The Forever Spy

by Jeffrey Layton

  The ROV pilot turned to address the observer who stood behind his assistant. “What would you like us to do now?”

  The captain-lieutenant replied, “I’d like you to run a perimeter survey first. Say, fifty meters. I’m interested in debris.”

  “Three-hundred-sixty-degree orbit?”

  “Yes, that will be a good start.”

  “Okay.”

  The ROV was about a third of the way through the search when the assistant spotted something. “What’s that?” he asked, pointing to the display with his right hand.

  The pilot eased the submersible into a hover about twenty feet above the bottom, high enough to minimize wake effects from the thrusters on the silt-coated bottom. He peered at the screen. “I don’t see anything.”

  “There was something there. Try reversing.”

  “Okay.”

  A new image materialized in the monitor. A thin line running along the bottom was visible in the illuminated zone, extending to the limit of the light cone.

  “What is it?” asked the pilot.

  “Looks like a wire to me.”

  The naval officer scooted forward between the two scientists. He studied the video image. “Can you increase magnification?”

  “Yes,” the pilot said.

  It took a moment for the resolution to improve, and then the officer muttered, “What the hell?”

  “Do you know what it is?” asked the pilot.

  The captain-lieutenant ignored the question. Instead, he said, “Can you get a sample of it?”

  “The wire?”

  “Yes.”

  “We should be able to use the manipulator arm to grab it.”

  “Good . . . please proceed.”

  An hour later, the ROV completed its work, retrieving multiple samples of the wire and other debris. It ascended, following the tether back to the oil-filled eight-foot-square hole carved in the ice.

  Drenched in crude, the underwater vehicle with its cargo was loaded aboard the helicopter. The evidence would be delivered to the Kremlin within twenty-four hours.

  * * *

  Yuri didn’t bother with using a public computer like Laura. Instead, he accessed the anonymous Gmail account from his desktop PC at work. He typed the message and posted it in the Draft folder. Then, using a throwaway cell phone he kept just for this purpose, he texted the code words: LITTLE MAC SAYS HELLO.

  Yuri hoped to receive a response later in the day, probably in the evening.

  Nicolai Orlov could not risk accessing the Gmail account from inside or near the Russian consulate in San Francisco. Like Laura, he would use a public computer, maybe at a library or Internet café. The consulate maintained excellent internal electronic security—that wasn’t the worry. Eavesdropping by the FBI and other federal snoops created the concern.

  Nick would also need to check for any tails that he might attract after leaving the consulate, which Yuri knew Nick was expert at shaking.

  Yuri at first resisted contacting Nick. It would be risky for him, still an active SVR officer conducting operations. But Yuri had no one else to call on.

  Yuri would ask for advice and nothing more. He wanted to protect his friend. Besides, Yuri was forever indebted to his fellow spy. Nick had saved his life—and Laura’s, too.

  CHAPTER 20

  DAY 10—WEDNESDAY

  Yangzi was a stately vessel, worthy of her namesake—China’s epic Yangzi River, third largest in the world. At ninety-three meters with six decks including a helipad, Yangzi was one of the world’s most elegant and costly superyachts. Today the ship occupied a side-tie slip along the guest dock of a marina in Long Beach, California. Kwan Chi had arrived in LA earlier aboard his own Gulfstream.

  One of Kwan’s companies had purchased the yacht a year earlier, for millions less than it cost to build; the previous owner had gone bankrupt. Kwan could not resist such a bargain. Besides, the Yangzi provided a convenient home away from home for his foreign operations, especially in the United States. Awarded a Green Card after investing nearly a billion in real estate from San Diego to Seattle, he could come and go aboard his floating palace as he pleased.

  On paper, Kwan Chi owned the Yangzi, but the Chinese government, through its Ministry of State Security, supplied the acquisition funds. Responsible for foreign intelligence and counter-intelligence, the MSS was the People’s Republic of China’s equivalent of the CIA and the FBI.

  A twenty-year veteran of the MSS, Kwan Chi, and his masters in Beijing, had carefully established his role as an astute businessman. It was the perfect cover. Who would ever expect a billionaire to be a spy?

  Kwan Chi sat in the salon on the yacht’s fourth level—his personal deck. The Asian artwork decorating the room was from the Ming dynasty. He wore a polo shirt, khakis, and deck shoes. Sitting across the white marble coffee table was Elena Krestyanova. Her flight from Singapore had landed at LAX ninety minutes earlier. Dressed in a sleek knee-length skirt and sheer blouse, she looked radiant despite the long transpacific flight.

  It was late afternoon and they both sipped a chilled Napa Valley chardonnay. They chatted for ten minutes, catching up on each other’s travels. Subconsciously, both anticipated the playtime they would have later in the evening in Kwan’s palatial cabin, where Elena had spent time before. But for now it was all business.

  “Tell me,” Kwan said, meeting Elena’s electric blue eyes, “has the new opportunity that you hinted at evolved?”

  Elena smiled. “It has, and I think you will find it very interesting, possibly quite valuable.”

  “Please, continue.”

  Elena removed an iPad from the handbag that she’d carried aboard the yacht. She activated the screen and called up a video file.

  “I’m sure you remember the oil spill in Alaska and the oil company executive that was splattered by oil from the eco nuts.”

  “How could I forget that?”

  “I know.” Elena played the clip. Near the very end, she froze the video and increased the magnification. She passed the tablet to Kwan.

  He stared at the image of Yuri Kirov. Puzzled, he asked, “So who is this fellow?”

  “He’s my five-million-dollar man.”

  “Hmm. Tell me more.”

  CHAPTER 21

  DAY 11—THURSDAY

  Nick Orlov sat at a desk in his third-floor office of the consulate, leaning back in his chair. At six-foot-two and 180 pounds with stylish dark hair and chiseled face, he had good looks that were received well by females and males alike.

  It was early afternoon. His thoughts focused on Yuri. After communicating via the Gmail account, they talked by phone.

  Nick had called Yuri’s disposable cell this morning, using a throwaway he’d purchased. He called while on the ferry from Sausalito, confident that the chances of a tail with a mobile electronic eavesdropping device intercepting the call were minimal. After two years, he recognized just about every commuter on the boat.

  The threat was genuine. Despite Yuri’s beard and longer hair, Nick had recognized his friend. Others back in Russia might also make the connection.

  The original plan had been for Yuri to fake his death. Nick’s verification that Yuri had died on the southbound boat trip, succumbing to decompression sickness, would close the book on the issue. But events changed their scheme. The nasty business with Laura’s estranged husband forced them all to rethink their next moves, especially Yuri.

  There were too many at the marina and the hospital in Vancouver that saw them. It would be impossible to hide the fact that Yuri had survived the voyage. Besides, Laura had insisted that Yuri receive treatment at a specialty hyperbaric facility in Seattle, another venue that Yuri could be traced to even with a bogus name.

  In the end, Yuri nixed the phony death plan. He’d argued that it would be too risky for Nick should the ruse be discovered. Willing to take the chance, Nick relented. In his official post-mission briefing to SVR headquarters and to his boss at the consulate, he reported that Yuri
had disappeared with his female accomplice after they returned to Seattle with the workboat.

  Nick was now thankful for Yuri’s foresight. If the SVR, FSB, or Russian Navy made the connection in the YouTube video, Nick would be in the clear.

  But Nick still fretted. His admiration of Yuri Kirov was genuine. He often recalled what Yuri had done to save his crewmates, suffering grievous injury while trapped behind enemy lines but never giving up.

  “He’s a good man,” Nick muttered to himself. “I need to help him—somehow.”

  * * *

  The Yangzi was thirty-five nautical miles offshore of the southern California coastline, cruising northward at sixteen knots. Despite the six-foot-high swells rolling in from the southwest, the yacht’s ride was silky. The horizontal hull stabilizers and the antiroll gyros located in the forward and aft compartments of the steel hull dampened the nausea-inducing motion that habitually plagued those without “sea legs.”

  Today there were no landlubbers aboard the 305-foot-long ship; it was just Kwan Chi and his seasoned crew. Kwan was in the operations center, a spacious compartment located near the bow on level three—the main deck. Equipped with the latest electronic communication devices, it allowed Kwan to stay connected with the homeland wherever his travels might take him.

  This early evening he was speaking over an encrypted telephone link to the MSS’s deputy minister of operations in Beijing. A Chinese military communications satellite facilitated the conversation.

  “Do you trust this Russian?” asked the deputy director.

  “No, sir. Not at all. She was trained by the SVR and is still in its employ.”

  “Are we getting played?”

  “It’s always a possibility, but I believe her motives are strictly monetary.”

  “What do we know about this person she’s offering up?”

  “I made a request to the Second Department for verification. The subject, Yuri Kirov, is in fact missing—for over a year now. The Department’s operative at the naval base in Vladivostok reported he was aboard a submarine on a clandestine mission somewhere in North America but did not return with the submarine. He is officially listed as missing.”

  “What’s his background?”

  “Intelligence officer, a captain-lieutenant. Thirty years old.”

  “GRU?” asked the MSS spymaster, referring to the Glavnoye Razvedovatel’noye Upravlenie, Russia’s military intelligence service.

  “Yes, sir. He’s with fleet intelligence.”

  “His mission?”

  “He was assigned to a submarine based out of Petropavlovsk-Kamchatskiy.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The deputy minister asked, “What else did this woman say?”

  “If we had interest, she would make him available to us.”

  “For what price?”

  “Five million American.”

  “What’s the quality of her prior information?”

  “Excellent. We have learned much about Russian defenses in the Far East. All of her information has proven to be first rate.”

  “Very well, you are authorized to proceed to the next step.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Kwan hung up, terminating the satellite link. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. He remained drained; it was Elena’s fault.

  The previous night they’d spent together in his stateroom was one he would long remember. Elena’s appetite was insatiable. He loved it.

  While Elena and Kwan played, the fact-checking that he’d ordered his assistants to undertake proceeded full throttle. When Yangzi cleared the outer breakwater at the Long Beach Harbor, the report from the PRC’s Military Intelligence Department, aka the Second Department, was downloaded, decrypted, printed, and then set out on his desk in the operations center.

  Kwan thought ahead to the mission. If what Elena hinted the Russian submarine officer could provide was even half-true, it was a game changer. Nevertheless, he remained cautious.

  The Russians were just as devious as his own countrymen—and women.

  CHAPTER 22

  DAY 12—FRIDAY

  Yuri watched the video from his office computer. It was a live broadcast of the Russian Federation president’s address to parliament. Yuri heard about the pending speech from a Russian-language cable television channel he’d watched at home the previous evening. He made a habit of listening to the channel to keep his Russian fresh and to stay abreast of homeland politics.

  Yuri accessed the live broadcast through a Russian government website.

  The Russian president reported that the seabed oil well in the Western Chukchi Sea was sabotaged. He blamed the United States of America, providing evidence collected from the well site to validate the accusation. A wire-guided torpedo destroyed the wellhead, causing the blowout and ongoing spill. During the speech, he held up a one-meter length of a paper-thin fiber-optic cable to the cameras, claiming it was retrieved from the bottom near the well and further stating that the other end of the wire had extended over two kilometers to the east.

  The president also pointed to debris displayed on a nearby table. The metal fragments and electronic components were parts from the weapon. He concluded his speech by calling the sabotage an act of war and threatening retaliation.

  Yuri didn’t believe for a moment that the USA was behind the attack. There was nothing for America to gain. The spilled oil was apolitical; it would contaminate the Arctic regardless of international boundary lines.

  He’s hiding something. Someone probably made a mistake, causing the accident, and now he’s covering it up.

  Yuri had observed it before while in the Russian Navy. Accidents aboard nuclear submarines were legion. Invariably, the causes resulted from poor manufacturing processes, minimal maintenance, or inadequate crew training. Rarely would the Navy or its government-run shipyards take responsibility. Usually, the accidents were blamed on human error with officers at the bottom of the totem pole taking the heat.

  They’re obviously hiding something. I bet someone screwed up big-time regarding the oil well and now the Kremlin is trying to pin the blame on Uncle Sam.

  Russia will never change.

  * * *

  Kwan Chi finished reading the translated text of the Russian president’s speech, compliments of the MSS’s Technical Support Department. It was all beginning to fall in place. Compared to the others he was just a cog in Operation Sea Dragon, but his contribution would be critical, possibly even the inciting element. That thought both thrilled and vexed Kwan. Success would bolster his already stellar career. Failure would dethrone him, allowing a rival—and there were several—to take over his coveted role.

  No! I will not allow that to happen. The mission will succeed—whatever it costs.

  The Yangzi continued its northerly advance. Now offshore of the Oregon coast, approaching the mouth of the Columbia River, the superyacht would arrive in Seattle the following afternoon. Kwan looked forward to that port of call. Elena would be just a few hours away by automobile.

  He had called her after receiving approval from Beijing. Ecstatic, Elena promised to move forward with her plan at once.

  * * *

  Recruited during his third year at the Tsinghua University School of Economics and Management in Beijing, Kwan Chi was the ideal candidate for the Ministry of State Security’s burgeoning Foreign Affairs Bureau. Fluent in English and highly regarded by his SEM professors as one of the school’s best students ever, the twenty-year-old Kwan was wooed by several state-owned businesses with promises of a fat salary, a prestigious office, and international travel.

  Born four years before China implemented its one-child-per-family mandate, Kwan was the youngest of three siblings. He grew up in an affluent section of Hangzhou in Eastern China’s Zhejiang Province. His father was a mid-level Communist Party bureaucrat who provided well for his family. Both of his brothers ran successful businesses in Hangzhou. But Kwan was special—h
is test scores were off the charts and unlike many of the academically gifted, he had a gregarious personality that opened untold doors of opportunity.

  After graduation, the MSS allowed Kwan to earn an MBA degree from Tsinghua University’s SEM, which included a semester at MIT’s Sloan School of Management for which he also earned a certificate and bragging rights.

  At twenty-three, Kwan entered China’s business world just as the Party embraced capitalism as its savior. For the next twenty years, China rode a tsunami of economic growth that catapulted the world’s most populous nation into a global financial juggernaut. Kwan rode that wave of prosperity at its crest, coached and spurred on by his masters from the Ministry of State Security.

  Successful execution of Kwan’s role in Operation Sea Dragon would supercharge his already stellar career. Failure would result in the curtailment of the perks he took for granted, and might even earn him a bullet in the head.

  CHAPTER 23

  DAY 13—SATURDAY

  The Norsk Voyager hovered thirty feet from the well site. The mini-sub had arrived two hours earlier, transported by a Russian Federation nuclear-powered attack submarine. The Barrakuda loitered about a thousand feet to the south, sandwiched by overhead ice floes and the shallow mud bottom.

  About the size of a heavy-duty pickup truck, the submersible was chockfull of equipment, leaving a cramped cockpit for the three-man crew. Upon arriving at the Petropavlovsk-Kamchatskiy naval base aboard a Russian cargo jet, the Norwegian mini-sub mated to the Barrakuda’s aft escape hatch. The sub then made a speed run, transiting the Bering Sea through the Bering Strait into the Chukchi Sea.

  The submersible’s crew deployed the cryogenic unit, using Norsk Voyager’s onboard ROV to transport the pre-assembled copper coiling and install it around and inside the well’s steel casing. The torn end of the approximately twenty-inch-diameter pipe jutted six feet above the bottom. A steady flow of brownish-black oil mixed with dissolved natural gas poured from the conduit.