The Vigilant Spy

by Jeffrey Layton

  It was early evening in the Kremlin. The three men met in a conference room adjacent to the president’s office, sitting around an oak table once used by Czar Nicholas I. Tea was just served and the steward dismissed. Meeting with the president were the directors of two of the Russian Federation’s key intelligence agencies—the FSB and the SVR.

  “What happened in China?” asked President Pyotr Lebedev. The Russian leader was fifty-six. Shorter than most heads of state, he compensated with a robust build, maintained by a regimen of vigorous daily exercise including weightlifting. His russet hair was thick with hints of gray.

  “Somehow the weapon was moved from where the divers placed it.” General Ivan Golitsin directed the Federal Security Service—Federal’naya Sluzhba Bezopasnosti. The FSB was Russia’s FBI—and then some. Sixty years old with thinning hair, sagging jowls and a stocky frame, Golitsin wore a business suit today rather than his uniform.

  “How could that have happened?” asked Lebedev.

  Golitsin raised his hands. “We don’t know. The agents sent to activate the device were not under the rein of the FSB.” He faced the man sitting on the opposite side of the table. “They were run by Borya’s people.”

  Borya Smirnov expected the deflected question. “The two Uyghur operatives were run by one of our deep cover agents in Tianjin. He directed the Uyghurs to recall the weapon using the coordinates provided by the divers—Ivan’s people. Obviously, the Uyghur’s deviated from their orders.” In his early fifties, Smirnov wore a custom tailor-made summer ensemble that complemented his lanky frame. With stylish blond hair, azure eyes and a chiseled face, he was the best looking of the trio—by a long measure.

  Smirnov served as the director of the Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki. The SVR was the successor to the former First Chief Directorate of the KGB. Responsible for foreign intelligence operations, the SVR functioned as Russia’s CIA.

  Agitated by the dueling intelligence chiefs, President Lebedev said, “Why would they have transferred the bomb from the harbor into the bay? That makes no sense to me.”

  General Golitsin responded, “Sir, they were never supposed to even touch the device. Once the recall signal was transmitted by the hydrophone, the bomb should have detonated instantly.”

  “So, what happened to them?” Lebedev directed his question to the SVR director.

  “At this point, we suspect that they may have been taken out by the bomb…as was originally intended.”

  “But at the wrong location.”

  Smirnov nodded.

  “What about your agent?” Lebedev asked referring to Talgat.

  “No contact from him. He was obviously spooked by the bomb going off.”

  “He didn’t know?”

  “No sir.”

  The president rubbed his neck, obviously frustrated. “I can’t believe how screwed up this whole operation has turned out. The bomb in Hawaii exploded offshore in the ocean followed by the fiasco in Qingdao. The plan you two hatched has turned to shit.” Lebedev focused on Golitsin. “What have you learned about the Hawaii situation?”

  The FSB General sank into his chair, expecting the rebuke. The two operators sent by spy sub to both Qingdao and Honolulu were his people. To conceal the real purpose of their mission from the submarine’s crew, the men masqueraded as Spetsnaz operators—naval commandos. They were charged with installing underwater espionage gear at Chinese and American naval bases. In reality, the men were part of an elite unit designated OSNAZ, an abbreviation for osobovo naznacheniya—special purpose detachment. The OSNAZ team was part of a Delfin or Dolphin combat diver unit operating from St. Petersburg. Although designated military units, OSNAZ Delfins bypassed the normal Ministry of Defense chain of command. They reported to the FSB director who in turn, had a direct line to the president of the Russian Federation.

  General Golitsin said, “Mr. President, our source at the Pearl Harbor base has confirmed that a submerged sensor detected our divers, probably when they made their exit. Apparently, some type of underwater drone was deployed by the Americans. It followed the trails left by the divers’ transport machines, small furrows in the bottom created by propeller wash, to where the bomb was placed.”

  “That should never have happened, General.”

  “I know. We expect the Americans added additional sensors in the area around the aircraft carrier prior to the team’s arrival. Otherwise, our divers would have avoided it.”

  “How was the bomb disposed of?”

  “Apparently, U.S. Navy divers recovered the weapon and a patrol boat rushed it to the ocean as far as it could before the timer on the detonator ran out. About ten kilometers or so offshore. Our agent reports that the crew barely had time to dump the weapon overboard before it exploded.”

  The president kneaded his forehead, now facing the SVR director. “Why are the American’s silent about the explosion? It’s still not hit the press.”

  “The bomb exploded deep down, around six hundred meters. At that depth, water pressure prevented the blast from reaching the surface.”

  “Unlike what happened at Qingdao?”

  “Exactly. The bomb in Hawaii detonated on the bottom, which produced minimal disturbance on the surface, just some churning water that dissipated rapidly.”

  “What about radiation?”

  “Nothing has been reported about surface contamination but there will certainly be substantial radioactivity on the bottom and in the water column.” Smirnov took a quick taste from his tea cup. “Although the bomb’s blast effects were suppressed, the underwater noise and seismic energy it released cannot be masked. Our sensors in Petropavlovsk-Kamchatskiy picked up the blast. I’m sure the Japanese, Koreans and Chinese heard it along with others that ring the Pacific.”

  “So, it’s eventually going to get out.”

  “Absolutely. Like you said, I’m amazed that the story hasn’t surfaced yet.”

  “What about the diversion plan?” Lebedev asked.

  “As directed, our asset passed the story on to her MSS handler. Beijing knows by now.” Simonov referenced a female Russian mole planted years earlier in the U.S. State Department. Unaware of her true allegiance, a Ministry of State Security officer operating in Washington, D.C. recruited the SVR plant to spy on America for China.

  “Well, at least that part of your plan appears to be working,” President Lebedev commented. While sipping tea, he recalled another enigma. Setting his cup aside he reengaged the FSB director. “What happened to the GRU officer?”

  General Golitsin said, “The captain of the Novosibirsk reported that Captain-Lieutenant Kirov locked out of the minisub at the Pearl Harbor base but never returned. Somehow, he discovered the OSNAZ’s team’s real mission and tried to stop them.”

  “Could he have been responsible for what happened to the weapon?”

  “Unlikely, sir. Our intel on what happened is solid. The Americans found it on their own. Personally, I think Kirov used the opportunity as a way to return to the States.”

  “What?”

  SVR director Smirnov joined in. “Mr. President, Kirov was promised by the Pacific Fleet commander that if he completed his mission in China, he would be permitted to retire from the Navy and return to his lover in the United States. After finishing the China assignment, the Novosibirsk’s side trip to Hawaii provided him that opportunity…early retirement.”

  “So, he’s back in the States?”

  “Yes, he was spotted yesterday at his office and home in the Seattle area.”

  “Could the American authorities have picked him up?”

  “We have no indication of that.”

  President Lebedev intertwined his fingers. “All right gentlemen, the Chinese and the Americans will soon be pointing their fingers at us so just how do we extract ourselves from this catastrophe?”

  Chapter 7

  Ten time
zones behind Moscow, Yuri Kirov was at home. It was half past ten in the morning. Laura left several hours earlier. She worked in nearby Bellevue at Cognition Consultants. As one of the three owners of the 2,000-plus-employee IT firm, Laura served as Senior VP of Operations.

  At Yuri’s request, Amanda and Madelyn visited a nearby park. Yuri had informed Maddy’s nanny that the alarm company would be servicing the home’s security system this morning, which would require minor construction. He didn’t want Maddy exposed to the work. It wasn’t a complete fabrication.

  With Yuri in tow, the two FBI technicians methodically shuttled from room to room, removing the dozen wireless audio-video devices inside the three-level home. The techs had been at it for over an hour.

  “You’re certain that’s the last one?” Yuri asked.

  “Yes sir. We have them all now,” the senior technician said.

  “How many will stay outside?”

  “The six existing cameras.”

  A detail from the Seattle field office assigned to provide security of the Newman residence was currently in a home three doors away. Two person teams monitored the cameras around the clock. The FBI had leased the house while it monitored Laura during its pursuit of Yuri. After Yuri surrendered, the FBI decided to maintain surveillance of Laura’s residence due to potential threats from China and Russia, or so Yuri was told. Although the threats were real, Yuri also suspected that the FBI wanted to keep track of his activities.

  After the technicians left, Yuri called Amanda’s cell and let her know the work was complete and it was okay to return home.

  Yuri climbed into his Highlander and exited the garage. As he drove northward toward Redmond, he had mixed thoughts regarding surveillance. Both he and Laura were desperate to get rid of the interior spy hardware. But would the exterior cameras be enough? After one kidnapping and two subsequent close calls, Yuri worried that his family home was still vulnerable.

  Chapter 8

  The President of the United States and his national security advisor were alone in the Oval Office. It was midafternoon. They sat in chairs facing each other near the fireplace.

  Both men were in their late fifties. President Tyler Magnuson’s belly had expanded a couple of inches since taking office, but he’d managed to keep his chestnut hair. His roguish face and tall frame helped retain his youthful appearance—a blessing for any politician.

  National Security Advisor Peter Brindle went bald years earlier, and his face had leathered from three decades of smoking that finally ceased after a heart attack scare.

  Magnuson and Brindle were veterans. The president served as an Army infantry platoon leader after graduating from Texas A&M with a degree in political science and a commission as a second lieutenant earned during his four years in ROTC. After three years of active duty, he left the Army to pursue a career in law and politics.

  Brindle was a graduate of the Naval Academy. He spent thirty-two years as a surface warfare officer before retiring as a four-star admiral.

  Today, the subject of their meeting was Russia and China. U.S. relations with both countries were in a tailspin.

  “How much time do we have?” President Magnuson asked.

  NSA Brindle clasped his hands. “A couple of days at best. The ship’s crew are not the problem. It’s the scientists that were aboard. Other than grant funding, NOAA has no leverage with them.” The previous day, a National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration research ship berthed in Hawaii conducted a routine biological survey offshore of Oahu’s southern coast.

  “What do they know?” asked the President.

  “When the trawl net was hauled aboard, most of the captured marine life was sent to the ship’s laboratory for analysis and storage. That’s where the trouble started. Apparently, one of the fish snagged in the net was highly irradiated—from byproducts of the nuclear detonation. One of the scientists had decided to run a radiation background check.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “As I understand, it was to establish background conditions to compare against fallout from the Qingdao explosion. The winds will eventually carry radioactive debris to Hawaii and beyond.”

  POTUS nodded. “Have our people been able to identify the source of the Pearl Harbor bomb?”

  “Both Livermore and Los Alamos are working on it. So far, they’ve determined the fissile material was plutonium. They’re trying to link it to Russian reactors but haven’t found a match yet.”

  “But those scientists in Hawaii don’t know what really happened, correct?”

  “Yes, plus the press remains in the dark about the detonation offshore of Honolulu. But plenty of rumors have surfaced on the internet about ‘something’ that happened last week.” Brindle extracted a photograph from a folder he held. He handed the photo to the president. “You’ve seen this before, sir.”

  Magnuson examined the color print. It was an enlargement from a NOAA weather satellite that monitored the central Pacific Ocean. A marble sized gray-white blemish, surrounded by deep turquoise water, was visible offshore of Honolulu’s coastline.

  Brindle continued the accounting. “Even though the bomb detonated about two thousand feet deep, light from the nuclear flash reached the surface. It was visible for just an instant. A couple of airline pilots called in the sighting as well as one private aircraft that was in the area.” Brindle recalled another factor. “The blast was also picked up by our earthquake sensors and underwater sound recorders. So, you can expect the same for the UN monitoring system as well as other foreign nuclear event monitoring facilities.”

  “I get it, Pete. Someone’s going to put all this together.” He placed the photo on the coffee table fronting his chair.

  “I’m afraid so. That’s why I believe we need to be proactive.”

  The president pressed his lips tight, working overtime to contain his fury.

  “Sir, I recommend that you address the nation tomorrow evening or at the very latest the next day. The people need to know what happened.”

  “Not the weekend. We have the state visit and dinner for the Indian Prime Minister.”

  “Right. I’ll set it up for Monday.”

  “How am I going to explain this, Pete, this impossible mess that we’re in that’s no fault of our own?” Magnuson shifted position, his lumbar spine the focus of the mounting stress that assaulted his well-being. “The people will be terrified. Congress will be all over me. And the damn Russians will deny everything.”

  “I’ll help script your speech but I don’t recommend pointing the finger at Russia, at least not yet.”

  “For God’s sake, Pete, those idiots in the Kremlin detonated a nuclear weapon inside the United States. I’ve got to respond to that without starting World War III.”

  “I understand. But it’s not just Russia.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Brindle cleared his throat. “We suspect the event in China is tied directly to what happened at Pearl. Until we fully understand that linkage, I recommend holding off on retaliation against Russia.”

  “How long?”

  “The FBI and CIA are working the issue around the clock. They need about a week.”

  “Too damn long. Tell ’em to step on it. I want options ASAP.”

  “Will do, sir.”

  Chapter 9

  Day 4—Saturday

  It was mid-afternoon at the Qingdao Bureau of the Ministry of Public Security. The MPS serves as China’s domestic police authority. Every cubicle on the second floor of the government building was occupied. The eighteen data analysts toiled away under a mandatory overtime directive issued from Beijing.

  Photo imaging specialist Yu Ling queued up a new video on her desktop computer. The petite twenty-five-year-old had shoulder length glossy black hair. The thin wireframe spectacles she wore hardly detracted from her charming face.


  The video Yu scrutinized was recorded on Thursday, like the other two dozen she had already reviewed as part of the MPS investigation of the nuclear bomb attack. The Port of Qingdao’s surveillance cameras monitored every quay, pier and wharf that the port operated along the shores of Jiaozhou Bay.

  A quarter of the way through the current footage, Yu paused the video. “What’s this?” she muttered. She had just watched the accelerated image of a small boat make a series of east to west and west to east sprints along a commercial waterway. Yu checked the file name of the recording: Zhong Gang—Middle Harbour. She recognized the images. An ex-boyfriend lived in a high-rise apartment near the waterway. Located along the eastern shore of the Jiaozhou Bay, the Port’s Middle Harbour bordered Qingdao’s thriving Shibei District on the south and east and the PLA Navy’s Qingdao Naval Base on the north. A new cruise ship terminal was located just north of the waterway near the base.

  Yu Ling also had access to surveillance videos on the Jiaozhou Bay Bridge. One of the cameras on the span captured the detonation. Just prior to the explosion, the image of a nearby small boat was captured. Her supervisor along with other higher ups in the MPS suspected the boat might have been involved with the bomb. Yu was tasked with identifying the mystery boat.

  Yu Ling resumed the video, viewing at normal speed. She watched as the boat departed the waterway and entered Jiaozhou Bay. She checked the time stamps on the video. It fits. That’s got to be the boat!

  Chapter 10

  Day 5—Sunday

  Yuri and Laura enjoyed breakfast at the deck table of their hillside home. Madelyn Grace was in her nearby playpen, busy lining up her collection of toy horses. Yuri drank coffee; Laura sipped orange juice. They had just finished the meal—scrambled eggs, toast and fruit prepared by Yuri. The temperature hovered in the mid seventy degrees Fahrenheit. In the distance, the sapphire waters of Lake Sammamish shimmered.

  “Where’d Amanda go?” Yuri asked. Maddy’s nanny left half an hour earlier.