“I will not tolerate handlers who sacrifice our agents to promote themselves, Alvarsson—and I won’t stand on bureaucratic red tape to weed out those who abuse the men and women of our human intelligence gathering network.”
“Yes, sir. Er, no sir.”
Wolfe coughed into the phone. “You have new orders. I am directing you to bring her in peaceably.”
“That is good news, sir. However, the order doesn’t alleviate the threat her sudden disappearance has created on the Russians’ side of the equation. Furthermore, acquainted with her abilities as I am, it’s my opinion that bringing her in, uh, peaceably, will prove as difficult as retiring her. She’s on the offensive now, sir.”
“Reach out to her. Talk to those who have known her best. Have them pass the word to her that we have agreed to give her exactly what she asked for. We will bring her in from the field and bring her here to the States. We’ll debrief her and find a suitable use for her somewhere while she rests, recuperates, and receives treatment for PTSD or whatever else she may require.”
“That might work, sir—like I said, if we can find her to make that offer—and if we get to her before the Russians do.”
“Actually, we know she safely reached Canada.”
“Sir?”
“Did you read about the fifth plane the terrorists planned to weaponize? The one inbound from London?”
“The plane the two sky marshals saved from hijackers?”
“One sky marshal, Alvarsson. One sky marshal and one Marstead agent.”
“The female sky marshal. You’re saying that was Olander?”
“Yes. She managed to get away from the plane after it was diverted to New Brunswick. That upset the Canadians and our FBI friends to no end, but we intervened and called them off. Our people managed to trace Olander’s escape from Moncton to Montreal. We are, at present, looking for her there.
“When our people do find her and make contact, their orders are to give her assurances that we’ll deactivate her peaceably and without prejudice, with a desk job waiting for her if she wants it.”
“I understand, sir.”
The call ended, leaving Laynie angry and skeptical. She leaned over the keyboard, considering what she’d heard. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Christor, because she did. It was Marstead she no longer trusted.
Who is this mysterious figure, this Jack Wolfe? Why have I never heard of him? Is he real? Or . . . have they uncovered Christor’s method of bugging Alvarsson’s calls? Was this call a ploy? Is it an elaborate gambit of dezinformatsiya—the type of disinformation I often fed Petroff?
She typed, “Can I believe it?”
He typed back, “I’m with Reagan on this. Trust but verify.”
“Right.” Like I could verify anything Marstead said or did.
“One more thing. Received letter from your sister. Uploaded image file to chat room.”
Laynie’s brow furrowed. She couldn’t go online and read it now, not without leaving a trail on the hotel’s computer.
I’ll need to buy a laptop somewhere along the road after I leave Montreal.
And now that she knew Marstead was breathing down her neck, she needed to move. Again.
“Thank you, my friend.”
Laynie returned to her room and packed. Shortly before checkout time, she wheeled her suitcase to the elevator, got off at the second floor, and walked down to the ground level.
An hour later, she was ensconced in what she hoped was her last Montreal hotel.
SOMETIME BEFORE DAWN the same day, Zakhar pulled over on the outskirts of Montreal and slept two hours. When he woke, he made necessary preparations before beginning his hunt.
First, he dismantled, cleaned, and oiled his gun, then reassembled it. Took off his overcoat and put the gun and silencer into its deep pockets. Removed one of Moreau’s shirts from its hanger and put it on, choosing a tie to go with it. Added the blazer and slid Moreau’s cred pack into the blazer’s breast pocket.
At a gas station, he purchased a detailed map of Montreal. He drove to a restaurant, ordered breakfast, and used the restroom to wash up and finger-comb his damp hair.
“Good,” he told his reflection. “You are Lieutenant Paul Moreau.”
Zakhar ate alone in a corner booth, studying the map and outlining in pencil a search grid of downtown Montreal. He proposed a long and arduous day for himself, but he was ready and willing. He drove to the starting point on his grid, then up and down each street, noting the hotels and whether they fit his parameters—large, multi-floored lodgings with room service and other amenities. Hotels where Linnéa Olander would be but one face among many.
He parked in front of the first large hotel he encountered, flashing his credentials and demanding that the valet watch his car. He approached the front desk.
“Good morning,” he said in French. “Lieutenant Moreau, Canada Customs and Revenue. I am looking for this woman.” He laid on the counter three the glossy photos of Linnéa Olander, photographs he’d carried with him from Russia.
“No, I do not recognize her,” the clerk replied. Another clerk agreed.
He queried as many staff members as he could approach in five minutes, watching their facial responses carefully.
“Thank you for your time.”
He didn’t care how long it took or how wearying the process. He was energized and strangely confident that he would find her. From eight in the morning until one in the afternoon, he worked his grid, one hotel after another—but only those hotels that matched his criteria. He had covered nine such hotels and checked fifteen blocks off his grid in this manner.
He broke for a quick lunch, then returned to work. He hadn’t tired of the tedium. Finding the woman was an obsession he gave himself to gladly, convinced the reward would be well worth his efforts.
From 1:45 until dark he continued on, becoming more comfortable in his role as Lieutenant Paul Moreau and more adept at his inquiries. He had crossed nineteen more blocks off his grid before he stopped for the night. He checked into the last hotel whose staff he questioned, ate a large dinner, and went directly to bed.
Chapter 19
IT WAS SUNDAY. PLANES were flying again, and Laynie’s most recent hotel was clearing out. It made her nervous, knowing that, at half-full, the hotel’s staff would be more cognizant of its guests. And, at another new hotel, she might be more noticeable checking in.
Stay calm. Keep this room one more night.
She was stiff from inactivity, so she entered into an hour’s worth of stretching, when what she really wanted and needed was a nice, long run.
Tomorrow. I’ll get a good walk in tomorrow.
Tomorrow everything would change. Tomorrow she would leave Montreal.
ZAKHAR WAS CHECKING out of his hotel, using the opportunity to show Linnéa Olander’s pictures to the morning staff.
“I’m sorry. She doesn’t look familiar to me, but we’ve had a full house ever since the attacks,” one woman told him. “We’ve been run off our feet.”
Zakhar held up the photograph to the other front desk clerk. “You, young man. Have you seen this woman?”
“No, sir. Sorry.”
He showed the image to a bellboy handling a loaded a luggage cart. He flashed the photo to the day manager walking by.
Behind him a male voice exclaimed, “Isn’t that Beverly?”
Zakhar turned and faced the young man. “You know this woman?” He held all three pictures before the man’s face.
“Her name is Beverly. I, uh, had dinner with her, couple nights ago.”
“What is your name, young man?”
“Justin Worley.”
Zakhar signaled the manager. “I require a room to interview this man.”
“Hey, I don’t have time for this—finally got a flight home to Vancouver, and I need to leave for the airport.”
Zakhar took him by the arm. “You will go nowhere until I am finished with you.”
“But—”
“I am Lieutenant Paul Moreau, and this is official government business. You will come with me.”
The manager led them to her office and, at Zakhar’s gesture, left and closed the door behind her.
“Now, Mr. Worley, I cannot emphasize how important your cooperation is. You say you know this woman? How did you meet her?”
“We were in the business center, using the computers. She had a Final Fantasy disc.”
Zakhar recognized the title. “This is a video game, no?”
“Yeah. I play the same game, so I asked her if she’d like to play it with me. I travel a lot and bring my game console with me.”
“In this hotel you saw her?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“It was Thursday. She came up to my room.”
“So, a woman of her age was interested in you only for video games?”
Justin flushed. “I don’t know what she was interested in. We played the game, ate dinner, drank wine—and I think she drugged me.”
“What? Why? Why would she do this?”
“I don’t know, but I passed out and it wasn’t just from the wine. When I woke up in the morning, she was gone, and the desk said nobody by the name of Beverly was staying here.”
“Tell me what you talked about.”
“Not much, other than the game. I asked her what she’d done that day, she asked me what I’d done.”
“Tell me her exact words. What did she do that day?”
“I dunno. Look, can I go? I have a plane to catch.”
Zakhar slid his gun from his pocket and leveled it at Justin’s heart. “Do you really not remember?”
Justin’s eyes widened to the size of silver dollars. “Hey, man, you can’t do that!”
“This is an issue of national security, Mr. Worley. Believe me when I tell you, you and your flight are both expendable. You will tell me what I want to know.”
“Sh-she said something about paperwork. Shopping. I think she said the bank.”
“The bank? You are certain?”
“Yes. Paperwork, shopping, the bank.”
“Which bank?”
“I don’t know—I’m telling you the truth!”
Zakhar watched the young man’s face. “I think you are. You may go.”
Justin fled the room, leaving Zakhar thinking.
Not as many banks as hotels in the city, and surely it will be close by.
He found the manager again and beckoned her to join him at the far end of the front desk. He laid out the map of Montreal and placed his finger on it.
“We are here at your hotel, yes? Show me the banks near here.”
Chapter 20
LAYNIE DIDN’T SLEEP well Sunday night. The wind had risen while she slept and had pushed and howled at her room’s windows. She woke tired and fretful. She ordered coffee and breakfast and, as she had Saturday, continued to chew on the conversation Christor had played for her yesterday. While she knew and had once trusted Alvarsson, she hardly knew what to think of the stranger who had identified himself as Director Wolfe.
Could it be true? Was my “retirement” entirely the brainchild of Deputy Director Saunders and did his Marstead superiors remove him for ordering the hit on me? Do his superiors consider me the valuable asset this man Wolfe said I was? Are they ready to let me come in? Or is it a trap?
All her deliberations came down to one question. Can I take such a risk? Each time, her gut gave her the same answer. No. I cannot.
She wanted—needed—to get out of her room, to leave the city as soon as possible, but since her bank wouldn’t open until 9:00 a.m. this morning, she forced herself to slow down. As much as she wanted to leave Montreal behind, she also didn’t want the bank manager to remember a woman so hurried that she had been waiting for him to unlock the doors.
Laynie showered and dressed, putting on one of the nice pants outfits and the light jacket, donning both the look and persona of the affluent woman she wished to project to the world. When she’d finished, she headed downstairs, taking the elevator to the second floor as she had become accustomed to, using the back stairs to reach the ground floor and the parking garage.
The fewer people who see me, the better.
She drove to her bank. The lobby was moderately busy as she walked to the teller window—intentionally using a different teller than the one who had opened her account.
Laynie presented her passport. “Good morning. I had money wired from my Singapore account last week. I’d like to know if it has arrived?”
“One moment while I check. Yes. I see that your account is showing a balance of thirty-nine thousand five hundred dollars. Is that correct?”
Laynie had taken the allowed five-hundred-dollar withdrawal Thursday.
“Yes, it is.”
“What can I help you with today?”
“Two things. I would like to purchase a cashier’s check in the amount of twelve thousand dollars and make a cash withdrawal of two thousand dollars.”
“I can help you with both of those requests.”
When Laynie left the bank, she returned directly to her hotel, asking the valet to keep her car handy. She went up to her room, changed clothes, repacked her suitcase, then wiped down the fixtures she’d touched.
She had, again, altered her appearance by putting on a long-sleeved T-shirt, jogging pants, running shoes, and hoodie, tying a kerchief around her neck. She tucked a few items she’d need later into her purse.
“Thank you,” she told the valet, tipping him for keeping her car at the ready. He put her suitcase into the trunk, and Laynie drove away.
She found her way back to the rental agency. She parked, pulled her bag from the trunk, and returned the keys.
“You have a ride, lady?” the owner asked.
“Oh, yes. I’ve ordered a taxi,” Laynie lied.
She rolled her bag out of the yard and to the curb and glanced down the street as though she was expecting the cab any moment. A minute later, she waved to an imaginary driver and wheeled her suitcase beyond the junkyard’s fencing where the owner, had he been watching her, would have lost sight of her. Beyond his view, Laynie picked up her steps. She was constrained by the suitcase, but she made it to the next intersection in good time, turned the corner, and kept going.
Well away from the rental agency’s prying eyes, Laynie stopped. She fished in her handbag, brushed out her hair, tied it in a low ponytail, then wound and pinned it at the back of her neck. She pulled the kerchief from around her neck. She folded it into a triangle, placed it over her hair, and tied it behind her head at the hairline, below the knot of hair.
She set off, dragging her case behind her. The wheeled bag definitely slowed her down. Jogging, she could have made it to Bessie and Shaw’s in half the time. Walking would take her longer—but she didn’t want a cabbie recounting where he’d dropped her off.
Besides, she told herself, stretching out her legs, the exercise will do me good.
Forty minutes later, warmed and lightly perspiring from the brisk pace she’d set, Laynie arrived at the Bradshaws’. She wheeled her case up the driveway and left it in front of the motor home, out of sight. She climbed the steps to the Bradshaws’ house and rang the bell.
Shaw answered immediately.
“Come in, come in,” he urged her. “Wind’s got a bite to it, it does.”
He was, she observed, somewhat flustered.
“Is something wrong, Shaw?”
He looked her up and down. “How did you get here, Elaine? I didn’t see a car and your cheeks are all pink.”
“I, uh, walked from the rental place.”
He searched her face, looking for something. “Well, come to the kitchen. We need to talk.”
Alarm bells jangled in Laynie’s head. The last time someone had insisted, “We need to talk,” she’d been shoved backward into a lavatory at thirty thousand feet and deputized to help take down a clutch of hijackers.
She followed Shaw into
the kitchen. Bessie was waiting, already sitting down.
“Take a seat, Elaine—if that is your name,” Shaw said.
She sat and glanced from him to Bessie and back. “What’s going on?”
Bessie flipped over an old newspaper. Put her finger on the photo Laynie was already quite familiar with.
“Is this you? This Marta Forestier woman?”
Laynie expected fear and accusation in their eyes. Condemnation. Instead she saw a searching, wary concern.
She didn’t flinch from the examination.
It’s not my intention to hurt you, either of you—and I won’t. Please believe me.
Believe you? Isn’t your entire life a lie?
I don’t want that life anymore.
Clearing her throat, Laynie whispered, “And if it is?”
Shaw answered her. “Then I would ask you just one question. Are you on the run from the law?”
Laynie thought for a moment. “Do you mean am I a criminal?”
“Is there a difference?”
She nodded. Slowly. “There is. I am running, but not because I’m a criminal. I-I’m running from a man and . . . from my former employers.”
“Running from a man?” Shaw looked to Bessie, then back. “Like an abusive husband?”
“Yes, abusive. Just not my husband . . . legally.” She looked at her hands. “He is also very powerful—and he is hunting me. But . . . but because of my former employer, the situation is more complex than that.”
“The paper says you helped save that plane,” Bessie said.
“I did. The sky marshal asked me to help him.”
“Then you . . . you shot people. Shot the hijackers.” Her eyes were round. Worried.
“And why would your employer complicate things?” Shaw demanded.
Laynie sighed. “Bessie, Shaw, I cannot tell you where I’ve been, what I’ve done, or for whom I’ve worked for the past twenty-some years. It would be a breach of my . . . security clearance. Do you follow?”
They stilled, absorbing her meaning. Bessie’s mouth pursed. Shaw’s face drew down into deep creases.
Laynie Portland, Retired Spy Page 25
