“Really—what do you think he’s doing there?”
“I have no idea.”
“Do you know what he was talking about—the Georgia Straits place?”
“No, but let’s see what we can find out; should be easy.”
Elena turned to her desktop computer and initiated a Bing search. Within half a minute she’d found the restaurant’s website. “Here it is, the Georgia Straits. It has a bar called the Pod Room.”
“Good, let’s go.”
* * *
The Russian intelligence officers occupied an idling Chevrolet Suburban. Elena sat behind the wheel. She turned to face Nick and said, “The best way to deal with this is to not say anything unless you’re asked.”
“Got it.”
Elena had traded the Mercedes sedan for the SUV. The big Chevy provided plenty of room for Orlov to crouch down when they drove out of the parking garage, just in case the RCMP monitored the mission. The Mounties, however, were busy elsewhere.
The Suburban inched forward in the holding lane. There were six automobiles ahead.
Orlov could see the U.S. border station in the near distance. A single lane was open. The Customs and Border Protection officer staffing the check-in station interrogated every driver who entered Point Roberts this afternoon. Just beyond the station, Orlov spotted a Toyota Camry parked in a turnout. The vehicle’s driver and two passengers—all of East Asian descent—stood by as two uniformed CBP officers searched the car.
Five minutes later, Elena handed their passports to the federal officer. Like Nick, she also carried a manufactured Canadian passport using an alias. It simplified access between Canada and the United States. Use of their real passports would be problematic.
To minimize detection further, the Suburban and Elena’s Mercedes were both registered to a Canadian shell corporation instead of the Trade Mission.
“Where are you heading today?” asked the female CBP officer as she accepted the passports.
“Ah, we’ve never been here before. We thought we’d drive around and maybe have dinner some place.”
The officer eyed Elena and checked the passport photo. She repeated the process with Nick and handed the passports back.
“Enjoy your visit.”
“Thank you.”
* * *
Three cars behind Elena’s Suburban, a sleek Chevrolet Corvette idled while Metallica pulsed from the surround sound system.
The “arrest me red” Corvette pulled forward into the holding lane next to the check-in station. The CBP officer typed in the license number on her computer. Ten seconds later, the registered owner’s driver license photo and ID data appeared on her monitor: Kenneth Lawrence Newman, Washington State resident, age thirty-four, Caucasian, five-foot-ten, 185 pounds, blue eyes, blond hair, organ donor.
She turned away from the screen and said, “Your travel documents, sir?”
“What?”
“Turn your radio off,” she ordered with a raised voice.
Instant silence.
“I need to see your passport.”
“Oh.” Ken reached into his shirt pocket, removed his U.S. passport, and handed it over.
The officer swiped the ID through the scanner on her computer. She read the output data and then turned back to face Ken. “How long have you been in Canada, Mr. Newman?”
That took Ken by surprise. “Gee . . . I guess half an hour or so. I just drove from Blaine.”
“What’s your business at Point Roberts?”
“Ah . . . ah looking for . . .” Ken was taken aback by the question. He’d almost blurted out “looking for my wife.” He corrected himself. “I’m just looking around, nothing in particular.”
Not at ease with Mr. Newman, the officer leaned forward and examined the interior of the two-seater.
“Sir, drive forward and park by those officers.”
“What for?”
“Just drive forward and wait.”
“All right.”
* * *
Yuri noticed them as soon as they passed through the entryway into the Pod Room: A tall, well-built male in his late thirties and a curvaceous woman with a golden mane in her early thirties. While the other bar patrons wore casual garb, the new arrivals could have stepped out of a Fortune 500 company board meeting.
Yuri had spotted the Georgia Straits earlier in the day while touring Point Roberts with Laura. He selected the restaurant because of the water view.
He watched as the couple searched for him. Eventually, the male walked toward Yuri’s booth, located in a quiet corner with no nearby patrons. The woman followed.
“Mr. Kirkwood?” asked Major Orlov, using English.
Yuri gestured to the vacant half of the booth. “Sit down, please.”
The female slid across the vinyl bench seat, followed by Orlov.
Orlov started to speak, when Yuri held up his right hand. Switching to Russian and in a hushed voice he said, “Before we go any further, identify yourselves.”
“I’m Nicolai Orlov, from the San Francisco Consulate.”
“And I’m Elena Krestyanova. I work in Vancouver at the Trade Mission.”
“Who sent you?”
“The Washington embassy,” answered Orlov. “We’re here to help you with Dr. Tomich.”
“What did they tell you?”
“Dr. Tomich, he’s from the Vega Institute in Saint Petersburg. He was in some kind of automobile accident, a severe chest injury.”
Yuri leaned forward. “So who am I?”
Elena responded, “You’re Captain Lieutenant Yuri Ivanovich Kirov, a naval intelligence officer.”
Nick finished, “You’re based out of the Rybachiy Naval Base at Petropavlovsk-Kamchatskiy. At this moment you’re supposed to be aboard a submarine engaged in a highly classified mission. So, what’s going on?”
Yuri leaned back a few degrees. “Welcome to Point Roberts, comrades.”
CHAPTER 15
“That sucks!” Ken Newman mumbled as he accelerated away from the Point Roberts border station.
He’d waited for half an hour while the CBP officers searched his Corvette. They found nothing significant, just a pocketknife, a pencil, and several wrappers from Snickers candy bars.
Little did Ken know he happened to fit the profile, just more rotten luck.
The FBI had developed a catalog of likely personality profiles of criminal types. In Ken’s case, what sent the border agent’s “bad guy” meter ringing had been his obvious nervousness—the bungled response about his reason for visiting Point Roberts. His body language didn’t help, either. He’d radiated deception and the CBP officer had picked it up.
Ken shifted into third as he headed south on Tyee Drive. Huge stands of evergreens lined the asphalt roadway, but in the distance he spotted a smidgen of blue. He checked the dashboard GPS display. His destination was just a couple of miles away.
* * *
“You mean it’s stranded on the bottom . . . out there?” Nicolai Orlov gestured with his right hand at the adjacent window in the Pod Room. The Strait of Georgia was about thirty feet away.
“Yes, but south of here,” Yuri answered. They now spoke English but in muted tones.
“How far down is it?” asked Elena Krestyanova.
“Over two hundred meters.”
“That’s deep,” Nick said, astonished at Yuri’s tale.
Yuri continued, “The crew was able to restart one of the reactors yesterday but they’re still fighting the fouled seawater intakes so it’s throttled way back.”
“What fouling are you talking about?” Nick asked.
“The ship’s seawater cooling system for the reactors and electrical generators. The inlets are located on the bottom of the hull and buried in mud. The suction from the pumps pulls in bottom sediments along with the water. That gunk plugs everything up.”
Nick shifted position in the booth, slumping to one side. “So they don’t have much power.”
“Yes. There�
��s just enough to run life support and to power the bilge pumps. Nothing for the heating system. It’s like living inside a refrigerator down there.”
“How long have they been marooned?” Elena asked.
“This is the fourth day. I left on the second.”
She mulled over that tidbit. “If you made it, why can’t the others do the same?”
“It’s too deep to try without a rebreather. Plus you have to be trained to use it.” Yuri took a sip from his glass. They all had ordered vodka martinis. Russian-style vodka, chilled and neat, would have been too obvious. “Even with my experience, I barely made it. And we also lost another diver.”
“What happened?” Nick asked.
“Viktor Skirski, a warrant officer . . .” Yuri’s forehead wrinkled. “He volunteered to try. Viktor had more deep-diving experience than I do so it made sense.”
Yuri took another sip. “He made it through the escape chamber but after that I don’t know what happened.”
“Maybe he did make it up and ended someplace else.” Elena pointed seaward. “There are countless islands out there. He could be anywhere.”
Yuri stared at the inland sea.
His assistant . . . No, Viktor had been more than that. His friend and companion of nearly two years most likely drowned. Or maybe he threw an embolism and had a heart attack or a brain attack. Or maybe his rebreather malfunctioned and he sucked in a lethal dose of oxygen. There were just too many ways to die at that depth.
Orlov straightened his shoulders. “Captain Lieutenant Kirov, you have presented us with a difficult problem. Just what is it that you want us to tell our superiors?”
Yuri turned back, eyes blazing. “They’ve got to get them out. There are thirty-seven men down there—still alive!”
* * *
The GPS unit guided Ken straight to the rental house. He parked in the driveway and climbed out of his Corvette. He carried a colorful garland of freshly cut flowers, purchased from the local grocery store.
The two-story beach house appeared new. Expecting Laura’s BMW, he found no vehicles in the driveway but did note the attached double stall garage. As Ken approached the home’s entryway, he peeked through a window panel on one of the garage doors. No Bimmer.
Ken knocked on the front door. Receiving no response, he walked along the narrow alleyway on the west side of the house toward the placid waters of the Strait of Georgia. He peered through several sets of windows into the living room: nothing, no one inside.
Five minutes later, Ken returned to the Corvette where he rechecked the address. He had the right place, but where could Laura be? He considered checking with the occupants of neighboring residences but then thought better of it. They might tip her off to his presence.
Ken’s plan to win Laura back would only work if he could surprise her. He knew that, given advance warning, she’d flee.
Ken loathed what he’d done. Laura embodied the best part of his life and he’d ruined everything, his alcohol addiction the root cause.
His last blowup remained a blur but its aftermath still rocked him. Although he couldn’t recall much of that night, the affidavit that Laura had signed and attached to the restraining order set the record. How could he have hurt her like that—using Laura as a soccer ball, and calling her all of those ugly things?
Ken feared that he’d lost Laura for good this time.
He hadn’t had a drink in three days—a new milestone.
Ken would make it this time . . . if Laura would just give him one more chance.
* * *
Nick and Elena followed in the Suburban, careful to remain out of Yuri’s sight. They watched as he drove around the marina’s east side and disappeared.
“What now?” Nick asked.
“Let’s wait a couple of minutes for him to park. Then we’ll check.” Laura pulled off the road onto the shoulder. She opened her purse and removed the tracker.
Nick eyed the device. It was the size of a cell phone. “How does it work?”
“It’s a transceiver. Has a range of around two hundred meters.”
Embedded within the logo of Elena’s business card she’d given Yuri was a minuscule radio frequency identification chip. When energized by a unique RF signal emitted by the transceiver, the nanotech RFID tag broadcast its location.
* * *
Laura remained a prisoner in the master bedroom. Twenty minutes earlier, she’d heard the knock at the front door but could not respond. Before leaving, her captor had anchored her to the bed on her back with arms and legs moored to each corner of the frame with rope. Tape once more sealed her lips.
Laura shifted her torso, trying to get comfortable. She turned her head toward the nightstand and checked the clock: quarter past four. A couple of hours had passed since “John” left.
Laura took several deep inhalations, trying to relax. It didn’t help. The pressure in her bladder was increasing but she’d just have to hold it until he returned.
Perhaps tonight she would get her chance.
Laura was waiting for the right circumstances. But they had not yet occurred. She remained patient. He would eventually slip up and she’d escape.
Laura wouldn’t bother with the local deputy sheriff. She planned to head straight for the U.S. border station, running if she had to; it was only a couple of miles away.
They would have FBI agents here in no time at all.
CHAPTER 16
Captain Borodin entered the Neva’s engineering compartment. “Has there been any improvement?” he asked.
“No, Captain,” the reactor officer said. “Unit Two’s barely maintaining itself. If the efficiency drops much more, it’ll automatically shut down.”
Restarted the day before, the starboard nuclear reactor’s heat output remained a fraction of normal. Just enough seawater streamed into the Neva’s cooling system to keep the reactor from redlining. If the flow increased, more bottom sediment would be ingested, further plugging the condensing units. The cooling system efficiency would deteriorate, initiating an automatic shutdown. Without heat from the reactor, the steam-powered generating plant would stop producing electricity—the ship’s lifeblood.
“How are the batteries?” Borodin asked, referring to the reserves in Compartment Five; the mains had fried, shorted out by seawater when the first two compartments flooded.
“They’re about fifty percent recharged so far, but I don’t trust ’em. They were due for replacement last year.”
“I know.”
Deferred maintenance was the norm for the Neva. Within three years, the nuclear cores for both reactors would be spent but they would not be refueled. The ship would be retired soon. Held in reserve for eight years after commissioning due to military funding limitations, the Neva had been in active service for nearly two decades. It had performed well above the standard for its class thanks to an advanced propeller design secretly purchased from the West and to several acoustic-quieting upgrades to its running gear. Because of its superior stealth, the Neva had become an ideal platform to conduct covert reconnaissance. Nearly half of the submarine’s patrols during the past eight years involved espionage.
As Borodin headed aft, continuing his once every two hours tour of the boat, the reactor officer asked, “Sir, the man that tried to escape, what happened to him?”
“Drowned. Somehow he punctured his suit and it flooded.”
“What was he thinking—we’re too deep to try that.”
“I know. Scared I assume. Can’t really blame him, but he was doomed from the moment he flooded the chamber.”
The officer said, “Any updates from Yuri Ivanovich?”
“I’m expecting to hear from him soon.”
“Yuri’s a good man, sir. He’ll get us help.”
“Yes, he will.”
* * *
Nicolai Orlov was in the Vancouver Trade Mission. He occupied the code room alone; Elena Krestyanova had relocated to her office. It was early evening.
Orl
ov sat at a computer console. He’d been composing the report for half an hour, addressing it to the SVR rezident at the San Francisco Consulate. But Orlov really wanted to talk directly with Moscow. Vancouver Station had that capability thanks to the parabolic dish on the building’s roof. When aimed at a Russian military satellite in a geostationary orbit over the North Pacific, it could transmit and receive encrypted voice signals to and from SVR headquarters.
As much as he’d like to short-circuit the process, Orlov followed standard operating orders. In the next few minutes, he would send the report to his boss with a copy to Moscow.
Orlov leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. They were blurry from staring at the screen. He leaned forward and typed out the final lines.
Based upon Captain Lieutenant Kirov’s assessment of the Neva’s current condition, he estimates that the crew can survive for approximately ten days from the date of this transmission. That assumes that the one running reactor remains functional. Accordingly, he requests that the Pacific Fleet launch a rescue mission immediately. He is ready to coordinate from his present location. Please advise me on Moscow’s decision as soon as possible. Orlov.
Orlov e-mailed his report to the San Francisco Consulate and the SVR’s main directorate in Moscow. The algorithm used to encrypt the message was based on the latest efforts of the Russian Federal Security Service—Federal’naya Sluzhba Bezopasnosti. The FSB served as Russia’s FBI and then some.
He attached an encrypted snapshot of Kirov to the report. Nick had used his cell phone to photograph Yuri while in the Pod Room. He also included a second attachment, a photo of a beach house located by the RFID tracker.
Yuri had not volunteered his hiding place, only acknowledging that he’d found shelter in a vacant house. And he’d said nothing about Laura.
* * *
About twenty miles south of downtown Vancouver, Ken Newman watched television from his hotel room bed. He had planned to stay overnight at Point Roberts but discovered the Point lacked public accommodations. No motels or hotels, and the handful of bed-and-breakfasts were already booked.
The Good Spy Page 6
