“I will call you whenever I choose until you find her!” he had shouted back, unleashing enough profanity to singe the “wires” between his phone and her ears.
While he rained down his vile curses and threats, Vyper had popped another stick of Black Jack into her mouth, leaned back in her chair, and daydreamed about upsetting Zakhar’s life—formulating how she might send an auction house to empty his modest apartment in Moscow and then hire a realtor to sell the apartment, promising him or her a sizeable bonus from the profits for lowballing the price. She especially liked the part in her pretend scenario where Zakhar returned to Russia and inserted the key in his front door only to find it no longer worked.
She had snickered aloud to herself—which earned her a fresh tirade of Zakhar’s rage.
The man had vented more frustration and anger with each succeeding phone call—until she’d had enough. He’d gotten under Vyper’s skin like a tick and, like all ticks, needed to be extracted.
How I would like to squish you like the great, bloodsucking insect you are!
You want results, Zakhar? I will give you results.
She sent him first to Toronto, fooling him with a series of faked pings from Elaine Granger’s mobile phone. When he checked into a Toronto hotel after a long night’s drive—and before he’d had time to catch up on lost sleep—she provided him with more “pings,” and he had followed them all over the city, even to a mall where Vyper assured him Elaine’s phone continued to ping. Zakhar had crisscrossed the mall, showing her photograph from store to store for hours, until the mall closed.
When he’d called to berate her the next morning, cranky from lack of sleep, Vyper coolly informed him that Elaine Granger had crossed over the Canadian–US border into New York. She led him on another merry chase that ended in Binghamton, where she texted him, “Have lost signal. Will text as soon as I reacquire it.”
That had been three days ago. Today she knew Elaine Granger was in Winnipeg.
“You have money, Elaine. Now what?”
It occurred to Vyper that Elaine Granger may have ditched her motor home.
“Let’s find the airport, shall we?” she whispered to herself. She located it on her map, then tracked back to the three cell phone pings.
One ping is a data point. Two pings in close proximity confirm location. But three pings? Three pings form a line, my dear—and a line has direction.
The line pointed northwest—in the general direction of the airport.
“Ah, yes—but do you prefer to ride the bus, Elaine?”
She located the Greyhound station and discovered that it was practically adjacent to the airport.
“Not a problem,” she murmured, customizing more of her code. “Whether you buy an airline ticket or a bus ticket, my dear, I will know it nearly as soon as you do.”
She launched the programs into the Greyhound computer system and the systems of the various airlines that serviced Winnipeg, rewarded herself with a stick of gum, then texted Zakhar.
“Granger on the move. Left New York and entered Pennsylvania. Will update you soonest.”
Humming to herself, Vyper returned to her regular duties. When an alert next chimed in her ear? She would know both where Elaine Granger was going and how she intended to travel there.
ZAKHAR STARED IN DISGUST at the latest text Vyper had sent to his phone. He no longer deluded himself that the hacker Baskin had recommended was giving him accurate data that would result in Linnéa Olander’s apprehension.
She has been leading me, all right. Leading me on a fool’s journey—and I am the fool. Well, no more.
He was in New York, after all. He knew people in New York, old comrades from the army who had immigrated to America. He could reach out to them and hire his own resources—Russian resources.
HALF AN HOUR BEFORE her bus was scheduled to leave, Laynie produced her US passport and driver’s license and bought her ticket. The clerk handed her a pamphlet and ran through his border-crossing spiel.
“The bus will stop at the US Customs and Border Protection checkpoint and all passengers will disembark and process through individually with their luggage. You must produce your passport, birth certificate, or citizenship card, state your purpose for entering the US and the length of your stay, and declare any goods purchased in Canada exceeding eight hundred dollars. The list of items restricted from entry into the US can be found on this page.”
When the voice on the loudspeaker called her bus, Laynie found a seat near the emergency exit and hefted her carry-on into the rack above her head. She leaned her head against the window and closed her eyes.
She didn’t intend to sleep, but she did, and did not wake until the bus pulled into the siding at the border station. Like the other passengers, Laynie removed her suitcase from the bus and queued up to pass through inspection.
Although a single armed agent stood guard, keeping watchful eyes on the proceedings—perhaps on the lookout for any perceived threat—the process was unremarkable.
“Welcome home, Ms. Granger,” the agent said, handing back her passport and driver’s license.
“Thank you.”
Welcome home?
Laynie found it hard to swallow. She had not entered the US except while in Petroff’s stifling control since that horrible January when Sammie died. And after years under Petroff’s thumb? She had nearly given up ever seeing home again.
Home! Mama. Dad. Kari. Shannon. Robbie.
Nearly there.
Chapter 26
THE BUS ARRIVED IN Grand Forks after night had fallen. Grand Forks may have been no big shakes in anyone else’s book, but to Laynie it was the last stop before her destination. She had to remind herself not to smile as she purchased a few snacks and one innocuous souvenir inside the station—making some discreet inquiries while paying.
She checked into a two-star motel a block down from the station but found it hard to sleep after napping on the bus. She was up early, preparing for the final leg of her journey.
In much the same way as when she had she fled Moncton, Laynie tied her hair into a ponytail and tucked it under a baseball cap, a new one with a picture of South Dakota’s Mount Rushmore on it, then tugged on jeans and layered a warm flannel shirt over a T-shirt.
She dug in her suitcase and pulled out her old backpack. She slid her laptop into the backpack first. Not much room remained. She’d keep what was most essential and leave the rest behind. Then she emptied her purse, choosing to keep her wallet, passport, phone, and the CD-ROM case. What else? Her eyes fell on the Bradshaws’ travel Bible.
Yeah, you, she admitted.
She added her hairbrush and whatever clothes would fit into the backpack. The leftovers, including her purse, she crammed into a trash sack.
When she was ready, she donned her warm jacket and gloves, zipped her gun into a coat pocket, hoisted the backpack onto her back, and grabbed the trash sack and her empty suitcase. A bitter wind hit her as she left her room. Behind the motel, she tossed the trash sack into the garbage but left the suitcase leaning up against the dumpster.
It’s a nice case. Someone will spot it and snatch it up. It’ll be gone within the hour.
With only her backpack to carry, Laynie hiked the half mile to a truck stop the helpful young man on the bus station’s cash register had told her about. She was glad to get inside the truck stop’s restaurant, out of the freezing wind.
Before an hour was up, she’d eaten a hearty breakfast, grabbed a coffee to go, and snagged a ride with an amiable trucker heading south, destination Kansas City.
“SO, YOU’VE CROSSED over into the States, Elaine,” Vyper mused, “but the heart of the American badlands cannot be your destination, can it? So, tell me, where will you go next? Where are you headed?”
She slowly unwrapped a stick of Black Jack but did not fold it into her mouth. She was uneasy. Zakhar had not called in two days to harangue her. He had gone quiet—and his silence sent alarms blaring in Vyper’s head.
She hacked into Zakhar’s phone provider and found a series of texts and a short list of calls. The contents of the texts were concerning enough, but when she back-traced the numbers to New York City, the short hairs on the back of her shaved neck stood up and shivered.
Zakhar had reached out to a soldier in the russkaya mafiya, also known as the Russian Bratva—the Russian Brotherhood. The texts between Zakhar and the mob soldier were friendly and familiar. From Zakhar’s references, Vyper realized they were most likely former comrades in arms from their Soviet Army days.
When she drilled down into the friend’s phone records, her alarm grew. She suspected that this friend of Zakhar’s was a soldier in the Odessa Mafia, the most powerful Russian organized crime mob operating in the States. They were headquartered in Brighton Beach, a borough of Brooklyn in and around Coney Island. However, the Odessa Mafia did not consider themselves “Russian.” They were fiercely Ukrainian, financed and run by the richest oligarchs living in the Ukraine, heavy into arms smuggling, drugs, and human trafficking. They were known for their ferocious code of loyalty and their merciless pursuit of those who broke that code.
She traced the soldier’s calls and texts, landing on a text that confirmed her worries. Zakhar had asked for and been granted assistance from a mafiya brigadier—a mob captain who reported to the local Pakhan or Boss.
Zakhar, you scum! You haven’t called to harass me because you have hired Odessa Mafia hackers to locate Elaine Granger’s whereabouts!
Vyper bristled over the unexpected twist. She knew the best Odessa Mafia’s hacker by his reputation and by his handle. Syla. His name translated from Ukrainian meant “The Power.”
The kid was good, world-class good. But “The Power” good?
Vyper slowly put the stick of gum in her mouth. Nah. Not as powerful as Vyper venom. But if Zakhar gave Syla the Granger woman’s information, then Syla has already hacked her phone provider and is aware of Granger’s recent activities. He will have informed Zakhar of Granger’s entry into the States.
Her dislike for Zakhar intensified.
She had only misdirected Zakhar because he had become a pain in her backside, but her misdirection had created a bigger problem. It had caused Zakhar to team with perverts worse than himself.
Vyper was not afraid to admit that she profited from illegal hacks, but even criminals had their standards. In her book, men who trafficked women and children were the scum of the earth, the lowest of the low—and her perusal of Zakhar’s laptop had placed him firmly in the camp of the perverts and sadists so abhorrent to her.
And if she detested Zakhar, she despised Syla. In the employ of the Odessa mob, Syla developed and promulgated porn—even “kiddie” porn, a horrible evil. And Syla and his crew sold women and children on the web.
Zakhar and Syla were two of the same filthy ilk—and now they were working together?
Hmm. I doubt that Zakhar’s boss knows that Zakhar has hired the Odessa Mob. I wonder how he would feel about that?
She backtracked to Zakhar’s phone and pinged its location. He was on the move, had crossed back into Canada, headed west.
I assume he is driving rather than flying to avoid the intense scrutiny at security checkpoints and the ongoing air travel delays in the wake of the attacks.
It would take Zakhar long days of driving to catch up to his prey.
Tapping an unopened pack of gum on the desk beside her keyboard, she considered the situation and its ramifications, tossed around one or two creative solutions.
Vyper tore open the pack with practiced ease, pulled out a piece, and unwrapped it one-handed. She folded the stick of gum into her mouth and bit down. With a last look at her map, she cleared it of pins, then dropped two, only two, one a few hours west of Ottawa, the other on Grand Forks. How long would it take Zakhar to catch up to Elaine Granger?
Well, Elaine, my dear, it looks like Zakhar is on to you now, and I have a contract to fulfill, after all, so I shouldn’t interfere in Zakhar’s business.
She thought a minute more.
Or perhaps I should.
THE TRUCKER STOPPED for lunch at the south end of Sioux City. After she had eaten, Laynie took a walk to stretch her legs. The Missouri River wasn’t far from the truck stop. It formed the boundary separating Iowa from Nebraska, and she had caught glimpses of the river from the highway as it followed the river’s course through the city.
I’m so close, she thought, mere hours from Kari’s little farm.
The notion chafed her, because she wasn’t going to Kari’s farm. She couldn’t.
Instead, she stared out to the southwest, trying to imagine the vast acres of low, undulating hills Kari had described—the land Kari and Søren lived on—and the old, broken-down house Kari had told her about, an actual “little house on the prairie.” Kari had taken pains to preserve the home their shared great-grandmother Rose Thoresen and her husband had lived in.
“More than a hundred and thirty years ago,” Laynie whispered to herself. “I have ancestors who were the first to farm the land not far from here . . . and blood relations who live there still.”
Shaking her head, Laynie returned to the truck stop. She rode with the friendly trucker until they reached the outskirts of Omaha and the junction of I-29 and I-80. The trucker was continuing south to Kansas City, but Laynie was not. Her destination was to the west.
He drove his rig onto the road’s shoulder—something he wasn’t supposed to do—not far from the interchange where the two highways intersected and let Laynie out of his cab.
“You hike on up that slope and follow the highway off to the right. When you clear the interchange traffic, you should be able to catch another ride.”
“Thank you, Roy. You’ve been kind to me.”
“And you’ve been good company, Beverly. I wish you well.”
Laynie waved, shouldered her backpack, and set off, keeping well clear of the roadbed and speeding traffic on her left. On her right were fields and some industrial buildings. She kept walking, not anxious for a ride, because up ahead, after she joined I-80, the highway crossed over the river. She was going to see it up close after all.
She walked onto the bridge, which had a wide shoulder and, for a long time, she stared out onto the river. It was like most any river, nothing special, but as she left the railing to continue across, she looked up and ahead saw the sign over the roadway.
NEBRASKA . . . the good life
Laynie started walking. Maybe a good life did await her. Someday.
It was already coming up on four in the afternoon. She wanted to find another motel before dark, but she wasn’t seeing anything ahead except more highway bypassing the town. She faced the oncoming traffic and held out her thumb. After ten fruitless minutes, a car pulled over. Two teens sat in the front seat. The passenger rolled down his window and leaned out.
“You want a ride?”
“Yes, please. Where are you headed?”
“Just into town.”
Laynie got in and they sped off.
She watched the young men, a year or two out of high school, as they tried to study her in the rearview mirror without being obvious. She figured she knew what was running around in their heads. Excited, testosterone-driven pipe dreams. Bold but stupid.
“Could you drop me near a motel?”
They glanced at each other.
“Sure,” the driver said.
Laynie sighed. “I hope you aren’t nurturing any big ideas about the three of us, gentlemen. I’m probably as old as your moms are.”
A lot less exuberant than they’d been when they picked her up, the boys let Laynie out at an intersection with hotels on all four corners. They mumbled their goodbyes and drove off.
Laynie made for the closest motel.
One more leg. Tomorrow she’d be there.
BEFORE SHE LEFT WORK for the day, Vyper checked
Zakhar’s phone a last time. He had driven nearly nonstop over the past twenty hours and had just checked into a Winnipeg hotel.
She giggled to herself. Goodness, you must be beat! My poor little Zakhar.
He would have to sleep for hours to recover. While he did, Vyper planted a “cron job” in Elaine Granger’s phone provider’s system, a piece of code that would run at the time she specified, three o’clock the next morning. When it did, Syla would catch it and roust Zakhar from his bed.
“That should get you up and moving before you’re fully rested and keep you busy for a while.”
Tossing some crumpled gum wrappers in the trash, she logged off her terminals and left work, debating with herself where to pick up dinner.
Chapter 27
LAYNIE TOOK A CAB TO the Omaha bus station and caught a Trailways bus for the last leg of her journey. The trip took an hour. She arrived midmorning.
She strolled into a gas station and bought a newspaper and a detailed map of the city, then headed across the street to a restaurant where she ordered lunch and began to orient herself to the town’s layout. Once she had her destination located on the map, she began to peruse the newspaper for rentals until one caught her eye. Furnished studio apartments near the UNL east campus—the east campus, home to the agriculture college.
She powered on her phone. “Hello? I’m calling about your apartments. How close are they to the university? No, I’m not a student, but I would like to live close to the east campus. Can you tell me about your apartments? The ad said you provide Internet service?”
She listened, then answered, “I’ve just arrived in Lincoln. However, I have first and last month’s rent and will be looking for work. Yes, my credit report should be clean. May I come by to see the apartment?”
Laynie Portland, Retired Spy Page 33
