The truth was, after more than a decade in clandestine services, she was tiring. She saw a day out there, on the horizon, a day when she could no longer pretend to be Linnéa Olander.
I want to go home. I want to live the remainder of my life as Laynie—but not just yet.
Her goals were to hook Petroff, milk him, and turn him. Using the classic technique of threatening to expose to the Russian secret police the number of secrets he had “allowed” Linnéa to steal, she would blackmail and turn him into a full-fledged Marstead double agent.
When I am finished with Petroff, I will leave this life, she promised herself. A year, perhaps two, but no longer than that.
Consequently, in order to keep Kari’s existence a secret when she returned to Stockholm following her brother and sister-in-law’s funerals, Linnéa used one of her precious false identities, that of one Judith Johansson, to rent a Stockholm Posten box, paying cash for it every six months. She then wrote a short note to Kari, enclosing the box number, but leaving the return address blank. In her note, Linnéa cautioned Kari on future correspondence, directing her to address her envelopes to Judith Johansson, to leave off the return address, and to be discreet with identifying details she shared in her letters.
Kari, empathetic to her sister’s concerns, wrote every other week and filled the letters with news of their niece and nephew, Shannon and Robbie, and of Gene and Polly, referencing them by initial rather than name, providing Linnéa with brief insights into her parents’ well-being, particularly Polly’s health and the progress of her MS.
But no matter what Kari wrote about, she always ended her letters in a prayer—a prayer that, although not always worded the same, ran along a universal theme.
Remember that I pray for you daily, my sister. I ask him—our great and awesome God, who answered my prayer to bring our lives together after years of being lost to each other—I ask him, the God of all Grace, to uphold you by his Holy Spirit. He is able to comfort, encourage, and help those who call upon the name of Jesus, the Lord and Savior of the world. For with God all things are possible.
The first time Linnéa read such a benediction, she had blinked and felt something tug at her heart—until she hit the phrase, “uphold you by his Holy Spirit.”
Holy? What would a holy God want with her?
I am soiled beyond redemption. Worthless. I have no value . . . except as a thief and a whore for my government.
Linnéa responded to Kari’s letters once a month with unrevealing lines that contained no personal details, only brief comments on the news Kari’s most recent letters carried. Kari was getting the short end of the stick, but at least they were staying in contact, using a method that would keep Marstead’s sticky fingers off of Kari. More recently, Kari had announced her engagement to their half-cousin several times removed. Laynie remembered Kari telling her about Søren Thoresen and his young son, Max. Kari wrote of ST’s intention to adopt S and R, and hers to adopt M.
Linnéa had shaken her head at the news. Kari has gone from single woman to single mother of two. Now she’s taking on a husband and a stepson? She’s braver than I am.
But apparently, or at least according to what Kari wrote, the three children were thrilled with the idea of becoming one family.
At the end of the letter, Kari had said it would be a September wedding, and she had asked her sister to be her maid of honor.
Hardly a “maid,” but I would have been honored to stand with you.
Out of the question now.
Linnéa shook her head with regret. Kari will receive a cold note of apology, and it will arrive on the cusp of her wedding day. What a wretched excuse for a sister I am.
Then it hit her, and she swore aloud. A gift. I must send them a wedding gift.
Linnéa walked on, racking her brain. She turned at the corner and wandered down a street toward a popular tourist district. Much of Stockholm was built on the islands dotting the inland waterway of Sweden’s easternmost shore. Bridges and ferries tied Stockholm’s districts together—meaning that in Stockholm you were never far from water. She kept walking. She smelled the water before she saw it—that tangy, salty sea scent.
Near the docks, in a nondescript shop in an area of Stockholm she did not frequent, she saw it, the carved wooden model of a two-man sailboat. Linnéa stopped and stared, a little in awe. When she went inside and pointed to it, the owner, a trä hantverkare, the master woodworker who had crafted the replica, pulled it from the window and placed it in her hands.
Linnéa held the little boat with reverence, the memories as fresh as the billowing waves had been that day on Puget Sound . . .
IN THE HAZE OF GRIEF that followed Sammie and his wife’s funeral, Laynie and Kari had spent time with their niece and nephew, but also with each other. The truth was, although they were sisters, Laynie and Kari were strangers—strangers with painfully connected pasts. Laynie was withdrawn and cool toward Kari. Kari, for her part, wanted more than anything to break through Laynie’s crusty reticence. At first, the sisters had used the kids as a buffer between themselves while they slowly tested the other out.
“I had been searching for you and Sammie—I mean, Stephen—for a couple of years,” Kari told Laynie. “I hired private investigators—dear friends of mine—and poured a small fortune into the search, but they came up empty.”
Then, Kari shared how her investigators had found Stephen Portland through his and his wife’s obituaries.
“When they broke the news to me, I was devastated. Heartbroken. I would never see my brother or get to know him! Then my friends pointed out that Stephen and Kelly Portland’s memorial service was the next day. If I flew from New Orleans to Seattle that afternoon, I would be able to attend their services. I thank God for that mercy, Laynie, because it meant that I found you.”
Laynie brushed off Kari’s reference to her faith, but she felt obligated to reciprocate—just a little. “I have lived and worked in Europe for more than fifteen years, returning home to Seattle on leave only once a year. Thirty precious days. Once a year, I cram all my family time into that short month—time with Mama and Dad, but also time with Sammie, especially out on the water in his sailboat, The Wave Skipper.”
Sammie and his two-man sailboat seemed safe topics, so Laynie told Kari how her fondest memories were of the two of them sailing on Puget Sound.
It saddened her to add, “Mama and Dad will have to sell the boat now. They can’t afford the berth fees.”
“But they haven’t yet, have they? Take me?” Kari asked impulsively. “Not today while we have the children, but before you leave? Take me sailing?”
And so, Laynie had taken Kari out on The Wave Skipper. It was during that day, out on the water, that Laynie and Kari had connected, had found each other, the sisters who had been torn apart as children.
They sailed all morning, then ate lunch on one of the uninhabited islands on Puget Sound. Kari talked a lot. Laynie said little but listened. When they had cleaned up after themselves and pushed the boat off the shore and back out into the water, Laynie started the small engine and motored them out of the cove.
Away from the island, they flew before the wind. Kari and Laynie lapsed into companionable silence until Laynie asked the question that burned inside of her. “And you never once thought of Sammie and me during all those years you were growing up?”
Laynie was four years younger than Kari. Her question held an unspoken accusation.
“I did, that is, I tried to think of you. I knew I’d forgotten something—something truly important—but each attempt to remember what I’d forgotten would trigger a panic attack.”
Kari had tried to laugh, but it ended on a groan. “You’ve never lived until you’ve experienced a full-on panic attack.”
“Then I’ve never lived,” Laynie snorted. Her eyes did a 360-degree sweep around them, even though they were bobbing across the choppy waves of the sound—far from land or another vessel.
She dropped her voice
and, for the first time in her employment with the company, Laynie broke operational security. “I’ve been in some tight places, Kari—tight enough that I’m surprised I don’t have anxiety attacks, situations that could have ended with me in a Russian interrogation room. The day I ever have such an attack? I’ll be finished in my present line of work.”
She shook her head. “Not that the end of my ‘career’ would necessarily be a bad thing. For me, anyway.”
That afternoon out on the water—without admitting to any facts—Laynie confirmed Kari’s suspicions that her newfound sister was involved in dangerous work.
It was an admission of trust. No . . . it was an unexpected and unprecedented leap of faith.
Kari had studied Laynie for a long while afterward, her worried eyes slowly changing. Warming. “You know, Laynie, I think we’re beginning to bond or something. That’s the most open you’ve been with me.”
Laynie’s gaze swept the water and the weather in the distance. She wasn’t watching Kari when she said, “Would you know what I meant if I said that I’m not really the ‘girlfriend’ type? You know. The ‘girly-girly, slumber party, call-your-bestie-six-times-a-day, let’s-do-lunch-and-get-our-nails-done-together’ type?”
Kari smiled. “I think I would. And?”
Laynie turned her head toward Kari but still stared out into the distance. “And it’s different with you. Talking with you. Being with you feels . . . natural. Comfortable. Like it was with Sammie.” Laynie had sniffed and added, “In spite of our glaring differences.”
Kari agreed. “Yeah. Out here on the water? You have let your guard down, and I’m so glad, Laynie. I like that we can talk about real stuff and not get bent out of shape when we don’t agree.” She waggled her brows and giggled. “Even share secrets.”
Laynie again scanned the waters around them. “But only because we’re in a boat out on the ocean, far from prying eyes and eavesdropping ears.”
Kari’s eyes were sober when Laynie looked back at her, but abruptly she grinned. “Check this out. Do you know what the word ‘fellowship’ means?”
Laynie’s response was classic, unblinking deadpan. “I’m sure you’ll fill me in.”
Kari snickered. “Why, yes, of course I will. See, fellowship is like two fellows—wait for it!—two fellows sitting in the same ship. Get it? Fellow-ship—and here we are. Together. In a boat.”
Laynie groaned. “That is . . . terrible.”
But she laughed anyway.
Kari laughed, too.
And they laughed together, the tension between them lifting, floating away.
Laynie turned the boat in a wide sweeping arc to begin the long sail home. As they sped over the wave tops, she said softly, “You know what? You’re all right, Kari Michaels.”
“I love you back, Laynie Portland.”
Oh, Care! I love you, too, Laynie whispered in her heart.
LINNÉA WAS CARESSING the tiny tiller and bench seat when she came back to herself. “The detail,” she murmured. “It is flawless.”
“Ja? You wish to buy?”
The miniature reproduction was the wedding gift she wanted to give Kari. Without words, it would tell her sister how important, how precious that day spent together had been.
“Yes, it will mean a great deal to . . . someone special.” She frowned, not knowing how she would package and get the replica to Posten without being observed.
“Is it a gift, then?” the carver asked.
“Yes, but I wonder if I could prevail upon you for a bit of customization?” It lacked a single detail for the replica to be the gift Linnéa needed it to be.
She explained what she wished the man to do. She wrote it out.
“By all means. An hour for the paint to dry,” he said.
“Then I will leave you to it and call back in an hour.”
Faced with the wait, Linnéa finally listened to her stomach’s complaint. She glanced at her watch. Two in the afternoon! She followed her nose toward the docks and found a ferry landing—and a line of food vendors parked nearby. She spent the hour eating lunch while watching disembarking passengers drive or walk off the ferry, then the reverse as passengers queued up to board.
It was a pleasant wait. The hot summer air was cooled by the nearby water, and Linnéa allowed herself time to think, to reason out the best way to ship Kari’s gift.
Nothing feasible had come to mind when she returned to the shop and the craftsman showed her his work.
“It is perfect! I’m very appreciative.”
Linnéa traced the red, flowing script on the bow of the boat, the words that read, SS Fellowship.
Not that she’s a steamship, Kari, but the “SS” sounded right. I don’t think you’ll hold my misnomer against me.
“And will you be shipping your purchase? For a small fee, I will pack it as a gift for you so that it arrives in perfect condition,” the man promised.
Linnéa couldn’t believe her luck. “You would do that? Would you also . . . would you be willing to take it to Posten for me? I would pay for you to ship it express and would compensate you for your time. I . . . I just need to enclose a card.”
She wrote out the card, sealed it, paid cash for her purchase, added the cost of shipping, and gave the man a generous tip. She arrived home late that afternoon, satisfied that she had done all she could to apologize to Kari.
I hope you’ll forgive me, Kari, and understand . . . my life is not my own to command.
Not yet.
Thoresen Homestead,
Northwest of RiverBend, Nebraska
MANY PACKAGES HAD ARRIVED in the weeks leading up to the wedding. Kari’s soon-to-be sister-in-law handed Kari another.
“Who’s it from, Ilsa?”
“Not sure. The postmark is foreign, and it’s marked urgent and sent express mail, so I thought I should bring it over.”
Kari’s fingers on the paper wrapping slowed. She examined the postmark and nodded. “I . . . I think it must be from Laynie.”
Kari had sent the invitation two months ago. And Laynie had replied. She was supposed to arrive early this morning. In time for the wedding.
Laynie, where are you? You promised to be with me today.
Kari removed the paper and cut open the stout outer box. The box was filled with packing peanuts. Kari dug down and found a smaller box wedged inside. As she pulled it out, Styrofoam bits went everywhere. Kari didn’t care. She let them fall. She needed to know what was in the smaller box.
Ilsa cleared a spot on the table so that Kari could cut open the smaller box. Inside, nestled in tissue paper, was an envelope. Below that, Kari glimpsed a tiny model sailboat. She lifted it out with tender care. Every part of the boat was crafted with extreme attention to detail.
“It-it is a replica of-of Sammie’s boat.”
Kari’s fingers traced the tiny stern and the bench across it, the miniscule tiller in the middle. “This is where we sat when we went sailing together. Laynie handled the tiller and the sails almost all by herself. I held the tiller steady once or twice.”
She felt the salt spray and the wind on her face, saw again Laynie’s hair flying free . . . and the joy on her sister’s face.
Laynie! My sister! Where are you?
“What’s the boat’s name?” Ilsa asked.
“Oh, it’s the—” Kari stopped when she read the tiny red script flowing across the stern. She swallowed against the emotion that rose in her throat.
“What is it?”
Kari whispered, “Sammie’s boat was The Wave Skipper. This boat is the SS Fellowship.”
She knew then what the gift meant—and she knew Laynie would not be coming to her wedding.
Laynie’s work—her dangerous work—would not permit her to.
“Oh, God,” Kari prayed. “Please keep Laynie safe.”
Part 1: Linnéa
Chapter 1
Summer 2001,
Lake Komsomolskoye,
Northeastern Russia
> LINNÉA WRESTLED THE Gucci bag from the top of the bedroom closet. She opened it on the bed and began to pack. Her maid, Alyona, hovered nearby.
“Mistress, what are you doing? May I be of help?”
Linnéa knew that Alyona’s questions were shot with alarm. Linnéa never went anywhere—not out of the dacha, not into another room, not even to the toilet—without Alyona’s loitering presence close at hand. And should Linnéa do anything unplanned or out of the ordinary such as an unscheduled walk along the lakeshore before breakfast, Alyona reported Linnéa’s unsanctioned activity without delay.
The attraction Linnéa had felt for Petroff, the pull she’d experienced in the early days of their relationship, had withered and died under his controlling hand. And the year or two she had intended to spend with him had stretched into seven. Seven long years!
Linnéa had struggled, had labored under Petroff’s constraints, had wrestled against depression and despair but, through it all, she had remained faithful and profitable to the company. And she had not withered. She had not died within.
Not yet . . . although she teetered on the very edge.
“Since Vassili Aleksandrovich has been called back to Moscow, I have decided to drive into St. Petersburg this morning,” Linnéa replied without looking up. “I will be gone two nights only, at the most three, to check in at my office. My quarterly report is a month past due. I also wish to do a little shopping, perhaps spend a day at a spa.”
Alyona’s fingers twined together. It was a nervous habit. “You gave me no notice, Mistress, or I would have packed your bag and been prepared to travel with you.”
Laynie Portland, Retired Spy Page 3
