The Good Spy

by Jeffrey Layton

  Highest Praise for The Good Spy

  “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 American software

  engineer Laura Newman is captured by Captain

  Lieutenant Yuri Kirov, who is desperately trying to save

  fellow Russians trapped in a secret spy submarine sunk in

  American waters. A battle of wits and wills erupts

  between the two, and the danger intensifies. Will the

  Russians escape? 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 Russian Federation spy sub lies marooned in

  American waters near the US–Canadian border. What

  follows is a fast-paced adventure that will challenge

  readers’ expectations and take them on a thrilling

  journey—even to the bottom of the sea, in scenes of

  chilling claustrophobia. Written with authority, The

  Good Spy is a visceral yet thoughtful read about an

  unusual pair of adversaries who join forces to take on

  two superpowers in an impossible mission.”

  —Diana Chambers, author of Stinger

  ALSO BY JEFFREY LAYTON

  Blowout

  Warhead

  Vortex One

  THE GOOD SPY

  JEFFREY LAYTON

  PINNACLE BOOKS

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Highest Praise for The Good Spy

  ALSO BY JEFFREY LAYTON

  Title Page

  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

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  THE FOREVER SPY

  Teaser chapter

  Teaser chapter

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Copyright Page

  To my wife, Meta

  CHAPTER 1

  DAY 2—TUESDAY

  Kirov plowed into the gloom. The firestorm deep inside his right shoulder raged but he hung on. He’d lost all sensation below the left knee—it was just dead meat. If the unfeeling crept into his other limbs he was doomed for sure.

  He focused on the captain’s orders: “Get to shore. Call for help and then coordinate the rescue. Don’t get caught!”

  He was the crew’s only hope. If he failed, they would all perish.

  The diver propulsion vehicle surged against the aggressive tidal current. As he gripped the DPV’s control handles with both gloved hands, his body trailed prone on the sea surface. Hours earlier he’d exhausted the mixed gas supply, which forced him topside where he used a snorkel to breathe.

  The chilled seawater defeated his synthetic rubber armor. His teeth chattered against the snorkel’s mouthpiece. He clamped his jaws to maintain the watertight seal.

  Shore lights shimmered through his face mask but he remained miles from his destination. The DPV’s battery gauge kissed the warning range. When it eventually petered out, he would have to transit the passage on his own, somehow swimming the expanse in the dark while combating the current.

  Two grueling hours passed. He abandoned the spent DPV, opening the flood valve and allowing it to sink. He butted the tidal flow until it turned. The flooding current carried him northward.

  He swam facedown while still breathing through the snorkel. As he pumped his lower limbs, his good leg overpowered its anesthetized twin, forcing him off course. He soon learned to compensate with his left arm, synchronizing its strokes with his right leg.

  The joint pain expanded to include both shoulders and elbows. The frigid sea sapped his vigor to near exhaustion.

  While staring downward into the pitch-black abyss, he tried not to dwell on his injuries or his weariness—or the absolute isolation, knowing he could do nothing to mitigate them. Instead, his thoughts converged on the mission. They’re counting on me. Don’t give up. I can do this; just keep moving.

  He continued swimming, monitoring his course with the compass strapped to his right wrist. An evolving mantle of fog doused the shore lights he’d been using as a homing beacon. For all he knew, the current could be shoving him into deeper waters.

  Maybe at dawn he would be able to get his bearings. Until then, he would plod along.

  I wonder where the blackfish are now.

  During a rest with fins down and a fresh bubble of air in his buoyan
cy compensator, he heard dozens of watery eruptions breach the night air as a pod of Orcinus orcas made its approach. Sounding like a chorus of steam engines, the mammals cleared blowholes and sucked air into their mammoth lungs. The sea beasts ghosted by at ten knots. Their slick coal-black hulls spotted with white smears passed just a few meters away from his stationary position.

  The killer whales ignored him. They had a mission of their own: pursuing the plump inbound silver and chum salmon that loitered near the tip of the approaching peninsula. At first light, the orcas would gorge themselves.

  There was no time to be afraid; instead, he marveled at the close encounter. Oddly, the whales’ brief presence calmed him. He was not alone in these alien waters after all.

  Time for another check.

  He stopped kicking and raised his head. He peered forward.

  Dammit!

  Still no lights and the fog bank oozed even closer.

  Where is it?

  He allowed his legs to sink as he mulled his options. His right fin struck something.

  He swam ahead for half a minute and repeated the sounding.

  I made it!

  CHAPTER 2

  Laura Newman sat on the tile floor with her long chocolate legs bent sharply at the knees and her spine propped against a cabinet. She wore only a plain white T-shirt.

  Laura cradled her abdomen with both hands; her stomach broiled. “Oh Lord,” she moaned. “What’s wrong with me?”

  It was 6:18 A.M. Jolted awake, she’d just made it to the bathroom before the first purge.

  Ten minutes elapsed. Feeling better, Laura stood and walked back into the bedroom. She slipped on a bathrobe. Knowing further sleep would be impossible, she decided to brew a cup of tea. If her stomach settled down, she’d jog along the beach after sunup.

  This was the third morning her unsettled tummy had roused her. She suspected stress. The demands from work never ceased, but she’d learned to live with it.

  Laura opened the bedroom door and walked down the second-floor hallway of the rented beach house. She flipped on a light switch, illuminating the stairway. When she reached the base of the stairs, her bare feet stepped into a pool of water that covered oak flooring. What’s this? Laura wondered.

  She took a few more steps on her way to the kitchen.

  Laura stood opposite a doorway that opened onto a concrete walkway; it led to the beach. Although the side door remained closed, the door frame’s splintered molding by the lock had not been that way when she went to bed.

  Laura’s muscles locked; her heart galloped.

  Oh God, no! He’s found me already.

  Laura recovered enough to sidestep her dread. I’ve got to get out of here.

  Laura was reaching for the side door’s handle, when she heard movement from behind. She started to turn when a damp, gloved hand clutched her mouth. An arm ensnared her waist.

  Laura shrieked but her muffled cries went nowhere.

  CHAPTER 3

  “Stop struggling or I’ll cut you!”

  Pinned by the intruder’s bulk on the hardwood flooring, Laura complied when she felt the knife tip on her throat.

  He sensed her capitulation and withdrew the blade. He rolled off Laura onto his knees but kept his eyes on her. He stood. The blade remained in his right hand.

  “Get up,” he ordered, offering his free hand as an assist.

  * * *

  Sunlight poured through the waterside windows. Laura sat in the dining room chair, still wearing the bathrobe. Gray duct tape anchored her wrists and ankles to the chair. The intruder was in the adjoining living room. He’d just built a fire in the stone fireplace. The cedar kindling crackled to life.

  Laura observed her captor. Standing at least an inch over six feet, he had a muscular build, slate-gray eyes, and dense jet-black hair cut short. His angular face sprouted several days’ worth of black stubble. She guessed his age around her own—early thirties.

  Laura watched as he shed the diving apparel. He piled the gear onto the hardwood floor next to a window. He wore cobalt-blue coveralls under his neoprene dry suit.

  Obviously injured, he favored his left leg as he moved about. He hobbled into the dining room.

  That’s when Laura decided to confront him.

  “What do you want?” she demanded.

  “Just stay quiet.”

  “Who are you?”

  “No one.”

  “Where did you come from?”

  “Stop asking questions.”

  “Why were you in diving gear?”

  * * *

  More tape secured a dishcloth he’d stuffed inside Laura’s mouth. It encircled her head in two orbits, restraining her shoulder-length auburn hair. If she turned too far, hair at the nape of her neck pulled viciously. She had to sit statue-stiff, peering at a blank wall.

  But she could still see him—out of the corner of her left eye.

  Laura’s captor was about twenty feet away on the sofa by the fireplace. After a thirty-minute catnap, he sat upright and stretched his arms. He picked up her smartphone from the coffee table. He must have discovered it on the nightstand in her bedroom. There were no other working telephones in the rental.

  He keyed the phone, studying the screen. Laura guessed he was running a search. A couple of minutes later, he dialed.

  “I’d like to speak with the security officer,” he said.

  There was a trace accent but Laura couldn’t place it.

  He was mute for a minute before responding, “Yes, I want to report an accident.”

  The call lasted ten minutes. None of what he said made any sense to Laura. Some doctor had been in an automobile accident and was in a Seattle hospital. And he’d asked for a “security officer.” What was that about?

  The intruder nodded off again, his head slumping forward.

  What is this jerk up to?

  * * *

  It was almost noon. Laura’s spine ached and her limbs cramped, but her bladder demanded relief. She couldn’t hold it much longer.

  “Heyyyy!” she blurted in spite of the gag.

  His eyes blinked open.

  She called out again, louder.

  He stood and shuffled toward her.

  “What is it?” he asked. Now his accent sounded Eastern European.

  Laura mumbled.

  He leaned forward and pulled down a section of tape covering her mouth.

  She spat out the dishcloth and met his eyes. “Please—I need to use the bathroom.” Her frail voice transmitted a palpable quaver.

  “Bathroom?”

  She gestured with her head, ripping half a dozen strands of hair anchored by tape.

  He spotted the open door near the base of the stairs. “Oh, you need to use the toilet.”

  “Yes, please.”

  He replaced the gag and then limped to the bathroom. After inspecting its interior, he returned to Laura where he withdrew his dive knife from a scabbard lying on the nearby coffee table. He sliced the tape that anchored her arms and legs to the chair. She stood as quickly as her cramped muscles would allow.

  With the knife still in his right hand he said, “You can use it but the door stays open. And don’t touch the window.”

  Laura nodded her understanding and made a beeline for the bathroom. He followed.

  She walked inside, immune to the embarrassment. Laura was thankful to be alive.

  CHAPTER 4

  “A loha,” he said, speaking into the cell phone. “I’d like Laura Newman’s room.

  “That’s right, Laura Newman. From Redmond . . . Washington State.

  “Hmm, she’s not registered . . . you know, she might be using her maiden name, Laura Lynn Wilson. Could you check that for me?”

  Half a minute passed. “No luck there, either. Well, I guess I got some bum info. Thanks.”

  Ken Newman had already called fourteen hotel and condominium resorts on Kauai, and as on his last call, he’d failed. There were nearly twenty more to go.

&
nbsp; He’d searched the Web for an hour, compiling a list of candidates. He concentrated on four- and five-star establishments; he knew his wife’s preferences. He would check the remaining resorts but didn’t expect the effort to yield anything.

  Ken called from his Spartan studio apartment in Bellevue, sitting at the kitchen table. Dirty dishes overfilled the sink, sports magazines and newspapers littered the coffee table, and a two-foot-high pile of soiled clothing occupied a corner by the window. They’d been living apart for four months. The previous morning a King County sheriff’s deputy had served him with the breakup papers and a temporary restraining order.

  But Ken wasn’t done.

  Laura had changed cell phones so he’d called her secretary this morning, ignoring the no contact order. Ken learned that Laura had flown to Kauai for a two-week vacation. He had no reason to doubt the secretary’s storyline but remained suspicious.

  Ken retrieved a coffee mug from the table. As he sipped, he planned.

  Tonight he would drive to Sea-Tac and cruise the huge parking garage’s aisles. If Laura had parked her silver BMW 7 Series at the airport, he’d know that she’d fled. If he didn’t find it, she might still be around.

  * * *

  “Why are you doing this to me?” Laura asked.

  “Just cooperate and you’ll be fine.”

  Laura again sat in the dining room chair, her wrists and ankles re-taped to the chair’s mahogany armrests and legs. An eight-place black marble table occupied the room. The view of the beach and the water’s edge—just steps away—was dazzling.

  Sweat beaded across Laura’s brow. Her captor stood at her side, a half-full water glass in hand. She leaned forward and took another gulp, draining the glass.

  Her thirst satisfied, she said, “Thank you.”

  He was about to reseal her mouth when Laura turned her head to the side. “Please, don’t gag me. My stomach’s bothering me; I might vomit.”

  “All right, for now I won’t but keep quiet. I need to rest.”

  “I will—I promise.”

  Laura watched as he made his way back to the connecting living room; his limp had worsened. He lay down on the sofa facing the fireplace. Searing heat radiated from the fresh charge of fuel.