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 to take
on an impossible mission.”
—Diane Chambers, author of Stinger
ALSO BY JEFFREY LAYTON
The Good Spy
Vortex One
Warhead
Blowout
THE FOREVER SPY
A YURI KIROV THRILLER
JEFFREY LAYTON
PINNACLE BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
The Experts Praise The Good Spy BY JEFFREY LAYTON
ALSO BY JEFFREY LAYTON
Title Page
Copyright Page
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
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Teaser chapter
Teaser chapter
PINNACLE BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2017 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.
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
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.
PINNACLE BOOKS and the Pinnacle logo are Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-0-7860-3715-5
First electronic edition: May 2017
ISBN-13: 978-0-7860-3716-2
ISBN-10: 0-7860-3716-4
To my daughters, Kerry and Kimberly
CHAPTER 1
It was an ideal time to work on the ice—no wind, clear skies, and just minus fifteen degrees Fahrenheit. The two researchers from the University of Alaska stood on the frozen sea. Alaska’s Icy Cape was about a hundred nautical miles to the southeast. The international boundary with the Russian Federation lay forty-eight miles to the west.
The sheer white slab supporting the men appeared to extend to infinity in all directions. To the north, the Arctic Ocean stretched to its polar cap. To the south, the Chukchi Sea connected to the Bering Sea, which abutted the immense North Pacific Ocean.
The staff physical oceanographer and the moorings technician from the School of Fisheries and Ocean Sciences had just over two hours to install the equipment before returning to Barrow. Their ride sat on the ice twenty yards to the east. The helo pilot dozed inside the cockpit. Although it was 1:20 P.M., the early February sun barely rose above the southern horizon. In a few hours, it would disappear entirely. The charter pilot refused to fly during Arctic dark.
Designed to measure and record the speed and direction of currents flowing under the ice sheet, the array when deployed would extend 130 feet down, terminating twenty feet above the seabed. Real-time data from the current meters along with the GPS coordinates of the drifting ice pack supporting the array would be transmitted to a satellite and relayed to the chief scientist’s office at the Fairbanks campus.
Although not expected to survive more than a week due to shifting ice floes, the instruments would provide data that would be used to help verify a mathematical model of late-winter water exchange between the Pacific and Arctic Oceans. The study was part of a larger effort to document climate change. The polar ice cap was in an unprecedented retreat. By the end of the coming summer, sea-ice exten
t would likely shrink to a new record minimum.
The investigators were dressed to battle the cold. Each wore a base layer of thermal long johns and vest, a fleece tracksuit for a mid-layer, and an outer layer consisting of an arctic parka and insulated leggings. Wool hats and thin micro-fleece balaclavas covered their heads. Large mittens with thin inner gloves protected their hands. Long arctic boots with removable liners encased their feet.
It took the two men an hour to assemble the current meter array, laying it out in a straight line along the ice. Their next task called for boring an eighteen-inch-diameter hole through the seven-foot-thick ice sheet.
The technician fired up the heavy-duty gasoline-powered auger, referred to as “Icenado” for its tendency to toss operators pell-mell when concrete-hard multiyear sea ice jammed the bit. As the tech let the engine warm up, the racket of the auger’s top-mounted engine polluted the otherwise tranquil environment.
Half a minute passed when the technician shouted, “All set, boss.”
“Okay, Bill.”
The oceanographer grabbed the handle on the opposite side of the auger and the tech goosed the throttle. The bit tore into the first-year ice, advancing three feet in about half a minute. A cone of splintered ice mounded around the borehole.
As the auger continued to penetrate the ice, the operator backed off the throttle, expecting the bit to break through in seconds. That’s when he spotted the change.
“What’s that?” he said, peering down at the black material disgorging from the hole.
Just then, the bit pierced the ice keel and a torrent of blackish seawater erupted, pumped onto the ice surface by the still spinning auger. The tech switched off the engine and both men extracted the auger from the borehole. More black fluid surged inside the puncture.
The scientist dropped to his knees and removed a mitten. He reached into the hole with his right forearm. When he pulled up his hand, the fingertips of the inner glove were blackened. He raised them to his nose.
“Son of a bitch!”
“What?” asked the technician.
“It’s oil!”
“How can that be? We’re out in the middle of frigging nowhere.”
“I don’t know—something’s not right.”
The oceanographer stood. Dismayed, he wiped the soiled glove on the side of his leggings and said, “I’ve got to report this right now.”
He reached into his parka and removed an Iridium satellite phone. Forty seconds later, he connected with the chief scientist in Fairbanks.
Within an hour, a transcript of the field report would reach the desk of the president of the United States.
CHAPTER 2
DAY 1—MONDAY
Laura Newman cradled the coffee mug, embracing the warmth radiating from the porcelain. She stood on the spacious deck of her home, overlooking the serene waters of Lake Sammamish. It was a few minutes before eight o’clock in the morning. She’d already run for half an hour, following her usual route of narrow lanes and streets that snaked up and down and across the hillside of her affluent suburban neighborhood. Downtown Seattle was a dozen miles to the west.
A snow-white terrycloth robe concealed her slender frame from neck to ankles; she’d just showered and shampooed. Her damp hair remained bundled in a towel, turban-style. Clogs housed her feet.
An exotic blend of Scandinavia and equatorial Africa, Laura had inherited her Nordic 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.
In her early thirties, she had little need for makeup. Nevertheless, she would complete the ritual before heading to work, touching up her chocolate complexion.
Always a morning person, Laura prized the solitude of the early hours. She used the quiet time to think and plan. Once she stepped into her office building, it would be a whirlwind for the next eight to ten hours.
Laura sipped from the mug, savoring the gourmet blend. Yuri ground the premium beans and brewed a pot, something he did every morning.
They had been together for over a year—lovers, best friends, and recently business partners.
Leaning against the guardrail, Laura spent the next few minutes strategizing, preparing for a teleconference she would lead at ten this morning with at least a dozen participants from Palo Alto, Denver, and Boston. She would serve as ringmaster for the launch of a new project that she hoped would further enrich her company.
Laura drained the mug—she limited herself to just half a cup a day. She turned and walked back into the living room. Half a dozen steps later, she entered the nursery; it was just off the master bedroom. Madelyn remained fast asleep in her crib.
Laura beamed as she gazed at her divine daughter. Born eight months earlier, Maddy had finally started sleeping through the night, which was a relief to both Laura and Yuri. Several days earlier, however, Maddy’s first tooth had erupted through her lower gum, reinstating the nightly disorder. Awakened around three o’clock this morning, Yuri held Madelyn for half an hour as she chewed on the teething ring before falling back asleep.
Laura reached down and gently stroked Maddy’s angel-soft ash-blond hair. She stirred but did not wake. Laura’s ex was the biological father, but Yuri treated Madelyn as his own—a blessing Laura cherished.
“See you in a little while, sweetie,” Laura whispered. Before driving to work, she would nurse Madelyn.
Laura walked into the kitchen.
Yuri stood at the island, his lean six-foot-plus frame propped against the granite countertop and his arms crossed across his chest. A couple of years younger than Laura, he wore a trim beard that accentuated his slate gray eyes and jet-black hair. As he stared at a nearby wall-mounted television, his forehead contorted. Laura had observed that look before and was instantly on alert.
“What’s going on, honey?” she asked.
Yuri pointed to the TV—a Fox News Channel logo hovered in the lower left corner of the screen. “Oil spill in Alaska. A big one.” Just a trace of his Russian accent remained.
“Where?”
“Chukchi Sea.”
“Oh no—isn’t that near where you’re supposed to work?”
“Yes.”
Laura focused on the television screen. A ringed seal encased in thick gooey oil lay lifeless on a sheet of ice.
“Do they know what happened?”
“No, just that some researchers found the first oil far offshore over the weekend. Then someone else found the seal near Barrow.”
“How many wells did Aurora drill?”
“Four.”
“This is going to change everything.”
“Yes, it is.”
CHAPTER 3
Yuri Kirov sat behind a desk in the office section of a twelve-year-old concrete tilt-up building in Redmond, Washington. It was a quarter past two in the afternoon at Northwest Subsea Dynamics. Yuri had just finished a twenty-minute call with an airfreight company, arranging for a charter flight.
Yuri stood, walked out of his office and passed through NSD’s engineering division—a collection of four cubicles each equipped with the latest CAD/CAM computer systems. He greeted one of the engineers, a twentysomething East Indian woman with a freshly minted master’s degree in mechanical engineering from MIT. Yuri opened a door and stepped into the warehouse section of the building—the heart of NSD’s operations.
Along the nearest wall were three computer-aided manufacturing workstations. Two 3-D printer units, a lathe, and a laser-cutting table occupied floor space along the far wall. Shelving lined another wall, the bins filled with hundreds of assorted electronic and mechanical devices. The assembly area, about three thousand square feet, took up the center of the warehouse.
Yuri approached the three men standing beside a canary yellow cylinder that was twenty feet long and three feet in diameter. The autonomous underwater vehicle was mounted on a steel cradle, its crown ch
est high.
The men loitered near the AUV’s bow, its bullet-shaped fiberglass hull covering removed. They stared at the exposed internal steel pressure casing that housed the AI computer system—Deep Explorer’s brain.
NSD’s senior engineer and eldest employee at forty-eight turned to face Yuri. “What did they have to say?” he asked.
“You’re all set, Bill. Wheels up at eight tomorrow morning at Boeing Field. You guys are on the same flight. The freighter has half a dozen passenger seats behind the cockpit—so you’ll have it to yourselves.”
“Awesome,” Bill Winters said. He turned and with a beaming smile fist-bumped his two assistant engineers, both in their mid-twenties. Winters was the shortest of those assembled, a hair over five and a half feet, and rotund.
“Is she ready?” Yuri asked.
“Yep. We just ran a system check, she’s perfect.”
“Okay, let’s get her crated up along with the support gear. I’ve got a truck on its way. It should be here by four o’clock.” Yuri gazed at his charges. “A few words of advice. It’s the end of the world up there, so take everything that you might conceivably need—tools, extra parts, spare batteries . . . even duct tape.”
The men chuckled.
“Got it, boss,” Winters said. He ran a hand through his thick graying-blond hair. “When are you coming to Barrow?”
“Probably in a couple of days, but don’t worry about me. You’re in charge. Just make Aurora happy and I’ll be happy.”
“Will do.”
* * *
Yuri returned to his office and again sat behind the desk. He leaned back in his chair and stared at a nearby wall. A color map depicting the top of the world filled most of the wall’s surface. He focused on the offshore waters near Alaska’s North Slope. Bill Winters and his crew were bound for Barrow.
Yuri reached for his desk phone, dialed, and waited.