Laynie Portland, Retired Spy

by Vikki Kestell

  But she’d witnessed far too many “coincidences” in her favor for them to be merely luck.

  Abruptly, Laynie heard someone else’s voice in her head, someone with a hand the size of a frying pan, praying over her.

  “Lord Jesus, I bring Marta before you, asking that you see her safely away from here without discovery. Please help her navigate or overcome every obstacle that presents itself and help her make it safely to wherever she is headed—without the public exposure she fears.”

  Navigate or overcome. That’s what the past week had been—one obstacle after another, each one safely navigated or overcome.

  “It is God,” Laynie’s whisper was filled with awe.

  And on the heels of Tobin’s prayer, she remembered him leaning toward her, whispering, “I’m not kidding, Marta. I owe you. You helped save all these people today—an’ this here country boy’s butt, inta th’ bargain. If you ever need me, you call, ya’ll hear me?”

  “I can call Tobin,” she said to herself. “He promised to help me.”

  “Who’s Tobin?” Bessie demanded.

  Laynie smiled. “He’s like you, Bessie. A Jesus person. And like Jesus put you in my life? I think he put Tobin there, too.”

  Chapter 22

  LAYNIE SAID GOODBYE to Shaw and Bessie for a second time. Shaw, with many words of caution and fatherly advice called over his shoulder, gently steered a reluctant Bessie toward their car. When they pulled away from the curb, Laynie felt alone. Abandoned.

  But I’ve been alone for years and have never felt like this. I guess I grew unused to having people care about me. Shaw and Bessie have made me realize how isolated I actually have been.

  She made sure Daisy’s doors were locked and checked that she hadn’t left anything loose to fall or roll around while she was driving—as Shaw had cautioned her—before turning the ignition key. She followed the road back to the highway and got on the entrance ramp to return to the city.

  She pulled up to the pumps at the first gas station she saw and topped off her gas tanks. When she went inside the attached mini-mart to pay, she asked the clerk, “Say, do you know of any computer or electronics stores nearby?”

  “Take 148 back into town, follow Allumettiéres across the Alexandra Bridge, then get on 93. Few blocks more and you’ll spot Rideau Centre. Look for Dave’s Blue Label Buys. They have everything—plasma TVs, stereo systems, computers.”

  “Sounds perfect. Thanks.”

  She steeled herself to herd Daisy through heavy traffic while trying to follow the clerk’s directions. Changing lanes was hard. She was unused to Daisy’s length or how to use the mirrors on both sides of the cab. “This is worse than navigating one of Petroff’s state dinners where dangerous pitfalls abound.”

  She found Rideau Centre, a huge, sprawling mall, then spotted Dave’s Blue Label Buys. It took up an entire corner lot across from the mall. She parked Daisy, grabbed her purse, made sure the HK was safely tucked into its depths, locked up, and made for the doors.

  Laynie had shopped the world for fashion and had accompanied Petroff to many expos, but she had not set foot in a free-world electronics store in over a decade. The gleaming array of products and the expanse of selection stole her breath away.

  Oh, my.

  “Good afternoon, ma’am.” A store greeter, sporting a bright blue polo shirt and a two-way radio on his hip, nodded at her. “May I direct you to anything specific?”

  “Uh, computers, please.”

  “Take that aisle there. Everything down that aisle to your right is in our computer department.”

  “Thank you.”

  Laynie found the selection of laptops. A computer guru appeared at her shoulder. “What are you looking for in a computer, ma’am?”

  “A reliable laptop with top-of-the-line processors, plenty of disk space and RAM, upgraded graphics card.”

  “I see.” He pointed out a Dell laptop. “Our computer tech department can upgrade this one. More memory, higher-performing graphics card.”

  “Can you do it today? While I’m waiting?”

  He shook his head. “Probably not. This machine, however, has plenty of disk space. You can always upgrade later.”

  Laynie considered her options. She needed to check in with Christor, and it would be easier and safer to do so with her own machine.

  “I’ll take it as is. I’ll need a case for it, a broadband modem, and a coaxial cable—a long one. And a good extension cord. Do you have those?”

  “Yes—extension cords are over in electronics, but I can grab you one. What length?”

  “Twelve feet.”

  “Great. I’ll start putting your order together for you. Anything else?”

  She looked around, still awed by the variety and sheer volume of products. “Do you have mobile phones?”

  “Sure. See that BLB employee standing just there? She can help you with a phone while I’m getting your laptop order ready.”

  Laynie made a beeline for the girl he’d singled out. She saw Laynie coming and smiled.

  “I saw Sean pointing at me. Need a new mobile phone?”

  “Yes, please. Something that will work here and in the States, too.”

  “Do you have a brand preference?”

  “No, but I need text capability.”

  “May I show you this Nokia 3310? Very reliable. Good reviews. And we can set you up on AT&T Wireless with International coverage for all North America.”

  Laynie played with the Nokia phone, letting the girl go through her sales pitch, only homing in when she got to the phone’s features. All the while, the time of day was running in the background, worrying her.

  I still need to swap plates. I won’t get far out of town before it’s dark if I don’t hurry things along.

  “I’ll take this one and a charger that works off a vehicle cigarette lighter—cash. Can you set me up pretty quickly? I’m in a bit of a rush to reach my cousin’s before dark.”

  “It will take about twenty minutes, but I’ll need a credit card for the phone’s service plan—is that okay?”

  Laynie thought, The credit card info will go into AT&T’s payment system, not this store’s system. Besides, I’ll be gone before anyone tracks me here. It should be okay.

  “Okay.”

  Laynie sat down and the girl started filling out paperwork. Laynie provided her driver’s license and credit card when asked, while keeping one eye on Sean over in the computer department. At one point, he looked over and gave her a thumbs up. She nodded at him and held up an “okay” sign.

  The phone clerk announced, “All right, then! We’re done. Here’s the total, including setup fees and your first month’s service charge.”

  Laynie paid, put her new phone in her purse, and accepted the bag with the rest of the items in it. She thanked the girl and hurried back to the computer department. After she paid, Sean handed her two more bags containing her computer purchases.

  “You’re all set. I recommend that you charge your battery to full before working off of it.”

  “I will. Thanks for all your help, Sean.”

  Laynie piled her purchases onto the floor in front of Daisy’s passenger seat and started toward the parking lot exit. Across the street in Rideau Centre, a veritable sea of vehicles stretched before her—and a myriad of license plates.

  “Perfect.”

  Laynie navigated Daisy across the street and into the mall’s parking lot. She drove around, scouting out another RV with Canadian plates. She found an area of parking especially designated for RVs and slid Daisy in between two larger motor homes. She turned off the engine, then dragged out the little tool chest Shaw kept behind the driver’s seat.

  Exactly seven minutes later, she drove away from the mall.

  LAYNIE FOUND HER WAY back to the road leading to the municipal park where she, Shaw, and Bessie had eaten sandwiches for lunch. What had Shaw told her?

  “There’s a nice RV campground just ahead, Wind-in-the-Trees, if you
decide to spend the night before traveling on.”

  If the growl from Laynie’s stomach was any indication, it was nearing dinner time. She drove on down the highway, looking for signs to Wind-in-the-Trees Campground. She found one pointing to the turnoff ahead. She exited the highway, drove along a side road, and turned down a dirt road bordered by shade trees.

  Another mile in, she arrived at the RV campground. A sign instructed her to register at the general store. Laynie parked and walked into a quaint general store that was a log cabin with wooden floors. A man as old as the cabin greeted her. “Evening, ma’am. Checking in?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Electric or nonelectric?”

  “Electric, please.”

  “How many nights?”

  “Just tonight.”

  She gave him all the info he asked for and paid the fee using cash. “Do you by any chance, have broadband service?”

  “Yup. In the café over there.” He pointed toward an open doorway leading into the next room. “Seems like everybody has to check their email these days. Not me. Don’t have any of that stuff.”

  He handed Laynie two tags. “Hang this one from your rearview mirror and clip this one on the post marked with your slot’s number. You’re in Loop 2, Slot 17. Drive on through the gate, take a right, and follow the signs.”

  “Thanks. I will.”

  Laynie found her camp spot and, after three amateur, abortive attempts, backed Daisy into Slot 17. She chocked the wheels but didn’t bother to level the camper. Instead, she lifted the lid on the electrical box, dragged out the power cable, and connected it to Daisy. After locking her doors, she pulled out the laptop and her new phone and plugged them in to charge their batteries. She shoved the debris she wouldn’t be keeping into a shopping bag and walked it to a dumpster.

  Finally heeding the needs of her stomach, she opened a can of soup and heated it. When she sat down to eat, she realized how exhausted she was.

  Tomorrow, she told herself. Tomorrow while I’m fresh, I’ll check Christor’s and my private chat room and read Kari’s latest letter. Afterward, I’ll put as much distance between myself and Zakhar as I can.

  ZAKHAR WAS, AT PRESENT, driving his third stolen vehicle. He had dumped the old lady’s car at sundown. Soon after, dusk had given way to darkness, providing him with the cover he required.

  He was hunting, and his prey had specific, unmistakable markings.

  Zakhar had admired the gold lettering on the sleek cars and the crown above O.P.P. on the white doors when he’d seen two such cars parked side by side at a restaurant. He hadn’t approached. He simply needed to note the markings. Indeed, he hoped to admire the gold lettering up close very soon.

  There. Ahead of him. The distinctive black-and-white profile of an Ontario Provincial Police car came into view.

  He had the plate number belonging to Olander’s RV. Tracking its location was the present problem—but a provincial constable could take a stolen vehicle report, couldn’t he? He could radio in the plate number and issue a bulletin for the stolen motor home, couldn’t he?

  Zakhar switched lanes, falling back a few lengths so the constable wouldn’t notice he was being followed. Some forty minutes later, the constable exited the highway. Zakhar followed him, still keeping well back.

  Zakhar was mildly surprised at the degree of emotional freedom he was feeling. He even found that he was unconcerned for his own safety or future. If he satisfied his obsession for capturing Linnéa Olander and was caught by Canadian law enforcement afterward? Well, he was willing to pay that price. Besides, from what he’d heard of Canadian prisons, a stint inside would feel like a resort compared to a Russian gulag—or an FSB firing squad.

  When the policeman pulled into a gas station lot and parked around the side to use the restroom, Zakhar made his move. The lot was dimly lit, the rear completely dark. As the man entered the restroom, Zakhar circled around back from the opposite direction and parked in the shadows behind the building.

  When he left his car, he pulled on a black ski mask to hide his distinctive birthmark. The constable, perhaps in his early thirties, was leaving the restroom when Zakhar, in three steps, sprinted from around the corner, coming up behind him.

  “Do not move, Constable.”

  Startled, the man whirled, his hand automatically going to the paddle holster of his Sig Sauer P229. But Zakhar already had his weapon out. He pushed its barrel into the officer’s midsection for effect.

  “Take your hand away from your gun,” Zakhar whispered.

  The officer froze, then slowly complied.

  Zakhar directed the officer to his car and positioned himself behind the constable, beside the rear door.

  “Open your door and remain standing. With two fingers, pull your gun and hand it to me.”

  Zakhar slid the officer’s gun into his pocket. “Now, give me the keys to your car and your handcuffs. That’s right.” He added the keys to his pocket.

  “Pull your cuffs and fasten one cuff to your wrist. Thread the loose end through the steering wheel and fasten it to your other wrist. Good. Now, slide in.”

  With the PC cuffed to his own steering wheel, Zakhar went around the car and got into the passenger seat.

  Zakhar could see how angry the young constable was. He was seething.

  “What do you want?” the constable growled.

  “I want you to file a stolen vehicle report.” Zakhar handed the officer the folded registration. “Radio in and report this vehicle as stolen.”

  The young man frowned. “Why?”

  “Not your concern. Do as I say, and nothing worse will befall you.”

  “I cannot reach the controls or mic.”

  Petroff raised his gun and placed it against the man’s temple. “Tell me what you need—but I warn you—if you say or do anything that alerts your dispatcher, I will shoot you where you sit. Do you understand me?”

  The man swallowed and the bluster drained from him. “I understand.”

  Zakhar put the mic in the officer’s other hand. “Now, call it in.”

  The constable opened the registration and cleared his throat. “Dispatch, reporting 392, theft of a motor home, 1984 Winnebago, license Québec Kilo Echo Foxtrot Four Eight Four.”

  “Roger. What is your 10-20?”

  “I am 3 Kilo, 3K202.” Ottawa Traffic, Highway 417, Core, Night Shift.”

  “Be advised, this plate has been located. Civilian has reported a stolen rear plate, Ontario Alpha Mike Lima Lima Five Zero Eight, replaced with Québec Kilo Echo Foxtrot Four Eight Four while parked at Rideau Centre.”

  “Roger, dispatch. Out.”

  Zakhar grabbed the mic from the PC, who swiveled his wary gaze to his captor.

  “What did it mean?” Zakhar demanded.

  “It means whoever stole this motor home,” the PC raised the registration in his left hand, “swapped their plate with the rear plate off another RV. Québec Province requires only a rear plate. Ontario requires both front and rear. That rear plate is now reported stolen.”

  You are clever, Olander, Zakhar thought. It is as I would have done.

  He handed the handcuff key to the officer. “Unlock your left wrist. Fasten the cuff to the wheel.” He needed the officer to drive.

  “Show me this Rideau Centre where the plate was stolen—and remember that I warned you not to alert anyone. I will shoot you, if needed.”

  He took the handcuff key back and handed the ignition key to the constable. They left the gas station. Twenty minutes later, they arrived at the mall, and the constable slid his car into a parking slot.

  Zakhar examined the mall, marveling at the signs proclaiming the number and variety of stores within its walls. What I could buy with the money I have!

  “Drive around Rideau Centre. I wish to see more of what this place offers.”

  The officer made a slow circuit of the mall while Zakhar looked for some clue as to why Linnéa Olander had come there.

  Perhaps
it was only because of the many vehicles, he realized. Perhaps she was not shopping for anything.

  Then he caught sight of the bright blue box across the street and the sign within the box, Dave’s Blue Label Buys. Beneath the box he read, “Electronics, Computers, Home Entertainment.” He shivered, recalling the young man at the Westmount Hotel—what was his name? Ah, yes. Justin Worley. What had he said?

  “We were in the business center, using the computers. She had a Final Fantasy disc.”

  “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.”

  Linnéa Olander, calling herself Beverly, had ingratiated herself into Justin’s favor. She had made an assignation with him, brought wine and led him on, and then drugged him. Why? It had not been clear to Zakhar. Was it truly because Justin had a PlayStation game console?

  Home Entertainment? Does that mean this store sells video game systems?

  He read the clock on the officer’s dash. Nearly eight o’clock. How late would the store remain open tonight?

  Without giving insight to the flush of excitement running through him, Zakhar said, “Take us back to the gas station and I will let you go.”

  Another twenty minutes, and they pulled into the station’s parking lot. The station was closed, the lot mostly dark, and the constable was decidedly nervous.

  “Drive around to the side where the restrooms are, where you parked before.”

  “And then what? You’ll kill me?”

  Instead of answering he said, “I’m getting out and going around to your side of the car. Do not test me.”

  Zakhar opened the officer’s door. “Give me the keys to your car.” He knew the officer would be looking for an opportunity to surprise him, possibly overpower him, so he backed away.

  “Toss them to me.”

  When Zakhar had the keys in his hand, he said, “Give me your badge and identification card. Yes. Toss them to me also.”