The Forever Spy

by Jeffrey Layton

  They returned to the living room, both sitting on the sofa. Maddy was asleep in her crib.

  It was time for Laura to probe a little deeper. “You seem a bit off tonight, honey. Is there something wrong at work?”

  “I’m that transparent?”

  “No, but I know you’ve been under enormous pressure lately.”

  “So have you.”

  “But not quite like you.”

  He gave her a smile. “I love you for caring about me, Laura. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Yes, and I love you, too.” Something is wrong!

  “I got some bad news today.”

  “What?”

  “Elena—she walked into my office this afternoon.”

  Laura’s right hand flew to her mouth. “Oh dear Lord,” she groaned, her heart racing.

  She was horrified by Yuri’s unfolding story. Yuri downplayed the threat, telling Laura that he was the target—not Laura.

  “I don’t trust that woman one iota. She’s devious,” Laura said.

  “Yes, I feel the same.”

  “Why would they send her? If Russia really wanted you back, wouldn’t they send another naval officer, or maybe even Nick?”

  “She knows her way around the Pacific Northwest. She’s still part of the Vancouver trade mission, so returning to Seattle fits in with her work profile.”

  “I don’t know. I still have a bad feeling about her.”

  It had been over a year since Laura had encountered Elena Krestyanova, yet it seemed like yesterday to her.

  “Elena’s the messenger,” Yuri said. “Don’t work yourself up about it. She’s following orders, that’s all.”

  Laura reclined into the folds of the sofa. The rush had receded; weariness now set in. “Can you do what they want . . . find those recording devices?”

  “Probably, if they’re still there.”

  Laura considered the situation. “I think it’s time to have the attorney make formal contact with the State Department. You need to request asylum.”

  “We’ve been over this before. I won’t do that. The attorney said that you could be prosecuted.”

  “I know, but I’m willing to take that chance.” Laura reached forward with her hands and gently clasped Yuri’s right wrist. “Honey, you just can’t continue in limbo like this. You’re too vulnerable.”

  Yuri met her eyes. “You’ve done so much for me. I can’t ask you to sacrifice anymore.”

  “But I want to help you.”

  “I’m going to tell Elena I will cooperate. Besides, it’s time for me to return to Russia and get closure.”

  “But your government turned its back on you and your crew—you were all expendable. Remember what Nick said.”

  “I know, but it’s time for me to put that aside. I need to clean up my affairs at home and then somehow find a way to return to you.”

  Laura’s heart sank. Her chief horror was now playing out in real time.

  “I don’t want you to leave—it’s too risky.”

  “It’s time. I have to take care of this—to remove the cloud over you that I caused.”

  “Before you respond to Elena, please talk with Nick,” pled Laura. “Ask for his advice. He’s always been a friend, and he knows the situation better than anyone else.”

  “That’s a good idea. I’ll do that.”

  “Thank you.”

  Yuri moved next to Laura’s side and whispered, “I love you so much. You are my life.” And then he kissed her.

  CHAPTER 27

  DAY 16—TUESDAY

  The crude carrier slipped into its berth at the Valdez Marine Terminal well before dawn. Loading operations commenced as the early sun glinted off its decks and towers. After verifying all landside pumping and shipboard receiving systems were functioning properly, the crew increased its flow rate to 120,000 barrels an hour. By seven o’clock in the evening, 1.3 million barrels of North Slope crude would occupy the eighteen separate cavernous holds of the tanker. Scheduled to depart at ten, the Alaskan Star would then begin its two-thousand-nautical-mile southbound voyage to Los Angeles.

  Captain Mike Martin stood in the dark wheelhouse of the colossal ship. A hefty six-footer with a thick russet mane sprinkled with streaks of silvery gray, he peered through the bridge windows. Shipboard and terminal lighting illuminated the steel deck that stretched out nearly three football fields in front of Mike. Packed with a vast and confusing maze of piping, valves, and pumps, the mechanical and electrical systems aboard the tank-ship rivaled those found on an aircraft carrier.

  Mike had made the round-trip between LA and Valdez over fifty times. Pushing sixty, he expected to finish out his three-decade maritime career aboard the Star. With retirement looming he wasn’t quite sure what he would do to keep busy, but for damn sure he wasn’t going to buy a boat. Janet had made that clear. After being away at sea for almost half of their twenty-eight-year marriage, Mike knew it was time to be a grounded full-time husband. He was okay with that prospect, especially since his oldest daughter and her husband had announced before he departed they were “expecting” in late September.

  Grandpa Mike! He liked that thought.

  “Captain, I have a report from Engineering.”

  Mike turned to face his third mate. The twenty-nine-year-old Merchant Marine Academy graduate monitored loading operations. She also worked through the pre-voyage checklist.

  “What’s up, Wendy?”

  “One of the generators has an output problem. The engineer wants to take it offline to run a couple of diagnostics. He suspects a faulty voltage regulator.”

  “Can it be replaced before departure?”

  “Yes. He estimated two hours.”

  “Very well, tell him to proceed, but I want an update in an hour, one way or the other.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  Mike was a stickler about maintaining sailing schedules. Any significant delay would have a cascading impact on offloading operations at the refinery in LA. Besides, his wife’s fifty-fifth birthday was a week away. His three daughters had a blowout party planned for their mother and there was no way in hell he was going to miss it.

  * * *

  The meeting called for a head-to-head. Yuri took a mid-morning Alaska Air flight. Nick drove, taking evasive steps to shake any trailing vehicles. They entered a restaurant on the outskirts of Sacramento, selecting a quiet booth away from the developing lunch crowd.

  During the drive from the airport, Yuri briefed Nick on the basics. The discussion continued to center on Elena Krestyanova. They spoke in English.

  “Can you do this work that she’s requested—recover the recording pods?” Nick asked while rubbing his forehead. He shared Yuri’s concern. The unveiled threat to “out” Laura was right in line with SVR/FSB tactics. Hold a cocked pistol to the head of a subject’s loved one and you’ll always get what you want.

  “Probably. I know the approximate locations from memory. It will take some searching, but that’s what our equipment is good at.”

  “Your underwater robot?”

  “Autonomous underwater vehicle—AUV. It’s designed to conduct underwater surveys.”

  Nick recalled part of their earlier conversation. “But I thought your machine was in Alaska and that it would be working up there monitoring the oil spill through the spring.”

  “That’s right. Deep Explorer is on a surveying mission in the Chukchi Sea right now. Her sister vehicle, Deep Adventurer, is in our warehouse in Redmond. She’s on standby should we need her in the Arctic.”

  “I see.” Nick took a sip from his water glass. “Once you locate the devices, how would you recover them?”

  “I’ll send down a ROV to attach a line and then haul ’em up.”

  “Like what you used with the Neva—Little Mac.”

  “Yes.”

  “So you won’t have to dive yourself.”

  “Not if I can help it.”

  That rekindled a memory for Nick. “Your leg, I di
dn’t notice a limp. Has it mended?”

  “Yes, finally. I still have residual numbness in parts of my calf but have learned to adapt.”

  After half a dozen hyperbaric chamber treatments and then four months of daily physical therapy—all paid by Laura without insurance—Yuri regained use of his once paralyzed lower left leg. The doctors warned Yuri that he should avoid future deep dives. He had suffered severe damage from his dual bouts with decompression sickness. Another exposure could kill him.

  Their meals arrived. They took a break from the Elena problem while eating.

  Yuri said, “So, how are things at the consulate?”

  “Busy. I’m spending more of my time as a liaison with the Chinese delegation.”

  “How’s that going?” The Russia-China pact was now out in the open. Six months earlier, both countries had announced the enhanced joint economic and military alliance.

  “Good. I’m heading to Beijing next month for a couple of meetings. Should be interesting.”

  Yuri didn’t bother asking about Nick’s real mission with China, knowing that Nick would have to lie. Instead, he changed subjects.

  “Your Forty-Niners had a tough year.”

  Nick’s face rolled into a scowl. “Yeah—very disappointing.”

  Nick was a fanatic 49ers fan. Yuri had not yet caught the fire, but Laura had. Her Seattle Seahawks had been in contention for another NFC title but were edged out in the playoffs.

  Nick returned to his chicken enchilada while Yuri reflected on his colleague and friend. He was forever indebted to Nick. He’d stood by Yuri, risking his career and his life. No one else other than Laura had helped.

  Elena was the wild card. Although she had worked with Nick, she was not an ally. But it was all complicated. Nick and Elena had been lovers. Yuri decided to find out if that spark was still alive.

  “Have you seen Elena since Vancouver?”

  “No. We’ve talked on the phone a couple of times. She’s still pissed about what happened.”

  “Does she suspect it was a setup?”

  “I don’t think so. She just blames me for not waiting for her.”

  Yuri, Nick, and the sub’s captain had conspired to trick Elena to board the Neva. It was to protect Laura. Moscow ordered Elena and Nick to “clean up” the loose ends of the mission that had gone awry. One of those ends was Laura. Nick refused the orders but Elena had not.

  Forced to endure a two-week voyage across the Pacific, first aboard the crippled spy sub and then in a rescue submarine, Elena was left in the cold.

  “What is she doing now?”

  “I checked after you called. She remains with the trade delegation but has been working on the Asian circuit.”

  “Still based in Vancouver?”

  “Officially, yes. But she spends much of her time in Vladivostok. It’s a short commute to China. Apparently, she has some type of op going on there.”

  Yuri did not like the thought that Elena remained in his backyard, even part-time. Seattle was just a couple of hours’ drive from Vancouver.

  Yuri considered Nick’s revelation and said, “Why would they assign her to make contact with me? If anyone, it should have been you. You accompanied us to Seattle while she was stuck on the Neva.”

  “I don’t know. I wondered about that, too.” Nick took another sip of water. “When are you supposed to get back to her?” he asked.

  Yuri glanced at his watch. It was almost two o’clock. “By six tonight.”

  “Hmm, I’m not sure how to advise you. Maybe you should hold off and let me do a little more digging.”

  “That’s what I was hoping you’d say.”

  CHAPTER 28

  DAY 17—WEDNESDAY

  The Alaskan Star departed from the Valdez Marine Terminal on schedule at ten o’clock. For the next two and a half hours, Captain Mike Martin and the Valdez pilot guided the 940-foot-long fully laden behemoth through the Valdez Narrows and the Valdez Arm. Escorting the tank-ship were two Prevention and Response Tugs. Should the Alaskan Star lose power or suffer a navigation control casualty, the PRTs were there to keep her off the rocks.

  It was now 12:38 A.M. The Alaskan Star had just passed Bligh Reef to the port, where the infamous Exxon Valdez ran aground in 1989. Nearly eleven million gallons of crude poured into Prince William Sound after rocks ripped open the bottom plates of the single-hull tanker. The spill cost billions to clean up and remained a decaying sore with local fishermen and environmental groups.

  Although the Alaskan Star had a double hull, the latest navigation equipment, and two PRTs that would escort her all the way to the Pacific, Captain Martin always breathed a little easier after passing Bligh Reef. Not one gallon of product or fuel had ever spilled from a vessel he commanded, and he intended to maintain that record.

  The pilot disembarked for a return trip to the Emerald Isle base in Valdez. Captain Mike had complete control of his ship. The tanker was in the southbound lane of the Prince William Sound Vessel Traffic Service running at ten knots. The escort tugs trailed on either side of the Star. The U.S. Coast Guard Vessel Traffic Center in Valdez tracked all three vessels by radar.

  It was a clear night. Moonlight illuminated the waterway while a dazzling display of northern lights lit up the heavens. The seas were calm with just a faint breeze from the south. And there had been no reports of icebergs from the Columbia glacier. Faultless sailing conditions.

  * * *

  The warship patrolled a hundred meters below the surface. The sonar watch started tracking the tank-ship and its escorts once the convoy passed into Valdez Arm. The attack center had working solutions on all three contacts, but the captain focused on just one target.

  “Sonar, range to target,” he said.

  “Fifteen point three kilometers. Target maintaining ten knots, sir.”

  The captain continued with his checklist. “Attack, what’s your status?”

  “Firing solution locked in, sir.”

  “Weapons, status.”

  “All systems hot.”

  The captain turned to face his weapons officer. “Stand by for attack order.”

  “Aye aye, Captain.”

  * * *

  The skipper of the Guardian sipped from a fresh mug of coffee as he piloted the 140-foot PRT. With Bligh Reef behind them, it was now a relaxing voyage as Guardian, her sister tug Vigilant, and the Alaskan Star cruised across the broad reach of Prince William Sound.

  The tug captain was alone in the pilothouse, standing at the helm. His crew was below in the galley on a coffee break. He turned to the port to check his charge. The gigantic tanker remained abeam two hundred yards away. Fully illuminated with racks of floodlights running fore and aft, it looked like a floating factory.

  The captain had completed a radio check with Alaskan Star and Vigilant when something caught his eye in the reflected moonlight. “What the hell?” he muttered.

  The aberration ripped across the water surface at an incredible speed, kicking up a wake that shot a hundred feet into the air. Within three heartbeats, it punctured the Alaskan Star’s hull. The tank-ship erupted into a colossal fireball.

  Then the pressure wave from the blast slammed into the Guardian with the impact of a freight train.

  With ears ringing and completely stunned, the tug captain pulled himself from the deck to peer through the now windowless windscreen. “Mother of God,” he muttered.

  Ripped diagonally from just aft of the starboard bow to near amidships on the port side, the Alaskan Star had cleaved into two sections. The bow’s deck was already nearly awash. The aft hull section remained afloat but burned fiercely.

  The captain reached for his radio.

  “Valdez Traffic, this is PRT Guardian. Tanker Alaskan Star has exploded and is burning. I repeat, the Alaskan Star has exploded and is burning. Get everyone out here NOW!”

  * * *

  It was chaos inside the Alaskan Star’s bridge. Multiple alarms and annunciators blared throughout the compartment.
Captain Mike Martin gripped the handrail at the base of the windscreen with his left hand. As in the Guardian, the explosion blew out all of the tempered glass panels in the pilothouse.

  Bleeding profusely from glass shrapnel, Mike pressed his hand against his forehead. He was unsteady on his feet. No other watch standers were standing. He heard a weak groan from behind. At least someone else is alive, he thought.

  Searing waves of heat from the inferno surged into the bridge. Mike stepped back several feet and stared at his command in shock. What happened?

  It took nearly a minute before the enormity of the event registered. “She’s lost,” he muttered.

  * * *

  After notifying Valdez Vessel Traffic Center and Alyeska’s shore-based traffic control center of the explosion and fire, Guardian’s captain tried to hail both the Alaskan Star and the Vigilant. But there was no response.

  By now, the Guardian’s four-man crew was huddled in the pilothouse. The chief mate asked, “Skipper, what happened?”

  “Just before she went up I saw something streak across the water, incredibly fast. And then it hit, blowing the Star sky-high.”

  “Jesus,” muttered someone.

  “The Coast Guard is on the way,” the captain continued. “Valdez Traffic has notified the spill-response team and they’re mobbing right now. Thor is under way and should be here soon.”

  “Where’s Vigilant?” asked another crewman.

  “No response yet.”

  “Hey, look at that!” shouted one of the men, pointing toward Alaskan Star’s stern.

  “Looks like they’re getting ready to launch a lifeboat,” announced the first mate.

  The captain turned to face his crew. “Prepare to take on survivors.”

  * * *

  After making a head count, Captain Martin ordered his crew to abandon ship. Three men were missing, all workers in the forward section of the ship that had already sunk. Of the remaining fifteen survivors, not including Mike, eight had suffered assorted injuries ranging from broken limbs and concussions to third-degree burns and deep lacerations.