Abruptly, her demeanor and affect pivoted. She groaned, low in her throat.
“What is it? What is wrong, Linnéa?
“Oh, my, but this has been a long and tedious day. First, losing you and the remainder of our holiday to this urgent business in Moscow, then trying to please my Marstead superiors—followed by Zakhar’s bumbling ineptitude. I am quite distressed. The pressure has brought on a terrible headache. Ah, you were right, as always, Vassi. It is time for me to quit this job.”
She allowed another moan to follow.
“Are you all right, darling?”
Linnéa hesitated a tick. She dropped her forehead into her free hand and whimpered in pain. “Oy! Oy mne bol'no! It hurts! My neck and shoulders. They are so tight, so constricting! And the pain. It is radiating from my head into my eyes. I-I am quite ill from it.”
“Do not worry, my darling. I shall take care of everything. Put that fool Zakhar on the line and fret yourself no longer.”
This was the cloying, sickly-sweet side of Petroff that Linnéa knew well, the part of his pathological personality she had anticipated—had counted on—appearing.
“Oh, thank you, Vassi, my darling. What would I do without you?” Hanging her head further, she offered the receiver to Zakhar.
He took it from her hand much like he might receive a draft of poison.
“Da, Vassili Aleksandrovich?”
Shouts blasted from the earpiece.
“Zakhar, ty bezmozglyy idiot, you idiot! You have not safeguarded Miss Olander’s well-being as I ordered you!”
Zakhar studied his feet and pursed his lips. Petroff did not expect an answer. He expected Zakhar to suffer his insults in silence and then repair the disaster of his own making. Zakhar racked his brain for a way out of the mess he found himself in—a mess that had caught him unawares.
He shifted his gaze and saw Linnéa sitting on a sofa, Alyona standing behind her, rubbing Linnéa’s shoulders. Linnéa seemed in genuine distress, but Zakhar was unconvinced. The events of the past two hours perplexed him. Left him skeptical and guarded.
As he watched Alyona work on Linnéa’s neck, he found himself thinking, Ah, how I would like to put my hands about your neck, Linnéa Olander.
To Petroff he replied, “Vassili Aleksandrovich, I will book Miss Olander into Madame Krupina’s Spa within the hour for a stress-relieving soak in their hot pools, followed by a deep tissue massage. Whatever Miss Olander requires, I will supply. I will take care of her, Vassili Aleksandrovich. I promise you may trust me. I will see to her every need.”
“Trust you?” A plethora of denigrating expletives flowed across the line before Petroff had satisfied himself. “My duties call me away now, Zakhar. You have caused me many difficulties this day. Do not fail me again.”
“I will not, Vassili Aleksandrovich.”
Chapter 4
“OH, MY SWEET GIRL! Come in, come in.” Madame Krupina ushered Linnéa, Alyona, and Zakhar into the exclusive spa herself and reached for Linnéa. Linnéa seemed to wilt in her arms.
Linnéa had patronized Madame’s spa many times in the past decade. She was well-known to the staff and proprietress—as was Petroff and his lofty position in the government. Madame would spare no expense, no preferential treatment for Linnéa’s benefit.
Linnéa moaned. “Ah, my head . . .”
“Why, what have they done to you, darling girl!”
“A wicked headache, dear Nadezhda . . . I can scarcely see or walk. Please help me.”
Madame Krupina’s reproachful glare seared Zakhar and Alyona where they stood. She addressed a male attendant. “Get these two out of my sight.”
“Wait—it is my job to remain near Miss Olander,” Zakhar protested. “Vassili Aleksandrovich demands it.”
“And did he demand that you permit Miss Olander to come to this dreadful state? I think not!” She pointed with her chin. “No men are allowed in the women’s bathing area. You will wait with the other servants.” She jerked her chin again. “Go on! Get them away from me. Disgraceful!”
To another attendant, she commanded, “See to Miss Olander’s things.”
That attendant picked up Linnéa’s purse and the spa bag Alyona had prepared at Linnéa’s instruction.
Madame returned her attention to Linnéa. “Now, let us get you into a hot bath to soak away your troubles, shall we?”
“Oh, yes. Please.”
Under Madame’s watchful eye, Linnéa was helped into a hot tub in a private room where the air was heated, heavy with moisture, and fragrant with healing herbs—lavender, rosemary, eucalyptus. After she had soaked for twenty minutes in the hottest water she could bear, an attendant assisted her from the pool and into a tepid shower.
When the attendant had rinsed and toweled Linnéa off, wrapping her in an enormous, preheated Turkish bath sheet, Madame returned.
She said softly, “I have two masseuses standing by, Miss Olander. Galina is an expert in deep tissue massage and reflexology. But perhaps the source of your pain requires a softer touch? Runa comes to us from your home country. Her specialty is gentle Swedish massage. Tell me which you prefer.”
Linnéa’s head wobbled, and the attendant was quick to help her sit.
“I think . . . I think, darling Nadezhda, that I must rest quietly first. Perhaps a nap?”
“Surely. Galina! Runa! Prepare a room for Miss Olander’s particular use. She will require a comfortable bed and absolute quiet.” She pointed for the attendants to precede them from the room.
As the women grabbed Linnéa’s things and fled to do Madame’s bidding, Madame leaned close to Linnéa. “What do you need of me?”
“An exit. Quickly. Then for you to stall them until I return.”
It was true that Linnéa had patronized Madame’s spa many times in the past decade. It was also true that the woman had been in Marstead’s pay even longer, providing another avenue for Linnéa to pass information to her superiors.
Madame had noted bruising on Linnéa’s body before, and she saw the blood in Linnéa’s left eye today. The older woman’s fingers caressed Linnéa’s temple where her foundation could not hide the bruises.
When Linnéa flinched, Madame murmured, “I shall do all I can.”
She led her to the room Galina and Runa had prepared, then shooed them away, locking the door after them.
Immediately, Linnéa rummaged through the spa bag, pulling out clothes. She dressed in dark slacks, a thigh-length top with side pockets, and shoes she could run in. She took up her handbag.
“Which way out?”
Madame put a finger to her lips. “Give me a moment.”
While she was gone, Linnéa withdrew the key and claim check from the compartment at the bottom of her handbag. She slipped both into her bra.
She also fished out an envelope. Her delaying tactic. Slid it under the pillow.
Good as her word, Madame returned in less than a minute. “Follow me.”
Madame had cleared the way to an alley exit off the laundry room by sending the laundress to restock the linen closets throughout the spa. Madame fumbled with the three deadbolts on the door, snapping them open.
“I will leave the door unlocked against your return but knock first before you enter. I will instruct the laundress to fetch me at your knock, and I will, again, send her away before I let you in—in this way, you will not be seen either coming or going.”
Madame put her hand on Linnéa’s arm. “How long will you be gone, my dear?”
“At least two hours.”
“Two hours! Will that insufferable lout wait so long?”
“If he questions how long I am gone, say the massage made me drowsy, that I am sleeping off the headache. You must keep him at bay, even if I am delayed. Can you do it?”
“Da, if I must,” but she looked uncertain.
“If you run out of options, and he discovers that I am gone? Then you must convince him I left while you thought me sleeping.”
“I can do
that—but do not let it come to that, eh?”
“I . . . won’t.”
Linnéa’s lie caught in her throat. Madame Krupina had been nothing but good to her, and now she was leaving her to shoulder Zakhar’s—and Petroff’s—wrath.
The older woman sighed. “So. You are leaving that animal, Petroff? And you must sneak away? Without your . . . employer’s permission?”
Linnéa didn’t answer.
Madame shook her head. “Then, I wish you well, my dear. I will give you as much time as I can manage.”
“Thank you for everything, Nadezhda.”
They embraced, and Linnéa wiped her eyes.
Wrapping a bland scarf about her head to veil her hair, Linnéa slipped out into the alley. Following the exit strategy Linnéa and Christor had devised two years ago, she set off down the alley and stopped not far from the corner.
The section of the city where Madame Krupina’s Spa resided was older, of a classic period in St. Petersburg’s history. Many of the structures were constructed of brick or quarried stone. The building on the corner was of the latter—and where the corner building abutted its neighbor, Linnéa’s fingers scrabbled for a loose stone at knee height.
The stone scraped on its surrounding stones and resisted her efforts as she grappled with it. When she was finally able to grasp it with both hands, she heaved the stone out of its place and set it on the ground. Then she reached inside the space where the stone had been. Her fingers found a cloth bag, thick and bulky, large enough to fill both her hands. She had to tug and pull at it, too, before it came out of the hole. When it came loose, she glanced up and down the alley, then stuffed it into her purse. She picked up the stone and pushed it back into its place in the wall.
Her next stop was two blocks away, a pawn shop—what in Russia is called a “lombard house.” Lombards and “lombard banking” were relics of an early century’s Christian prohibition against usury, that is, charging fellow Christians interest on loans. The original lombard houses took collateral against a cash loan. That had changed. Today’s lombards were tantamount to loan sharks, charging stiff interest rates and showing no mercy over late payments.
Linnéa and Christor’s plan had required a lombard shop whose owner was willing to do more than offer loans, an owner who—for a not-so-insignificant fee—would store a trunk indefinitely and keep his trap shut about it. Christor had approached an owner, one Fyodor Dudnik, who had been in business fifteen years but whose venture had never risen above “middling.” For a cash gift up front and the promise of an anonymous cash fee received through the mail each month, Dudnik had agreed to store the trunk.
Linnéa slipped into the shop. It was not a thriving enterprise. The only other customer was at the service counter toward the back. Linnéa wandered behind some tall shelves that screened her from view. She tugged at the Velcro closure in her purse and removed the HK. She had chambered a round in her office. Now, she slipped the ready weapon into her right pocket. Then she withdrew the claim check and key from her bra and put the key deep into her left pocket.
When the customer had concluded his business and exited the shop, she approached the counter. Dudnik’s rheumy gaze was lackluster. Bored.
“How may I help you, miss?”
Linnéa placed the claim check on the counter. “I would like to redeem this item, please.”
The man pulled eyeglasses down from his head and studied the number. She saw the moment he comprehended which “item” she was calling for and what its departure meant. No more monthly cash envelopes.
His mouth turned down and hardened.
“You will continue to receive the same payment for six months,” Linnéa murmured, “in consideration of your service . . . and discretion.”
His downturned lips grimaced. “How can I be sure of this?”
Linnéa withdrew her wallet and counted out five sizable bills.
He reached for the money then shifted his bleary eyes back to her. “The trunk must contain something valuable.”
“You are a judicious man, Mr. Dudnik, a pragmatist, I think. I am certain you have examined the trunk. It contains nothing remarkable, does it?” Linnéa presumed the owner had searched the chest for contraband or valuables. No one in their right mind would pay so much or so long for insignificant, worthless content.
He looked her up and down, appraising her. “Still . . . might be of note to the authorities.”
“As I said, we will continue to pay you for another six months. I ask you, will the authorities do the same?”
The man was stubborn. “Maybe I ask them and find out.”
Linnéa drew the gun from her pocket. Raised its blue barrel waist height and pointed it at Dudnik’s flabby belly. “And maybe they will find that you were killed during a robbery.”
His hands twitched and Linnéa shook her head. “Nyet. A bad idea, my friend. Bring out your weapon—slowly, slowly—and place it on the counter.”
He dragged out a heavy, antiquated revolver—likely a remnant of World War II, what the Russians dubbed the Great Patriotic War—and, with a clunk, dropped it where Linnéa pointed.
She picked it up, stuffed it into her pocket, then addressed him with a knowing smile. “Really, Mr. Dudnik, why should we argue at the end of such a successful arrangement when I am willing to sweeten our bargain?”
She inclined her head toward the handbag hanging off her left arm. “You see my bag? Italian. Bottega Veneta. Worth thousands of rubles. I will leave it—and the trunk—with you after I have taken what I came for.”
She shrugged. “Or, I will take whatever I wish, including what is in your register, and you will not care, because you will be dead. Your choice—whichever you prefer.” She smiled again. “I think you know which deal is best, hmm?”
“Da, da.” Dudnik gestured behind him. “Come with me.”
“You will lock the shop door first.”
Under her supervision, he lumbered to the front of the store, locked the door, and turned over the sign.
“Give me the key, please. You will get it back when I depart.”
He grumbled but complied.
“Now. You go ahead of me, and I will follow,” Linnéa instructed.
He led her to a storage room in the back of the shop, an interior room with a stout, reinforced door and an impressive lock.
“Bring the trunk out here to me.”
He did her bidding, unlocking the storage room and dragging a rusty hand truck inside. Linnéa heard him grunting as he shifted boxes about and loaded something on the hand truck. Minutes later, he maneuvered a Victorian dome-top steamer trunk through the door and let the hand truck down.
Linnéa backed about six feet away where the floor had open space. “Over here, please.”
He wheeled the trunk to where she indicated and slid the hand truck out from under it. Linnéa gestured with her gun.
“Now, Mr. Dudnik. Into the storage room with you.”
His eyes widened. “No! Please—if you lock me in, I will die there! No one but me works in my shop. No one will hear me, even if I scream!”
“I don’t intend to lock you in—unless I need to. Unless, let us say, you refuse to give me your word.”
“My word?”
Linnéa thought it likely that no one had taken Dudnik at his word for many years.
Shifting the gun to her left hand, she used her right hand to unsnap the clasp of her watch—a Van Cleef & Arpels bracelet watch. She set the ornate timepiece on the trunk and backed away. “Three hours. Three hours by this watch. Give me your word that you will wait three hours before exiting the room.”
“Stay in the room three hours?”
“Yes. I will have someone observing from afar. If you leave your shop before the three hours elapse, you will never again receive an envelope of cash. If you abide by our agreement, six more payments. What do you say?”
He nodded and reached for the watch. “And I may keep it?”
Linnéa could see h
im evaluating and pricing it. Her mouth twitched. As if I’d return in three hours and ask for it back? Not likely.
“You drive a hard bargain, sir. Yes, you may keep the watch—the watch, the handbag, and the trunk. But I give you a warning. Keep the watch out of sight for a year or more.”
She considered him before lowering her chin in a confiding manner. “You see, Mr. Dudnik, some men like to control their women, yes? First, they slap and beat them. Call them vile names. Afterward, they shower them with gifts such as this. Such men are wealthy. Powerful. Connected.” She narrowed her eyes. “Quite ruthless.”
He licked his lips. “Just so. You are running away. Running away from a monster. I understand.” He glanced at her. Shrugged. “I can sympathize.”
She nodded. “Thank you. Yes, a monster. He will be hunting me, and if the monster were to find in your possession such a distinctive bauble—a gift from him, you understand—he would be very displeased with you. Why, he would think you helped me, and that would not end well for you.”
“I-I see. As you say, I will keep it hidden. Perhaps I will send it out of the country to sell.”
“A wise notion, Mr. Dudnik.” She waved him into the room. “It will take me thirty minutes or more to assemble what I need from the trunk. Do not doubt me. If you open the door while I am still here, I will shoot you.”
She sighed and added as an afterthought, “Cheaper for me, you know. And what is it they say? Dead men tell no tales? So—get in there and give me no reason to change my mind.”
He went in and closed the door behind him. She heard the handle latch and turned her attention to the trunk.
“You will not lock me in? I have your word?” his fearful voice called from beyond the walls. Only seconds had passed.
“Try the door, Mr. Dudnik—this one time only.”
He eased it open and peeked around its edge. “Da. Okay. I believe you.”
After he had again shut himself inside the storage room, Linnéa wheeled the hand truck out of her way. She withdrew the key from her bra, used it to unlock the trunk, and lifted the lid.
Inside she found a puzzle of Christor’s making and grinned.
Laynie Portland, Retired Spy Page 8