Laynie Portland, Spy Rising—The Prequel

by Vikki Kestell

Ms. Stridsvagn inclined her head toward Laynie. “I speak of the unacceptable risk you might pose to our organization should you be captured. This risk poses a serious impediment to your advancement to probationary agent status. But it is also an impediment you can choose to remove, although . . . the time to do so is short.”

  Ms. Stridsvagn’s gaze sharpened. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  Laynie flicked a glance toward Gunny and Mr. Henry. They were watching her now, their gazes hooded by lowered lids. Their impassive inspection angered her. She wanted to sneer at them, curse them . . . but Ms. Stridsvagn’s warning, ringing in her head, restrained and terrified her.

  If I am not careful, if I act out, if I don’t give them what they want . . . they will scrub me from the program.

  Without moving a muscle, she weighed and considered her options.

  “Laynie, our bodies are sacred things, made special by God for to glorify him. We keep our bodies pure and holy a’cause he is pure and holy.”

  Oh, Mama! The world has changed so much since you were a girl.

  She stood on the verge of refusing Ms. Stridsvagn’s “suggestion.” But what then? What would she do if they sent her home, having failed? A dark gulf opened up before Laynie . . . her future if Marstead rejected her.

  No! No, I’ve come so far, worked so hard, overcome so much. I cannot falter now.

  Slowly, Laynie lifted her chin. She met Ms. Stridsvagn’s piercing scrutiny with the bland, disinterested mask she’d put on when she entered the room.

  “I will take care of it, Ms. Stridsvagn.”

  TAYLOR SET HIS TRAY on the table at dinner and mumbled for their ears only, “Looking forward to the holidays. Sort of wish I could spend some of it in Hawaii—I hear the snorkeling is great.”

  He had their attention. “Any of the rest of you have, uh, plans?”

  Stephanie, trying hard not to outright grin, said, “Hawaii sounds great! I’d love to go, too.”

  Black nodded. “Nothing like a nice Hawaiian punch, right?”

  They turned their attention on Laynie. She picked up her fork and addressed her food, so she didn’t have to meet their questioning eyes or face their reactions.

  “I haven’t made any plans yet.”

  LIGHTS WENT OFF IN the trainee hotel at ten. Laynie waited until 10:30 before she slipped out her door and down the hall, to knock at another trainee’s door. She heard movement, shifting on a bed, the hasty pulling on of clothes and soft shuffling of bare feet across the floor.

  The door eased open a crack. “Maggie? What are you doing up?”

  “Shhh.” Laynie pushed on the door, and he allowed her inside; she closed it quietly behind her. She couldn’t see much of him in the dark—meaning he couldn’t see her, either. For that, she was glad.

  This was going to be hard enough.

  “Black . . . we’re friends, right?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “I . . . I need your help.”

  She stalled out.

  He shifted. “Help. Okay. Sure. Will I be breaking any rules?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Then I’m your man.”

  I’m your man? Laynie felt sick, but she couldn’t back away.

  “Someone objected to my . . . vacation plans.”

  “What? Are they crazy? What kind of objection?”

  “Turns out, I can’t go to . . . Hawaii, unless I-I . . .”

  “What’s the problem? What can I do?”

  “It’s that I . . . I’m a virgin, Black. They said I’d pose a risk . . . I don’t think they’ll pass me unless I, unless I . . . you know.”

  He stilled. Said nothing. She heard him swallow.

  “I told them . . . told them I’d take care of it.”

  Laynie shivered. There it was. Out in the open.

  He still didn’t say anything, but his hand came up and rasped across the stubble on his chin. A nervous tell.

  He muttered a one-word expletive.

  “Yeah.” Laynie agreed.

  More silence.

  “I trust you, Black. As a friend. So . . . with no strings attached, no expectations. Just please . . . help me.”

  LAYNIE LEFT BLACK’S room before dawn. She hadn’t slept much . . . after. All in all, she didn’t feel anything one way or the other. Because she was numb.

  He’d been gentle. Kind. Patient. Still . . .

  Not how I’d ever imagined it . . . the first time.

  She reached her room, showered, and dressed for the day, only to wait another two sleepless hours before it was time to gather at the flagpole for PT.

  “Hey, Mags,” Steph called.

  “Hey, Steph.”

  Júlio blew his whistle. He and Hristo set the pace, and Laynie put her body into motion, running with her squad, her mind somewhere else.

  Nowhere. Free fall.

  It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter, she told herself. I won’t let it. All that matters is passing my panel exam.

  But for reasons she didn’t fully grasp, it did matter.

  She shoved her feelings aside, pushed them down. Squashed them into oblivion. Finished PT, showered, changed, made it to breakfast on time.

  Their table was quiet while they ate. Laynie was certain they were pondering her cryptic, “I haven’t made any plans yet” remark from dinner last night.

  Except Black. Maybe he was remembering last night, revisiting it, but he kept glancing her way, a frown puckering his forehead.

  She ate what she could, then cleared her tray and went outside. Alone.

  My follow-up eval isn’t until tomorrow, Thursday. I have to gut it out until then.

  And she did. She threw herself into every activity set before her, trusting her training, the skills and instincts it had forged in her over the past months. She pushed herself hard, then harder, attacking her objectives with a fierce determination.

  Anything, so long as she did not have to think.

  ANOTHER STAFF MEMBER drove Laynie to the lodge on Thursday where she reported for her second panel evaluation. To her surprise, Ms. Stridsvagn was the only staffer present in the classroom.

  “Take a seat, Magda.”

  Laynie sat.

  “At your first panel eval, we discussed the objection raised by two staff members against your entry into probationary agent status. Do you wish to address the objection?”

  Laynie cleared her throat. “Yes. I can report that I’ve taken care of the impediment.”

  Ms. Stridsvagn nodded. “I’m glad to hear it. You are one of our most talented trainees this year, Magda, worthy of Marstead’s long-term investment, and I would have hated to lose you.”

  She smiled wanly and held out an envelope. “Congratulations. Marstead extends an offer of employment to you as a probationary field agent. Here is a copy of the offer including salary and benefits. Please take a moment to study it, but notice that it does not bear your name, for the sake of continued anonymity while you are here. You will read it and return it to me.

  “In its place, Marstead HR will send two copies of the same offer bearing your actual name to your home address. You will sign your acceptance on one copy and return it to HR; the other is yours to show your family, if you wish. You are to destroy that copy before leaving to your country of operation.”

  Laynie exhaled. “Thank you.” She took the proffered envelope, opened it, and read the details, which were generous.

  “I’m ready to outline your assignment and begin the necessary preparations, if you are, Magda. Would you join me at the table, please?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  Laynie took the chair next to Ms. Stridsvagn. She wasn’t really surprised when the woman announced, “Your country of operation will be Sweden. You’ll spend the next few years living in our linguistics center outside Stockholm where we will immerse you in Swedish language and culture.”

  “I have a question,” Laynie said.

  “Yes?”
/>   “I was just wondering, why does Marstead go to the trouble of recruiting an American to take on a Swedish identity? Don’t you have qualified Swedes?” She nearly added, “like Taylor,” but caught herself.

  “Ah, that is a good question, indeed, which deserves a twofold answer. First, as you know, Marstead is a joint U.S./NATO venture but, frankly, the U.S. side of the partnership is as great as the entire NATO side combined. And the U.S. side insists on being adequately represented in the field. Call it an ‘apportionment equation.’”

  “So, I’m a token American?”

  “One of many. The second response to your question is that Sweden is not a NATO signatory. However, the country is well-placed, both geographically and politically, to facilitate the needs of our mission. Marstead built its largest European office in Stockholm precisely because of the country’s political neutrality—and because of its proximity to, shall we say, a certain association of non-NATO signatory entities, an association with whom we wish to do business.”

  The Soviet Union. A sharp thrill ran down Laynie’s spine.

  Ms. Stridsvagn laid out a one-page bio. The header on the bio read, “Linnéa Sophia Olander.”

  “This is your Swedish identity, enough detail to cover you from London into Stockholm. According to your bio, you were actually born in the U.S. to Swedish parents, giving you dual citizenship. Your father worked for a Swedish company with an office in Boston. When you were age nine, your father died from lung cancer—he was a heavy smoker. Your mother returned with you to your parents’ little village in Uppsala Province. You completed your Grundskola—your comprehensive school—there.”

  She looked up. “That part of your background should suffice, should anyone catch a touch of American in you and question it before you have been fully enculturated.”

  “Yes, I see.”

  “You then completed your three years in upper secondary school. Your mother died in a drowning accident the summer before you began your university studies. Living off the proceeds from your father’s life insurance that your mother had saved for you, you attended Stockholm University where you completed a bachelor’s program in International Business and Politics.

  “Other than your parents, you have only a handful of distant relatives, whom you do not know. You also surrendered your U.S. citizenship the same year your mother passed away.

  “All these pieces of your identity will be backstopped with verifying documentation inserted into the proper places. While you are living in our linguistics center, our instructors will take you on many field trips to orient you to the locations in your background as well as to Swedish geography, history, and culture.”

  Laynie’s heart fluttered with excited anticipation, but she murmured only a short, “Okay.”

  “I should remind you, Magda: You cannot take any paper from this room or speak to anyone of your country assignment or in-country identity. Therefore, you must memorize this short bio while we are here.”

  “I can do that.”

  “Good. Your employment will commence on January 3—although as Linnéa Olander, you will have no public connection with Marstead until you have completed your approximate five years of in-country training. Publicly, Linnéa Olander’s employment with Marstead is years in the future. Until then, Linnéa is to make no mention of Marstead.”

  What? Five years?

  Ms. Stridsvagn must have sensed her dismay. “It is necessary for you to understand the long-term investment Marstead is making in you, Magda—a deeper investment than most operatives. We have big plans for you, plans that require us not to ‘bring you out’ into the public eye too soon, plans that require you to do your master’s program at a school where you will have opportunity to meet and befriend foreign students.

  “Until you are actually working in the field, half of your Marstead salary will go toward the expenses of training you—your room and board at the linguistics center, living expenses during your master’s degree, travel and ground transportation, and so on. Retaining even half of your salary is still quite generous for the skills and experience you will garner in exchange.

  “After you return home to your American identity, Marstead will send you plane tickets from Seattle to London. However, when you disembark in the London airport, one of our agents will meet you and provide you with new papers, a ticket to Stockholm, and a change of attire. Our people will also pick up and dispose of your American suitcase and whatever you have packed in it. In place of your suitcase, they will check through a bag under your Swedish name from London to Stockholm.

  “In this way, you will undergo a complete metamorphosis so that, when your flight lands in Stockholm, everything about you is Swedish—your passport, driving license, shoes, suitcase, clothing, jewelry, and hygiene items. Everything.

  “Because you will never see your American suitcase and its contents again, do not pack anything you treasure—leave those items behind to ‘visit’ during your annual leave.”

  Ms. Stridsvagn stood. “Come. Stand here, please.” The woman pulled out a tape measure and took Laynie’s measurements, right down to her shoe size.

  “That should do it—providing that you don’t gain weight over the holidays.”

  She eyed Laynie. “So, don’t overindulge.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Stand against that wall, please.”

  “That wall” was the white one opposite a camera mounted on a tripod. Laynie posed for several headshots until Ms. Stridsvagn was satisfied.

  “Very good. Spend a few minutes now with your bio and flight instructions, particularly how to identify your contact in London. When you have committed them to memory, we will be nearly done.”

  Laynie took the bio and a single paragraph outlining how the swap would take place when she flew into London’s Heathrow Airport. She mouthed the details five times.

  “Finished?”

  “Yes.”

  “One last thing: If you encounter difficulties of any kind, call this number. It is the Marstead employee line, staffed day and night. State your name and this designation: Alpha seven three three five. It is your employee number and will ensure that your call is routed to someone who can help.”

  Laynie repeated the phone number and then, “Alpha seven three three five.”

  “Yes. Your employee ID.”

  “Got it.”

  Ms. Stridsvagn extended her hand; Laynie shook it. “We may not meet again, Magda, but I’m happy you have joined our company. You deserve to be here.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Stridsvagn.”

  Laynie left the lodge, and her driver took her back to the main campus. It was almost lunch time. She hung around the dining hall until the remainder of the trainees arrived.

  Ten showed up to lunch. Ten out of thirty!

  The number would have been nine if I hadn’t . . .

  She shook herself. I paid the price for Marstead’s acceptance. It’s done. Let it go.

  “Maggie?” Black stood at her elbow, concern creasing the brows under his dark hair. Taylor and Steph lurked not far away.

  One corner of Laynie’s mouth lifted. “I hear snorkeling is great this time of year . . . in Hawaii.”

  Chapter 12

  LAYNIE FLEW BACK TO Seattle the Saturday before Thanksgiving. She was both drained and wired at the same time. Physically and emotionally, she needed to recuperate from the fourteen weeks of grueling training—not to mention that, at present, she felt somewhat feverish and her backside and both upper arms ached like the dickens.

  Five inoculations will do that.

  Her mind, however, strained ahead to her move to Stockholm.

  As the plane descended into Sea-Tac airport, Laynie looked back on her training with mixed emotions. She, Black, Steph, and Taylor had grown close—how could they have done otherwise? They had fought together through hardships and difficulties, forging a bond of comradery, loyalty, trust, and affection, yet she would likely never see them—or Nora—again.


  Black, Steph, and Taylor.

  The bus had arrived that morning and shuttled them to BWI. On the Departures curb, Laynie, Steph, and Taylor hugged, shed a few tears, and whispered good wishes to each other.

  It had been worse—awkward even—saying goodbye to Black. His amber eyes had stared into hers, probing, seeming to expect something from Laynie that she could not give him.

  “Are you all right, Mags?”

  “Yes. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  She sensed he wanted to say more, but there was no time for saying anything further—and what would be the point? They were about to embark on different paths, paths that would never cross.

  “Maggie, I—”

  “No. Don’t say it . . . but thank you, Black. Thank you.” She hadn’t planned to, but she brushed his cheek with a kiss—just a soft and quick touch of her lips.

  He’d opened his mouth, then closed it, and Laynie had walked away. She pulled her suitcase toward her airline’s check-in counter, denying the urge to turn, to steal a last glance.

  At the memory, the tears Laynie had managed to hold back that morning trickled down her cheeks.

  Push it down, Laynie told herself. Force it down. Make it let go.

  But “it” didn’t “let go.”

  I wasn’t supposed to love you, Black . . . That wasn’t part of the deal.

  THE PLANE’S WHEELS bumped on the runway, signaling the end of her flight. She wiped her face, gathered her things, and disembarked. Collected her suitcase. Flagged down a cab. Stared into space all the way to her parents’ home.

  If saying goodbye to Steph, Taylor, and Black had been hard, her homecoming proved as difficult or more so. When she walked through the Portlands’ front door and announced, “I’m home!” Gene and Polly rushed to embrace her—only to pull back in astonishment and, perhaps, a little alarm.

  “Laynie-girl!” Mama exclaimed, catching Laynie’s face in her gentle hands and stroking her cheeks in awe. “You so tanned up! And thin! Didn’t they feed you?”

  Although Gene pursed his lips to keep from speaking, Laynie saw the surprise in his eyes.