Syla purred. “Ah, I nearly forgot. I have new treats for you—very special videos, just to your liking. I’ll send the links to your laptop.”
“Spasibo, Syla.”
Smiling, Zakhar hung up. His victory was close, so close!
Naturally, Rushailo knew nothing of Zakhar’s association with the Odessa mob—the Secretary of Russia’s Security Council would never have agreed to place himself under obligation to the Ukrainians—but what did the facts matter, so long as Syla believed him? And if Rushailo were to fall under the Russian Federation’s scrutiny for suspected association with the Odessa mafiya, would not Baskin fall from grace as well?
And would not both of those happy events favor Zakhar? The fewer Russians left standing with the authority to hunt him down, the safer he would be when he chose to disappear.
Two days ago, Syla had directed Zakhar from Winnipeg to the hick community of Lincoln, Nebraska. Lincoln was not large, as truly large cities go. Still, finding Olander among its 230,000 residents would have proven tedious and time-consuming without Syla’s help. Syla had promised he would lead Zakhar directly to Linnéa Olander, and he had delivered.
IN ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA, Deputy US Marshal Quincy Tobin was enjoying his holiday—but not with any special holiday activity. On his day off he wasn’t going to catch a parade or gather with fellow marshals for a barbeque. He was happy to get up at his regular early hour, take his time with his morning cup of joe, and further reflect on yesterday’s conversation with Marta Forestier.
Not her real name, he corrected himself, just the cover she adopted to board Flight 6177, London to JFK.
Don’t care.
Like the sound of “Marta” just fine.
But he would like her by whatever name she adopted.
What a spunky woman, he mused. Intelligent, courageous, and lethal wrapped up in one gorgeous package.
When he found himself grinning like an idiot, he laughed aloud.
And she did say I could call her again.
That reminded him of the deputy director’s business card tucked away in his wallet and the obligation he had to the Marshals Service. Until Marta had called him out of the blue, Tobin hadn’t had reason or need to use that card.
He scowled. Now I’m obliged to report contact with her?
His phone vibrated an incoming text. Quincy picked it up, hoping it wasn’t work. It wasn’t—but he had no idea who it was. The text had no sender’s phone number or name.
Text after text landed on his phone, five in all. He read them quickly—reread them, then read them a third time, slowly.
Elaine Granger? Who is that? And who is texting me?
He typed a reply. “Who is this? How did you get this number?”
The response was “A friend. Don’t fail her.”
Beneath the reply, a sixth text rolled in containing a series of ASCII characters. Tobin thought them gibberish or some kind of code—until he pulled his phone back and perceived the image the characters formed—that of a fanged snake’s head.
“What the devil?”
He was reading the entire message again, text by text, when a single line pinged his phone.
“She called you last night.”
Bam! The message slammed into him like a Mack truck, taking on urgent meaning.
“Oh, dear God!”
He fumbled for the card in his wallet. Regardless of how Tobin felt about turning Marta in, if he didn’t rally help for her, she wasn’t going to survive the next twenty-four hours.
He keyed in the number scrawled on the card’s back and paced his apartment’s living room. I’m about to ruin someone’s holiday, a BIG someone. This text had better not be bogus or my next paycheck sure will be.
The call picked up. “Gordon Niles.”
“Director Niles, this is Deputy US Marshal Quincy Tobin. I was the sky marshal on Flight 6177. We met in my hospital room?”
The man Tobin had called was immediately attentive. “I remember you, Marshal. What do you have for me?”
“Sir, I’ve just received a series of anonymous text messages—no phone number, so likely sent from the web. The messages reference one Elaine Granger, but I’m convinced the name is an alias for Marta Forestier. I think the best way to proceed is to forward the messages to you directly.”
“Do it, Marshal. I’ll hang up, read them, and get back to you.”
Quincy forwarded the messages off to Niles, then checked the time and hurried to pack a bag. Regardless of Niles’ response, Tobin needed the fastest possible transport to Lincoln, Nebraska. He had a friend who could arrange a private jet for him—and Tobin didn’t care if the cost emptied his savings account as long as it got him there in time.
“TELL US AGAIN WHAT she said, Max.”
Søren and Kari had sent Shannon and Rob to bed after managing to fake at playing several rounds of Uno that night. Later on, and several times over the next two days, whenever they could get Max aside without the younger children noticing, they asked him to repeat his encounter with Laynie.
Max was more than tired of it. He was irked. It was Monday, almost noon, and after helping Søren and Robbie with the chores, Max had friends he’d planned to hang out with before returning to school—that is, until Kari and Søren had sat him down yet again.
“Mom? Nothing has changed, okay? I’ve told you like a hundred times what she did, what she said—all of it.”
Kari nodded. “I’m sorry, Max, so sorry for spoiling your weekend, but if we could have just five minutes more? I keep thinking Laynie must have given you a hint or a clue of some kind so that we could find her.”
“Find her? Mom, if she wanted to see you, wouldn’t she have just called? Or shown up here?”
Kari looked to Søren. They had discussed giving Max a tiny bit more information. Just enough for him to understand.
Søren mouthed an “okay” to Kari.
She took a deep breath. “You are a fine young man, Max. I know your heart and your character, so I’m going to entrust you with some . . . important information. I will need your promise first that you will never speak of it to anyone other than us—and I do mean anyone. Can I have that assurance?”
Max’s eyes shifted from Kari to Søren and back. “You’re kind of freakin’ me out, Mom.”
Søren said, “Do we have your promise, Max?”
“Yeah, okay—I mean, yessir. I promise.”
Kari began. “All right. Here it is. A lot of what Aunt Laynie does is both dangerous and secret—even from me.”
Max’s face went slack. Dangerous? Secret? “What? You mean, secret as in CIA secret?”
“Not CIA, but close, yes. She . . . couldn’t tell me which organization.”
Max blinked. His mind was reeling. “You’re kidding, right?” When he saw how serious his parents were, he mumbled, “You’re not kidding? My aunt is a spy?”
“No, we’re not kidding and, yes, she is . . . a spy. And the fact that she’s hiding herself, not calling us, not just showing up for a visit? That tells us something.”
“Like what?”
“Like she’s afraid of leading some of those dangerous people to our door. Right now, they don’t know we exist. She has worked hard to keep us a secret, because, if those bad people knew Laynie had a family she loved? They could use us against her.”
“This is crazy, Mom.”
“I know, sweetie. I know.”
Søren cleared his throat. “I haven’t met Laynie either. But according to your mom, she would not have approached you on purpose using the name Elaine Granger without good reason. That’s why we want you to repeat what she said.”
“Yeah. All right. Okay.”
Max went through his telling of the game again, ending with Laynie’s invitation to treat both teams to burgers. “Then she said, ‘Well, I believe in being a gracious winner—and since I barged in on your game, what say I treat you all to burgers and fries?’ and she said to me, ‘You look like you could use a burger, Ma
x,’ and I said—”
Suddenly Max stopped. His jaw dropped. “Oh, wow.”
“What? What is it?”
“She called me Max! I didn’t realize it at the time, but she already knew my name. When we got to Mr. Lincoln’s, everyone introduced themselves to her, but she had called me by name back when we were on the field—and we weren’t on the same team.”
Kari, as excited as he was, said, “That’s what we meant, Max. Laynie didn’t stumble on you by accident. She sought you out for a reason. So, think! Think, sweetie. What else did she say?”
Max scrunched up his face and tried to recall the loud and lively scene around the table while they devoured their food and everyone talked at once. “Well, I think she said, ‘If you ever need another player, I’ll be around.’”
“That’s good, but you told us that already. What else?”
Max squinted in concentration. “Vince said that would be cool—I think he has a crush on her, but I’m thinking, ‘Really, man? I mean, she’s hot and all, but she’s old, like in her forties’ and—”
“Max!”
“Oops. Um, sorry. Yeah, I . . . I thought at the time that she looked familiar to me, but I couldn’t figure it out.” He stared at Kari. “I can now. She looks like you, Mom.”
Kari smiled. “Yes, there’s a strong family resemblance, especially the eyes—that and, you know. We’re both old.”
Max’s face flamed. Kari and Søren laughed.
“What next? What did she say next?”
“Like I told you, she said, ‘If you ever need another player, I’ll be around.’ And then . . . then she added, ‘I’ll be right here.’”
“Right here? As in ‘right here’ where? At the paintball course? Somewhere else on campus? Where in Lincoln?”
“No, she was—” Max grew agitated. “Mom, Dad, she was tapping on the table, like this.” Max tapped on the dining table for emphasis. “She tapped on the table and said, ‘I’ll be right here.’ And then she said, ‘I’d like to play again, especially on upcoming Monday afternoons.’”
Kari grabbed Søren’s hand. “That’s it! The ‘upcoming Monday’ part. Today is Monday. We’re supposed to meet her at the burger place. Today.”
LAYNIE SLIPPED HER unlabeled CD-ROM into her laptop and installed the software for a subscription service called “Keyhole EarthViewer.” Christor had supplied Linnéa with the program. Its developers had undertaken a new and ambitious objective to buy downward-facing satellite photos and stitch them together to create a larger and more complete overhead view. Their long-term goal was to map the entire face of the earth and make it searchable. The founders of Keyhole EarthViewer were just getting started, so the work was largely incomplete, but they had most US cities already mapped.
Laynie logged in under Christor’s subscription ID and stared at the image of the “Big Blue Marble” as seen from orbit. She typed “Lincoln, NE” into the search field. Slowly, the earth rotated, and North America came into view. It grew in size as the program zoomed in on the United States, then Nebraska, then the city of Lincoln. The area outside the city seemed blurry, out of focus, but the image of the city itself began to resolve. Using her laptop’s mouse, Laynie dragged the image closer. Tighter.
She’d found the east campus—she recognized the elongated oval track of UNL’s Tractor Test Laboratory. She sought the intersection of Holdrege St. and N. 48th, then zoomed in again.
There. That flat-roofed building had to be Mr. Lincoln’s Burgers & Shakes. She pulled out, searching for a place to meet—not far away, somewhere with cover. Somewhere out of casual view. Across Holdrege she saw acreage owned and cultivated by UNL’s agriculture college. Shrubs, bushes, and trees bounded the perimeter, but within the lot were beehives and a sizable orchard—columns and rows of trees.
She jumped onto the university’s website and read about the variety of fruit and nut tree hybrids the ag college cultivated to test for insect and disease resistance. She jumped back to the Keyhole viewer and studied the orchard.
While it was now mid-October and cold, Lincoln had not yet experienced a killing frost. The trees would still have some foliage. Better still, the land around the orchard stretched to the north and west before meeting up with campus roads and school buildings on the west.
But how to securely convey the meeting place?
Laynie searched for an online Bible and found Bible Gateway’s site. She did a number of keyword searches—and smiled to herself when she found a phrase. She read before and after the passage and picked up a useful phrase.
After she’d settled her thoughts, she grabbed up the Bradshaws’ Bible and leafed through it, looking for something she’d seen earlier. She found it tucked inside the back cover. an unused picture postcard of Lake Louise, a souvenir from one of Shaw and Bessie’s travels.
Laynie printed her message on the postcard. She reread it and nodded, pulled on her coat and gloves, patted the HK zipped into her coat’s pocket, grabbed her wallet and phone, and left her apartment.
The lunch rush was ending when she entered Mr. Lincoln’s Burgers & Shakes. She sat in a corner booth and waited for the place to clear out some before approaching the counter.
“Hey there. I was wondering if I could borrow one of your red markers for a sec? You know, the markers you use to write orders on the to-go bags?”
The kid shrugged. “Guess so, if you give it right back.”
“I will.” Laynie finished what she’d come to do, returned the marker, and started back to her apartment. Hours stretched before her until she’d leave again to ensure that the meeting place was safe.
“WHAT HAVE WE HERE? What fresh delusion is a *bleeping* Bible Gateway? Do these religious idiots believe the Bible of such importance that they had to create a ‘gate’ into it? The absurdity of ignorant people!”
Vyper tapped her latest pack of gum on the desk beside her keyboard while she scoffed. She took note of Elaine Granger’s keystrokes as she ran a number of keyword searches. She became slightly more interested when the woman settled on a specific Bible verse.
Pulling up the Bible Gateway website for herself, Vyper read the verse.
“Odd.”
Vyper observed as Granger closed the Bible website, loaded a CD into the laptop’s drive, and installed the “Keyhole EarthViewer” program—a program Vyper often used herself. It was Vyper’s opinion that the site would, at some point in the future, accomplish its grand goals—even exceed its visionaries’ expectations.
“But not until their company is bought out by Yahoo or Microsoft. Or even Google.” She pondered the possibilities for a moment. “Nah, not Google. Probably Microsoft or Apple.”
Following Granger’s keystrokes, she looked down at the same image Granger was exploring.
“That’s interesting—and I think I get you, Elaine. Can I work with this?” She laughed and treated herself to another stick of gum. “Well, naturally I can. Who do you think you’re talking to?”
Giggling at her own humor, Vyper typed in the IP address for an anonymous web-to-text messaging site—different than the last site she’d used—pounded out another set of texts, and sent them on their way to the mobile phone, area code 202, registered to the US Marshals Service.
She ended her texts with, “Don’t screw this up” and added her ASCII character logo.
ZAKHAR PARKED HIS RENTAL car two blocks away and walked a circuitous route to the address Syla had given him, a small group of apartments. Acting with the confidence of one who belonged there, he sought out the complex’s freestanding, sixteen-unit cluster mailbox.
Zakhar went around to the back of the box and withdrew a thin flat head screwdriver and a stiff piece of wire from inside his coat. He used the tools to jimmy open the postal worker’s door.
He found that the apartment’s manager kept the ever-changing mailbox up-to-date. He had dutifully printed the sixteen residents’ last names on labels and affixed them to the appropriate mail slot. A label reading “Gra
nger” was glued to the slot for Apartment 11.
Five minutes later, Zakhar was inside Laynie’s apartment, pawing through her meager belongings, certain he had found her. He was jittery and keyed-up with anticipation.
At last! You have teased, tormented, and denied me for years, Linnéa Olander, but I will have you at last! And when I have wrung every drop of pleasure from your body, I will strangle you until the light fades from your haughty blue eyes.
Then I will be quit of the obsession that has vexed me for years, the fixation that has almost driven me mad. When you die, I will be released from the evil curse you placed upon me.
Yes, when you die, I shall be free.
LAYNIE CROSSED 48TH Street, headed back to her apartment, guarded, but marginally confident about the evening. As her foot reached the opposite curb, a sick feeling came over her, an intuition of danger and impending trouble—a heavy sense that she should not return to her apartment.
What? Am I being followed? Surveilled? Has Zakhar found me?
She knew better than to stop on the sidewalk or outwardly display dread. Instead, she kept her pace but turned left on 47th rather than proceeding straight down Holdrege. She walked south on 47th, skirting Ecco Park, arriving at the bowling alley at the bottom of the block. She went inside and chose a table in the lounge where she had a clean line of sight to the door and easy access to the fire exit.
A waitress came and took her order for coffee and a sandwich.
It was crowded and warm in the alley, lots of families taking advantage of the holiday to bowl with their kids, but Laynie shivered. She hadn’t noticed anything amiss, but when that scary-sick feeling overtook her, she had known not to continue on to her apartment.
It wasn’t the first time she’d experienced such aid since leaving Russia.
Is that you? Helping me again? Answering Kari’s prayers for me?
“All of God’s promises are true, Laynie, because he is true. One way or another, he will work those promises into reality. He is God, and he will have his way.”
Laynie stared into her coffee cup and acknowledged that she had choices before her. Decisions to make. Not today perhaps, but sometime soon.
Laynie Portland, Retired Spy Page 37
