Laynie Portland, Spy Rising—The Prequel

by Vikki Kestell

  He met Angela’s questioning look and shrugged. “Sure. They’re okay.”

  “But they’re cooked to perfection, don’t you agree? Not overdone or underdone. It is so hard to achieve the right balance.”

  A young bus boy paused at their table to refill their water glasses.

  Laynie looked up and smiled. Shifted a little toward him. Lifted her chin. “Hello there.”

  “Oh. Hi. Can I get you anything?”

  Laynie dimpled, placed her elbow on the table and rested her chin on her palm. “I dunno. What are you offering?”

  Color washed up the teen’s neck. He stammered, “I-I . . . um, I-I.” He glanced across the room. “I think m-my manager is waving at me.” He hurried away.

  Laynie giggled. “What a cutie. Do you think I embarrassed him? I did, didn’t I?” Her giggle became a full-throated laugh. “Well, I’m sure he’ll get over it. Me? I’m looking forward to dessert—I saw that they have lemon meringue pie on the menu. I just love lemon meringue pie, don’t you?”

  Bert—astounded into watchful silence, uncertain of what he was witnessing, but fascinated by it nonetheless—nodded.

  “Well, I do hope the pie is fresh.” Laynie leaned across the table and confided, “If lemon pie isn’t fresh, the meringue—you know, the fluffy white part? It gets all chewy and gross.”

  Angela and Bert’s chins descended and rose in silent, synchronous agreement, mesmerized by Laynie’s performance.

  Then Laynie set down her fork and sat back, her expression serene, but knowing. “So, you were saying about new employee training?”

  Angela and Bert snapped out of their trance. Angela managed to say, “Yes. Extensive. The language training. In country, for the most part. Immersive.”

  The smile dropped from Laynie’s mouth, and she arched one brow. “So you said.”

  She considered Angela, shifted her eyes to Bert, then back to Angela. “Let me see if I understand you correctly. You are representatives of a U.S. intelligence agency, unnamed so far, and you are trying to recruit me. Do I have it right?”

  Angela frowned. “Excuse me? Intelligence agency? Marstead is a technology company, Laynie. I’m not sure how you arrived at such an assumption.”

  “I might not have all the details right, Angela, but my assumption isn’t wrong.”

  Angela offered a subtle nod. “You are quite . . . perceptive, Laynie, although no candidate to date has made such a claim, certainly not with such assurance.”

  “Thank you. And this, our meeting this evening, was an assessment of sorts? To see how I might react? Tease out my opinions, find out if I were a peacenik and would run screaming in indignation from the restaurant? Or, should I tilt hawkish, if I might express an interest in, uh, shall we call it, ‘learning Russian?’ That kind of test?”

  “As you said,” Angela murmured.

  “Okay. How’d I do?”

  THE TWO RECRUITERS, former field agents themselves, now tasked with seeking out fresh talent for Marstead, later reported to their supervisor, “She’s young and inexperienced, but she’s intelligent and savvy beyond her years. When Angela dropped our opener on her, something shifted and came down over those baby blues. First, it was like she dropped 50 IQ points. Instantaneous stupidity.”

  He chuckled. “She actually batted her eyes at us.”

  “You were as tongue tied as that waiter she picked on—poor kid,” Angela mocked, earning a scowl from Bert.

  Their superior was skeptical. “You’re saying the shift in her behavior was intentional? An act?”

  “That’s exactly what we’re saying,” Angela confirmed. “Once she figured out what we were about, I think she considered the interview a ‘tryout’ or an audition.”

  Bert shrugged. “Always, at that point in an interview, when we shift the conversation, the prospect is fully engaged, either breathless with excitement—in which case we proceed—or angry over the subterfuge—which signals the end of the interview. Since Miss Portland gave us nothing to go on by way of reaction, we weren’t sure which way to proceed.”

  He looked to Angela, who added, “Sir, we could have been discussing the color of grass for all the interest or notice she paid us.”

  Bert nodded. “Except for the instant change in her personality.”

  “Instant, is right. She toyed with us, and it was quite the act. She has real talent, sir, even if it is raw and untrained. And that’s not all.”

  “Oh?”

  “When she finished her little ‘show,’ she sat back in the booth and, click! the real Laynie Portland—the intelligent, savvy young woman—was back. She looked us in the eye and said, and I quote—” Angela attempted to mimic Laynie’s voice— “‘Let me see if I understand you correctly. You are representatives of a U.S. intelligence agency, unnamed so far, and you are trying to recruit me. Do I have it right?’”

  Bert snickered. “Pretty good rendition, Ang.”

  Angela chuckled. “Thanks, Bert.”

  The man across the desk from the agents leaned forward and folded his hands under his chin. “Interesting. So, a natural?”

  “A natural,” Bert echoed.

  “Sociopath, you think?”

  In the intelligence business, the same traits that made for successful agents—cleverness, glibness, and the ability to charm, lie, and remain unflustered—were shared by people with deeply flawed psyches. For that reason, Marstead screened potential agents carefully.

  Bert and Angela glanced at each other and both shook their heads.

  Bert answered, “The shrinks will have to sort it out, of course, but we don’t think so. Miss Portland exhibited true empathy, particularly when we turned our conversation toward her family.”

  Angela added, “She confirmed to us that her parents have no other active familial connections. ‘Just the four of them,’ she said. Twice.”

  Their boss shuffled some papers on his desk. “All right. Let’s get her on board and see how she works out.”

  LAYNIE RETURNED HOME that evening in a sober frame of mind.

  Gene Portland was the first to ask, “How did the interview go, Laynie?”

  “I think I did well, Dad, but . . .”

  “But?”

  “Well, if they were to extend an offer to me, it sounds like I’d be sent to one of their foreign offices in Europe.”

  Polly and Gene looked at each other, the same dismay on their faces.

  “Oh, Laynie,” Polly whispered.

  “They haven’t made me an offer, Mama. No sense worrying about what hasn’t happened yet.”

  “Would you want to leave Seattle, or the U.S., for that matter?” Gene asked. “We’d sure miss you.”

  “Miss you like crazy,” Polly repeated.

  About that time, Laynie’s brother, Sammie, wandered into the living room. “Hey, sis. How’d the job interview go?”

  Laynie grinned at him. “I killed it, of course.”

  BY THE TIME LAYNIE graduated in June, she had interviewed with three local companies, earning an offer from one of them. However, to Gene and Polly’s chagrin, Marstead asked Laynie to fly to Baltimore, Maryland, for a second interview—said interview to take place over a weekend.

  “What does this mean, Laynie?” Polly asked.

  “Well, I guess you could say dinner three weeks back was the first-round interview. The trip to Baltimore means I’ve made the cut to the next round.”

  “You’ve been offered a lovely job here in Washington State, Laynie.”

  “I know, Mama, but . . .”

  But I’ll be bored out of my mind within six months.

  But I’ll hate the stifling corporate culture.

  But I’ll wonder, for the rest of my life, what if?

  “But?”

  “I think I should see what Marstead offers before I make a decision.”

  Polly’s face creased in concern. “Laynie, have you prayed on this?” she asked. “Have you asked the Lord to direct your steps?”

  Layn
ie knew the questions were coming; she’d practiced dodging them for years now—since high school, when she told her parents she didn’t want to go to church with them any longer. What she wanted in that regard didn’t matter, of course. Her parents insisted that, while she lived at home, she attend church with them.

  Sammie had embraced their faith, had embraced Jesus; it was Laynie who had not. Sammie had become a Christian at summer camp when he was ten; Laynie, in contrast, had resisted the spiritual tug on her life.

  Why? Why am I so different from Sammie?

  It was something Laynie had wondered for years.

  The answers were always the same: Because Laynie was three years older than Sammie. Because Laynie had memories—horrible memories—from before . . . prior to when Gene and Polly adopted them. Sammie had been a baby, but Laynie remembered. She remembered—with so much anguish!—a young girl screaming, “No! You can’t take them away! You can’t take them!”

  “Care.” The word, a name, sighed from Laynie’s mouth.

  Care, where are you? Why did you leave me?

  Laynie had found no resolution, only pain, a pain she’d known as far back as she could remember, a pain for which Polly had rocked and rocked her, night after night, trying to comfort Laynie when she and Sammie had first come to the Portlands.

  Laynie didn’t know where the pain had come from or when it had become part of her. She couldn’t recall when it had morphed . . . and become guilt. All she knew was that a voice inside her head had reached out to “help” her make sense of her loss.

  Maybe . . . the voice whispered, maybe it is your fault.

  The “it” in “maybe it is your fault” was the answer to a jumble of questions beginning with the word “why”: Why had Laynie’s birth parents given her and Sammie up for adoption? Why had Laynie and Sammie been ripped away from them, why would no one tell Gene and Polly where their children came from? And why did Laynie’s faint memories of Care (whoever she was) hurt so profoundly?

  The voice had taunted Laynie every day of her life thereafter. Mocking her. Blaming her. Follow-on accusations had wormed their way into her heart, but the accusations were so dark, so horrific, that she avoided teasing them out to their conclusions. Still, the whispers ripped and clawed at Laynie:

  What if I am to blame? What if it is my fault our real parents wanted nothing to do with us? What if I am the reason Care was screaming?

  She would die if the whispers were true! Instead, to avoid probing or acknowledging them, she shoved them into a box and slammed the lid on them—effectively creating a secret.

  Her secret.

  But slamming the lid on the box hadn’t prevented the conclusions from sinking down into her soul, hadn’t stopped her heart from declaring, God couldn’t possibly love me . . . if I did all that. As a result, Laynie had embraced a mantra rooted in self-loathing:

  I am worthless. I have no value. Why would God love me? He wouldn’t.

  These “facts” that she repeated to herself were why she had rejected Jesus—or, rather, why she was convinced he had rejected her. If he is God, she reasoned, then surely, he knows the truth about me—just like she knew the truth about him.

  He doesn’t want me. How could he, as awful as I am?

  Marstead intrigued Laynie for one reason: If they took her on, perhaps the work they gave her to do would have real importance. Perhaps she would find some form of redemption or significance in giving herself to that work.

  I have no worth. I have no value.

  I don’t matter, but perhaps the work I do can serve a greater purpose.

  Maybe then her life would have meaning.

  Chapter 2

  A MARSTEAD EMPLOYEE picked Laynie up at Baltimore/ Washington International airport on the third Friday in June. He drove, without a word of narration, west then south—about fifty miles total, Laynie estimated—until, in a stretch of hilly, treed countryside with few houses visible, the car turned up a lengthy graveled drive and came to a stop before an imposing steel gate. Laynie saw that the gate was attached to a fence of similar daunting construction, a fence that stretched away from the gate in both directions and disappeared into a thick swath of trees and bushes—trees and bushes that were cleverly planted to hide the fence line.

  Welcome to the hidden heart of Marstead, Laynie thought, right here, just north of D.C. She shivered, and was honest enough to admit she was more excited than anxious about what lay behind the fence.

  A guard shack stood to the side of the gate, and an armed guard wearing a dark uniform walked to the driver’s window. The driver presented a badge, then rolled down the rear window so the guard could look inside. The guard said nothing to Laynie, and she said nothing to him. He glanced from his clipboard to her face several times before he gestured to someone else in the shack.

  The gate rolled aside on thick wheels; Laynie’s driver pulled through and on up the drive. When the drive forked, the driver went right. Laynie tried to see what was on the left but, again, the judiciously planted landscaping blocked her view. She heard noises, though—distinctive popping sounds.

  A minute later, they stopped before a squat, two-story, cedar-shake lodge. Laynie was grateful when the driver opened her door—as she was convinced that the door was locked and she would not have been able to open it from inside. When she stepped out, she was surprised to see Angela waiting for her.

  “Hi there. Have a nice flight?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “Follow me. The driver will see to your luggage.”

  They walked up the steps to the front entrance, passed through double doors, a foyer, and a second set of double doors, into the perfectly normal great room of a mountain lodge, complete with monstrous fireplace—not burning, of course, given it was June, the air hot and humid.

  Angela signaled Laynie to follow her up a short stairway that ran up to a landing then took a ninety-degree turn to the right. Another eight steps, and they were on the second-floor mezzanine, overlooking the living room below.

  “This way.” Angela pointed down a hall perpendicular to the center of the mezzanine. “Your room is second on the left.”

  Angela unlocked the room, swung the door wide, and handed Laynie the key. “You have an hour to freshen up. We’ll meet by the fireplace at 6:30 for introductions and orientation, followed by dinner. If you happen to come upon another candidate before then, do not introduce yourself.”

  She cast a sharp eye on Laynie. “Got it?”

  “Er, yes. Got it.”

  WHEN LAYNIE APPROACHED the fireplace a jot before 6:30, she was joined by Angela, two men and a woman near her age whom she assumed were also candidates, and the man who was to explain and oversee their activities during the next two days.

  “Good afternoon. I’m Wes Trammel, your liaison for the weekend.”

  Nothing about the man was soft, welcoming, or reassuring; he was all business—tough and without a hint of humor. Laynie wondered what else lurked below the surface.

  “You are here because you expressed an interest in Marstead and we expressed an interest in you. Whether we continue to be interested in you remains to be seen.”

  He nodded to Angela, who handed out lanyards with badges on them. “Put these on, please.”

  Laynie’s badge displayed her likeness in black and white and the word, “Green.” She glanced at the other candidates’ badges. One read “Black,” another, “Blue,” the last, “Red.”

  Trammel pointed to Laynie’s badge. “Anonymity is the rule. Your alias, for the duration of the weekend, is what is printed on your badge. Aliases equal anonymity. Do not share your given names or any part of your real identity or background with each other. Doing so is grounds for dismissal from consideration.”

  After delivering the no-nonsense warning, he moved on. “Marstead is a global leader in a very competitive field, so we are quite careful who we hire. Before we invited you here, we performed in-depth background checks on each of you. You would not be here
had your background check come back anything less than pristine.

  “Tomorrow and Sunday you will submit to a battery of examinations. These tests will, I daresay, cover every aspect of your life and every aptitude you can conceive of and, likely, a few you can’t.

  “You’ll be poked, prodded, needled—literally—psychoanalyzed, and intentionally provoked. We want—no, we need—to know what you are made of, what you believe, what we can expect to build into you, and what we might have to hammer out of you. Should you fail to meet our expectations? No harm, no foul. You return home, without prejudice.

  “If you choose to move forward at this time, however, we must have assurances. From this moment on, we must have your promise that you will not speak of, allude to, or reference, in any form of communication, written or spoken, this facility, the activities of this weekend, our personnel, or other candidates you meet. You will never reference Marstead International in any manner other than exactly as we instruct you. Period. Full stop—and we will ask you to sign such paperwork as will add teeth to your verbal agreement.

  “If you, at this point, choose to opt out of this weekend’s activities, this is your opportunity. Speak now, and we will see you to the airport—again, no harm, no foul.”

  He stared into each candidates’ eyes for a full ten seconds and asked the same question of them individually. “Do you understand what I have just said, and do you choose to continue?”

  The first guy, Black, came to attention and shouted, “Sir! Yes, sir!”

  “This isn’t the military, Black.”

  “Sir! Er, no, sir.”

  The next two candidates, the other male and female, Blue and Red, respectively, said simply, “Yes, sir.”

  He came to Laynie. “Do you understand what I have just said, and do you choose to continue?”

  Laynie’s imagination burned within her. She had to learn more.

  “Yes, I understand and agree.” She put out her hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Trammel.”

  He shook her hand but chuckled as he did. “I have a feeling you’ll change your mind about the ‘pleasure’ of it, Green, but I promise you it’ll at least be interesting.”