“Thank you,” Zakhar said as he took the keys and map. His American English was heavily accented, but he had spent years undercover in France, and his French was excellent. He would switch to French and his Canadian passport at the border.
Perhaps when I have finished with the woman, the French-speaking province of Québec will best suit me as my new home.
He picked up the duffle bag and jumped down onto the dock. Without a backward glance, he strode up the grassy slope toward the cottage.
I have not a minute to waste, he told himself. She has been in Canada now three days. If she has opportunity to leave Canadian Immigration custody, she will run.
Therefore, I must be swift and ruthless in my pursuit of her.
LAYNIE GOT UP EARLY and ordered coffee, breakfast, and a newspaper. She had a solid plan now, but it required that she not leave Montreal until Monday—and the delay was concerning.
What if a single day spelled the difference between freedom and capture?
She reviewed the tactics and maneuvers she had employed, trying to dispel her disquiet.
I discarded Marta Forestier’s identity. My hair is now a different color and style than hers. I stayed only two nights at the Westmount before moving to the Fontainebleau, and used an American passport and credit card for both. I kept a low profile at the Westmount and interacted with only one guest. I had minimal contact with hotel staff. I will do the same here, then move on.
Somewhat mollified, she still jumped when a knock sounded on her door.
“Room service.”
“Leave it, please,” Laynie said through the door. After the footsteps pattered away, she retrieved the tray. While she ate, she caught up on the news surrounding the attacks—particularly the “Have You Seen This Woman” story.
Except the story seemed to have died—which puzzled Laynie.
She searched the paper front to back and, although Flight 6177 was mentioned multiple times, she never spotted the name or photo of Marta Forestier. She didn’t know if Marstead had killed the story or if it had died of natural causes.
Her uneasiness revived.
It is more likely that Marstead killed the story. If so, they may not be far behind me. Despite changing hotels each night, I will not rest well until I get on the road Monday.
She read personal accounts of the attacks, but most of the day’s news was on the FAA’s tentative release of the grounded commercial flights, meaning that the planes diverted to US and Canadian cities after the attacks would be cleared to fly to their original destinations.
Laynie smiled. I hope the newlyweds can still enjoy part of the grand honeymoon they had planned. At least they’ll have a wild tale to tell their grandchildren someday.
As for herself? I will remain cloistered here until checkout time, making a reservation at another hotel for tonight.
ZAKHAR PARKED IN THE shadows down the street and made his way on foot to the lieutenant’s home. The man and his wife had not retired for the night. The flicker of the television shone through the living room curtains, and Zakhar could hear the low sounds of the show they were watching.
Earlier in the evening, Zakhar had arrived in Moncton and made discreet inquiries into the bar the Moncton police force frequented. He had waited for a lone officer to leave the bar and had followed him until he parked outside his apartment. Zakhar had fixed a silencer to his gun and crept up behind the policeman as he unlocked his unit’s door. It had taken but a moment of surprise to push him inside. The threat the barrel of his gun produced—pressed against the officer’s back—had allowed him to secure the man’s hands behind his back with his own handcuffs.
Ten minutes later, the man had given Zakhar all the information he possessed.
“The planes’ passengers are being quartered in the convention center. Everyone knows that. It’s in the papers, on the news.”
“And who is in charge of the passengers? Who is charged with the town’s security?”
“I-I’m not sure. The mayor appointed Lieutenant Moreau of the Canada Customs and Revenue Agency to take charge initially, because the CCRA includes the Canada Border Services Agency. But that was just until the government sent in higher-ranking officials to take over. I-I do not know their names or where they are staying.”
“But you do know this Lieutenant Moreau?”
“H-he is an acquaintance.”
“And he lives locally? Where?”
The policeman shook his head. “I won’t tell you.”
Zakhar had shrugged. He pulled the policeman’s socks off his feet and forced them into his mouth. When the officer saw what Zakhar was about to do, he screamed his protests vainly into the wadded socks—and then screamed in agony when Zakhar shot his knee at close range.
After that, the policeman had wept and pleaded before giving up Moreau’s address—but he had given it up.
“Spasibo,” Zakhar said, as he shot the man twice in the chest.
Zakhar unscrewed the silencer from his gun, put them both into the deep pockets of his overcoat, and left the apartment, locking the man’s door behind him.
Now Zakhar was casing Lieutenant Moreau’s home. He noted Moreau’s official Canadian Customs and Regulations car parked in the driveway next to a modest economy car. Zakhar skirted the house, looking for its back entrance. The door’s lock gave way with surprisingly little resistance. Perhaps burglary was not a large problem in Moncton.
Zakhar drew his gun and threaded the silencer onto its barrel as he crept through the little kitchen, following the flickering light of the television to its source. The couple were sitting in matching recliners facing the television, their backs to him. A comfortable-looking settee stood against the wall to their right.
Moreau’s wife noticed him first as he came up from behind them. She started and gave a little scream. Zakhar struck her across the face, shutting her up. When Moreau jumped to her defense, Zakhar pointed his gun at her.
“That would not be wise, Lieutenant Moreau.”
“Who are you? What do you want?”
Zakhar signaled with his gun. “Get up. Move to the sofa, both of you.”
When they had obeyed him, Zakhar pointed the gun at Moreau. “You. Your handcuffs, please.”
Moreau shut his mouth in defiance.
Zakhar again pointed the barrel of his gun at the woman.
“Top drawer,” Moreau growled. He tipped his head toward a desk across the room.
Zakhar waved the gun at the woman. “Get them from the desk. Hurry, now! Put them on him, hands in back.”
“Do as he asks, Michelle,” Paul Moreau whispered. “Don’t be afraid.”
The weeping woman cuffed Moreau’s hands behind his back, then sat beside him.
“What do you want?” Moreau asked. “Money?”
Why not? Zakhar thought. One can never have enough money.
“I will take your money. Tell your wife to bring it to me.”
Michelle Moreau emptied her pocketbook of its paltry contents, then her husband’s wallet of his modest cash.
“This is all you have?” Zakhar demanded.
“I am a civil servant. We are not wealthy people.”
“Then I am glad I am not here as a robber only. However, if you give me what I came for, I will leave you tied up but unharmed.”
Moreau had no choice but to nod his agreement.
“I am looking for someone,” Zakhar said, “a woman whose plane was grounded here. She came in on Flight 6177 under the alias of Marta Forestier.”
Moreau’s eyes widened.
“Ah. I see you recognize her name. Where is she?”
Moreau licked his lips. “The plane’s sky marshal was wounded. She, this Marta Forestier, rode to the hospital in the ambulance with him. Then she . . . left.”
Zakhar’s face reddened. “She left?”
“She helped the marshal take down the hijackers. Everyone assumed she was a sky marshal, too. No one knew differently at the time. She used the opportunit
y to slip away.”
It was Zakhar’s turn to register surprise. She helped the marshal take down the hijackers? Linnéa Olander did? Surely, she is more than either Petroff or I ever suspected. This only further confirms my assumptions that she is a spy!
He smiled to himself. Perhaps she will show some spirit when I break her. I may even extract useful information from her that I can sell to the highest bidder.
Zakhar put the barrel of the silencer against Michelle Moreau’s head. “But your agency has been seeking this woman, yes? You have some idea where she went?”
Moreau shook his head. “The authorities tracked her to Montreal day before yesterday, but they have only a bad photograph of her and the other passengers’ descriptions. She has likely changed her appearance.”
MOREAU STILL DID NOT understand who the woman actually was or why she was important, but he had omitted a vital detail. He did not tell his captor that the Americans had, only today, ordered Canadian authorities off the hunt.
And perhaps, God willing, the man holding them at gunpoint had spoken the truth. Perhaps he possessed a shred of human decency and would leave them unharmed as he has promised.
Moreau had no recourse other than to hope.
He licked his lips. “Please. That is . . . all I know. I am not in the loop, you see. I received what information I have from a friend who was involved in the search.”
Zakhar stared impassively at the couple. “I need your badge and the keys to your official car.”
Moreau watched Zakhar’s thoughts flit across his face. He recognized the man’s cruel cunning. It was then that he understood that neither he nor his wife would survive the evening. Even so, the love he held for his wife dictated his actions. He would postpone the inevitable for as long as possible.
Moreau swallowed. “In the same drawer.”
Zakhar didn’t move except to slowly shift his gun from the woman to Moreau.
Locking eyes with his trembling wife, Paul Moreau whispered, “Don’t look at him, my darling. Look at me. See my eyes? See the love I have for you? It will be all—”
ZAKHAR’S FREE HAND waved away the haze wafting from his weapon’s barrel. He laid the gun aside to cool and added the Moreau’s money to his wallet while assembling his next moves.
Whatever I do, I must be bold. Decisive. I must work faster than the authorities who have a head start. I can beat them. I have advantages they do not—I not only know the woman, I have several excellent photographs of her.
He tucked Moreau’s credential pack into his breast pocket. Then he studied the map the boat’s captain had given him. Montreal was nine or ten hours by automobile, and the city probably had a thousand hotels and rooming houses.
She will seek to lose herself in the city while assembling a new identity. She will need money and a vehicle. These things take time.
And Linnéa Olander had particular tastes—tastes Zakhar was quite familiar with.
He perused Moreau’s closet. The two men were not too dissimilar in shirt size, but Moreau had been taller. Zakhar pulled two shirts, two ties, and a blazer from the dead man’s closet, leaving them on hangers. He would need them in Montreal.
When he was finished, Zakhar wrote a short note, then picked up his gun and the keys to Moreau’s official vehicle. He drew the curtains, left the house, and locked the door behind him. He pinned the note to the door.
GONE FISHING
He started Moreau’s car, backed it from the driveway, drove down the street, and parked next to his car. He shifted his duffle bag to Moreau’s back seat and drove away, leaving his car behind.
He would drive all night and arrive in Montreal early in the morning.
It may be days before the good lieutenant and his wife are discovered. Until then, I will be Paul Moreau, Canada Customs and Revenue officer, with the authority to conduct an open search for her. I must be convincing and imposing.
The American and Canadian authorities will look for her, but I will find her first.
Chapter 18
SATURDAY MORNING, LAYNIE awoke in her third Montreal hotel. She decided to check in with Christor in case he had further information for her.
It was nearing 6:00 a.m. in Montreal. The time in Stockholm was six hours ahead, almost noon. Perhaps, because of the weekend, the hotel’s business center would be unoccupied. As for Christor—he took his laptop home each weekend, but Laynie could not anticipate the plans he and Klara had for the day.
Will he answer when I call?
Laynie threw on jeans and a T-shirt, pulled her hair up into a ponytail, and put on her baseball cap. She grabbed her purse and a newspaper, then used the back stairs to reach the ground floor. When she reached the business center, she paused outside the open door to scope out the room and its occupants. A harried man sat at one of the three computers, but he was not alone. Three young children romped about the room, bored and out of sorts.
“When will you be done, Daddy?” the oldest one, a girl, asked him. “You said we were going to have breakfast and then you would take us to a park. You promised pancakes.”
“I did and we will have pancakes, Chelsea, but I also said that I must answer these emails first. Please be patient.”
“But I’m hungry!” another child wailed.
Laynie withdrew and scanned the hall, looking for an out-of-the-way place to wait. She spotted a bench seat in an alcove not far down the hall. She sat down on it, crossed her legs, and unfolded the newspaper, using its open pages to hide her face.
Twenty long minutes passed before the man—herding his kids before him—left the business center. Laynie immediately made for the room. She sat down at a terminal that faced away from the doorway.
She withdrew the CD-ROM case, inserted the unmarked disc, and ran the program that bypassed the computer system’s administrative restrictions. Then she copied the VoIP software installation code from the CD and clicked the executable file to install the program.
She glanced at the clock. After seven, meaning after one in the afternoon in Stockholm. Laynie slipped on the headphones and dialed Christor’s laptop.
The call rang and rang. Christor picked up.
“Laynie!” His voice was a whisper. “Hold on, please.”
A few moments later, he was back, typing rather than speaking. “Locked in bathroom. Don’t want Klara to know I’m on a call.”
OPSEC. Operational security. Also, what Klara didn’t know couldn’t get her into trouble with Marstead.
Laynie typed, “Good. Anything new?”
“Yes. Important call between Alvarsson and D.C. superior. Listen now.”
Laynie waited for the recorded call to come through her headphones.
First, she heard the scree and static of an encrypted call syncing up. Then she heard the voices.
“Alvarsson here.”
“Mr. Alvarsson, Jack Wolfe calling from Headquarters.”
Jack Wolfe? Laynie didn’t recognize the name.
Apparently, Alvarsson recognized it. Laynie may as well have been in Alvarsson’s office, watching his change of demeanor and body language, so clearly did they translate through his next words.
“Yes, sir. How can I help you, Director Wolfe?”
Director Wolfe? Not on any Marstead org chart Laynie had ever seen. He had to be much higher up the food chain.
But how high?
“I’m calling with regards to Linnéa Olander.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Let me begin by saying that I am in possession of Olander’s file—her excellent record in clandestine services and the abundance of valuable intel she’s provided during her tenure. Her time in place in her most recent assignment—undercover with that Russian narcissist, Petroff—is an assignment deserving hazard pay if any assignment does.
“I also have her letter of some five months past expressing her emotional and mental fatigue—her letter requesting that she be deactivated before she, in essence, cracked and compromised the entire Marstead org
anization to the Russians. Finally, I’m looking at a resignation letter, a letter written in response to our denial of her deactivation?”
“Yes, sir.”
The intensity of Wolfe’s voice rose.
“Well, what I want to know, Mr. Alvarsson, is why in the bloody blue blazes you left this exceptional asset hanging out to dry with no option left to her but to threaten our organization with exposure if we did not extract her safely from the field? And more than that? I want to know who gave the order to retire this agent.”
Laynie heard Alvarsson swallow.
“I can assure you, sir, that the order did not come from me nor did I relish implementing it. Linnéa Olander is one of the finest, most talented assets I’ve had the pleasure of working with.”
“You’re saying Saunders refused her request. That Saunders gave the order.”
“Sir, whether the order originated with him or not, I cannot say. I can only tell you that it came through him and that I followed the chain of command.”
“What a *bleeping* waste of an exceptional agent and a *blank blank* demonstration of poor personnel management!”
Laynie listened to dead air for a long, tense moment before a much calmer Wolfe said, “Let me take this opportunity to inform you that your supervisor—soon to be former supervisor—Marcus Saunders, will, as of tomorrow, be ‘promoted’ to a position where he can do much less damage. Do you take my point, Mr. Alvarsson?”
“Yes, sir. I do, sir.”
“I hope you understand where incompetence, gross negligence, and self-promotion will take you in this organization. It’s my conclusion that Saunders put his career and his own upward mobility above the well-being and longevity of our agent and forced her to keep producing intel well beyond her capacity to do so because she made him look good.
Laynie Portland, Retired Spy Page 24
