The next part would be tricky. “We know her father worked in America and that Linnéa was born there, but I have made an odd discovery, Vassili Aleksandrovich. I do not profess to know what it means, but . . . but I must not cover it up.”
Petroff rounded on him. “What discovery?”
Zakhar shook his head slowly. “I took the initiative to have your people talk with Uppsala residents. In the village they met an old, retired teacher.”
“Yes? Get on with it!”
“This teacher, Jorgensen, is more than eighty years old. He claimed that he could recall every student who attended the village school from the time he, himself, began to teach there at age twenty-three. He insisted that he had never heard of a Linnéa Olander.”
Petroff eyed Zakhar. “Go on.”
“We checked the school’s records and made copies of them. Miss Olander’s name first appears on the village school’s roster when she was nine years old, the year her widowed mother returned from America. Jorgensen was even listed as one of her teachers for the remainder of her Grundskola—comprehensive school. But when we showed him the roster, he declared it to be wrong. He knew every student on the list except Linnéa Olander. I had recent photographs of Miss Olander with me and showed them to him. He did not recognize her, nor did anyone who supposedly attended secondary school with her. No one in the village to whom we showed the photographs knew her.”
Petroff stood as stiff and unmoving as a boulder.
Zakhar was a patient man and had not gotten to where he was without great restraint. Petroff would be sorting through the implications of the news his faithful servant had delivered. Petroff would soon arrive at the same conclusions Zakhar had. And Zakhar anticipated with great, masked glee what would happen next.
So, Zakhar waited. He waited because he knew his patron—and because he was familiar with the culture and workings of Russian State politics.
In Russian political affairs, when a man attached himself to a rising star such as Petroff, that man’s fortune, security, and longevity depended upon his patron’s success and his continued good standing in the eyes of the State. Conversely, what tarred a political star, tarred all who were associated with him.
If this woman was a spy, as Zakhar suspected she was, Petroff would be ruined—disgraced, imprisoned, interrogated, tortured, and quietly executed. All his acquaintances and close associates would come under the same cloud of scrutiny. Even Petroff’s superiors and highly placed friends would be suspect.
In other words, if Petroff were ruined, Zakhar’s own demise would follow.
So, Zakhar bided his time. When Petroff’s orders came—as Zakhar was convinced they would—Zakhar would receive them with great satisfaction.
At last Petroff spoke. “Find her, Zakhar. Wherever she has hidden herself, find her. Bring her to me.”
“Da, Vassili Aleksandrovich. I will.”
Zakhar yearned to kill the woman himself, to steal her life inch by slow inch. He indulged himself with fantasies of his hands about her throat, choking her, relishing her panic and fear, reveling in her desperation as she pled and begged for her life. He managed to suppress this longing only by the sure knowledge that watching how Petroff slowly killed her would be equally satisfying.
Part 2: Marta
Chapter 7
OKSANA SOKOLOVA ARRIVED in Finland and promptly vanished into the city. However, later that evening, a French woman named Marta Forestier caught the train from Joensuu to Tampere where she disembarked and took a room in a modest hotel. She shopped and paid a visit to a hair salon for a fresh cut and color—a rich sable brown.
She did not resemble Linnéa Olander when she emerged.
Linnéa is dead, she reminded herself for the hundredth time. Today you are Marta. Become her. Be her.
Finland’s two official languages were Finnish and Swedish. The French woman’s Finnish language skills were marginal, but her Swedish was perfect. “I learned Swedish from my first husband,” she explained to those she met. “I realize my Finnish is deficient, so I wish to practice it.”
As French was, supposedly, her first language, some individuals attempted to converse with her in French. She put them off with a dismissive wave of her hand and a very French-like shrug of her shoulders. “Non. Let us speak Finnish together, please. I must learn something while I am here.” In this way, she deflected those who wished to speak a language to her that she had not mastered—certainly not with the accents of a French-born native.
Marta stayed three nights in Tampere where she acquired a few chic outfits from a department store. From a thrift shop, she purchased faded jeans, T-shirt, a gray hoodie, sneakers, a small and well-used backpack, and an American-style baseball hat. She furnished her Bottega Veneta handbag with a smart, tooled-leather pocketbook, fresh lipstick, powder compact, and nail file. She purchased a common carry-on suitcase with wheels and ditched the suitcase she’d arrived with.
On her third day in Tampere, dressed in a classy ensemble that complemented her Italian handbag, Marta boarded a domestic flight to Helsinki and caught a connecting international flight from Helsinki to Paris.
She had already booked a direct flight from Paris to New York, but it would not leave until the following morning. She took her seat on the plane and focused on controlling her breathing in order to slow her heart rate. She had not felt as exposed since she had left Madame Krupina’s as she did right now.
Soon, she promised herself. Soon I will breathe the air of freedom. One night in the Paris airport and then home to America.
“VASSILI ALEKSANDROVICH.”
Petroff had drunk himself to sleep for the third time this week and was still in bed at noon—quite uncharacteristic of his disciplined lifestyle. Zakhar pushed open the door to Petroff’s bedroom suite and said louder, “Vassili Aleksandrovich!”
“Da, da. What do you want?”
“We have found her.”
Petroff tried to sit up, but his head pounded, and his mouth and tongue were dry. Swollen.
“Have you brought her to me?”
“Not yet, but we have located her—and we know where she is going.”
“Get me some water.”
Zakhar snapped his fingers. A servant crept into Petroff’s bedroom. She set a tray on a table and poured the water. Zakhar reached for the water himself and dismissed her. He handed the glass to Petroff, who drank it down.
“Well? Where is she?”
“Our agents believe they spotted her in the Helsinki airport only minutes ago but were unable to intercept her before she boarded a flight. She was traveling under a French passport to Paris.”
“Paris! Have we anyone there who can snatch her?”
“That would be very difficult since I doubt she will leave the airport. You see, she had booked a flight from Paris to New York before she left Helsinki.”
“New York!”
“Da, but her flight does not leave until morning. This is a good omen for us.”
“Oh? What do you propose?”
“We allow her to continue on to New York unmolested. She will feel that she has gotten away safely. However, if you authorize a private plane for me and a few select men and we leave within the next few hours, we can arrive in New York ahead of her.”
“You must be careful, Zakhar. She must be handled with great discretion.”
“I understand, Vassili Aleksandrovich. New York is a busy city with much crime. We will follow her from the airport and take her when she is alone.”
“She has lied to me, Zakhar. She is not who she said she was. She has fooled us all—even her company.”
Zakhar remained silent until Petroff stirred himself.
“You may have your airplane. I will authorize the arrangements. Bring her to me, Zakhar.”
“You can count on me, Vassili Aleksandrovich.”
SHE LINED UP WITH OTHER passengers to pass through customs in the Paris-Orly airport. Her passport as Marta Forestier was in order, duly stamped
in Helsinki. Her ticket was paid for.
When she stepped forward to the next immigration control agent, her plan started to skid sideways.
The agents checking her French passport and sorting through her suitcase spoke to her in French, expecting her to reply as a French woman. She delivered a prepared excuse since she could not pass as a native French speaker.
“I was born a Swede,” she confessed to them in passable but poorly accented French, “and on my first trip to Paris, I fell in love with a Frenchman—Armand. We had a crazy, whirlwind love affair. Then we married and, eventually, I attained French citizenship. Before he passed away, he was still attempting to teach me the nuances of his language. Sadly, in the years that have passed, my accent has never risen above atrocious—don’t you agree?”
They did agree. They laughed with her and passed her through.
Sweating from the close call, Marta collected her carry-on bag, stripped the tag from it, and headed for ticketing. That was when she caught sight of a man and a woman on opposite sides of the terminal, checking passengers, watching the ticket counters, occasionally lifting hand to mouth. Their manner was relaxed. Nonchalant. Utterly professional. An untrained eye would not have noticed them or the “earwig” wires curling out of their ears, but Marta was far from untrained.
She bought a magazine and a coffee and sat down next to a man near her age. She smiled, said hello, asked where he was traveling to, and parked her purse on the carpet between their feet, implying to the casual observer that they were fellow travelers, a married couple. While she sipped her coffee and paged through her magazine, she leaned toward her “companion” and made the occasional comment to him. She also kept one eye on the two “watchers.”
After an hour, the man stood. “That’s my flight,” he explained.
“Mine is boarding, too,” she answered. Marta collected her things and followed him toward his gate. It was then that the woman and the man came together briefly and whispered. From a dozen yards away, Marta watched their lips and read the French words they spoke.
They were Marstead agents—French ones.
What if Marstead agents had alerted ticket agents to flag irregular encounters? Situations such as a French passenger who did not speak French like a native and who offered the excuse that she was actually Swedish?
Oh, I have blundered!
Marta cut away toward a restroom and locked herself in a stall. She was short of breath, gasping, and shaking with fear. Black spots flickered in front of her eyes.
What is this? I have never fallen apart physically like this!
What was it that Kari had said to her? “You’ve never lived until you’ve experienced a full-on panic attack.”
“I can’t have a panic attack. I can’t!”
She remained in the stall for half an hour, until she had calmed and was able to think clearly and contrive her next move.
A Paris to New York flight was out of the question. In fact, on any flight out of Paris, wouldn’t she encounter airline employees who would expect her to converse with them in French? And, clearly, French would not pass as her native language. She—and her story—were too conspicuous, too memorable. Too chancy.
Marta had one unused passport left, a US one, but she dared not use it until she arrived in America. With a solid US ID and driver’s license, she would disappear. Blend in. Survive.
I must fly into the US on this French passport—which I will toss as soon as I land—but I cannot risk flying by a French carrier or from a French city. I must choose another route.
While keeping one eye out for Marstead agents, she looked for directions to the Orlyval shuttle train and found the correct shuttle to take her to the Orly-Sud train station. The ride was not long. From there, she boarded the Eurostar to Calais-Fréthun, which took her through the channel tunnel to Folkestone and on to London.
Late that night, exhausted and stressed from her travels, Marta checked into a hotel near London’s Heathrow airport. She picked up the room’s telephone and called American Airlines.
While she waited for an available agent, she noticed the small stand-up calendar on the desk. Is it the ninth or tenth? She’d lost track of the day and date.
An airline agent picked up her call. “American Airlines. May I help you?”
“Yes, hello. I’d like to book a direct flight from Heathrow to New York. Tomorrow morning, the earliest flight you have, please.”
If I need to, if I’m pursued after I land, I will be close enough to Canada to cross over on my French passport and try to lose myself there. I’ll learn the border crossings to be prepared.
“I have a seat on a direct flight from Heathrow to JFK at 6:45 a.m.”
“I will take it. May I pay for the ticket when I arrive?”
“Yes, but only if you call for the ticket at least an hour before departure. Otherwise, it goes back on sale.”
“I will be there on time to pay for it. Thank you.” She gave the airline agent the information from her French passport and hung up.
Travel time from London to New York was a little more or less than eight hours, but because of the five-hour time difference between the two cities, the flight would leave at 6:45 a.m. and arrive at 9:55 a.m.—seemingly only three hours later.
Laynie was tired and needed to sleep, but she did not. She remained awake, tense and uneasy.
Just a few more hurdles—including the one involving this French passport. My backstory this time is that I’m an American who married a French man—and so on. Which reminds me. I should practice my American English while on board. Drop a few American idioms and knock the rust off my American accent.
Undercover for so long as a Swede, Laynie’s English had acquired a Swedish inflection.
If I can board tomorrow’s flight without being detected, I stand a good chance of arriving in New York, getting out of the airport, and disappearing into the city. Then I should be safe.
Safe? Marstead agents were haunting international airports, in spite of her threat to reveal the intelligence she had gathered in Russia as a covert operative for them! And how long before Petroff was tracking her, too? Surely, her fawning letter had given him pause—but only momentarily.
Without doubt, this leg of her journey would be the most dangerous.
She carried the little HK P7K3 concealed in her handbag, but how could she and her little gun compete against trained and no doubt better-armed agents prowling the airports for her? Could she outrun or outgun them? Not likely.
She sighed and turned over, troubled in her thoughts, unable to relax.
I have left Linnéa Olander far behind and will never again answer to that name. But can I ever go back to the real me? Laynie Portland?
She shuddered. No. Marstead knows my real name. They will be watching for me.
Furthermore, if Vassili Aleksandrovich’s people were to uncover my identity, they would, sooner or later, find Mama and Dad.
She stared into the dark.
If Petroff’s minions found her parents, she shuddered to think of what his people would do to them. Her mama and dad knew nothing of their daughter’s covert life, but they would suffer regardless. Under questioning—and torture, if necessary—they would reveal the existence of a young granddaughter and grandson, their son’s orphaned children, Laynie’s niece and nephew. Petroff’s people would ask where those children were.
The interrogation would, inexorably, lead to Kari.
Petroff would find Kari. He would have her. He would have Shannon and Robbie.
He would use all of them against me.
Her fists clenched and unclenched, her nails biting into the skin of her palms, her anger burning. Intensifying.
Vassili Aleksandrovich, you do not know me as you think you do—for I am not the self-deprecating, subservient woman I pretended to be in order to mollify your pride and play to your ego. I am Laynie Portland. For seven years I outwitted you, deceived you, robbed you of many Russian state secrets, and you never had
a clue. I still have cards to play, Vassi. Don’t think I will roll over if you threaten my family.
I will destroy you first.
Chapter 8
LAYNIE HAD NO DIFFICULTY arriving at the American Airlines ticket counter by 5:20 a.m. She hadn’t slept all night.
Instead, she had watched the clock tick through the hours without closing her eyes and had gotten out of bed at 3:30. She stood in the shower for a long time, did her hair and makeup, dressed, packed, checked and rechecked her papers, and counted her money—kronor, pounds, and dollars. It was a tidy sum, but . . .
Not nearly enough ready cash in the right currency, she realized. I’ll need more American money the moment I hit New York.
She would have liked to hit a currency exchange at the airport, changing all her money for American dollars before she left London, but the airport exchanges would not open before her early flight departed.
She took the hotel shuttle to the airport, used her French ID to pass through passport control, found her airline, and paid for her ticket.
Since she was an hour early for her flight, Laynie scouted out a shadowed table at the back of a coffee shop that afforded her a view of her gate. While she sipped on a steaming cup of coffee, she watched for Marstead or Russian agents until her flight was called.
Even when passengers began to board, she did not abandon her cover. She waited for the majority of her flight’s passengers to queue up at the gate. She scrutinized each one before they marched onto the boarding bridge. She watched for suspicious or telltale body language.
Laynie had picked up a brochure on the plane’s design and familiarized herself with the details, including seat configuration. The relatively new Boeing 767-400ER had a crew complement of ten—two in the cockpit and eight flight attendants in the cabins—and passenger seating for two hundred and one. Laynie did not relish being crammed into economy class for the simple reason that she required room to maneuver and the ability to deplane quickly, should she need either or both.
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