All God's Promises (A Prairie Heritage Book 7)

by Vikki Kestell

  Max’s shudder came through the phone. “That kinda frosting is slimy and sticks to the roof of my mouth. But your cake sounds real yummy.

  “Hey,” he switched topics in the same breath. “When are you going to come visit again? Not until Thanksgiving? It’s feels like a long, long time since I’ve seen you, you know. I’m nine now.”

  “Yes, I know, but I can hardly believe it.” Kari wondered what Søren had told Max about their break up.

  She wondered if Søren still thought of her.

  In the week following their disastrous argument over the phone, Søren had called several times and left messages. When she had finally called him back, their conversation had been cautious, each of them careful not to broach the topic of dispute.

  After that, Søren had phoned once every two weeks, and they had exchanged news—or what little news Kari felt comfortable sharing with him.

  I can hardly talk to him about my workday if it sets him off, she had rationalized.

  Kari blinked, suddenly realizing that Søren had not called for more than a month.

  Time flies when you’re not paying attention.

  “Is your dad there?”

  “Yup. You wanna talk to him?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Hello?” Søren’s greeting was gruff. Guarded.

  “Hi. We haven’t talked in a while. How are you doing?”

  “I’m okay. Happy birthday, by the way.”

  “Thank you. I had forgotten it was my birthday, until they threw me a party at work.”

  “So you’re still doing Oskar’s job?”

  Kari didn’t hesitate. “Yes, I am—and doing well, according to Oskar. I have also gotten my foundation off the ground. My friend Ruth is leading the pilot program in Albuquerque. When we’ve worked the bugs out of it, we hope to expand it to other cities.”

  “Your life seems very full.” Søren sounded resigned.

  “It is, but not so full that I don’t have room for you and Max. I miss you. Both of you.”

  He sighed. “Do you ever intend to hire anyone to handle all that work for you?”

  “Yes, I still hope to.” She hesitated a second and then plunged in, “Even when I do, I will need to maintain an oversight role, need to keep my eyes on things. And I’ll want to stay involved in my foundation. Or do you expect me to give up my house in New Orleans and never come back here? You’ve had time to think about my suggestions. Could you ever see your way to a compromise? A way of splitting our time between here and there, between your responsibilities and my responsibilities?”

  It was a minute before he answered. “To be honest, I’ve wondered a lot about it, Kari, and I kind of swing back and forth. One minute I think that if you were here—even two weeks out of every month—those would be two weeks of heaven on earth. Then I think . . . I think you must love what you do more than you love us. That Max and I would always hold second place. And that’s no way to enter marriage.”

  Now Kari huffed. “Søren, do you love your farm?”

  “Is that a trick question?”

  “No. I’m truly asking: Do you love your farm?”

  “Well, of course I do. You know that.”

  “What would you say if I asked you to give it up?”

  “I’d have to say ‘no,’ Kari—but that’s a silly question, isn’t it?”

  “Why is it silly? Because God gave that land to your great-grandfather, and then your grandfather, and then your father, and then you? Because to abandon it would be wrong—even if it were easier than staying?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “It’s no different for me, Søren. God gave me this estate. It’s mine to use, to employ for his glory. To abandon the responsibility of it, when he’s made it clear that I am to understand and administer it, would be wrong.”

  “But you’re a woman, Kari!”

  And there it was.

  Kari could feel how conflicted he was: His words were heavy with competing frustration and longing. Kari’s voice dropped to a whisper.

  “God knew I was a woman when he gave Peter Granger’s estate to me, Søren. Did he make a mistake?”

  Søren didn’t answer.

  Into the silence, Kari breathed, “This-this . . . this ‘little empire’ of mine, as you call it, would be much less of a burden if you were my husband, Søren. I would draw strength from you and our Lord—because a cord of three strands is not quickly broken.”

  The line crackled, but Kari had to believe Søren was listening, perhaps even considering.

  “How is your farm doing, Søren?”

  A sigh wafted across the miles.

  Finally, “It’s . . . not good, Kari.”

  “But it is your family’s heritage—our family’s heritage. I could help you. We could modernize, like you told me you needed to. Get things back on an even keel.”

  The silence resumed and went on far too long.

  Did I push too hard, Lord?

  Kari coughed a tiny cough. “Well, thank you for letting Max call. It was the high point of my birthday. Please . . . please tell him I love him.”

  “Kari . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Um . . . I will tell him.”

  “Thank you, Søren. I hope to talk with you again.”

  But I doubt it will be any time soon.

  —

  SCARLETT BRUNELL SAT ACROSS FROM KARI, a calm but expectant expression on her face, as Kari considered her.

  It was their second meeting. After exchanging pleasantries during their first meeting, Kari had changed the tenor of their meeting. It became a job interview.

  Now Kari was ready to act. “Your recommendation from Sutton, Brown, and Darling is outstanding. I would like to hire you as an associate, Scarlett, to begin a week after you complete your year with them.

  “The position would be part business consultant, part legal advisor. You would shadow me and take on some of the more mundane tasks I’ve been saddled with. You would assume more responsibility as you learn the ropes.”

  Kari glanced at the recommendation letter on her blotter. “Of course the position would be on a trial basis at first.”

  “Of course,” Scarlett murmured.

  Kari smiled. “However, if you show the potential to become half the businesswoman your father is, I’d be happy for you to stay on with me.”

  “Thank you.”

  “So are you interested?”

  “Very much so, Miss Michaels.”

  “Good. Here is my offer.”

  Kari handed Scarlett an envelope. The young brunette unfolded the single sheet of paper and scanned the letter. A smile played across her mouth as she read it again.

  “I accept.”

  Now Kari smiled. “I’m so glad. Welcome aboard, Scarlett.”

  ~~**~~

  Chapter 16

  LINNÉA OLANDER CHECKED HER APPEARANCE before leaving her apartment. Her dark blonde, shoulder-length hair was upswept and pinned in a soft, sophisticated French twist; her navy dress and short matching jacket hung in simple, elegant lines. Small burnished earrings and a complementary broach on the jacket’s wide lapel were her only pieces of jewelry. Sensible but stylish navy pumps completed her ensemble.

  She wore minimal makeup: A light foundation to conceal the dark circles under her eyes.

  With briefcase in one hand, purse clutched under her arm, and her distinctly Scandinavian features and coloring, Linnéa looked every bit the Stockholm businesswoman—affluent but conservative. Perhaps even demure.

  Quite the contrast to my appearance and behavior while clubbing in St. Petersburg the last two weeks.

  Linnéa stifled a yawn. Her monthly trips into Russia took their toll.

  She had dropped into a deep sleep while her train steamed from St. Petersburg to Tallinn, Estonia. Then, when she boarded the ferry to Stockholm, she had been too rested to sleep again. She had endured the hours-long voyage by staring at the moon glimmering on the black water as the ferry clipped
the neck of the Gulf of Finland, surged through the tumultuous Baltic, and threaded its way among the islands surrounding Stockholm until it reached port last evening. Two hours later, finally home in her apartment, she had collapsed into bed, exhausted.

  Now it was time to go into the office and report.

  No rest for the wicked.

  She studied her reflection, closely examined her face. Fine lines were chiseling themselves around the corners of her mouth and eyes, lines that hinted at the encroaching years—lines that bespoke the stress of her work. Linnéa would be thirty-eight years old in a few months, but her features were beginning to manifest the strain of her occupation.

  Yes, her trips into Russia took their toll. Physically. Mentally.

  Emotionally.

  A triple life will do that to you.

  She smoothed her expression into placid lines and turned from the mirror. She locked her apartment door on the way out and stepped into the third-floor lift.

  When the lift opened on her apartment’s lobby, the stout doorman, Gustav, smiled his welcome.

  “Good morning, miss. It is good to see you back.”

  Linnéa’s mouth curved in affection. “Gustav, you are a welcome sight.”

  His smile widened. “Will you be home for a bit now?”

  “Yes, I believe so, but you know how my bosses are—no languishing about for me! I must go straight in and report on my sales.”

  Linnéa’s Swedish was flawless, not even hinting at an American accent. She doubted Gustav—or anyone else, for that matter—suspected that she was of American origins.

  Gustav swung the building’s heavy door open with a flourish and held it as Linnéa stepped outside.

  “Have a pleasant day, Miss Olander. We are glad you are home.”

  Gustav used “we” in the royal sense. He took his position as doorman and general guardian of the apartment tenants quite seriously, and his consideration for the residents of “his” building was genuine.

  “Genuine” is a trait sorely lacking in my life, Linnéa reflected.

  “Thank you, Gustav. I am glad to be home, too.”

  Linnéa grinned as she headed toward the bus stop at a brisk pace. Once seated, she soaked in the views as the bus navigated the route from her apartment into Stockholm’s downtown business area. The city, a mix of old and new, sprawled over a series of islands—and rarely did a bus route not cross one or more of the bridges spanning the waters that separated those islands.

  Much of Stockholm’s old architecture had been preserved and integrated into newer structures as the city grew. Linnéa loved the stately stone or brick buildings lining the waterways, the spires of churches peeking over gabled rooftops, the rolling streets and wide pedestrian walkways and plazas.

  It is good to see the people of Stockholm again, she reflected. Whatever beauty the city of St. Petersburg itself possesses, the Russian people do not.

  They are so drab.

  So dreary.

  So hopeless.

  She shook her head.

  Too much like me.

  Thirty minutes later, she stepped into the vestibule of a tall commerce building and clipped her company’s identification badge to her jacket’s lapel. She nodded at the security guard and went directly to the elevator where she pressed the button for the fourth floor.

  Linnéa was dressed for her position as an account executive for Marstead International, a Stockholm-based aeronautics and technology firm. Marstead occupied the entirety of the third and fourth floors of the building. Four smaller businesses leased suites on the first and second floors.

  In actuality, but not widely acknowledged, Marstead owned all of the building—including basement and sub-basement levels, levels that did not appear in any architectural drawings, particularly those filed with the city.

  Marstead was a respected and flourishing enterprise with a global reach, but unknown to a large slice of its employees, it was also a well-developed front for a branch of a clandestine joint American and NATO alliance intelligence agency.

  The elevator “pinged” to a stop and opened to a foyer on the fourth floor. Linnéa stepped out. A receptionist sat to the left of the lift, not far from the wood-paneled wall where the foyer dead-ended. A wide hallway opened in the other direction and led to a pair of closed double doors. Beyond those doors lay the public face of Marstead, a warren of clerical cubicles and, lining the windows, the executive offices.

  A large and priceless oil painting hung on the wall over the receptionist’s shoulder. The landscape seemed to point the way toward the office area. First-time visitors to Marstead were so taken by the painting’s vivid colors and its celebrated artist that they rarely spared a glance for the bare, paneled wall that dead-ended on the left.

  That wall had a door, but it was not visible to the naked eye. The door’s seams disappeared into the grain of the wood overlaying the wall.

  Linnéa greeted the receptionist. “Hei, Ingrid. Good morning.”

  They spoke mostly English inside the Marstead enclave.

  “Welcome back, Miss Olander. Can I get you a kaffe?”

  Flaxen-haired Ingrid, like Linnéa—but unlike seventy percent of Marstead workers—held Alpha designation: an agency employee. The question about coffee, which she asked of certain Marstead workers when they entered the offices, was code for Are you under duress or is everything secure?

  “Thank you. Perhaps later.” All is fine.

  Ingrid pressed a button under her desk. With the softest click, the undetectable door in the paneled wall slid open.

  “Go right in. The director is waiting for you.”

  Linnéa nodded and went through. She sighed as the door slid closed behind her.

  Not even a moment to put down my briefcase.

  She walked at a brisk pace down a hall past three offices until she reached the director of the agency’s corner headquarters. She knocked and opened the door.

  Daniel Alvarsson closed the folder he was perusing and folded his hands upon it. “Ah. Olander. Good to see you. Sit, please.”

  Linnéa took a seat in the straight-backed chair in front of the director’s desk.

  “I’ll want your report by the end of the day, of course, but give me the gist of your take first.”

  It was always the same when Linnéa returned to Marstead, so she was neither surprised nor unprepared: Alvarsson wanted the bottom line first.

  “I have photographs. Phase one of the new design.”

  “Indeed! Well done. Have Vinck develop them and include them with your report.”

  “Of course, sir. Will you need anything else?”

  “Not at this time. Carry on, Olander.”

  Linnéa paused at the hidden door into the foyer and pressed a call button. Ingrid, on her side of the door, pressed the button under her desk and Linnéa stepped out. The area was engineered so that neither the elevator nor the double doors into the main area could open while the door on the paneled wall was in operation.

  “Thank you, Ingrid.” Linnéa walked down the hallway, through the double doors into the public Marstead offices. Her own office was on the far side of the open area.

  She smiled and replied to the many greetings called to her as she made her way to her office. When she reached it, she unlocked the door, closed it behind her, and collapsed behind her desk.

  Her telephone rang almost immediately.

  Linnéa swore under her breath, but answered with a relaxed, “Linnéa Olander.”

  It was Christor Vinck, the young head of Marstead’s in-house technology department. “Hei, Linnéa. Alvarsson says you have film? I would be happy to come get it.”

  The chipper voice coming through the receiver set Linnéa’s teeth on edge. “Christor, I have been sitting at my desk for all of five seconds.”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Olander. I’ll call back later.”

  Linnéa sighed to herself. Christor—a socially immature twenty-seven years old—had a huge crush on her. One apprecia
tive word from Linnéa made his day; one perceived slight devastated him. Linnéa did all she could not to encourage his hopes, but she also tried not to crush his fragile ego.

  “It’s all right, Christor. Give me ten minutes to unpack my briefcase. I’ll bring the camera to you as soon as I can.”

  “Really?” Christor loved it when Linnéa visited his domain deep in the Marstead sub-basement.

  “Ja, really. But first I need coffee, okay?”

  “I have a new IKEA espresso maker in my office. Top of the line!”

  “Um. Is that so?”

  Drat.

  The kid knew exactly which buttons to push. Linnéa pictured a small, white, porcelain cup sitting in the hollow of her hand, a frothy head steaming under her nose. She closed her eyes and mentally leaned toward the fragrance of dark-roasted heaven—

  “Call me before you leave your office. I’ll have a fresh cup waiting for you.”

  Linnéa cleared her throat. “Um, all right. Thank you.”

  She placed her leather briefcase on her desk, unlatched it, and lifted the lid. Inside the front corners of the case’s lid she felt for two springs bulging ever so slightly under the lining. She pressed them simultaneously. The tiny hidden camera, mounted in the case’s left locking mechanism, popped out into her hand. Six tiny rolls of film followed the camera. No one noticed the pinhole on the briefcase’s side or noticed when, with a two-fingered touch to the lock, Linnéa snapped photographs.

  The same camera fit into a similar mechanism on the clasp of two of Linnéa’s evening handbags. The bags were small and glitzy, the kind a party girl carried when she went out on the town. One bag was black, the other a glimmering red. Linnéa carried lipstick, powder, and her hotel key in one of the bags when she was out partying, but she could hold either bag in one hand and shoot an entire roll of film with the touch of two fingers. If she needed to photograph documents from above, the camera popped out easily for Linnéa to hold it directly over the papers.

  She skimmed through the stack of messages left while she was gone, gave Christor the “heads up” he requested, and grabbed the rolls of film before she headed for the lift. Inside the elevator car, she placed her fingers on the embossed words “Marstead International” above the lift menu and pressed twice: Push-push. And again: Push-push. The hidden buttons would send the lift to the sub-basement.