Laynie Portland, Spy Rising—The Prequel

by Vikki Kestell

  “What . . . what will you do?”

  “Wait here for them to come get me.”

  But, oh, my love! They will never let us see each other again, no matter what either of us does . . . you know that. And if I do not tell them where you are?

  “Then hold me, Black. Hold me until they come. Please don’t let go.”

  JUST AFTER DARKNESS had fallen, Linnéa left her apartment and walked the half-mile to the car park to meet Olaf. He was waiting for her and flashed his headlights. When she climbed into his car, he did not start the engine. Instead, he gripped the steering wheel and came directly to the point.

  “The day before yesterday, Pyotr Anosov did not return from his annual leave as scheduled. Our superiors are quite concerned about this breach of protocol. You reported meeting him at Kuznetsov’s dacha in June. I need to know if you have heard from him since that time. Have you? Tell me, Linnéa.”

  He didn’t want her to be involved, did not want to believe the worst. She looked in his face and saw a flicker of hope there.

  She crushed it.

  “He was waiting for me when I returned from the States. We have been together since then.”

  Angry blood flooded up Olaf’s neck. “Are you out of your *blanking* mind, Linnéa? Marstead will drop you from the program; you’ll be lucky if you don’t end up in some moldy cell somewhere until Marstead’s NATO partners are satisfied that you haven’t compromised us or collaborated against us! We will have lost everything we have invested in you—not to mention the hopes we had for your future service.”

  She lifted one shoulder. “He is waiting for you; he won’t give you any trouble.” Sighing, sensing but putting down a quiver of uneasiness, she added, “He simply showed up. I didn’t know he was coming. How could I?”

  Olaf studied her. “It’s not for me to decide your future. Right now? I need to call this in.”

  “I understand.” She opened the door to climb out.

  “No. You stay with me until this is resolved.”

  Linnéa turned and smiled sadly. “I’ll be at my apartment, Olaf. Whomever they send, they need not fear that either of us will run; we will cooperate.”

  “Linnéa!”

  She ignored him and walked away.

  A block from her apartment, the uneasy feeling she’d been snubbing grew to an alarm she could not ignore. She ran the last block, pounded up the steps, unlocked the door, and threw it open.

  “Black! Black, where are you?”

  An empty echo answered her.

  She found the note on her night table.

  Maggie,

  I couldn’t bear to ruin your life along with mine. As soon as you left, I called to turn myself in. We arranged a pickup location, and I am leaving for it now. Don’t follow me, please.

  It wasn’t fair of me to put you in jeopardy. I will take responsibility for my actions and not implicate you but, as I told you earlier, it was worth it to me. If we never meet again—and I doubt we will—it was still worth it to hold you once, to know that what I felt when we parted, four years ago, wasn’t all in my mind, that you did love me, as I have loved you, all this time.

  Take care of yourself, Mags; I will never forget you.

  Black

  “No! Oh, no, Black, no! Oh, I wanted . . . I needed to kiss you one last time.”

  She sank to the floor, sobbing, pressing the note to her breasts, covering it with her tears.

  WHEN THE EXPECTED KNOCK sounded on her door, Linnéa sighed. She had destroyed Black’s note, tearing it to tiny pieces and flushing it away. She had washed her face and tidied herself. She walked to the door and looked through the peephole.

  Olaf.

  My fate hinges on these next minutes.

  She opened the door and he entered. He stood just inside her tiny apartment, hands on his hips, jaw working.

  “What is it, Olaf?”

  He glanced at her, then down at his feet. “By the time I reached out to my superiors to tell them that I knew where Pyotr was, he had already called them and made arrangements to give himself up. I didn’t get a chance to tell them what you and I discussed; they were on their way to get him and were too busy to listen to me. I understand they picked him up forty-five minutes ago.”

  Linnéa nodded, waiting for the hammer to fall.

  It did not.

  “Somehow or other, you have not been implicated in Pyotr’s ‘indiscretions’—not yet anyway.”

  Linnéa’s thoughts were racing ahead, ordering themselves, determining a new way forward. “What . . . what will happen to him?”

  “That depends. Depends on whether they find any activities that compromised him, his identity, mission, or the network. Depends upon the excuses he comes up with.”

  He glanced up. “Your status depends on whether he brings you into it—although I cannot believe that Marstead knows nothing of your relationship with him. How long has it been going on, anyway?”

  She lifted her chin. “Going on? I don’t know what you mean. I . . . I haven’t seen or communicated with this man since training. Not until we met quite by coincidence at Ivan Kuznetsov’s dacha. I hardly know him other than that.”

  “But he broke with protocol and left his U.S. identity during annual leave to come here to Stockholm. To see you.”

  Linnéa blinked slowly, her eyes never leaving Olaf’s. “To see me? No, I don’t think so. Why would he be interested in me? As I said, I haven’t seen that man since our chance encounter in Russia.”

  Olaf’s chin jerked up. “You haven’t seen him since your chance encounter in Russia?”

  “Well, of course not. And that was back in June—I reported it to you the moment I arrived from Russia to Stockholm, remember? Called you from the airport? Marstead must know where Pyotr was after I ran into him, before he left for his leave in the States, before he came to Sweden, yes? So, they certainly know he wasn’t here with me during that time.”

  She shrugged, growing a bit irritated. “I have no idea why this man broke protocol or why he chose to come to Stockholm, but I only returned from my own month of annual leave three days ago—so how could he have been with me? I have been busy prepping for my classes to start next week.”

  “But you told me—” He stared at her, taken aback, then dumbfounded, before he snorted the softest of laughs.

  Once, then twice, he chuckled to himself.

  Looking away and shaking his head, he murmured, “Bravo, Linnea. Well played.”

  Chapter 17

  LINNÉA ACCEPTED THAT she would never see Black again, but she let herself relive their two nights and two days together. It was the solitary consolation prize she permitted herself to feast on . . . for a time.

  Winter came with November; then it was Christmas. School closed, and her friends—including Artem and Daria—went home for the holidays. Living so far from her family made Christmas the loneliest time of Linnéa’s year. The Russian cousins invited, then begged and wheedled, for her to come with them for Christmas. She refused, to Artem’s great disgust.

  No, she needed to call home on Christmas, as she had since moving to Sweden, and doing so from Moscow would not have been possible.

  Christmas morning was like any other morning, except for opening the present Mama, Dad, and Sam had sent. She saved her phone call until late Christmas evening: It was the bright spot to look forward to in an otherwise dull day.

  She didn’t call from her apartment—that was not allowed. In fact, she had led her parents to believe she didn’t have a phone.

  Instead, whenever she called them, she used the pay phone inside an all-night diner near the school. The diner was owned by an Asian family, the Chows. Since they didn’t celebrate Christmas or close their restaurant on Christmas Day, she rode her bike through the quiet, cold night to their restaurant, splurging on a late Christmas dinner. At 8 p.m. in Stockholm, it would be eleven in the morning in Seattle, and Mama, Dad, and Sam would have opened their gifts and finished breakfast.

&nb
sp; “Thanks for the cool sweater, sis,” Sam said. He’d grabbed the phone first—he always did on Christmas. “The note inside said you bought it from a Swedish woman who carded and spun the wool herself, then knit it? I’m impressed. And it fits great, too!”

  “I gave Inga your measurements. She is seventy-eight, I think, still going strong. She has a booth in the street market near my apartment. Her son raises the sheep and provides her with the wool. Everything about her work is authentic and traditional Swedish, including the pattern knit into your sweater. When I raved over her work, she said she would knit whatever I liked for you.”

  “Well, gotta say I love it. Powdery gray, navy, and cream are cool, masculine colors.”

  She smiled. “Wouldn’t send you anything less than ‘masculine,’ bro. Please send me a photo? I’d like to show it to Inga. She’d like that a lot.”

  She laughed. “Oh! Speaking of pictures, thank you for the camera. I know the three of you went together to buy it, and I’m so excited to try it out.”

  They chattered for a while, then Sam said, “Hey, Dad needs to talk to you, too.”

  Needs to talk to me?

  It seemed an odd transition.

  “Okay, Sam. I love you. Take care.”

  “Love you, too, sis.”

  “Hi there, Little Duck. Merry Christmas!”

  “Dad! It’s so good to hear your voice. I miss all of you terribly on Christmas morning.”

  “Well, we miss you, too, Laynie. Say, there’s something I need to talk to you about.”

  There it was again.

  He was moving, taking the phone into the kitchen and closing the swinging door behind him, and she was suddenly afraid.

  “What is it, Dad?”

  “Well, Laynie-girl, there isn’t an easy way to say this. You remember when you were home last summer and we talked about Mama being a little slow and unsteady on her feet? That we got her a doctor’s appointment in October?”

  Fear uncoiled like a serpent in her belly. She slumped against the wall next to the pay phone.

  “Wh-what is it, Dad?”

  “Her doctor ran some tests, then sent her to a specialist who did even more tests. Took them a few weeks to get all the results, to be certain of their diagnosis, but they are now, honey.

  “Mama has MS. Multiple sclerosis. You know what that is?”

  “Sort of. Not really.”

  “It’s a degenerative disease, Laynie. It can be slow or fast, but it will worsen over time.”

  “I . . .” She didn’t know what to say. The prospect of her mama in a wheelchair or dying had choked off her words, her thoughts. Polly wasn’t old! Fifty-eight wasn’t old!

  “Mama has a walker now, to help her stand and get around when her legs are weak. We’ve got her a doctor who specializes in MS, too. He has some drugs for her to try, says they will help slow the disease’s progression. Other than that, nothing’s changed.”

  “But . . .” She had so many questions and could put none of them into words.

  “Nothing’s changed, Laynie. She’s not going to die, not anytime soon and, with help, she can live a happy, productive life for many years to come. I have a few years until retirement, but should I need to retire early to take care of her, I will.”

  “Should I . . . should I come home?”

  “And leave your master’s degree unfinished? Not on your life, Little Duck. Don’t you worry now. We’re fine. Mama’s fine. Stephen’s close by if we need him.”

  She heard him take the phone back into the dining room. “Here’s Mama now. She wants to talk to you.”

  “Hey, Mama!” Her throat was tight, her words overly bright.

  “Dad give you the news, did he? I tol’ him not to on Christmas, that it would ruin your day, but he says talking on the telephone is better than a letter, and we can’t call you ourselves since you don’ have a phone.”

  “I’m sorry, Mama.”

  I’m sorry for what you’re facing. Sorry I’m not there. Sorry I lie to you. Sorry I’ve let you down, Mama.

  “Sorry? For what, sugar? You’re growed up now. We raised you to be strong, to dream, to do great things with your life. You doin’ all that, an’ we’re so proud of you.”

  She sobbed softly, her face to the wall, hand over the receiver.

  “Laynie? Laynie-girl? You crying? Baby, you stop that right now. We-all are fine. My mind is clear and strong; only my legs are a bit wobbly is all. You focus on your schoolin’, hear? You hear me?”

  She croaked out a, “Yes, Mama.”

  “’Sides, my Jesus? He’s a-holdin’ me, Laynie. Liftin’ me up on eagles’ wings, he is. He knows ever’ hair on m’ head and knows the length of m’ days. When I go home to him—someday far in the future, Lord willin’, there’ll be no more tears, no more pain, no more sorrow. I put all m’ hope in him.”

  Polly cleared her throat. “Now, I’m finished with that. Let’s talk about something nice.”

  “Yes, Mama.”

  When they hung up, Linnéa sank to the floor next to the phone box, buried her head in her arms, and wept. When Mrs. Chow’s head appeared from around the corner, concern wrinkling her face, Linnéa sniffed, wiped her face on her sleeves, and got up.

  “I’m fine, Mrs. Chow. Have a nice evening, all right?”

  Chapter 18

  February 1982

  LINNÉA LOOKED FOR OLAF in a parking garage. Winter in Stockholm could be frigid, especially when the incoming wind blew over the water, picking up moisture. When Olaf flashed his headlights, Linnéa walked quickly to his car and got in, glad for the vehicle’s roaring heater.

  He waited until they’d left the garage behind, then he spoke. “Something important has come up, Linnéa, so pay attention. We have a visitor waiting for us at our normal meeting place. His name is Lars Alvarsson, the man who runs Marstead’s Stockholm office. He has a job for you—and it’s going to be tricky.”

  Linnéa nodded. “All right.” She was impressed: Lars Alvarsson was an important man in Marstead’s public hierarchy.

  “I have been authorized to tell you that, although you won’t finish your master’s program until June, this op is something of a ‘final’ exam for your probationary status. If Alvarsson approves of how you handle yourself and how you complete the assignment, you’ll be assigned to him and his office. The big leagues, Linnéa.”

  At last!

  “What do I need to do?”

  “He’ll fill you in, but I should caution you again—the task is an important one.”

  They didn’t speak further until they arrived at their usual meeting place. Once inside, Linnéa saw that Alvarsson was waiting for them.

  He rose from the table where he was sitting. “Miss Olander? Lars Alvarsson.”

  “Good to meet you, sir.”

  “Please sit down, Miss Olander.”

  Alvarsson wasn’t that old, perhaps in his early forties. He was a native Swede, Linnéa thought, with the dirty blonde hair and soft blue eyes of someone who descended from pure Scandinavian stock. He was dressed casually, but Linnéa caught a whiff of discomfort.

  Accustomed to wearing a suit and tie, are you?

  “Has Olaf told you why we’re meeting, Miss Olander?”

  “Please feel free to call me Linnéa, sir. He has only said that you have a task for me, something delicate.”

  She was calm and succinct and withstood his inspection with indifference.

  She is also lovelier than the photographs Olaf showed me, he thought.

  “It is delicate and must be handled with finesse. One of our agents, fairly new in the field, was in a Hamburg bar six months ago when a stranger struck up a conversation. We understand that they soon became fast friends and drinking buddies, although we have yet to put eyes on this man. However, in the past three months, we’ve suffered a series of losses that we believe tie directly to this relationship.”

  He coughed as cover while seeking for the right words. “We think our man has gotten himself
entangled with the East Germans.”

  Linnéa, for her part, studied Alvarsson and wondered at his discomfort. If the situation were as simple as, “Our man has gotten himself entangled with the East Germans,” why hadn’t they just pulled the agent out?

  What is he not telling me?

  She didn’t speak; she simply waited.

  Alvarsson, on the other hand, wished she would say something. He wanted her to ask him the questions she had to be asking of herself, anything that might make it easier for him to ease into what they needed her to do. Having himself spent ten years in the field, Alvarsson realized he had lacked at the end of his field experience the poise that this fledgling already possessed and seemed to own naturally. To some degree, he was annoyed; more galling, he found himself admiring her.

  Finally, he spit out what had to be said. “The problem, Miss Olander, is that we believe the East German agent is also one of ours—and, to date, we haven’t been able to identify who it is.”

  There it was: the real problem.

  Linnéa asked, “A Stasi agent has infiltrated Marstead? Or the Stasi has turned one of ours?”

  The Stasi, the Ministerium für Staatssicherheit, was the state security service of the German Democratic Republic (AKA, East Germany, a socialist nation and a satellite state of the Soviet Union). In Linnéa’s tradecraft training, Chin had described the Stasi—headed by the infamous Erich Mielke—as one of the most effective and brutal intelligence agencies in the world, rivaling even the KGB at its apex.

  “We don’t know which. Obviously, if one of theirs has infiltrated Marstead, that poses the gravest threat but, at present, we have only suppositions.”

  “You considered having our operative set up this Stasi man but rejected that approach. Why?”

  Alvarsson’s eyes narrowed. “Our man is compromised, and his career with us is done—whether he was a willing or an unwitting, duped accomplice. So, whichever way this ends? It won’t end well for him. Not exactly motivation for him to help us.”

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