The Good Spy by Jeffrey Layton

“The caller John Kirkwood, what can you tell me about him?” She’d only received a cursory briefing on the new case.
    â€œHe’s one of ours. Voice analysis of his calls with the embassy indicates a ninety-two percent probable match with the test recording in the file.”
    Orlov reached into his coat pocket and removed a four-by-six color print of a young male in civilian dress. He held up the photograph. “His real name is Kirov—Yuri Ivanovich. He’s a captain lieutenant.”
    She stole a quick look. “A military officer?”
    â€œNavy—submarines. He’s done well for being so young; only twenty-nine.”
    â€œWhat else do you have?”
    Orlov cited Kirov’s stellar education, secondary and academy levels, and his fluency in English. He continued with the rundown. “After earning his commission, Kirov received a year of postgraduate training in electronics and communications at a technical institute in Moscow. Then spent sixteen weeks training with a naval dive unit based out of Sevastopol on the Black Sea.”
    â€œHe’s a diver?”
    â€œApparently he’s some kind of underwater Intel expert. He’s assigned to a sub from Petro.”
    â€œGRU?”
    â€œHe’s a naval officer assigned to the GRU’s Pacific Fleet Intelligence Directorate.”
    Traffic was building, almost stop and go. Elena braked and turned toward Orlov. “What’s his personal background? Married, family?”
    â€œHe’s single. No siblings. Mother’s deceased; his father is retired Army—a light colonel. Lives in Moscow.”
    Orlov continued to rubberneck, amazed at the approaching vista. Ultra-modern glass and steel spires jutted into the crystalline sky, back-dropped by the emerald waters of the False Creek inlet.
    Vancouver was an exquisite city. Elena ignored the cityscape. As an eight-month resident, she had become immune to the metropolis’s charms. Instead, she focused on processing Orlov’s verbal report. A few minutes away from their destination, she asked the question that had been gnawing at her. “Major, if he’s with submarines, what in the world is he doing here?”
    â€œHe’s supposed to be aboard a sub right now.”
    â€œThere’s something wrong here,” Elena offered.
    â€œI agree.”

CHAPTER 13
    C aptain Borodin’s orders called for at least one officer to stand watch in the central command post every hour of the day, even with the boat glued to the bottom. This watch was no exception; the Neva ’s lowest ranking officer staffed the CCP alone. During past watches, at least two sailors would staff the control center with an officer. This afternoon, however, the rest of the crew rested in their bunks—captain’s orders. Exhausted from cleaning the clogged seawater intakes, the men had earned a respite.
    The twenty-three-year-old sat in the captain’s leather-lined chair near the center of the compartment. He scanned the control panel displays, readouts, and gauges that still functioned inside the sub’s nerve center.
    The junior lieutenant turned abruptly to his right; a new blinking red light caught his eye. He leaned forward, focusing on the escape trunk display. The readout indicated that the aft escape chamber was open to the sea and flooding. He reached to pick up a microphone and call the captain—normal watch protocol. But his hand froze in mid-air. Borodin had retired to his cabin at the beginning of the watch; he’d been awake for fifty hours straight. The lieutenant’s supervisor had warned him not to bother the captain unless there was a real emergency. “Nyet fignjá!” —no bullshit—he’d ordered.
    He tapped the light with his right forefinger. Its intensity remained unchanged. He checked other displays, looking for anything that might offer an explanation. Nothing.
    The officer leaned back in the chair,