The Faithful Spy Read online

  The Experts Praise

  THE GOOD SPY

  By Jeffrey Layton

  “The excitement never stops in The Good Spy by Jeffrey Layton. Richly detailed and bristling with fascinating political intrigue, the story sweeps between the United States and Moscow as the danger intensifies. This is high adventure at its very best.”

  —Gayle Lynds, New York Times bestselling author of The Assassins

  “An explosive high-stakes thriller that keeps you guessing.”

  —Leo J. Maloney, author of the Dan Morgan thrillers

  “Layton spins an international thriller while never taking his eye off the people at the center of the tale. A page-turner with as much heart as brains.”

  —Dana Haynes, author of Crashers, Breaking Point, Ice Cold Kill, and Gun Metal Heart

  “Breathless entertainment—a spy story with heart.”

  —Tim Tigner, bestselling author of Coercion, Betrayal, and Flash

  “A fast-paced adventure that will challenge readers’ expectations and take them on a thrilling journey—even to the bottom of the sea. Written with authority, The Good Spy is a visceral yet thoughtful read about an unusual pair of adversaries who join forces in an impossible mission.”

  —Diana Chambers, author of Stinger

  Cover Copy

  A spy without a country . . .

  Yuri Kirov is a wanted man. A former intelligence officer for the Russian Navy, he is living incognito in the United States. But the Russians are not through with him. He is recalled to duty and ordered to complete one last mission: infiltrate a Chinese naval base and install spy hardware on their newest nuclear submarine.

  As a Navy veteran and expert in underwater technology, Yuri is the perfect man for the job. But with his family in danger in the U.S., he is also the perfect pawn. By the time Yuri discovers the true purpose of his mission, it is too late. A new Cold War is heating up. And it’s about to go nuclear . . .

  Visit us at www.kensingtonbooks.com

  Books by Jeffrey Layton

  *The Forever Spy

  *The Good Spy

  Vortex One

  Warhead

  Blowout

  The Faithful Spy

  *Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  The Faithful Spy

  A Yuri Kirov Thriller

  Jeffrey Layton

  LYRICAL PRESS

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  Contents

  The Experts Praise

  Cover Copy

  Books by Jeffrey Layton

  The Faithful Spy

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87

  Chapter 88

  Chapter 89

  Chapter 90

  Chapter 91

  Chapter 92

  Chapter 93

  Chapter 94

  Chapter 95

  Chapter 96

  Chapter 97

  Don’t miss the next exciting Yuri Kirov thriller

  Chapter 1

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Lyrical Press books are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp. 119 West 40th Street New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2018 by Jeffrey Layton

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  All Kensington titles, imprints, and distributed lines are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchases for sales promotion, premiums, fund-raising, and educational or institutional use.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Special book excerpts or customized printings can also be created to fit specific needs. For details, write or phone the office of the Kensington Special Sales Manager:

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Attn. Special Sales Department. Phone: 1-800-221-2647.

  Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  LYRICAL PRESS Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  Lyrical Press and the L logo are trademarks of Kensington Publishing Corp.

  First Electronic Edition: October 2018

  eISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0558-8

  eISBN-10: 1-5161-0558-3

  First Print Edition: October 2018

  ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0560-1

  ISBN-10: 1-5161-0560-5

  Printed in the United States of America

  Dedication

  To my sisters, Pamela and Julie

  Chapter 1

  The interrogation cell reeked of stale vomit and rotting urine, leftovers from the previous occupant. A bulle
t to the back of the skull was the routine measure dispensed here for traitors.

  Chilled to fifty-eight degrees Fahrenheit, the twelve-foot square unfinished basement room was buried deep under the Lubyanka Building in the Meshchansky District of Moscow. A single light bulb dangling from the ceiling illuminated the drab concrete walls and floor. Nastasia Vasileva sat on a metal chair, her left wrist handcuffed to the bracket bolted to a table. She wore a paper-thin oversized gray jumpsuit that concealed her curvy, sensuous frame. Sneakers sans socks and laces encased her feet. Other than plain cotton panties, no under clothing was allowed.

  To complete the humiliation, they had sheared her mid-back length golden locks to a butch bob.

  Nastasia shivered, an expected reaction to the frosty environment and her skimpy attire, but gut-churning dread amplified her body quakes. She struggled to maintain bladder control. She waited for nearly half an hour before he returned.

  A stub of a man, Mikhail Kireyev was bald, rail-thin, and in his early forties. He worked for the Federal Security Service—Federal’naya Sluzhba Bezopasnosti. The FSB was the Russian Federation’s FBI—and then some. Kireyev sat in the chair on the opposite side of the table. A major in the FSB, he was not in uniform today. Instead, he wore an off-the-rack dark wool suit with a starched white shirt and nondescript red tie. Kireyev placed the file folder he carried onto the tabletop and looked his captive in the eye. “I don’t believe you,” he said, his tone arctic. “We have not been able to verify your story. You are lying.”

  “No, that’s not true. I was working to turn him, just what my directive required.”

  “We know you made at least three unauthorized visits to Seattle to collaborate with him.”

  “It was my mission. I had operational control. I did what was required.”

  Kireyev, an expert in counterintelligence interrogations, opened the file and removed a color photo. He held up the print of a mammoth yacht. “What was he doing with this boat?”

  “He used it as his home base when he was in North America.”

  “How did he acquire the Mark Twelve?” He’d asked this particular question numerous times during previous interviews.

  “I don’t know anything about it. I never saw it and he never mentioned it.” Nastasia reached up with her free hand and caressed her left shoulder. The post-operative ache remained. Her shattered clavicle, reassembled with metal pins and plates, refused to heal. Major Kireyev rubbed the stubble of his chin while staring at the woman he considered a turncoat. Nastasia looked away, knowing he’d already decided her fate.

  Kireyev pushed his chair away from the table and stood. He collected the file and without another word exited the room. The steel door slammed shut with a shudder that signaled finality.

  * * * *

  The two men watched as Major Kireyev departed. A closed-circuit high-definition camera mounted in a basement ceiling corner provided live audio and color video of the interrogation of Russian operative Nastasia Vasileva—cover name Elena Krestyanova.

  The directors of the brother intelligence agencies sat in posh chairs inside a well-appointed office half a dozen levels above the subterranean holding cell. They drank tea while staring at the 65-inch wall-mounted flat panel screen.

  “I agree with Kireyev,” FSB General Ivan Golitsin said. “She’s obviously dirty.” A month beyond sixty with thinning blond hair, Golitsin wore a black business suit that did nothing for his thick, stocky build.

  “Maybe, maybe not,” said Borya Smirnov. In his early fifties, he wore a Savile Row navy herringbone classic fit suit. The custom tailor-made ensemble complemented his lanky frame.

  “Come on, Borya, I know she was one of your stars, but Kwan obviously turned her. Your own man in the field said as much.”

  “She was granted broad authority, like she said. He’s a juicy target and her mandate was to bring him over, whatever it took.” Smirnov was the director of the SVR and Nastasia’s—Elena’s—boss. The SVR—Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki—was the successor to the former First Chief Directorate of the KGB. Responsible for foreign intelligence operations, the SVR functioned as Russia’s CIA.

  General Golitsin studied Elena’s video image. The thirty-two-year-old woman remained seated at the table with her head slumped forward—defeated.

  “Perhaps she got too close to Kwan. Could she be in love with him? That would explain much.”

  “No. She’s not capable.”

  “Her training?”

  “That plus all those years in the orphanages—she was abandoned at two years old.”

  “Orphanages—nasty business,” Golitsin offered.

  The men studied the video image of the prisoner. SVR chief Smirnov set his empty cup on a side table. He turned to face his counterpart. “I believe there may be a way to salvage this situation.”

  Golitsin leaned forward, his head angled to the side. “What do you have in mind, Borya Mikhailovich?”

  Chapter 2

  Day 1—Sunday

  Laura Newman sat in a lounge chair on the expansive deck of her hillside home, overlooking the tranquil waters of Lake Sammamish.

  It was half past six and the July sun arced low in the western sky. With temperatures still in the high eighties, it was the tenth day of the “heat wave” for the Puget Sound region—a rarity for the Pacific Northwest. Laura luxuriated in the warmth, wearing a bikini halter top and low-rise bottoms. Even with her chocolate complexion, she took precautions, applying sunscreen over every square inch of her exposed skin.

  An exotic blend of Scandinavia and equatorial Africa, Laura had inherited her Swedish mother’s high cheekbones, full ripe lips, azure eyes, and russet hair. Her father’s tall willowy frame, broad nose, and cocoa skin, all linked to his distant Bantu ancestors, complemented her mother’s genes.

  Laura cherished the downtime. This was the first weekend in several months that she didn’t bring her work home. She’d promised Yuri that she would avoid all email and switch her cell off. Still, she couldn’t help but think about the coming week. The pressure cooker would ramp up tomorrow morning when she returned to the downtown Bellevue high-rise that served as the headquarters for Cognition Consultants. As one of the three owners of the two thousand-plus-employee IT firm, Laura was in high demand. Grateful for her company’s phenomenal success—and the enormous financial rewards she benefitted from—Laura grew weary from the daily grind. Nevertheless, she would soldier on. Only thirty-three, she envisioned running full-throttle for another ten years and then maybe backing off. Yuri wanted her to put the brakes on now. She’d already accumulated more wealth than they would ever need—for several lifetimes.

  Laura glanced at the color monitor on the deck table next to her chair. The image of her daughter asleep in the nursery filled the display. Two weeks shy of her first birthday, Madelyn Grace Newman had ash-blond hair, sapphire eyes, and when she smiled, the cutest dimples any mother could wish for. Laura’s ex-husband was the child’s biological father, but Yuri treated Madelyn as his own—a blessing Laura cherished.

  Laura would limit herself to just one glass of wine. She was still nursing Maddy, but tonight she would use a warmed bottle of her own milk stored in the freezer. They had decided it was time for a nanny. Laura interviewed nearly a dozen candidates before making her choice. The references and background checks were now completed. A twenty-six-year-old from Bellingham would start work the following week. Laura hoped that Maddy and Amanda would connect, but not so much that Laura’s own bond would suffer. Laura had promised herself—and Maddy—that she would not become a part-time mom, no matter what demands her business generated.

  Thinking ahead to a critical meeting she would chair tomorrow afternoon at Cognition, Laura’s thoughts clicked on pause when Yuri walked onto the deck from the living room. A strapping six-footer with slate-gray eyes, jet-black hair, and a trim beard that complemented his square-jawed face, Y
uri Ivanovich Kirov was a couple years younger than Laura was. He wore a tank top and swim shorts that revealed his well-muscled, athletic build. He carried a platter of thick steaks, New York strips from Trader Joe’s.

  “Time to barbeque,” Yuri said as he stepped to the built-in gas grill at the end of the deck. A trace of his Russian accent remained.

  Laura sat up. “You need help?”

  “I’ve got everything covered—just relax.” Half an hour later, they sat together at the deck table enjoying Yuri’s feast—sizzling beef, corn on the cob, Caesar salad, and grilled vegetables. Maddy continued to sleep.

  “This is wonderful,” Laura said. “Thank you for making dinner.”

  “My pleasure.”

  “Did you talk with Bill this afternoon?” Laura referred to Bill Winters, chief engineer for Northwest Subsea Dynamics. Laura owned the controlling interest in NSD. Yuri managed the company for her.

  “Yes, we caught up.”

  “Does he still want you to go to Barrow?”

  “He does, but I was able to put it off for a couple of weeks.”

  Laura shifted her legs. “How’s the cleanup going?”

  “It’s still a mess. Pockets of oil are continuing to leach from the remaining ice as it melts. There’s an armada of cleanup vessels but they’re not enough.”

  NSD was under contract with the U.S. Coast Guard to monitor an enormous oil spill in the Chukchi Sea offshore of Barrow, Alaska. An oil well blowout in nearby Russian territorial waters during the previous winter had contaminated large swaths of the Arctic with crude oil. For the past several months NSD’s autonomous underwater vehicles had kept track of the oil-laden ice that reached Alaskan waters.

  “So, this could go on for some time,” Laura said.

  “I’m afraid so. The ice pack moves around so much that the remaining floes containing oil might freeze up in the fall. The whole mess could start over again next spring.”

  Laura arched her eyebrows, knowing the awful toll the renegade oil had already taken on the environment. Videos of oil-soaked birds, seals, whales, polar bears, and other wildlife frequented the nightly news.

  Dinner was over. Laura and Yuri sat side by side in lounge chairs enjoying the retreating sun. Laura held Maddy as she nursed from a bottle. Yuri was enjoying an ice-cold bottle of Redhook ale.