Again, it is not my wish to expose Marstead’s activities. I love my country and do not want to cause her or her allies harm. If the company allows me to live out my life in peace, you have my word that you need never fear me.
Alvarsson, I am aware that you have received orders to retire me. Please advise your superiors that acting on those orders would be unwise. Enclosed you will find a CD. Please insert it into your computer and peruse it. The files on the disc contain unequivocal evidence that I spied upon and stole many classified secrets from Vassili Aleksandrovich and the Russian Federation, proof that Marstead International is a cover for a joint US–NATO intelligence agency—enough documentation to cause an international incident of catastrophic proportions.
Let this letter, then, be a warning. Should Marstead continue its hunt for me or should I disappear or die under suspicious circumstances, I have arranged for copies of the disc to be sent to members of the Russian Security Council and to multiple news outlets.
As I have never given you cause to doubt my integrity, loyalty, or determination to do what had to be done, do not doubt me now. Please heed both my promise and warning. You have nothing to fear if I am left alone. Conversely, my disappearance or death will result in Marstead’s ruin and great upheaval in relations between the US and Russia.
Sincerely,
Linnéa Olander
ALVARSSON STARED AT the wall opposite his desk for a long time before he did as the letter suggested. He inserted the disc into his computer, ran a virus scan on it, then opened a window and clicked on the single folder labeled “Marstead.”
The folder was heavily protected using Marstead’s proprietary software in case her letter was lost or intercepted in the mail. Alvarsson unlocked and opened the folder.
Within the folder, he found hundreds of files spanning Linnéa’s seven years with Petroff—proof that she had been spying on him . . . proof she had been spying for Marstead. The files included copies of her Marstead quarterly reports containing covert communications between Linnéa and Marstead, hundreds of digital photos she had taken of documents Petroff had carried home in his briefcase, and many of his classified emails. Most incriminating were the audio files. She had recorded Petroff’s private phone conversations with members of the Russian Security Council, even private conversations between himself and Secretary Rushailo.
If the material contained in the CD-ROM were released to the public, Marstead would not survive the scrutiny. Management would have to scramble to preserve its priceless network of operatives, but the company itself would be finished—and not merely Marstead. Public release of the recorded conversations would spell disaster for those parties whose voices Linnéa had identified in the calls. The Russian Federation would “disappear” the persons to mitigate internal damage and go after any and all Marstead personnel within Russian territory.
The international damage to Marstead would be extensive—but, as Linnéa had predicted, catastrophic to Marstead’s network of agents.
The company could reorganize, change its name, reinvent itself. It would take time, and we would take huge hits financially, but our network of Alpha employees in the field would be blown. Many would have to flee for their lives and would take decades to replace.
Alvarsson removed the disc from his computer, put it back in its case, then locked it in his safe. He put the letter in his suit’s breast pocket, left his office, and headed downstairs to use the STU yet again.
When Saunders came on the line and the transmission had been encrypted, Alvarsson spoke. “Our problem has gotten worse.”
“Our deep-cover asset?”
“Yes.”
“You haven’t found her yet?”
“No, but I received a letter from her.”
Alvarsson read the letter to Saunders in a measured, even voice.
“And you’ve looked at the disc?”
“Yes.”
“Assessment?”
“The material is incontrovertible. If it were released to the public, the blowback would put us behind for years, perhaps a decade.”
Saunders swore aloud. Then he became silent as he considered options.
“But you say you trust this woman?”
“I told you I trusted her before you ordered me to retire her. If you’d heeded my advice to simply bring her in and provide a suitable cover for her ‘death,’ we wouldn’t be in this mess.”
“Don’t go all righteous and insubordinate on me, Alvarsson. We are where we are, and now we need to fix it. What are your recommendations?”
“Recommendations? We call off the hit and leave her alone just as she asked.”
“Leave her alone? After she’s threatened us?”
“It’s called self-preservation, Saunders.”
“Is it? And what is it called if she’s hit by a bus next week and her little ‘fail-safe’ plan launches? What do we call it then, eh? And what of Petroff? We don’t know what Olander meant by, ‘I have taken steps to lead him astray. He should not suspect me of spying on him,’ or whether those so-called ‘steps’ she claims to have taken will deter such a man as Petroff—a sociopath whose pride and control issues may well override his logic and survival instincts. What we need, Alvarsson, is our own leverage against this woman. She has parents, yes?”
Alvarsson stood and paced. “Sir, I strongly advise against threatening her family.”
“We need to bring her to heel. Her parents are fair game.”
“Again, I would not use her family as so-called leverage—not unless you want to wake up in the night with Linnéa Olander standing over your bed as the last thing you ever see.”
“Huh. I would hardly categorize her as a killer. She’s not known for wet work. Do you really think she’s that good? Hasn’t she been a passive asset most of her career?”
“Don’t let her looks fool you. Linnéa Olander has a backbone of steel. She aced her training—tactics, weapons, hand-to-hand, and urban tradecraft. Besides all that, she has a near-eidetic memory and can solve complex logistical problems on the fly, making her a formidable opponent in the field. I have never known her to be squeamish about any task the job required of her, even the taking a life when necessary—and she has killed.”
Alvarsson’s tone hardened. “In my opinion, the more important questions are, why did we risk making an enemy of her in the first place? What did we gain by alienating her? Was it only to preserve the prestige her valuable contributions garnered?”
“Enough! I won’t have you questioning my decisions or my motives, Alvarsson. We can’t undo what’s done. More to the point, we can’t leave the threat of exposing us unanswered. That is not an option.”
Alvarsson tamped down his anger. “Then what would you have us do? Her trail has gone cold—or, rather, we never had a trail, not a single bread crumb. Our people brought Krupina in and put her through an exhaustive interrogation. All we got out of her was that Olander had bruises to her head from Petroff’s latest tantrum and that Olander was getting out. Leaving him. Krupina admitted that Olander went out the alley door, but neither we nor the Russians have caught sight or scent of her since.”
Alvarsson sighed. “She’s smart, as smart as they come, and she’s not in a hurry. She won’t be easily found.”
Saunders grumbled to himself, then asked, “So, she’s lying low, waiting for the furor to die down. What’s her endgame? Where will she go when she makes her move?”
“My guess is back to America. It’s a big and open country. With her skills, she can melt into any town or city she chooses.”
Alvarsson heard Saunders tapping his fingers across the miles. He waited.
Finally, Saunders said, “I need to bump this up the chain. For now, though, the retirement order stands.”
“Understood,” Alvarsson answered. He hung up, frustrated and still angry.
THE INDIGENT OLD PEASANT woman left the train in Moscow and wandered the streets by day, picking through litter, filling her pram with choice bits of
rubbish, meandering from the train depot to a metro station. She did not stray far from the metro, because food vendors gathered daily around the station to sell to the passengers—and from the vendors she could buy small hot meals.
She gestured for what she wanted and, with shaking fingers, counted out kopecks from a worn coin purse. In this manner, she purchased a shawarma from this vendor, a cheburek from that one, pirozhki from another.
She squatted against a building to eat her food, muttering to herself, sometimes moving her hands as she talked. When she finished eating, she wiped her greasy hands on the coat that covered her from neck to calf, then continued her hunched, aimless ramble.
The weather was warm and mild, so when darkness fell, she slept under a nearby bridge, her thick scarf pillowing her head, her stained coat a blanket. She was not alone under the bridge. Her companions in the night were roughened men, mostly alcoholics, addicts, and petty thieves who dared not ask the Russian State for shelter. These men supported their habits and their meager lifestyle through small-time criminal endeavors—mugging unsuspecting passengers leaving the metro, targeting the weak and defenseless, taking anything of value their victims might have on them.
During the indigent old woman’s first night under the bridge, three drug users decided to rob her. One of them had seen her counting out coins to a vendor for her dinner and supposed her an easy mark. They were desperate men, in need of a fix to see them through the long, dark hours until morning.
She assumed they would come and had prepared for their attack. When they made their move, she was ready, a broken bottle held in each hand—jagged edges toward them. She called down angry, garbled curses on them and showed no fear. On the contrary, she rushed forward and assailed them! Before they knew what was happening, she had nicked one on the arm and jabbed another in the shoulder. Their injuries were not serious, but they withdrew to bind up their wounds and reconsider their approach.
The babushka, however, did not withdraw.
Awakened by her shrieks and shouted curses, other vagabonds stole out of the dark. She put on quite the show for them, brandishing her weapons, dancing awkwardly about, babbling threats and nonsense, feinting, then attacking invisible foes. Fearing the commotion would attract the militsiya, the Moscow police, her audience shied away into the shadows.
The police did not come that night. However, having witnessed the old woman’s fierce, unpredictable madness and after talking of it among themselves, those who regularly took shelter under the bridge chose to bother her no further.
She spent five nights and four days near the metro station. Unmolested.
Chapter 6
ON THE FIFTH MORNING, the old woman wandered away from the metro, pushing her pram filled with trash ahead of her. A mile or more from the bus station, she spotted her objective—a thrift store.
She turned down the nearest alley. There, she rid herself of coat, scarf, and gloves, dumping the filthy clothing into a bin.
She took off the padded stockings and tossed them, too, but put the shoes back on. From her purse with the long shoulder strap, she withdrew a broken comb she had found in a gutter and ran it through her tangled hair, braiding it down the back and tying a strip of cloth at the braid’s end.
Dealing with her face was more difficult and time-consuming. She had added daily to the gel that had, as it dried, reddened her complexion and created a parchment of creases and wrinkles all over her face—even under her eyes and on her eyelids. She used half a bottle of water and a scrap of fabric torn from the lining of her coat, but the dried gel clung to her skin with fierce tenacity. After long, precious minutes, she had peeled off or scrubbed away most of the dried layers.
Lastly, she removed the HK from her bra and hid it in the padded compartment of her customized Italian handbag. She tucked the handbag into the pram and pushed the pram behind the rubbish bin.
I will come back for you soon, she promised the gun.
She pulled a cloth bag from her purse and counted out enough Russian currency for her next move, then slipped the purse’s strap crosswise over her shoulders and walked to the end of the alley. Around the corner, she examined herself in a restaurant window. She appeared thirty years younger than the old peasant woman although older than her actual age. She still wore the babushka’s disheveled house dress and the heavy padding about her waist, but she was infinitely more presentable.
She turned her head to one side and sniffed.
Oy, how I reek!
But first things first.
She made her way to the thrift store, feeling weightless and exposed after having been covered head to toe for the larger part of a week. She stopped just inside the shop’s door, knowing the clerks would regard her appearance—and smell—with disfavor.
She was right—a female clerk glanced up, took in her appearance, and hustled toward her. “I am afraid we cannot serve you, madam—oh, my word! What is that stench?”
“I apologize. I know I need a bath. But I need some clean clothes, first.” She added quickly, “I have money. Let me buy a few things, and I will be on my way.”
The clerk studied her. “What is wrong with your face?”
“I-I have a skin problem. Not communicable. An allergic rash. Allow me to buy some clean clothes, and I will leave.”
The clerk said nothing for a moment, then, “Show me that you have money.”
She opened her purse and withdrew the folded notes.
The clerk’s shrewd eyes narrowed. “All right. I will let you buy some things, but since you are stinking up the place, you will pay a twenty percent markup—and you may not use the changing rooms. I will not let you foul them with your stench.”
She nodded her agreement to the clerk’s extortion and mumbled, “I need everything—underwear, shoes, socks, a dress, a scarf. I know my sizes. Give me ten minutes.”
The clerk scowled at her. “I give you five. If another customer comes in while you are here? My store’s reputation will be ruined.”
She nodded to the clerk, grabbed a basket, and hurried through the bins, sorting, selecting, and tossing two pairs of shoes into the basket, moving on to the clothing racks. She placed her filled basket on the counter along with a beat-up suitcase.
The clerk, with a sniff, bagged the purchases, then produced a total that included the hefty twenty percent tariff she’d threatened to add.
She paid without comment, took the sacks, and left. Her next stop was a public bath house. She paid fifty kopeks to scrub herself all over with soap and fresh, curling, feather-soft wood shavings at a round, communal sink, wet her hair and soap it, then rinse for five minutes in a warm shower. She toweled off, changed into the used clothing, and braided her damp hair down her back.
It would dry soon enough in the heat outside. Wrapping her filthy clothes around the padded bodysuit that had added thirty pounds to her belly, she ditched the bundle in the garbage bin.
Afterward, she returned to the rubbish bin where she’d stashed the pram. There she retrieved her gun, handbag, and the items she wished to keep and transferred them to her suitcase. She then found a general store where she purchased fruit, cheese, and sliced salami that she wrapped in brown paper and stuffed into a bag for later.
When evening came, she ate a hearty dinner in a small café. She would not spend the night in a hotel where management was required to record her ID. Instead, she scoped out a used furniture store and noted its hours. She returned to the store after it closed, jimmied the backdoor lock, and curled up on a sofa away from the display windows.
Early the following morning, a well-used suitcase and a lunch of fruit and cold cuts in hand, she was back on the train, this time heading north to the Russia–Finland border—but not without a plan . . . a plan that required making the right acquaintances and using them for cover.
In the second compartment, she found what she was seeking. She took a seat and made friendly overtures toward a young Russian couple and their three children across the aisl
e. Speaking Russian like a native Muscovite, she took pains to endear herself to their toddler boy. Within the hour, the wife invited her to sit with them.
Dressed in nondescript clothes, a soft kerchief over her hair, the little boy on her lap, her face still rough and red, she appeared to be part of the family, an older aunt, perhaps. In any event, her papers were in order. She was presently Oksana Vladlena Sokolova, a Russian citizen from Moscow, on her way to visit a sister in Joensuu—a trip, her passport attested, she had made twice in the past three years.
At the border, Oksana insisted on helping the parents wrangle their belongings and children. She followed the parents through the security checkpoint, carrying the little boy on one hip and her suitcase in her free hand. The security guards, although they seemed on higher alert than usual, nevertheless screened them as a family unit. The parents, grateful for Oksana’s friendly help, mentioned nothing that might alter the guards’ assumption.
ZAKHAR WATCHED PETROFF prowl his apartment much like a wounded lion, his snarls and growls gaining momentum and volume. The man had been under daily pressure while the Security Council debated the present crisis. Each night when he returned to the apartment and found himself alone, his anger had increased.
“Zakhar!”
“Yes, Vassili Aleksandrovich?”
“Is there no word from Miss Olander?”
“You ordered me to call off the search, Vassili Aleksandrovich.”
Petroff rounded on him, cursing and shouting. “You should know me by now, you fool. I need her. I need her here, with me!”
Zakhar bowed. “I can tell you she has not returned to Sweden as she said she would.”
“What? How can you know that?”
“She was, when she left you that letter, in great distress, was she not? In order to ensure her safety, I set a watch upon crossings into her country and made inquiries around the province of Uppsala and the village in which she spent her late childhood.”
Laynie Portland, Retired Spy Page 11
