the interrogation room opened. Ava Diesen stepped inside. “Mr. Kirov, please follow me. We have another location to meet in.”

  Yuri stood. He wore a pair of orange coveralls provided by the U.S. Marshal Service—prisoner garb. Yuri followed the FBI agent. She opened the door to the new room and stepped aside, remaining in the hallway.

  Yuri crossed the threshold into the visitor lounge. Laura Newman sat on a leather sofa reading a magazine. She looked up.

  “Yuri!” she shouted.

  Laura rushed to Yuri. They embraced, leaning back only to gaze at each other with hungry eyes.

  Ava closed the door.

  Laura relaxed her grip. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m good, just tired.”

  “You shaved your beard.”

  Yuri ran a hand across his chin. “I can grow it again if you like.”

  “You’re fine just the way you are. Besides, you don’t need a disguise anymore.”

  “Oh, yeah. Now that I’ve been outed, it won’t do any good.”

  Laura beamed. “I have some good news.”

  “How’s that?”

  “I know you’re going to have more government interviews, but our attorney told me that the State Department intends to grant you asylum. That means you’ll be able to stay with me.”

  Yuri was unable to speak.

  Laura hugged him again. “I’m so happy you’re home.”

  Yuri recovered his composure. “I am, too.” And then he remembered. “How’s Maddy?”

  “She’s fine. Amanda’s watching her now.”

  Yuri gazed at Laura, his eyes misty. “I’m so blessed to have you in my life. I love you.”

  “And I love you.”

  They kissed, a lingering delicious kiss.

  Don’t miss the next exciting Yuri Kirov thriller

  THE VIGILANT SPY

  by Jeffrey Layton

  Coming soon from Lyrical Underground

  An imprint of Kensington Publishing Corp.

  Keep reading to enjoy the pulse-pounding first chapter . . .

  Chapter 1

  The city of nine million woke as first light oozed heavenward from the Yellow Sea. A leaden stratum of low-lying, vapor-rich clouds hovered over the coastal metropolis of Qingdao. Drizzle smeared the windshield as the boat puttered along the one-half-mile-long waterway. Its diesel exhaust lingered over the still waters of the harbor. Along the north flank of the waterway, an immense industrial wharf protruded west into the embayment. Tugboats, workboats, barges, and fishing vessels occupied assorted floating piers that connected to the dogleg-shaped wharf. At the western terminus of the waterway, an offshore breakwater split the channel, providing north and south navigational passageways to and from the adjacent bay.

  Elegant, slender buildings jutted skyward twenty to thirty stories along the channel’s southern shore. Lights blinked on as hundreds of the tower residents rose to the new day.

  Two men stood inside the cabin of the 35-foot-long aluminum-hull workboat as it approached the midpoint of the waterway, known locally as the Middle Harbor. They had patrolled the eastern half of the channel for over an hour, running back and forth, broadcasting the recall signal. The hydrophone dangled three feet below the keel near midships, suspended by a cable secured to a guardrail.

  “It should have surfaced by now,” said the man standing on the starboard side of the cabin.

  In his early thirties with a slim build and a mop of black hair that hung over his ears, he wore coveralls and work boots. A cigarette dangled from his left hand.

  “I know. Something’s wrong.” Like his companion, the pilot was of Central Asian lineage.

  He was several years older, half a head shorter, and twenty pounds heavier than his cohort. A ball cap concealed his balding scalp; a navy-blue windbreaker encased his chunky torso. The helmsman spun the steering wheel to port, turning the workboat about. He chopped the throttle to idle, setting the craft adrift.

  The observer took another drag and turned to face the pilot. “Ismail, maybe we should boost the signal. The recorder might be buried deeper in the mud than planned.”

  “Good idea. Go ahead and turn it to max.”

  Both men were fluent in Mandarin, but when alone they spoke in their native tongue—an offshoot of Turkic.

  The observer relocated to the nearby chart table. A laptop sat on the surface. Yusup—a form of Joseph—fingered the keyboard and addressed the pilot. “It’s now at maximum strength.”

  “Okay, I’ll make another run.”

  Ten minutes passed. The boat drifted near the eastern end of the channel.

  Ismail, the helmsman, peered at the instrument panel display. “GPS says we’re over the coordinates Talgat provided. You see anything?”

  “Negative—nothing.”

  “It should be in this area.”

  “The recorder must have malfunctioned.”

  “Maybe.”

  Yusup crushed the spent butt in an ashtray. “What do you want to do now?” he asked.

  Ismail’s brow wrinkled as he peered through the windshield. The bow pointed west. The twin wipers were set to cycle at minimum speed. He was about to comment when he noticed a skiff speeding from the bay into the channel’s north entrance. Powered by an outboard, it carried five men, all wearing raingear, hardhats, and flotation vests. “We’ve got visitors.”

  “Wonder what they’re up to.”

  Using binoculars, both men watched as the skiff tied up to an enormous crane barge moored on the north side of the waterway, about a thousand feet away. The crewmen scurried up a ladder and boarded the b
arge. Within five minutes, a cloud of blackish soot spewed as a diesel generator powered up.

  “What’s that rig for?” asked Yusup.

  “Some kind of marine construction.”

  One of the crew boarded a small tugboat tied up to the far side of the crane barge. After starting the engine, the operator engaged the tug’s propeller. The tug, still lashed to the barge, began to pull the crane barge away from the pier. Secured to the crane barge on the opposite side was a second steel barge. It was about the same size but with an extra three feet of freeboard.

  Yusup squinted. “Now what’re they doing?”

  “I don’t know.” Ismail set his binocs aside and advanced the throttle, seeking a closer look.

  The tug and double barge combination relocated to the center of the channel near the mouth of the waterway’s northern entrance. The huge steel truss boom on the crane barge rotated seaward from the deck. A steel bucket the size of a Ford pickup truck, its jaws wide open, hung over the water suspended by half a dozen steel cables that ran through a huge block at the peak of the crane derrick. Seconds later, the bucket plunged into the water and sank to the bottom. The generator aboard the barge blasted out a fresh plume of exhaust as the crane struggled to lift the payload.

  The bucket rose above the water surface, its jaws clamped tight. The crane operator swung the boom across the deck until the bucket hovered over the companion barge. The jaws opened and twenty-four tons of black, gooey stinky bottom muck plopped into the dump barge.

  A hundred yards away, Yusup and Ismail observed.

  “Shit,” muttered Yusup as the revelation registered. “They’re dredging the harbor … could they have dug up the recorder?”

  Ismail appeared stunned. “There was nothing about this in the orders.”

  “That’s got to be why we can’t find it. What do we now?”

  “Let me think.”

  Ismail searched on his smartphone until he found the article. The port authority proudly advertised the project on its website. The waterway was being dredged to increase water depth for deeper draft vessels—not an unusual activity for such a sprawling enterprise as the Port of Qingdao.