Laynie Portland, Spy Rising—The Prequel

by Vikki Kestell

  “I’m fine, Mama, Dad,” Laynie assured them. “Honest! And I ate like a horse.”

  “You jest as brown as a field hand, sugar, as brown as when you lifeguard all summer! Look like you spent all your time outside.”

  “Some,” Laynie admitted, “but not all, I can assure you. Loads of time in the classroom—which they offset by keeping us active. Marstead’s health and wellness policy doesn’t allow their people to turn into couch potatoes.”

  She carried her suitcase up to her bedroom, unpacked, then showered. When she’d dried off, she weighed herself. Then she stared at herself in the mirror and saw what her parents had seen: The body staring back at her from the mirror was lean, its sharp lines and edges evident. She’d dropped ten pounds of “fat,” but in its place, she’d acquired hard, taut muscle and a complexion that glowed with health and vitality.

  Laynie reached into her dresser and pulled out her favorite jeans. When she slid into them, they bagged in the waist and backside. She grabbed for a second pair—same thing.

  This isn’t going to get better.

  She pulled in the waistband and pinned it; over the jeans, she donned a shirt long enough to hide the big safety pin.

  Need to alter a few items—but no sense buying anything new since whatever I pack to take to Sweden will be gone when I arrive.

  Sweden. She blew out a breath, dreading the moment she would tell her parents.

  I’ll wait a few days to tell them about my move, let them adjust a little to me being home.

  She could afford to wait for the “right time.” Yes, she needed to tell them soon, but Polly was so beside herself with joy at having “both my babies home for the holidays,” that Laynie couldn’t bring herself to derail Polly’s happiness. Not yet.

  It grieved Laynie to think that it might be her last time “home for the holidays,” given Marstead’s leave policy of one month a year, taken in the summer. But whenever Laynie laid out the life of a Marstead field operative and rethought her decision, she always arrived at the same conclusion: She wanted it.

  It was Sammie, when he came home that evening, who took one look at her and put his and his parents’ wonderment into words. “Holy smokes! What in the world have you done to yourself, sis?”

  Laynie and Polly were in the kitchen fixing dinner; Gene was within earshot.

  “I’m just fitter than I was last summer,” Laynie replied. “There was a gym and an obstacle course next door to the training facility we were at. The guys in class with me? They joined the gym and egged me on to work out with them. It’s hard being a woman surrounded by so many macho and gung-ho guys; I didn’t want to refuse and end up on the outside of their little clique. Besides, all that sitting around in the classroom would have made me soft. They joined the gym. So did I.”

  Sammie’s eyes narrowed. “Joined a gym. Riiiight.” He grabbed Laynie’s elbow and steered her toward the back door.

  “Hey!”

  Laynie yanked on his grip, but Sammie was determined. He didn’t know it, but his sister could have put him on the ground in one move—not something she wanted to demonstrate in the kitchen, in front of her parents. She allowed him to pull her to the back of the yard to the big maple where, up in its wide branches, Gene had built them a treehouse when Sammie was six.

  Sammie stopped when they were on the other side of the maple’s thick trunk; he released her arm but got in her face.

  “What the devil is going on, Laynie?” he demanded.

  She put her hand on his chest and backed him away a few inches. “Whoa, Sam. Nothing is ‘going on.’”

  “The heck it isn’t. You’ve been gone, what, three-four months? And you come back looking like-like-like . . .”

  Laynie didn’t know which shocked her more—Sammie employing as close to a curse word as she’d ever heard him use, or the fact that she’d left behind a little brother in August and had come back to a grown man in November.

  She wasn’t the only one to have changed over the summer and fall.

  “Like what, Sam? Spit it out.”

  “Boot camp—that’s it! You look like my buddy Mark did when he joined up and came back from basic . . . all cut and muscled, tanned and self-assured.”

  As though he’d spoken without thinking and, upon hearing his own words, had taken them in, Sammie blinked back sudden suspicion. “Laynie? Is that it? Have you joined the military? Is that it?”

  “Good grief, no! I’ve joined a company, Sammie. They’ve offered me a job.”

  “I-I don’t think I believe you.”

  “Well, it’s true. I’ve received an offer, and I’m going to be moving . . . to Stockholm.”

  Distract, distract, she told herself, because no one in the world knew her half as well as her brother did.

  “Stockholm? As in Sweden? You’re moving there?”

  “Yup. I leave right after New Year’s.”

  “But . . .” Sammie stared at her, his gaze probing, seeking. “You’re hiding something. You know you can tell me. I won’t breathe a word of it to anyone.”

  Distract, distract.

  Laynie leaned forward and rested her forehead on his. “Sammie. I know this is hard. We’re growing up, little brother, and . . . and I’ll be flying the nest soon,” she whispered. “We have this time—Thanksgiving and Christmas—to enjoy as a family. Please. Let’s be a family. Let’s be together, while we can, okay?”

  Sammie’s arms came around her and hers around him. They hugged, and Laynie—to her amazement—rested her chin on Sam’s shoulder.

  “Wow! I think you’ve grown, Sam.”

  “Yeah. Put on another inch or two, but . . .”

  “But?”

  “But I still think you’re not being totally honest with me, sis.”

  Laynie said nothing for a moment. She exhaled slowly before answering with a chunk of Marstead’s boilerplate.

  “Sam, my company is a worldwide leader in science and technology. Did you hear the words, ‘worldwide leader’? Marstead doesn’t just work on the cutting edge of some of the greatest advances the world has ever seen, it is that edge—and that makes them a big target for industrial espionage.

  “The theft or sabotage of intellectual property by other companies, even other nations, is the chief threat they face. So, I had to sign a bunch of NDAs when I accepted their employment offer.”

  “NDAs? What are those?”

  “Nondisclosure agreements. Binding contracts.”

  “. . . You can expect us—and we promise—to rain hellfire down upon you and yours.”

  “The truth is, I’m not going to be able to tell you much about my work with them, not now, not in the future. I think you’re always going to suspect that I’m holding out on you—for the simple reason that I am. You’ll have to get used to it, I guess.”

  “Okaaaay . . .”

  “And as far as me moving to Sweden? I mean, you’re already in your sophomore year at UW and getting awesome grades; two more years, and you’ll be out, looking for a job, too. Don’t you want a bit of excitement in your life before you get married, settle down, start a family? Well, this is my chance.”

  “I suppose.”

  “You know I’m right. And it’s normal. The whole ‘circle of life’ and all that? It’s my time, Sammie. My time to fly away and have an adult life.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  Laynie laughed softly. “No, I guess not. And neither will Mama and Dad. All the more reason for you and me not to ruin Thanksgiving and Christmas for them.”

  “When will you tell Mama and Dad?”

  She stood back. “Next week.”

  “Talk about ruining Christmas for them . . .”

  Laynie shook off his distressing words. “Nope. It’ll be wonderful. Come on now, little bro. Dinner’s probably ready, and I don’t want to worry Mama and Dad.”

  “Fine. Only I’m not the little one anymore, am I?”

  Laynie punched him in the arm.

  “Hey!” />
  “You will always be my little brother—got it?”

  Arm in arm, they headed back to the house.

  LAYNIE’S OFFER LETTER and her tickets arrived in the mail the Monday after Thanksgiving. That was when Laynie gathered her parents and Sammie in the living room for a family meeting.

  It had to be done.

  “I wanted to tell you that Marstead confirmed in writing the job they offered me, the position I was hoping for.”

  “Where?” her mother asked.

  “It’s . . . it’s in Europe, Mama. Stockholm, Sweden, to be precise.”

  Into the silence stretching between them, Laynie added, “It’s a marvelous opportunity. I will get to travel. See the world.”

  Polly stared at her hands to hide the tears welling in them, but they dropped onto her lap anyway. Gene was calm. Stoic. Sammie clamped his mouth shut.

  “When?” Gene finally asked.

  “I leave January 3 . . . and there are a few other things I should explain to you.”

  Polly and Gene blinked in shock. Sammie, assuming his, “I don’t believe you” stance, folded his arms and dared her with his eyes to utter anything other than the truth.

  But nothing Laynie would say next was a lie. She’d been schooled on precisely how to answer her family’s questions and concerns, and she had Marstead’s written offer to back her up.

  “First, I still have a lot to learn about this job, so I will be working and training concurrently for the next year. Second, if I do well and receive good evaluations, Marstead will pay for my master’s program.”

  Gene and Polly perked up.

  “Graduate school?” Gene asked. “You’d be the first in the family to earn a master’s degree.”

  “Yes, and not just any grad program, either. Marstead will pay for my MS at The Stockholm School of Economics—that’s the Handelshögskolan i Stockholm in Swedish. It’s a really prestigious school, Dad. Like I said, if I do well for Marstead and stay with them, they will invest in me, in my career. It truly is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for me.”

  Gene and Polly slowly nodded their agreement.

  She swallowed, working her way up to the rest of her news. “The thing about Marstead I should explain is that, although they have offices in just about every country across the globe, their biggest concentration of employees is in Europe. And having a predominantly European workforce, Marstead has developed a distinctly European company culture.”

  “What’s that mean?” Sammie asked, irritation furring his words.

  “Hold your horses; I am getting to it.”

  “Not fast enough.”

  “Stephen Theodor Portland,” Gene admonished him.

  Gene and Polly only used Sammie’s real, full name when they meant business—just as they had used ‘Helena Grace Portland’ whenever Laynie got in trouble growing up.

  “Sorry, Dad. Sorry, Laynie.” His folded arms said otherwise.

  “It’s okay. I know this is a lot to absorb. What I am getting at is this: Marstead employees, in keeping with European customs, get a full month of holiday each year—which is wonderful, except it is always taken in summer, usually August.”

  “A month! Right generous of them,” Mama said.

  Then she “got it.” When her breath hitched, Gene took her hand.

  “But only in summer, you say? You cain’t . . . you can’t come home any other time? Not for Thanksgiving? Or Christmas? Ever?”

  “A month, only in summer, and they will grant me a full leave this coming August but . . . but no, I won’t be able to come home . . . any other time.”

  Gene drew Polly closer. “It will be all right, Polly; it will be all right. Part of growing up. It’s time for Laynie to spread her wings.”

  CHRISTMAS AND THE DAYS leading up to it were more subdued than any other Advent season Laynie had experienced. To ease the coming separation, Laynie did everything her parents asked of her as they prepared for what, to them, was a holy day, not merely a holiday. She helped Polly clean, shop, bake, and cook. She prepared gift baskets for those in the church who were struggling financially; she served meals alongside Gene, Polly, and Sammie in a Seattle homeless shelter—she even caroled with their church choir at three nursing homes and attended Christmas Eve service without complaint.

  Laynie did her utmost to ease the pain her departure would cause . . . while hiding her own rising anticipation. When she had a free moment, she slipped away to visit the nearest library, where she pored over atlases of Scandinavia and Swedish travel guides, absorbing a wealth of interesting facts.

  Her forays to the library helped keep the preparations for Christmas mostly tolerable, except for one happenstance at church—an encounter with an older woman whom Laynie didn’t at first remember.

  “Laynie Grace Portland! My, I am glad to see you, little miss.”

  Laynie struggled to put a name to the face. “I’m sorry, ma’am?”

  The frail, white-haired woman chuckled. “I’ve aged a mite since I taught Sunday school, I wager. You used to call me Miss Laurel when you were in my class.”

  The face and name, like two interlocking pieces, snapped together. “Miss Laurel! I . . . I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you right off.”

  “It’s no matter, dear. Been, what, twelve or more years since you were in my Sunday school class?”

  “Yes; I think I was nine, so about thirteen years.”

  Miss Laurel sighed. “Lost a husband since then. Took a minute to get my feet back under me—a minute that lasted ’bout five years. In the meantime, I think I got old.”

  She laughed at her own joke, but Laynie didn’t. Miss Laurel had aged. She had been a wise and spirited teacher, one of the best Laynie remembered, but she’d changed. If Miss Laurel hadn’t spoken to Laynie, Laynie would not have known her.

  “It’s good to see you, too. I’m so sorry about your husband.”

  “Thank you. Thank you, child. But, I’m particularly glad to have seen you today.”

  “Oh? Why is that?”

  Miss Laurel crooked her finger, beckoning Laynie near. When Laynie obliged, Miss Laurel whispered, “Because I was praying earlier this week, and had me a word from the Lord for you, Laynie Portland.”

  Laynie’s mouth dried up; she ran her tongue around her gums and teeth, trying to conjure up some moisture. She frowned, too. It was exactly that sort of “magical” Christianity she disdained—people who declared that they “knew” God personally, “knew” him well enough to “hear” from him.

  What she didn’t perceive was the irony—how contrary, how contradictory, her beliefs were that she would, on the one hand, experience a physical reaction over “a word from the Lord” when, on the other hand, she considered the entire proposition nonsensical and phony.

  Amid her denial, all her parched mouth could croak was, “Oh?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I was praying—praying about something else entirely, you see. You, my dear, hadn’t crossed my mind in months, maybe years, to tell the truth. Don’t know what you’ve been busy with or about.

  “But, just like that?” she snapped her fingers, “you dropped into my heart. And I felt the Lord prompting me to say something to you, but I thought, why, how could I tell you anything? Haven’t seen you in quite a while, as you know.”

  She cocked an eye at Laynie, that silent chastisement for skipping church months on end.

  “I’ve been out of town on business, Miss Laurel.”

  “And I figured I wouldn’t see you this evening to deliver that word—but here you are.”

  Miss Laurel might have been old, but she was no fool; she saw beyond the good manners Polly and Gene had instilled in their daughter. Saw the flicker of contempt behind Laynie’s smiling good nature.

  “’Tis a simple word, Laynie, from Deuteronomy 11:16, needing no explanation.” She patted Laynie’s hand. “I am but the messenger and won’t bore you none with repeating it. You look it up when you have time, all right?”

  “
All right. Thank you, Miss Laurel.”

  “You’re welcome, Laynie. And a very Merry Christmas to you.”

  CHRISTMAS WAS OVER, all the preparations, activities, singing, churchgoing, and the wrapping and giving of gifts. The calm interlude between Christmas and New Year’s descended. With Laynie’s departure looming, Gene asked for a week of vacation time. Then Laynie, Sammie, and their parents enjoyed lengthy, quiet days of getting up or going to bed when they wanted to, of playing board games, assembling jigsaw puzzles, talking, laughing, and eating the bounty of their Christmas baking.

  It was fun and memorable . . . and those memories would have to last Laynie a long time.

  Early on New Year’s Eve, hours before the fireworks began, Laynie began to sort out her room and pack her bag. She was taking only one suitcase, having been told that whatever she packed would disappear anyway.

  “Before you step foot on Swedish soil, Magda, you will undergo a complete metamorphosis so that, when your flight lands in Stockholm, everything about you is already Swedish—your passport, visas, driving license, shoes, clothing, jewelry, and hygiene items. Everything.

  “Take only one suitcase with you on the plane, and pack whatever you wish, but be aware that on your way to Stockholm, as you pass through London, our people will dispose of your suitcase and whatever is in it. So do not pack anything you treasure—leave those items behind to ‘visit’ during your annual leave.”

  “Well, what do I want to take that I don’t care if they confiscate?”

  Laynie sifted through the detritus of her childhood and adolescence, setting aside what she would leave in her room, adding very little to her suitcase. In the end, she packed clothes that no longer fit her, hoping that, after Marstead removed the clothes from her bag, they would find their way to someone in need, someone who would appreciate them.

  While rummaging through the nightstand drawer next to her bed, she uncovered her childhood Bible. She stared at it, the conversation with Miss Laurel as fresh as when it had occurred.

  “’Tis a simple word, Laynie, from Deuteronomy 11:16, needing no explanation. I am but the messenger and won’t bore you none with repeating it. You look it up when you have time, all right?”