How many weighted bodies lined the icy depths of the lake?
She could not stop the shiver that rippled over her.
“Are you cold, my sweet?”
Think!
“No, Vassi, but I have just now sensed something, something wrong—an encroaching evil.”
“What!”
Petroff, for all his sophistication and scientific acumen was, like many Russians, incredibly superstitious. On rare occasions, Linnéa affected to have received premonitions—forewarnings that Petroff heeded more seriously than she had believed possible. Caught now, having allowed her dark thoughts to surface, Linnéa used this ruse to distract him.
“Only an impression, Vassi, although it disturbs me.”
“What is it? You must tell me!”
“Da, da. It was . . .” Think! Think!
“It-it was about the train . . . your train! Oh, I am suddenly frightened, Vassi! Perhaps you should . . . take a later train, not the morning one.”
“Zakhar! Zakhar, come quickly!”
Petroff’s roar deafened Linnéa. She withdrew from his embrace as Zakhar rushed in.
“I am here, Vassili Aleksandrovich.”
“I will take the automobile to Moscow, not the train—even though the journey will take a little more time. Tell the driver to ready himself.”
Zakhar slid his eyes toward Linnéa. “And Miss Olander?”
“You will call for a rental car and escort her to her office in St. Petersburg. Take Stepan to drive for you. Also, Alyona will accompany Miss Olander as usual,” Petroff commanded.
Linnéa castigated herself in silence. She had, through painstaking machinations, acquired her own key to Petroff’s car. If Marstead’s decision were to go against her in St. Petersburg, she was prepared to appropriate Petroff’s luxurious automobile—to elude Zakhar, if ever-so-briefly—in order to give herself a head start.
A rental car quashed that hope.
Linnéa berated herself for her mistake. Stupid, stupid, stupid! If Marstead would not help her, she would be forced to access more “creative” methods of escape.
Petroff turned to Linnéa. “You will not mind that I take the car? The rental will be suitable?”
Maintaining a docile, compliant countenance, she replied, “Mind? Not at all, Vassi. Naturally, you must take the car. I wish you to be safe.”
He preened under her care and concern. “I will leave sooner than planned, then.” Petroff left their room, shouting for his driver and valet.
Before Alyona returned to interfere, Linnéa opened her Bottega Veneta handbag and poured its contents out onto the bed. Marstead had altered the roomy purse for her needs. Linnéa had designed the customizations herself.
Her fingers found a small tab in the seam of the purse’s bottom lining. She tugged. With a soft snick, the inside layer of the purse’s flat underside came free.
From beneath her pillow, she withdrew a thin case containing two CD-ROM discs. She placed the case flat on the purse’s bottom and fit the loose inner layer over it. She pressed it until it locked in place with an imperceptible click. Gathering her purse’s contents, Linnéa dumped them back into her purse.
With her plans in place, she closed her suitcase, zipped it, and unbent.
Either today or tomorrow, I will break free of Petroff.
I will . . . or I will die trying.
Chapter 2
LINNÉA PASSED THE TWO-hour drive from Lake Komsomolskoye to St. Petersburg in the rental automobile’s rear seat. Alyona shared the seat with her, while Zakhar sat in front with Stepan, the driver. Linnéa spent most of the ride with her head leaned back on the seat, pretending to rest her eyes. She was not sleeping, however. Instead, she was rehearsing her next moves—and the contingency plans she and her sole ally had devised should the situation call for them.
As they approached the city outskirts, Linnéa spoke to the driver. “Take me directly to Marstead’s offices, please.”
“We will check into the hotel, first, Miss Olander,” Zakhar answered evenly.
“No, we will not go to the hotel first—and I was not speaking to you, Zakhar. Stepan, you will take me to my office—or I will tell Vassili Aleksandrovich that you were impertinent and refused my orders.”
A nervous Stepan slid his eyes from the road toward Zakhar. Stepan feared the stinging rebuke of Petroff’s tongue—or his heavy fist—should Linnéa report that he had insulted her.
Zakhar stared straight forward. “To Miss Olander’s office, Stepan.”
No doubt, Zakhar would find a way to make her pay for her boldness later, but she was willing to risk his reprisal. It was vital that she visit Marstead soonest.
Ten minutes later, the car rolled up in front of Marstead’s unpretentious St. Petersburg building, a narrow, two-story affair. The facility was staffed by a handful of Marstead employees—three account executives, counting Linnéa, and a few administrative personnel, all Marstead clandestine operatives to one degree or another. Zakhar jumped out of the front seat, opened Linnéa’s car door, and extended his hand to her, checking for danger as he did so.
Linnéa, with her portfolio clutched in her hands, laptop case looped over her shoulder, and handbag on her arm, stared past Zakhar’s outstretched fingers as though they were invisible. She climbed from the car without assistance.
“You may take the luggage to our hotel and check in, Zakhar. I will call when I am ready to be picked up.”
“Stepan and Alyona will do so. I shall accompany you to your office,” Zakhar said, ignoring her order and falling in beside her.
“As you well know, my company takes a judicious approach to preventing the theft of intellectual property, Zakhar. No one, no one, without a Marstead badge or a sanctioned visitor’s pass is allowed up to the offices—and all visitors must be screened ahead of time. You will be required to wait in the lobby, but not long. I do not expect to be engaged more than an hour or so.”
Zakhar frowned. He opened and held the front door for her. “Marstead will make an exception when I tell them for whom I work. I will insist, and they will comply.”
Linnéa did not answer. She strode through the double doors a few steps ahead of him and entered the lobby and its comfortable waiting area. She approached a security checkpoint and two keycard-activated turnstiles. Beyond the checkpoint lay the elevator. Between the checkpoint and the elevator, two uniformed security guards observed as she—and then Zakhar—approached the nearest turnstile.
One of them greeted her. “Good day, Miss Olander. It is nice to see you.”
“Thank you, Jonas. I’m happy to be here.”
Linnéa withdrew her access card from her handbag, swiped it and, as the wheel unlocked, passed through the entry turnstile. Zakhar tried to follow, but the turnstile locked after Linnéa went through, preventing him.
Jonas eyed Zakhar. “Do you have an access card, sir?”
Zakhar watched Linnéa approach the elevator and push the call button. “I work for Vassili Aleksandrovich Petroff, and I am Miss Olander’s bodyguard. It is essential that I accompany her,” he informed Jonas. “You will grant me entrance.”
“Sorry, friend, but no one may pass the checkpoint without proper authorization. Have you applied for a visitor’s pass?”
Zakhar, red-faced and angry, shouted, “Miss Olander! You must wait!”
Linnéa pivoted, eyes wide and innocent. “Are you speaking to me, sir?”
“You know I am! You must wait for me to join you before going up,” Zakhar hissed through clenched teeth.
Jonas swiveled his gaze toward Linnéa while managing to keep Zakhar under scrutiny. “Miss Olander?”
“Oh, that man is not with me. I don’t know who he is.” At that moment the elevator doors opened. Linnéa waved and smirked at Zakhar. She stepped into the waiting car.
“What? Why, that is a lie! I work for Vassili Aleksandrovich Petroff—as you well know!”
Linnéa laughed, letting the guards know she had been jes
ting, and pressed her personal code into the keypad. “Don’t fret yourself, Zakhar. I’ll be back in an hour. Why don’t you make yourself comfortable until then, yes?”
She sketched a little wave, and her last glimpse of Zakhar was as Jonas and the other guard, their expressions implacable, indicated he was to take a seat and wait. After cursing under his breath, Zakhar did so.
I will pay for that, too, Linnéa laughed to herself, giddy with dodging Zakhar’s control. That is, unless Marstead pulls me from the field today. Surely by now they have concocted a plan to do so!
Her heart soared at the possibility.
FOR SECURITY PURPOSES, the elevator was the only non-alarmed means of accessing the second floor of the building. The other routes—solely for emergency egress—were both alarmed and hidden, known only to Marstead employees. Linnéa stepped off the elevator into the foyer of the brightly lit Marstead office suite.
From the outside, the building had lovely, tall windows that added to the exterior’s classic appeal, but the windows were façades, their reflective “glass” and the soaring faux arches—as well as the walls, floors, and ceilings—filled with specialized materials that shielded Marstead’s activities from prying electronic “eyes” and “ears.”
Within these walls, Marstead operatives could speak—and breathe—freely. Linnéa closed her eyes and sucked in, then exhaled, a deep, cleansing breath. She inhaled liberty for the first time in five months.
Linnéa greeted the receptionist in Swedish. “Hej, Ebba! I am ever so glad to be home.”
The receptionist smiled. “Good morning, Miss Olander.” She glanced at her watch which read just past noon. “Or should I say good afternoon?”
Without pause, Linnéa switched to the English spoken in Marstead offices. “Either way, it is a good day, is it not?”
“Indeed, Miss Olander. Can I get you a kaffe?”
The question about coffee, which Marstead receptionists asked solely of Marstead Alpha employees when they entered the offices, was code for Are you under duress? or Is everything secure?
“Thank you. Perhaps later.”
All is fine.
“Is Mickel in?”
“Ja. Wait one moment. I will call him. He will be glad to see you, I think.”
When Ebba hung up and gave her a nod, Linnéa strolled to the office of Mickel Nyström, her St. Petersburg supervisor—himself a Swede. She knocked on his door and entered.
“Ah, Miss Olander. Great to see you—it has been too long. Have a seat, please.”
Linnéa offered him the portfolio containing her report. “You will find the best bits coded within the document as usual.”
“Very good. Thank you.”
They made small talk for a time before Nyström asked, “Have you anything else to report before we move on?”
Linnéa said, “Yes. Petroff was called to Moscow today before our holiday at Lake Komsomolskoye was over. The message recalling him was urgent, permitting no delay. He decided to return to Moscow ahead of the rest of us. I used his abrupt departure as justification to carry my report to you today and also to convey this development.”
“Urgent, you say? For what reason?”
“His exact words were, ‘I have been summoned to a special assembly of the Security Council. Some emergency of state over rumors of an impending attack on high-value targets of unknown number,’ the information coming via Afghanistan. He also mentioned that Secretary Rushailo himself wished Petroff on hand for his technological advice.”
“An impending attack, he said? Any sense of the target?”
“No, only that he did not believe Russia was in any danger—which made me wonder, if Russia was not the target, why the Security Council should be alarmed enough to meet immediately.”
Nyström mulled over her intel. “Interesting—but nothing further? No actionable details to add to it?”
“No, but our superiors can correlate it with other intelligence or chatter they may have gotten wind of.”
“Yes, you were correct to bring it in.”
He straightened his tie.
Linnéa noted the gesture. Odd.
“You know, according to your file, what I have personally witnessed of your performance, and the steady stream of intel you have provided our superiors, you are one of the brightest, most savvy undercover officers we have ever recruited. Your facility with languages is second to none, your adaptability and acting skills, superb.”
“Thank you.” She kept her eyes from blinking or narrowing by counting the repeating paisley patterns on Nyström’s tie.
“Well, we are lucky to have you placed where you are. If you obtain any actionable data concerning this attack, use the chat room protocols to pass it on.”
Each month, the chat room or bulletin board Linnéa might visit to pass on information changed, as did the user name she would log in as and the user name she would invite to a private chat. The parameters of such communication were exact, and Linnéa had memorized them all.
The communication method was reserved for urgent, highest-level intel such as warnings. She had used the method to contact her handlers only twice. Unknown to them, she had used similar—and not-so-similar—means to communicate regularly with her ally, Christor, whose friendship had helped Linnéa weather the loneliness of her life.
Nyström spoke again. “However, I think you must return to Moscow directly and get to the bottom of this ‘urgent’ matter.”
It was at Nyström’s abrupt change of direction that Linnéa finally blinked, momentarily shaken. Her nerves hummed a warning.
“I, um . . . I was expecting, that is, I had anticipated an answer from Alvarsson today. Have you no word regarding my request?”
“Your request?” Nyström picked at his sleeve. “You mean your request to arbitrarily resign your assignment? To abandon a valuable post that we rely upon? Why, I hardly gave it credence.”
Linnéa’s taut nerves began to fray. “Mickel, do you mean to say that you did not pass my request on to Alvarsson? I have been waiting five months for a decision.”
Nyström waved his hand in casual indifference. “Yes, certainly I did, but you weren’t serious, were you?”
Stung, Linnéa clamped her mouth closed and did not respond. Her silence was answer enough.
Nyström frowned and assumed more of an authoritative air. “Well. I must say that I am disappointed in you, Linnéa. Why, look at the critical intel you brought us today.”
He seemed agitated as he leaned across the desk toward her. “Your role, where we have placed you and the access it provides us, is too important for you to up and quit on a whim.”
“A whim!”
He interrupted, wagging a finger in her face. “Our network is counting on you. In fact, think of the cascade of damage your abdication has the potential to create. I must say, I thought better of you, Linnéa.”
“What?”
To her dismay, Nyström doubled down. “I expect you to keep your wits about you, Linnéa, and do your job.”
Nyström had never bullied her. His posture and tone were uncharacteristically aggressive.
Hurt and confused, she stiffened. “Mickel, look at me! I am not a young woman anymore. You need to know—Marstead needs to know—that I-I have come to the end of my allure and effectiveness where Petroff is concerned. I no longer dazzle his friends and associates. I believe Petroff is already on the prowl for my replacement. If I were to stay much longer, I . . . I fear for my life.”
As though seeing her, really seeing her for the first time since she sat down, Nyström frowned. “What is wrong with your eye? The blood in it?”
Linnéa lifted her chin. “I annoyed Vassili Aleksandrovich last night—I offered an opinion he didn’t care for, so he bashed my head against a shelf.”
Nyström’s jaw slackened. “I . . . how long has this been going on?”
“It began two years ago, a slap here, a pinch there. Then it escalated to hitting and, on occasion, kicking.
He seems to particularly enjoy slamming my head against things. If I were not wearing makeup at the moment, you would see the bruise creeping out of my hairline.”
Nyström swallowed. “I see. And why did you not report this?”
“I did. Twice. To you.”
Her boss looked aside. “Perhaps I did not think it serious enough to warrant interference. Besides, what could we have done?”
“The abuse is getting worse and more frequent, Mickel. Petroff has always been volatile, but my ability to soothe him is slipping away. We know where this kind of domestic violence ends. You need to pull me out before he kills me.”
Linnéa’s gaze bored into the man, but he looked aside.
“Mickel! Please. I can’t go back.”
“You knew the stakes and the risks when you signed on.”
Appalled at his lack of compassion or empathy, she studied him, curious as to why he now avoided her eyes.
Galled, she pressed him. “I submitted a formal request to be withdrawn from the field. I wish a formal answer from Alvarsson. Do you have one?”
“No. No answer.”
“Then call him. Now. I need an answer.”
Nyström pulled his lower lip between his teeth and nodded slowly to himself. He stared a moment at his folded hands before he spoke again. “No need. I have been asked to pass on instructions to you, Miss Olander. You are to report to Alvarsson personally to discuss the matter.”
His cavalier shift in attitude further angered Linnéa. Right. So Alvarsson can browbeat me, too, tell me to buck up and keep my head in the game? Well, it’s too late. I can’t do it anymore.
Then it hit her.
Report to Stockholm? After you demanded I return to Moscow not thirty seconds ago?
The skin on Linnéa’s arms prickled. It took her a moment to reply in an even tone, “Very good. When?”
“At your earliest convenience—in other words, immediately.”
Nyström chose his next words carefully. “We realize Petroff will be displeased that we have sent you to Stockholm without notice. Send him the message that you have been selected for a special, time-sensitive assignment, that you must attend a mandatory team briefing tomorrow.”
Laynie Portland, Retired Spy Page 5