The Good Spy (33 page)

CHAPTER 86

D
AY
19—F
RIDAY

K
en Newman sat in a chair by the fireplace bathing in the warmth of the blazing Douglas fir. The sun descended behind the coastal mountains of Vancouver Island, casting a chilled shadow over the Valdes Island cabin.

Ken remained dog-tired and sore. Maybe tomorrow, he would feel strong enough to explore his surroundings. He had no idea where he'd landed or how to return home. He was just thankful to be alive.

It had been nearly five days since Ken had a drink. Recovering from his hypothermia-induced near-death overshadowed the alcohol withdrawal symptoms. For the time being, the craving remained muted.

Ken found himself thinking often about what had happened aboard the
Hercules.
The Russian killers had come within a whisker of sending him on a one-way express trip to Davy Jones's locker.

But what rattled him the most was Laura.

* * *

Captain Dubova and Lieutenant Karpekov almost made it home. After the ten-hour flight from Vancouver to Amsterdam, they sat in a packed bar inside the international terminal waiting for their connecting flight to Moscow. Dubova was knocking back her second Stoli when the Samsung came to life. She reached down to her waist and extracted the device from her belt case.

Karpekov could not help but notice. “You have a call?”

“Text.”

Dubova opened the messaging box and scanned the communiqué. She then turned the glass display toward Karpekov. He read the one word message:

 

RIAN.

 

“Govnó,”
he muttered.

Dubova surveyed the terminal. She spotted a cluster of pay phones near the next gate. The code word from Moscow required Dubova to use a landline to call a special number that she had memorized.

Karpekov drained his shot glass. After signaling the bartender for a refill he said, “I bet they're sending us out on another mission. Dammit, I wanted some time off.”

Duscha Dubova walked toward the phone kiosk. Her colossal frame towered over lesser passengers that milled about. With no strong ties to anyone or any place, starting another mission was fine with her.

CHAPTER 87

D
AY
20—S
ATURDAY

“H
ow much farther?” asked Nick. He sat in the captain's chair behind the helm.

“About sixty-five nautical miles,” answered Laura. She leaned over the chart table as she plotted a course.

“So we should be back to Point Roberts around six o'clock tonight.”

“Yeah, counting tides that's about right.”

The
Hercules
cruised at eight knots as it headed southbound in the sloppy seas of the Strait of Georgia. Massive Vancouver Island loomed toward the west, Lasqueti Island to the east.

Earlier in the morning, they navigated through the Seymour Narrows, this time southbound, without incident. The remaining voyage would be a cakewalk.

“Do you think we'll have to deal with U.S. Customs?” Nick asked.

“I don't know. Other than the place we bought fuel, how would they know we stopped in Canada.”

“You're right. Maybe we'll be okay.”

“Yeah, let's just keep going. If we get stopped we'll deal with it.”

“Fine.”

“You'll deal with what?” asked a new voice.

Laura turned around.

Yuri Kirov stood near the top of the companionway that connected the galley and the wheelhouse. He hugged the portside handrail with both hands and dragged himself into the wheelhouse. He then slumped onto the bench seat behind the helm.

“Yuri, dear, why are you out of bed?” Laura asked, hurrying to his side.

Sweat poured from his brow and his face blushed. He'd been coughing a tempest for the past two days, but his breathing, like the rest of him, was improving.

“I was tired of lying on the bunk. Besides, I need to keep working my leg.”

The numbness was back.

Laura placed her wrist on his forehead. “You're burning up.”

“I'm all right.”

* * *

Besides suffering from the lingering effects of decompression sickness, Yuri had actually contracted bronchitis instead of the more severe pneumonia. His extended confinement in the recompression chamber and his weakened condition led to the illness. Yuri's sickness mimicked pneumonia, which left him depleted. As part of his pact with Captain Borodin, he had planned to embellish the condition when transferring from the
Neva
to the
Hercules
. But it wasn't needed; Yuri was critically sick. None of the
Neva
's crew could suspect that Yuri had left for any other reason than medical. The storyline Borodin fed to the crew emphasized that Captain Lieutenant Kirov, their savior and hero, had become so impaired that he might die if not hospitalized soon.

The second part of the deal concerned Elena Krestyanova.

When Elena had placed the call on the
Neva
's satphone, the transmitter never broadcast a signal. Borodin had disconnected the cable to the antenna port.

And then, just as Captain Borodin had ordered, the watch officer reported the approaching vessel. Borodin already spotted the tug and log barge with the submarine's radar.

After submerging and waiting for the all clear, Borodin made his bogus periscope observation, reporting to Elena that the
Hercules
had already departed.

Elena went ballistic, convinced that Nick left her behind.

* * *

“So, what were you talking about?” Yuri asked. “You know, ‘we'll deal with it later.' ”

“When we return to Point Roberts,” Laura said. “Nick and I were discussing whether we need to check in with U.S. Customs when we return—we're not.”

Yuri turned toward Nick. “I wonder how Elena is doing?”

Nick just grinned.

Yuri also smiled when he thought about Elena. She no longer represented a threat to Laura or him. It would take her several weeks to return to Vancouver.

Yuri would be gone by then and with Nick's help, there would be no need for her or anyone else to initiate a manhunt.

Nick and Yuri now discussed Yuri's future. Laura listened, feigning intense interest in cloud formations.

“What will you do for work?” Nick asked, still using English.

“I'm not sure . . .” Yuri's voice trailed off as he thought further about the question. “Maybe I will open a hamburger place, like Fat Billie's!”

That drew a chuckle from both Nick and Laura.

Nick continued, “I don't know if that's such a good idea, Yuri. The way you love cheeseburgers—you just might turn into a Fat Billie yourself.”

Yuri laughed.

“You could work for me!” Laura volunteered.

Yuri cocked his head to the side. “Doing what?”

“With a little bit of studying and my mentoring you'll be writing code in no time. You already have the basic skills.”

“But how will I be permitted to work in America? There are immigration laws, no?”

“I'll figure something out.”

* * *

Laura stepped down the companionway to the galley. Nick and Yuri remained in the wheelhouse. Nick stood at the helm. Yuri used the opportunity to close a loose end.

“Major,” he said in Russian, “will your SVR or the FSB come looking for me?”

Nick shifted his stance. “I don't know why we would. You died on the trip back to Point Roberts and we buried you at sea. End of story.”

“Thank you, my friend.”

CHAPTER 88

K
en Newman stood on the rocky shore of Starvation Bay at the north end of Valdes Island. Tied up to a nearby floating pier was a sleek twenty-three-foot Grady White. Two elderly men were at the stern, working on something.

Ken walked down the gangway and stepped onto the wood float. One of the men noticed his approach.

“Sorry to be using your dock, mister, but something fouled the propeller. We'll be out of here in a minute.”

“That's okay. Take your time,” Ken said, masquerading as the owner. He'd already checked the adjacent cabin. Locked up tight, no one was home.

Ken was impressed as he examined the boat, which was tricked out for serious recreational fishing. He walked to its stern and observed the problem. The outboard motor was elevated, exposing the propeller. A basketball-size clump of bull kelp encased the prop.

“Wow, you guys really got into it.”

“We sure did,” said the taller of the pair. Both men were in their early seventies and appeared overwhelmed with the fouled prop.”

“Let me give you a hand with that,” Ken said.

Fifty minutes later, Ken sat in a quiet corner of the restaurant sipping coffee, thankful for his good fortune.

After Ken cut away the kelp that strangled the propeller, the two fishers were more than pleased to ferry him to a marina in Ladysmith where he found the restaurant.

Lucky for Ken, his wallet had survived the ordeal, stuffed in the back pocket of his jeans. He devoured the hotcakes, scrambled eggs, and sausages. Finally rested and with his aches and pains mitigated, his body had craved calories.

While he sipped his third cup of coffee, Ken briefly considered contacting the local police. But he soon dismissed the thought. Who would ever believe him? Russian spies, secret operations, his near execution.

Other than his bruised body, Ken had no evidence to back up his astonishing tale.

What had happened to Laura—and her lover? If the Russian assassins were willing to murder him, maybe she had suffered the same fate.

What if she were dead? Maybe she never changed her will. If so, he'd inherit everything.

It was too much for Ken to process. All he wanted now was to hitch a ride to Sidney—near Victoria, catch the ferry to Tsawwassen, and then retrieve his Corvette in Point Roberts.

His most urgent desire was to sleep in his own bed tonight.

CHAPTER 89

F
or over a week, the
Barrakuda
loitered off the northern California coast until it received new orders. Two days later, Captain Second Rank Oleg Antipov and his crew of sixty-two had arrived at the coordinates provided by Russian Naval Supreme Command.

The submarine maneuvered 320 nautical miles west of Prince Rupert, British Columbia. Antipov ordered the
Barrakuda
to ascend to one hundred meters. As the submarine rose, the inner hull reacted to the reduced pressure by expanding. Mini pops and snaps broadcast into the water column as the steel hull plates shifted. The nominal noise would not trigger any of the U.S. Navy's acoustic bottom sensors. In order to detect such sounds, another submarine would have to be very close by.

And that happened next.

“Captain, sonar. I have a close submerged contact—it just started up. Bearing zero five five. Single screw. Blade count for five knots.”

“What is it?” Antipov asked, using a microphone to call the sonar room.

“Working on it, sir. I should have an answer momentarily.”

Ten seconds passed. “Captain, I have a positive ID; it's the
Neva
!”

* * *

Captains Antipov and Borodin were now connected. Russian submarines come equipped with standard underwater radios, which allows for secure voice-to-voice contact while at close range.

Antipov devoured Borodin's details of the
Neva
's miraculous resurrection. “This is just incredible, Captain. I've never heard of anything like this.”

“We were lucky. The Americans think we're still trying to sneak out through the southern route.”

“How can we help?”

“I think we have a good chance of making it across but . . .”

Borodin spent the next few minutes revealing his operation plan.

Although severely damaged, the
Neva
remained seaworthy. Borodin cautiously predicted that his boat could make it back to Petropavlovsk if they took it slow and stayed shallow.

The
Barrakuda
would follow and serve as a lifeboat. At the first sign of trouble, the
Neva
would surface. The crew would transfer to the
Barrakuda
and Borodin would scuttle the boat, allowing it to sink to the bottom—two to three miles down.

“Okay, Captain,” Antipov said, “you can count us. We'll support you the whole way.”

“Thank you.” Borodin said next, “Before departing, we could use some replenishment.”

“Absolutely, what do you need?”

“We're low on food and need numerous equipment repairs and . . .”

The
Neva
's crew had devoured the foodstuffs from the
Hercules
and Borodin had a list of spare parts needed for critical repairs.

The
Barrakuda
had plenty of extra food and many of the requested parts.

Borodin also requested help. His shorthanded crew could barely manage the crippled submarine's systems.

Antipov asked for volunteers and nearly every man aboard responded. The captain selected two officers, five warrants, and three sailors.

* * *

The
Barrakuda
rode with the low swells that swept in from the northwest. The late-afternoon cloud ceiling hung low to the horizon. A steady rain obscured Captain Antipov's view from the sail but he could see enough. Riding high in the water, the
Neva
drifted about fifty meters to the east.

Captain Antipov towered over the other watch-standers. He raised his binoculars and focused on the
Neva
's sail. He counted six men. He then pressed the handheld Transmit switch, activating the boom microphone of his headset. “Lion, this is Lighthouse, come in please.”

“Lighthouse, this is Lion, over.”

Both short-range radios had built-in encryption systems.

Antipov observed one man raise an arm and wave. “Good to see you, Captain,” he said, raising his own arm.

“You too, sir.”

“Are you ready to make the transfers?”

“Yes, sir. If you could have your men come along our starboard side that should provide the most protection.”

“I'll let them know.”

An inflatable raft made it to the
Neva
, and its cargo of food and spare parts was transferred. The raft and its three-man crew remained moored to the
Neva
, ready to return for crew transfers and additional supplies.

Captain Antipov was monitoring the raft when a new individual exited a side door in the
Neva
's sail and stepped onto the deck. The blond hair marked the woman's presence. He pulled up his binoculars.
“Klássnyy”—
Nice—he whispered as her face and slim torso came into detail.

Borodin had been vague on how the SVR officer ended up on his boat. He wanted her off. With just one toilet that barely functioned, no real privacy, and her constant complaining, she'd become a complete pain in his backside. Even the crew who hadn't been around women for months wanted Elena off the boat.

Antipov agreed to take her. By relocating a couple of his officers, he could give Elena a cabin to herself.

As Elena climbed into the raft, he smiled. It would certainly be an interesting trip home.

* * *

Ken Newman made the border just after sunset. He took a cab from the Tsawwassen ferry terminal. Instead of proceeding to the U.S. border station, the cabbie dropped him off a couple of blocks away. He walked westward along a residential street that paralleled the borderline. High-end Canadian homes lined the roadway.

Ken's passport remained in the Corvette. He could not reenter the United States without it.

It took Ken twenty minutes to reach the westerly limits of the 49th parallel. In darkness, he walked over the open border and entered the United States.