The Forever Spy

Book 2: Yuri Kirov Thriller

by Jeffrey Layton

Genres: Spy Thrillers; Military Thrillers; Political Thrillers

Synopsis

A shocking disaster threatens to trigger a new Cold War . . .

Deep beneath the ice-covered Arctic Ocean, a massive oil spill threatens destruction on an untold scale. Yuri Kirov, a former operative for the Russian Navy and an expert in state-of-the-art underwater vessels, is pressed into duty—America's only hope at limiting the damage. When Yuri's past is exposed by a turncoat spy, he is blackmailed into taking on a risky subsea espionage mission. With the future of his newly adopted country at risk—and his loved ones in the line of fire—Yuri must lead his crew into the iciest depths before tensions boil over—while an unseen enemy pushes both superpowers one step closer to the brink . . .

Praise for the first Yuri Kirov thriller, The Good Spy

“The excitement never stops . . . high adventure at its very best.”—Gayle Lynds

“An explosive, high-stakes thriller that keeps you guessing.” —Leo J. Maloney

“A page-turner with as much heart as brains.” —Dana Haynes

“A fast-paced adventure that will take readers on a thrilling journey.” —Diana Chambers

“Breathless entertainment.” —Tim Tigner

Release date: April 25, 2017

Publisher: Pinnacle Books

Print pages: 394

Sample

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 extent 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.

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.”

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 chest 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.

The receptionist on the other end of the line in Anchorage routed Yuri’s call to NSD’s most important customer.

“Good afternoon,” Jim Bauer said.

Bauer was the Alaska operations manager for Aurora Offshore Systems.

“Hi, Jim,” Yuri said. “I just wanted to let you know we’re on schedule down here. Barring weather issues, Deep Explorer and my crew will be in Barrow tomorrow afternoon.”

“That’s great news.”

They had communicated numerous times by phone and e-mail but had not yet met in person.

“We’re really counting on you guys,” Bauer continued. “Houston is already getting bombarded by the media and attacked online by every environmental whack job out there.”

“How about you?”

“Nothing here yet, but it will come. The greens hate us.”

Houston-based AOS cut its teeth drilling in the Gulf of Mexico, having accumulated enormous cash reserves from over a dozen spectacularly successful well fields developed offshore of Texas and Louisiana. After Shell Oil retreated from its Chukchi Sea exploration program due to poor test well results, the federal government banned future Arctic offshore leases. But new trouble in the Middle East and Russia’s stranglehold over Western Europe’s natural gas supply prompted the White House to reverse policy. Alaska’s northern continental shelf was reopened for development. Aurora elected to expand into Alaska, submitting the winning bid for a lease of ten thousand acres east of the Shell site.

“Have you been able to get a crew out to the field to check for oil?” Yuri asked.

“No. Weather turned shitty. Too dangerous for a chopper that far offshore. Maybe tomorrow.”

In spite of fierce out-of-state environmental opposition, AOS won approval to drill four exploratory wells in the Chukchi Sea. The State of Alaska welcomed Aurora warmly and the feds were unusually cooperative; they played strictly by the rules, minimizing regulatory politics as directed by the president. All four bores hit commercial quantities of oil and gas—an unprecedented accomplishment. Aurora planned to drill additional test wells the coming summer in preparation for development of the field.

“Were there any problems cementing in the wells?” Yuri asked, referring to the safety measure of filling the test bores with cement to temporarily plug the drill casing.

“None. It was all textbook. The feds signed off on everything.”

“It must be coming from a seep or an abandoned well.”

“That’s our take on it, too.”

Northwest Subsea Dynamic’s original assignment for Aurora was for a second Chukchi Sea venture. AOS had recently leased an additional twenty thousand acres from the federal government. NSD was under contract to provide precision bathymetry for the new tract.

Preliminary geophysical surveys hinted that the Chukchi Plateau, located in deep waters near the limit of the United States’ Arctic Ocean continental shelf claim, held enormous hydrocarbon reserves—several times those of Prudhoe Bay. Deep Explorer’s innovative sonar and photographic systems coupled with its speed and extended under-ice endurance capability were all well suited for surveying the site. But that work was now on hold. Deep Explorer had a new mission.

“How long do you think the survey will take?” Bauer asked.

“At least forty-eight hours, maybe longer.”

“You’ll check the test wells first, correct?”

“Yes—that’ll be our first task.”

Fallout from BP’s Deepwater Horizon blowout in the Gulf required Aurora to prove its existing Chukchi Sea exploration wells were not the cause of the pollution.

Conventional survey and photographic surveillance of the seabed from ship-deployed remotely operated vehicles—ROVs—would not be possible until the summer, when the pack ice retreated. That left only one option—under-the-ice observation.

Deep Explorer’s new mission was to produce HD video recordings and photographs of the bottom-mounted equipment for Aurora’s Chukchi Sea wells. A companion mission was to survey and video-map the entire development field of its leasehold to search for natural oil seeps or seabed ruptures that might be the source of the oil.

“When will you be coming up?” Bauer asked.

“I’m not sure yet. I’ll know more once my crew is in Barrow.”

“Well, Matheson is flying in tomorrow. I’m sure he’ll want to meet you.”

“Okay, we’ll work something out.”

“Great, nice hearing from you.”

Yuri hung up and again leaned back in his chair. Northwest Subsea Dynamics had a terrific opportunity ahead. He had enormous confidence in his crew, especially Bill Winters.

Winters was one of the founding partners when the company was launched five years earlier. The four partners, all former NOAA engineers and scientists, created a remarkable underwater robot—Deep Explorer. But like so many start-ups, NSD burned through its cash reserves. After exhausting personal savings and repeatedly striking out with angel investors, NSD was about to fold when rescued.

Laura Newman purchased NSD—for Yuri. Bill Winters remained, keeping his 25 percent interest while his partners cashed out. Laura appointed Yuri as general manager and Winters kept his chief engineer position.

Yuri did not draw a salary or any form of compensation from the company; he functioned as Laura’s representative without pay. It was simpler that way, and it provided Laura with a layer of protection.

Yuri did not have a Social Security number, a must for employment, nor did he possess a Green Card or even an expired Visitor’s Visa. Yuri had entered the United States over a year earlier on a clandestine mission for the Russian government that had soured. He had been hiding in plain sight ever since, using an alias and supported by Laura. But he now worried that his ruse might be exposed.

Jim Bauer’s strong hint about the need to meet with Aurora’s CEO weighed heavily on Yuri. His plan all along was for Bill Winters to take the limelight while he remained in the shadows. But with Bill on his way to Barrow, Yuri had no choice but to represent NSD in Anchorage.

The press would soon be hounding Aurora’s Alaska operations office. Somehow Yuri needed to avoid being photographed or videoed.

Nearly halfway around the globe from Washington State and sixteen time zones ahead, the two men met in a luxurious suite on the twenty-eighth floor of the hotel. The brownish stain of smog marred the otherwise spectacular view of the sprawling cityscape this morning.

The subject matter called for a face-to-face, but secrecy dictated that they meet at a neutral venue. Both in their early fifties, the deputy directors of the brother intelligence agencies sat across from each other at a teak conference table. The waiter had just departed, leaving a pot of steaming green tea. They were now alone; their aides waited below in the lobby.

“I thought we would have more time,” the taller of the pair said as he picked up his cup from the tabletop. He was a major general in the Army but today he wore a plain gray suit.

“We were supposed to have another month before it was discovered—when the ice starts to break up,” the civilian said. He wore a custom-tailored Savile Row wool suit over his squat, thick frame.

The general took a sip and said, “Should we advance the schedule?”

The foreign operations spy chief nursed his teacup and took his time responding. “I don’t think that is warranted—yet. All they know is there’s a leak. My people estimate it will be months before it is plugged. The oil will continue to spread during that time.”

“Just the same, I think it would be prudent to plan ahead in case we need to advance the schedule.”

“What do you have in mind?”

The military spymaster reached into the chest pocket of his suit jacket and removed a folded document. He unfolded the single sheet of paper and placed it on the table. “This is our most current estimate of the American Navy’s deployment timetable.”

The intelligence chief studied the document before glancing back at his counterpart. “The next one departs in six weeks—that’s not much time. Can you be ready that soon?”

“I’ve already dispatched a team. They’re on-site now. I’ll know in a few days.”

Laura Newman was in the middle of composing an e-mail when the intercom on her office phone handset came to life. It was the receptionist. “Laura, you have a visitor.”

Laura glanced at the open Outlook calendar on her PC; she had nothing scheduled for the afternoon. “Who is it?” she asked.

“Ah, Mr. Hamilton. He says you don’t know him but it’s about your former husband. He’s working for Mr. Newman’s mother and says he only needs a few minutes of your time.”

Lawyer, was Laura’s instant thought. “Okay. Please show him to conference room C. I’ll be there soon.”

“Okay.”

Tom Hamilton was in his late fifties, slim with almost skeletal features. His blue blazer, starched white shirt, and silk tie fit the mold of an attorney’s attire, but Laura’s intuition was wrong.

Laura and the visitor sat at a circular table in an interior conference room.

“Thank you for meeting with me,” Hamilton said.

“The receptionist said this is about Ken.”

“Yes, I’m a private investigator. Mr. Newman’s mother, Deborah, hired me to look into his disappearance.”

“I assume you’ve talked with the police.”

“Oh yes. I’ve read the reports from Redmond, Bellevue, and Whatcom County.”

“Then you know there’s been no hint as to where he might be now.”

“That’s right. The official files have gone cold. That’s why Mrs. Newman hired me. You know, give everything a fresh look.” Hamilton retrieved a file from his briefcase and thumbed through the contents. He pulled out an eight-by-ten color photograph and slid it across the tabletop.

Laura picked up the photo of a waterfront home. The image released an instant blizzard of memories.

“That was the place you were staying at in Point Roberts, correct?”

“Yes.” She looked away from the photo, meeting Hamilton’s eye. “On the advice of my attorney, I rented it to get away from Ken because he was going to be served with divorce papers. I assume you know about why I filed for divorce.”

“I do.” Hamilton’s brow narrowed. “Still, he ended up following you there . . . to Point Roberts.”

“That’s right.”

“And then he had the trouble with the DUI.”

“I don’t know what happened. We met briefly at the house I was renting and then he left.”

“And you didn’t see him after that time?”

“I had a restraining order against him. I told him if he contacted me again I’d call the police and have him arrested.”

The PI nodded. “Do you know what happened to his car?”

“What?”

“His Corvette. It was impounded in Point Roberts but disappeared.”

Hamilton removed another photo—Ken with his shaggy blond hair standing next to his cherry red sports car. “Deborah let me borrow this photo of the car.” Hamilton placed the print on the tabletop.

“I don’t know anything about that.”

“Do you know if he came back to Point Roberts after his release in Bellingham?”

“I suppose he could have . . . but I didn’t see the car.”

As Hamilton again glanced at his file folder, Laura launched her own inquiry. “What have you found out so far?”

“Very little. Mrs. Newman hasn’t heard anything from Ken—it’s been well over a year now. Nor has anyone at the real estate company he worked at or any of his friends. And you, I assume you haven’t heard from him.”

“You know I haven’t.”

Hamilton removed a multipage document from the folder. “Were you aware that Mrs. Newman pledged a certificate of deposit as security for Ken’s bail—a hundred thousand?” He displayed the first sheet of the bail bond form.

“No. And why so much for a DUI? That doesn’t sound right.”

“He resisted arrest. He clobbered a deputy sheriff, broke his jaw.”

Laura glanced away, shaking her head. This she believed, having also been on the receiving end of Ken’s rage when he was plastered.

“When Ken failed to show up for his trial, the bond was forfeited and Mrs. Newman lost her money,” said Hamilton. “It was part of her retirement portfolio.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, but what has it to do with me?”

“Mrs. Newman is convinced that Ken is dead. She would have heard from him by now if he were alive. They were close.”

“This is about the divorce, isn’t it?”

“I understand that you went ahead and since Ken did not make an appearance, the divorce was eventually granted.”

“That’s all in the record.”

“Right. And since Mr. Newman did not contest the divorce he came out of it with just a pittance.”

Laura’s annoyance surged. “The court awarded him what he was due based on the prenup.”

“But just half a million? That seems like nothing in comparison to your resources.”

“I purchased that home before we married—for cash. He never contributed a dime toward it. And my stock ownership in the company, most of those awards were made before we got married. The court took all of that into consideration.”

“Yes it did. But since Ken wasn’t there to argue otherwise, you certainly benefited.”

Laura had had enough. “What do you want, Mr. Hamilton?”

“Mrs. Newman plans to petition the state to have her son declared dead. As his only remaining family, she would then receive the divorce proceeds that were placed in trust for Ken.”

“I don’t have a problem with that.”

“There is still the question of life insurance.”

“What are you talking about?”

“It was through Ken’s work. He had a quarter million term policy; his mother was named as the primary beneficiary.”

This was news to Laura. “Okay, but what does this have to do with me?”

“The problem is the policy expired last December—before she found out it existed. He’d paid his premium annually.”

“So it’s no longer in effect?”

“Correct, but if it can be proved that Ken died before the policy lapsed, Mrs. Newman would receive the benefit.” He met Laura’s eyes. “My job is to make the case to the court that Ken died and that his death most likely occurred before the policy expired. And I need your help to do that.”

“How?”

“From my research, I’m convinced that something happened to Ken at Point Roberts.”

“You think I was involved?” Laura said, raising her voice an octave.

“No, of course not. But Ken had that run-in with a deputy sheriff, and I know he has a problem with alcohol. If he returned to Point Roberts to get his car and ended up in a bar again, just about anything could have happened to him.”

Laura remained mute, not sure where Hamilton was headed.

“What would really help me—and Deborah—is that once we make our case to the court you would support it.”

“You want me to testify?”

“I think just an affidavit would work. I’ll have to check with Mrs. Newman’s attorney to make sure.”

“When do you need it?”

“It’ll be a month or so. I’m heading back to Point Roberts next week. I’m planning on staying there for several days, really hitting it hard—interviewing anyone I can find that remembers Ken.”

“You can tell Deborah that I will help.”

“Thank you.”

Laura returned to her office. With the door locked, she sat at her desk nursing Madelyn.

After meeting with Hamilton, she’d picked up Maddy from her company’s day care center, four levels below Laura’s penthouse office. Not yet ready to hire a nanny, Laura preferred to keep her daughter close by while at work.

Located near the center of Bellevue’s downtown core, Cognition Consultants occupied most of the twenty-five-story tower. As senior vice president of operations, Laura owned 35 percent of the closely held company.

While Madelyn suckled, Laura turned away from the window wall, ignoring the twilight view of Lake Washington and the distant Seattle skyline. She leaned back in the chair, and with her eyes closed, rehashed the trauma from a year earlier. The nightmares had finally abated, but she would never forget the revulsion of that night.

Laura knew exactly what had happened to her husband.

“How long will you be gone?” Laura asked. “At least a couple of days, maybe as long as a week.”

Laura and Yuri were home, sitting at the kitchen table. Four months earlier, they had moved into the new custom-built tri-level contemporary that overlooked the eastern shore of Lake Sammamish. Laura purchased the City of Sammamish hillside spec home after vacating her Redmond residence. The haunting memories of Ken at her former home were unbearable.

Yuri sipped a glass of merlot while Laura drank chilled apple juice. Their dinner was simmering on the gas range, a pot roast Yuri had prepared. Laura ha. . .