Laynie Portland, Retired Spy

by Vikki Kestell

  “How would I know? I don’t know any more than you do.”

  “Well, what are your orders?”

  “My orders?” Zakhar stared around at the chaos. “We wait for our target’s plane to land. It must land somewhere, no? They cannot return to London.”

  He and his men gathered within eyeshot of each other, waiting and watching, while the concourse fell further into bedlam. From across the way, Zakhar kept his eyes glued on the televisions. The fire within the towers, fed by jet fuel, roared higher, and dense black smoke roiled up the sides of the towering buildings like a living thing.

  The buildings cannot survive this, can they? Zakhar thought. The fires burn too hot.

  The PA system blared that the airport was closed, shut down until further notice. Passengers rushed the exits to fight over taxis, but Zakhar continued to watch the monitors. He, like many around him, could not look away.

  He and his men remained watching until the South Tower collapsed in on itself. The newscasters watching and commentating did not recognize what had happened. Even when reporters on scene repeated several times, “The South Tower has collapsed. The South Tower has collapsed,” the commentators could not grasp their words.

  “What are we looking at? You’re saying the South Tower, the side of it has collapsed?”

  “No, the entire building has collapsed!”

  Zakhar understood what he’d seen before the newscasters did.

  Then he saw the leader text crawling across the bottom of the screen.

  INTL FIGHTS TO D.C., NYC

  DIVERTED TO CANADA

  Canada? Canada! What demons had moved against him? What evil forces had aligned to impede him in this way?

  Snarling his rage and frustration, he gestured to his men. They pushed through the remaining crowd and exited the concourse. Nicor saw them from where the limo was parked. He honked his horn and waved his sign.

  When they reached him, it was obvious that their driver was shaken. His cheek dribbled blood from a cut near his temple. “I had to lock myself inside. The mob! They tried to take the car from me! It was all I could do to get inside and lock the doors. I feared they would break the windows and pull me out, but the police came.”

  Zakhar turned his face toward the western skyline. The smoke and ash from the fallen tower and from the fires in nearby and adjacent buildings billowed upward in gray-white plumes. And then he saw it . . . the second tower slowly dropping from view, folding in on itself.

  A wail of grief arose around him, but all Zakhar could think was that he would have to call Petroff and deliver the unwelcome news.

  “Hand me the sat phone,” he demanded.

  Nicor placed the heavy, block-like device in Zakhar’s hand, and Zakhar keyed in Petroff’s number. When Petroff answered, Zakhar had to shout to be heard over the crowd and the cars.

  “Vassili Aleksandrovich, have you seen the news? Yes, both towers. The second has just collapsed—everything around us is in an uproar. It must be a terrorist action, da?”

  He cupped his hand around the mouthpiece to block out the noise on his end so he could hear Petroff’s answer and instructions.

  He answered back, “Nyet, Vassili Aleksandrovich, we cannot stay where we are. I am sorry to tell you that the authorities have closed the airport. All the inbound flights have been diverted to Canada.”

  He listened to Petroff’s screamed invectives until the man took a breath. Zakhar was quick to inject a reply. “We will find out where they have sent her plane and follow her there, Vassili Aleksandrovich. Do not worry. I will not fail you.”

  He hung up and slid into the rear seat. “Get us out of here.” When Nicor did not respond fast enough, Zakhar cursed him. “Drive, I said, you fool! Take me back to the house.”

  He saw nothing on the drive but Linnéa Olander’s face before him. Laughing.

  LAYNIE SCANNED THE cabin once more, wondering if anyone had noticed the brief exchange between her and Abdul. She didn’t think so. The passengers in business class were either dozing or occupied with their own interests. They were all facing forward in their seats.

  Everyone except one man.

  Near the front of the cabin. Second row, aisle seat, left side. He was sitting forward, turned toward the rear of the cabin, watching her—and not making much effort to hide his scrutiny.

  Laynie’s eyes passed over him without stopping, swept right, paused, then swept left, again passing over him as though he had not caught her attention.

  But she had done her assessment of the watcher. “Seasoned” Caucasian, likely in his mid-forties, dark brown hair, shot with gray, cut short. And a big—no, large—physique. He filled out his seat plus some. Even without seeing him stand, she estimated the guy was around six foot four, two hundred forty pounds or more.

  He was still staring at her and making no attempt to hide the fact.

  Laynie recognized another professional when she saw one—and this one had fixated on her.

  Marstead? More than likely.

  If he had IDed her as Linnéa Olander, he would use an Airfone as soon as the flight was in range of land. Additional Marstead agents would be waiting for her in New York.

  She pushed into the lavatory and locked the folding door behind her, falling against it as though to barricade herself within.

  Trembling all over.

  “Herre Gud, hjälp mig!” Oh, dear God, help me!

  The words, uttered in Swedish, fell from her lips without forethought. Behind the fear and chaos running rampant in her head—in a little corner of her mind far from her present worries—she marveled. God help me? God? Where did that come from?

  She set her purse on the lip of the diminutive sink, ripped open the Velcro seam to the padded enclosure, and pulled out the HK. She stared at the gleaming blue metal barrel shaking in her hand and played out the limited scenarios open to her.

  Meanwhile, a battle of logic warred in her mind.

  If I shoot while we’re in the air, I chance taking down this plane and killing all these people.

  No, not if the round only penetrates the airplane’s skin and misses any vital wiring. The plane’s pressurization system will compensate for the leak. And it’s only a .380. Doesn’t have the punch of a .38 Special or the stopping power of a .45.

  It was lethal enough to kill Mahatma Gandhi.

  Yeah, well, his assassin shot him three times in the chest, point-blank range.

  Okay, but don’t shoot out any windows. That would be a problem.

  No kidding.

  She envisioned instant cabin depressurization, a sucking hole where the window had been, pulling every loose item in the cabin out into the void beyond.

  She drew a shuddering breath. Get yourself together, Laynie.

  Her bladder urged her to use the facilities, so she did, tucking the HK into her bra. I’ll keep it handy, she told herself. Maintain my options.

  When she had finished her business and washed her hands, she rummaged through her purse, looking for anything else that might give her an edge. An advantage.

  When her fingers touched the metal nail file, she grabbed it out of her purse, and pulled it from its leather sheath. It had no slicing edge, but it had a pointed tip, and the blade wasn’t as flimsy as some nail files.

  Good for one thrust—in close quarters.

  Laynie needed to keep the file handy. She poked the nail file’s pointed tip through the gathers of her blouse’s bodice. She then reached under her blouse, found the file’s point, and poked it back through the fabric, securing it.

  “Okay, easy to reach,” she told herself. For a long moment, she stood with her head down, gathering her courage. Then she picked up her handbag, unlocked the bifold door, and pulled it toward her.

  A slab of a hand drove her back into the lavatory. The man from Row 2, the one who’d been staring at her, squeezed himself inside the tiny stall. He shoved Laynie hard and shut the folding door behind him—no mean feat given the confined space. He’d pushed
her back so unexpectedly that she’d been forced to sit on the toilet while he towered over her, his microwave-sized chest in her face.

  “We need to talk.”

  Chapter 9

  THE SIZE AND SMELL of her attacker filled up the lavatory. Laynie said nothing because her assailant’s fists looked as though they could snap her neck in two as easily as snapping dried pasta. And there wasn’t much she could do in these close confines to defend herself.

  Except for the nail file.

  She let her hand float toward it.

  “Don’t do it, missy. Don’t even think about it.”

  Laynie’s hand fell to her side. “Who are you? What do you want?”

  “Those are both good questions, particularly since you didn’t scream for help. I mean, what woman doesn’t scream her fool head off when shoved into a bathroom against her will? Unless. Unless she’s the kinda woman who can take care of herself, who can teach a man to keep his hands to hisself, if need be—which is what I figgered you for.”

  His accent was down-South good-old-boy country. Laynie cranked her neck up and back to examine his extremely close-up features.

  “I asked the first question. Who are you?”

  He grimaced. “Not ’zactly supposed to do that, a’ course—but the exigencies of the immediate situation demand adaptability.”

  The glut of polysyllabic terminology piled on top of the country schtick confused Laynie. Then he started to lift his hand—that slab of brick attached to the end of his arm—and she tensed.

  “Calm down, lady. Just goin’ for my badge.”

  Badge? Marstead agents did not have badges.

  He extricated it from his jacket pocket and held it near the tip of her nose—so close that Laynie went cross-eyed trying to read it.

  He read it for her. “Quincy Tobin, Deputy US Marshal, Sky Marshal on this flight. My friends call me Quince.”

  Laynie swatted the badge away and played her indignant card. “Then I’ll call you Marshal Tobin. Why did you barge in on me, Marshal? What do you want?”

  “Like I said, we need to talk. My gut tells me that we-all got us a problem on this flight.”

  Laynie wrinkled her nose. “Your gut? What, got you a bad tummy? Need some Pepto-Bismol, do you?”

  “Don’t get mouthy, missy. If my gut is right, I’ma need some help.”

  She feigned surprise. “Help? From me?”

  From li’l ol’ me?

  He grinned, displaying an impressive set of pearly white teeth—and a dimple in his chin. “Let’s play nice, shall we? I introduced myself. Want to reciprocate?”

  Crossing her arms and moving her right hand to the head of the nail file, Laynie said, “Marta Forestier.”

  He nodded. “Noticed you back at Heathrow before you got on this plane, how you stayed tucked away in the back of that coffee shop, watching the gate, checking out every person who came and went, then boarding at the last minute. I boarded just before you did and saw how you scoped out our cabin when you entered—you did walk right by me, you know. I figure you to have some training, possibly undercover experience?”

  He shifted from perfect diction back to his hokey po’ boy accent. “So, jest off the cuff, I’ma guessin’ Marta Forestier ain’t your real name—how’m I doin?”

  Laynie glared at him. “I have no idea what you’re babbling about. I’m a French citizen, a tourist to the US.”

  “And I’m a ballerina. Just you wait till you get a gander at me in my tutu.”

  The image was so blatantly ridiculous that Laynie sniggered.

  He grinned again. “The Bolshoi wanted me bad, let me tell ya, but I chose the Marshals Service ’stead.”

  “I’ll bet the Bolshoi’s still crying its heart out.”

  Laynie was, in that moment, not as worried about this guy as she initially had been. She pulled herself together—but he kept pushing.

  “So, care t’ tell me who you really are, Marta? Cop? Fed? Crossing guard? You got a badge? I showed you mine. C’mon. Lemme see yours.”

  “Sorry. Don’t have one.”

  “That so.”

  “Yes. That’s so.”

  “Hmm. I pegged you for an American at first, but your accent—it jest ain’t right, y’know? Has that tetch o’ European, cain’t quite put my finger on. So, now I’ma have ta think ‘spook.’ Which is it—CIA? NSA? DIA? MIA?”

  MIA? Oh, if you only knew.

  “No, no, and no.”

  He got in her face. “Jest tell me one thing, missy. You one of the good guys, or you one of the bad guys?”

  “Good is a relative term, Marshal. And on another point? Stop calling me ‘missy’ like I was in high school. Judging from those crinkles around your eyes and the heaping helping of salt in your formerly pepper hair? You and I are probably close to the same age—so quit with the ‘missy’ business.”

  He stared at her, close-up, eye to eye, until she thought his eyeballs might pop out on springs and blind her.

  Laynie put a palm on his chest and tried to push him back a few inches. She may as well have been trying to move Plymouth Rock.

  She huffed her frustration. “Marshal Tobin, what is it you want from me?”

  “Deputy Marshal Tobin. Well, fact is, Marta, we got us a hijacking in the works, and I find myself sadly shorthanded and outgunned.”

  Suddenly her earlier disquiet made sense. “Wait. You mean . . . the Middle-Eastern men. They acted like they weren’t together, but . . .”

  “Figgered you fancied ’em when I caught your little do-si-do with the leader, minute ago.”

  “He’s their leader? Yeah. Something’s off about him. Cocky. Reckless or arrogant? But I didn’t put him and the others together. Didn’t think hijackers.”

  I should have.

  “No worries. It’s my job to spot ’em.”

  “And you’re certain?”

  “If I were t’ bet cash money that they weren’t terrorists, I’d lose that bet, sure as the sun comes up in the morning—which it won’t for any of us on this plane if we don’t act to stop them.”

  Laynie frowned. “How many, total? Two here in business class—meaning the others are in economy class, somewhere behind us?”

  “Yep—three in econo class—two in the rows behind us, the third on the other side. And I ’spect that, soon, at a predetermined time or signal, them good ol’ boys up front with us will charge the cockpit, while the three behind us move to take control of the crew. They’ll take hostages from the passengers to manipulate the crew.”

  “What’s the plan?”

  “Cain’t say ’less I know you’ll play along, cuz I’ma thinking ain’t neither of us makin’ it to New York if we don’t work together. So. Marta. I have another question. You carryin’?”

  The question caught her off balance. She didn’t let it show.

  She also didn’t answer.

  “C’mon, Marta. Yay or nay. Ain’t got all day.”

  “I’ll show you mine, Marshal—if you keep yours holstered.”

  “Fair ’nuff.”

  “I’m pulling my piece now,” Laynie murmured. She reached inside her blouse and drew the HK P7K3.

  “Well, ain’t that sweet—an itty bitty popgun,” Tobin drawled. “An’ I’m partial t’ blue, too. How many rounds?”

  “Eight plus a second mag. I hope that doesn’t mean you intend to reenact the O.K. Corral while we’re flying at thirty-thousand feet in a fragile, pressurized metal tube?”

  “Naw, but word t’ the wise?” He dropped the phony accent. “If circumstances dictate that you engage our friends with your popgun, don’t shoot out the windows, okay?”

  “Got it. What are you carrying?”

  “Glock .40 cal in m’ shoulder holster, compact Beretta 9mm backup on m’ ankle.”

  “And I got me a mean nail file tucked into m’ blouse.”

  He snickered. “Good to know.”

  Then he went formal. “Marta Forestier, I hereby deputize you to assist me,
a Deputy Marshal of the US Marshals Service, to prevent the hijacking of this plane. You are authorized to use whatever force deemed necessary, including deadly force, to prevent such an attack. Do you accept this responsibility?”

  Laynie blew out a long breath. “All right. I accept.”

  “Good. And now that we’ve exchanged confidences and all? I’ma thinking we’d better get out of this phone booth before someone suspects us of doin’ the mile-high cha-cha.”

  “You still haven’t told me your plan.”

  His expression drew down into serious lines. “Right. Here it is. Above all else, above every other concern including personal or passenger safety? Those hijackers do not gain entry to the cockpit. You got that? No matter how many deaths or hostages taken, we—you and I—must prevent those men from reaching the cockpit and taking control of this plane.”

  Laynie watched the creases around his eyes deepen.

  “Therefore, Marta, I need to know that you are mentally prepared to do whatever it takes to keep them from seizing this plane. I’m taking a risk with you, believing from what I’ve observed that you are both trained and experienced. Am I right in my assessment? And will you do your part, or am I making a huge, potentially lethal mistake by placing trust in you?”

  Laynie’s lips twitched. Why, you turn that country schtick on and off like tap water, don’t you?

  She met his solemn, inquiring gaze. “No, you’re not making a mistake, Marshal. Yes, I’m trained. And, yes, you can count on me to do my part.”

  “Good to know. Well, then, Marta, that is the plan.”

  “You plan doesn’t have much detail to it.”

  “No, but your seat assignment puts you in a primo location.”

  Laynie nodded. “You handle Abdul and his buddy when they charge the cockpit. I’ll pick off the others as they poke their heads through the curtain.”

  Tobin’s eyes narrowed. “Abdul? Thought you didn’t know these guys.”

  Laynie adopted his drawl. “Ah don’ know ’em, Marshal Tobin, sir. Honest ah don’! Jest slapped that-there ‘Abdul’ label on him, on accounta he irked me reeeel bad.”