Laynie Portland, Retired Spy

by Vikki Kestell

  Planning Linnéa’s escape contingency had been an exercise in creativity Christor had reveled in. They had hammered out the plan, honing and simplifying the details, whenever Linnéa had been able to connect her laptop to broadband service and text in private chat rooms or speak over their secret VoIP connections.

  At first sight, the trunk contained a lunatic’s dismembered bicycle. Wheels, handlebars, seat, fenders, springs, odd lengths of fabricated metal. Some folded paper, a paper sack of bits and pieces, screws and washers. A second sack held small tools.

  Linnéa unloaded everything from the trunk and dumped the contents of both sacks on the floor. She selected a short pry bar and used it to pull the trunk apart from the inside. Its walls and floor gave way and revealed a wealth of sundry items the pawn shop owner had not imagined were hidden within. Even so, the totality of the trunk’s contents, spread around her, would make little sense to the uninformed.

  Linnéa chuckled under her breath. Well done, Christor!

  With all the pieces—and a sheet of instructions—before her, Linnéa began to assemble them. Some parts were calculated distraction. She tossed those back into the trunk to get them out of her way and kept working.

  Twenty minutes into her hasty assembly, she finished. She tossed the tools, leftover bits, and Dudnik’s heavy gun into the trunk, too. The instructions she set aside.

  Then she stripped off her clothes and dressed in the garb she’d found wrapped in plastic garbage bags within the trunk’s fake floor. It wasn’t easy putting them on. A layered, bulky bodysuit. The shoes and their padded stockings hitched to a girdle hanging from the bodysuit. A dingy, flowing housedress. A tent-like, calf-length coat that buttoned up the front to her chin.

  She opened a jar the size of her palm, tore the freshness wrapper from its neck, dug her fingers into the gel within, and smoothed a thin layer over her face and neck.

  While the gel was drying, Linnéa emptied her designer handbag onto the floor and sorted through its bits and pieces. She set aside gun, magazines, CD-ROM case, padded mailers, and the thick cloth bag she’d plucked from the hole behind the stone wall in the alley.

  She tugged at the bag’s drawstring and dumped out its contents. Three passports. A single driver’s license and credit card belonging to one of the passports. Four bundles of cash in various denominations and currencies—rubles, kronor, pounds, and dollars. A coin purse half-filled with Russian kopecks and rubles.

  Nodding her relief, she selected the Russian money and the Russian ID. She put the other IDs, cash, and envelope back into the cloth bag. Next, she piled her shoes and clothes into the garbage bag that had held her present clothing. She tossed the sheet of instructions and everything left over from her purse into the garbage bag with her clothes.

  The compact HK and its spare magazine stared at her from the floor. She had intended to tuck it deep into the cleavage of her bra, but later? When she boarded an airline? It would be less likely to be noticed if it were in the padded compartment of her Italian handbag.

  I promised the shop owner my handbag but, as it turns out, I will need it again.

  “Mr. Dudnik?”

  His worried voice came back at once. “Da?”

  “I apologize, but I cannot leave the handbag after all.”

  He was quite amicable. “Da, da, is not a problem, not a problem,” he insisted, the fear that she might also change her mind about locking him into the storage room bleeding through.

  She laughed under her breath, removed two fifty-ruble bills from her supply of Russian cash, and laid them on the trunk. “I’m leaving a little compensation on the trunk.”

  “Very thoughtful but quite unnecessary, I assure you,” he replied.

  Still chuckling softly, she placed the designer handbag into her contraption, piled the garbage bag on top of the handbag, and spread a small blanket over both. She scooped the items she’d decided to retain from her handbag into a worn fabric sack with a generous shoulder strap. Closed the jar of gel and added it to the sack. Strung the sack across her shoulders. Pulled her hair back and fastened it into a tight bun. Wound a thick, ugly scarf about her head and tied it under her chin. Fit an uncomfortable “appliance” into her mouth and ran her tongue over its unaccustomed contours. Drew on a pair of stained, ragged gloves.

  Exhaled.

  Ready.

  She wheeled her assembled contrivance to the entrance of the pawn shop. Unlocked the door, pushed the contraption outside, locked the door behind her, and dropped the key through the letter slot.

  Down the sidewalk she ambled, pushing the contraption before her, stooping over its handle, sometimes mumbling to the sack of garbage she’d tucked under the musty blanket within it, occasionally muttering to herself, a threadbare fabric sack bumping against her side.

  She wandered without aim down the street, crossing at the intersection, turning at the next corner, discovering an alley. Down the alley she roamed, stopping at the rubbish bins behind shops, restaurants, and businesses, exchanging bits of her garbage for select bits of theirs, eventually returning to the street.

  Along the way she passed a postal box. She paused, fumbled about in the sack, and retrieved two padded mailers. She let them drop into the postal box and continued on her way, unhurried, blending into the backdrop of the city.

  An hour and a half and nine blocks later, she reached the outskirts of the more “touristy” part of the city. She wandered along the Fontanka River Embankment. When she crossed to the other side, the traffic and walkways grew crowded with visitors and sightseers coming and going from Mikhailovsky Castle and Mikhailovsky Garden, the State Hermitage Museum—formerly The Menshikov Palace, winter home of Catherine the Great—and other attractions.

  She moved slowly on, curving northward, noting that she had exhausted the two hours Madame Krupina had promised her. Soon—perhaps already—Zakhar would insist on seeing Linnéa.

  Ah, but you will never see Linnéa again, Zakhar. I know you will browbeat Madame and call Vassili Aleksandrovich. He will rage and order you to ask his FSB “friends” to search for Linnéa, but she will never be found.

  She no longer exists.

  Outside the western boundary of Mikhailovsky Garden, she drew near one of St. Petersburg’s most iconic sites, Cathedral of the Savior on Spilled Blood. It stood on the Griboyedov Channel Embankment, a grand edifice, its spires and onion towers built upon the hallowed ground where Emperor Alexander II had been assassinated by political nihilists. Alexander’s son had erected the church on the very spot where his father had fallen. It, too, was now a museum, another tourist attraction.

  Ah, the tourists.

  They stared, nudged their companions, and shared smiles. Some took pictures of the hunched, elderly Russian babushka—the affectionate Russian term for grandmother. Even in the warm, late summer, the impoverished peasant woman wore the traditional bulky headscarf from which the term “babushka” was drawn.

  Her red, wrinkled forehead furrowed and frowned. Her mouthful of stained, crooked teeth mumbled nonsense. She was a relic of the past, her mind mired there still. Her gnarled hands, clad in stained gloves, grasped the handle of a faded, moth-eaten pram—perhaps the same conveyance in which she had once walked infant grandchildren. Swollen legs appeared beneath her ugly, worn coat, and bloated feet overran the once-black shoes—shoes now scuffed and run down in the heels—as she shuffled along and continued her ponderous journey. Some sympathetic visitors to the city tossed coins into her pram.

  The babushka did not notice.

  She lumbered on, unhurried, following the Palace Embankment, crossing the Neva by the Liteyny Bridge, block by laborious block, moving toward the Finlyandskiy Railway Station. At the station, the old woman’s trembling fingers paid out, a single coin at a time, the fare to Moscow. Two station workers assisted her painful climb aboard a car to a seat with enough space ahead of it to accommodate her battered pram.

  A passenger sitting across the aisle attempted to speak kindly t
o her, but the old woman became agitated and worked herself into a frenzy, shouting nonsense and gesticulating wildly. Around her, passengers averted their eyes and pulled in on themselves.

  After her outburst, she was left alone, the city and then the fields flashing by as the train left St. Petersburg and journeyed four hours southeast to Moscow. Eventually, the old woman lapsed into silence, then leaned against the window and dozed. She would sleep until the train reached its destination.

  That day, the woman known as Linnéa Olander disappeared from Madame Krupina’s Spa, leaving no trace behind. She missed the train to Tallinn on which her company had booked her and, later, the ferry to Stockholm. Both Marstead and Petroff sent their agents to scour the streets of St. Petersburg and watch the train stations and airport and the roads in and out of the city—but to no avail.

  They guarded the border crossings out of Russia and sought her on both public and private transportation. Not one of them believed she would flee, not to safety, but deeper into the heart of Russia. Not one of them thought to scour the streets of Moscow.

  Thoresen Homestead

  Northwest of RiverBend, Nebraska

  KARI MICHAELS THORESEN drew a plate of pancakes from the oven where they were warming and plopped it on the table beside a plate of scrambled eggs, another of bacon, and a bowl of fruit.

  “Robbie! Shannon! Breakfast!”

  “Coming!”

  As the kids slid into their seats, Søren put down his paper. Kari took her seat and the four of them joined hands.

  Søren prayed, “Lord, we are grateful for this food and for every blessing you give us. Please be with Max as he begins his day, help Grandma Polly and Grandpa Gene, and be with Aunt Laynie to keep her safe. Amen.”

  A chorus of “amens” echoed him. Søren and nine-year-old Robbie plowed into the food like there was no tomorrow. At age eleven, Shannon was already overly concerned about becoming “fat,” and generally ate only eggs and fruit for breakfast. This morning she stared at her plate without picking up her fork.

  Kari noticed. “What’s the matter, Shannon?”

  Shannon looked up. “I was just thinking about Aunt Laynie, Mama. Why doesn’t she ever write or call? Why doesn’t she come visit? Doesn’t she love us anymore?”

  Søren and Kari exchanged glances. It was not the first time Shannon had asked those or other probing questions. Answering them would not become easier as the children grew and began thinking for themselves—particularly Shannon, whose sensitive nature seemed to perceive when something was amiss. Kari had decided it was time to give Shannon a glimpse into the truth about her aunt.

  Kari made sure she had Shannon’s attention. “Aunt Laynie’s work is difficult and requires discretion, Shannon. It’s also not something we can ever discuss outside our family. That is why we don’t talk about her to anyone.”

  Shannon’s eyes widened as she took in Kari’s meaning.

  Robbie, his mouth filled with pancake, asked, “What’s dis-dis-discretion?”

  “It means wisdom, Son,” Søren murmured. “It means we keep it to ourselves.”

  “Okay.” Robbie turned back to his plate.

  But Shannon watched Kari put a finger to her lips.

  “Later,” Kari promised. “Right now, you need to finish your breakfast, so we can have our Bible time before you catch the bus.”

  Shannon nodded and picked up her fork.

  Five minutes later, the kids carried their plates to the kitchen and stacked them on the counter to make room for their Bibles. Søren read aloud from 2 Corinthians 11. When he got to verse 26, something in Kari’s spirit moved.

  I have been constantly on the move.

  I have been in danger from rivers,

  in danger from bandits,

  in danger from my fellow Jews,

  in danger from Gentiles;

  in danger in the city,

  in danger in the country,

  in danger at sea;

  and in danger from false believers.

  I have labored and toiled

  and have often gone without sleep;

  I have known hunger and thirst

  and have often gone without food;

  I have been cold and naked.

  The word, “danger,” repeated eight times, seemed to resonate within her. After the kids had run out the door and up the slope to catch their school bus, Kari—who usually tore into kitchen cleanup so she could get to her own work—sat still and quiet, a puzzled look creasing her brow.

  Søren was already up, ready to get back to his fields, when he realized she hadn’t moved. “What is it, Kari? Thinking about Laynie?”

  “Yes, but . . . something is bothering me.”

  “Oh?”

  “Søren, I think Laynie is in danger. I think the Holy Spirit is warning me, asking me to cover Laynie in prayer.”

  “Kari, because we haven’t heard from Laynie in years, I’m more inclined to think we’ll never see her again or even know what became of her. However, I’m not going to trivialize this warning. We’ve both seen God perform miracles in response to our prayers.”

  “So, you’ll pray with me?”

  “Absolutely.”

  He sat next to Kari and took her hand. “Lord, Kari and I come to you right now concerning Laynie. You know where she is and what is happening. You see her, Father, right now. We ask that you help her. Cover her with your sheltering wings and bring her safely home to us—just as you once brought Kari safely home to her family.

  “We ask these things in Jesus’ mighty and powerful name—Jesus, the name above all names. Amen.”

  Chapter 5

  ZAKHAR’S HANDS CLAMPED themselves like iron bands about Madame Krupina’s throat and squeezed. He throttled and shook her like a terrier shakes a sewer rat.

  “Where is she? Where has she gone? Tell me!”

  Madame Krupina’s fingers clawed at his hands on her neck but her efforts were entirely ineffective. Her mouth opened. Her eyes bulged. Her face reddened and then darkened toward blue.

  A male attendant and a male masseuse, alerted by Madame’s female attendants, rushed to the hall and grappled with Zakhar, finally pulling him off their employer.

  Madame fell against the wall, gasping and choking. When she could speak, she spat, “I told you, I don’t know, you imbecile! She soaked in the hot tub, then asked for a quiet room to sleep off her headache. We thought she was resting and did not wish to disturb her. No one saw her depart. And why would we think to watch her? Is my spa a prison that I should prevent my clients from leaving when they wish?”

  By now a knot of Madame’s employees had gathered in the hallway, and a number of clients peered from behind doors to view the spectacle.

  Linnéa’s maid, Alyona, hung back, terrified that blame for her mistress’ disappearance would fall upon her. Petroff had enough rage to encompass Zakhar and overflow onto her—easily!

  “Let go of me,” Zakhar growled.

  Madame’s men loosened their hold on him.

  “Which exit did she use?”

  “Not our main entrance,” a young aesthetician declared. “I was on the front desk this afternoon. I can attest that she did not pass through the foyer.”

  Zakhar advanced on Madame—causing her men to catch hold of his arms and restrain him a second time. He shook them off. Stood nose-to-nose with Madame.

  “How else might someone leave your miserable establishment?”

  Madame drew herself up to her full height. “We have but two other routes. The employee entrance and a door in the laundry room that leads to the alley.”

  “Show me.”

  Her nose in the air, Madame gestured. “This way.” To her employees she hissed, “What is this? The Bolshoi Circus? Tend to our clients!”

  Except for Madame’s two male attendants, the employees melted away, and the hall doors shut on excited whispers. Such juicy gossip!

  Zakhar, Madame’s men, and Alyona trailing behind them, followed the spa owne
r to the very back of the building into the steamy laundry. A young woman folding towels paused in her work.

  Zakhar pointed at the only door. “Did anyone leave by that door?”

  The girl’s eyes widened. “Nyet, sir. That is, not that I saw.”

  “What do you mean, ‘Not that I saw’?”

  “I-I . . .” The girl cut her eyes to her employer. “I did leave the laundry for a time. To-to restock the linens—as I always do. I suppose someone could have used the door while I was gone, but we keep it locked and—”

  “Bah!” Zakhar flung open the door. “As you can see, it is not locked.” He stepped into the alley. Hands on his hips, he looked up and down the narrow cobblestones.

  Behind his back, Madame winked her approval to the laundry girl and placed a finger to her lips. As Zakhar strode back inside, he wiped his face with a hand. Now past the first frenzy of temper, he experienced a different emotion. Fear. For an instant—a mere fraction of a moment—he considered abandoning Petroff and leaving the country.

  He trembled at the knowledge of what Petroff would do to the woman when he found her. Above all things, Petroff demanded obedience—the penalties for acts of infidelity were horrifying. Zakhar had seen such punishment inflicted on Petroff’s earlier women, women before Linnéa’s time. Zakhar knew that failing in his duty was one thing. Failure could be atoned for—but disloyalty was unforgivable.

  He put the idea of fleeing Mother Russia straight out of his mind.

  One of Madame’s attendants tugged on her sleeve. “Madame. I have just now found this. I was changing the bedding in the room where Miss Olander was sleeping. It was under the pillow.” She handed her employer a plain envelope.

  Madame took the envelope. “It appears Miss Olander has left a message.”

  Zakhar snatched the envelope from Madame and scanned the simple scrawl upon it.

  Vassili Aleksandrovich Petroff

  Personal and Confidential

  He dared not open the letter but, even unopened, it confirmed what he believed. The fool of a woman had defied Petroff and run away.