When Laynie turned the corner, she bypassed the waiting room and headed for the main hospital entrance. She exited there, moved quickly to the street, and scanned up and down, looking for—
There. A plexiglass shelter across the street denoting a city bus stop.
Once she’d confirmed that the street was on a bus route, she walked on, putting distance between herself and the hospital, heading for the next stop on the bus line. A quarter of a mile later, she came to another plexiglass shelter belonging to Moncton’s Codiac Transit Commission. While she waited for the bus, she plotted her next steps.
The airspace of the entire North American continent is on lockdown because of the attacks. Canadian and American border agents will be on high alert, hoping to catch other terrorists who may be plotting further strikes or attempting to escape the US into Canada.
Laynie studied the route map and fare chart on the shelter wall, memorizing the general layout of Moncton’s streets and bus service.
Right now, Marta Forestier is not on anyone’s radar. However, once the authorities start looking for her, and find that one of the “heroes” of Flight 6177 has gone missing, it will be problematic for me to cross over into the States. My best option is to stay in Canada but move west. Go west and keep moving.
When the bus arrived, she swung aboard, handed the driver an American dollar bill, and affected an Aussie accent.
“G’day. Sorry I don’t have the correct fare. Came over from the States and haven’t exchanged m’ money.”
“You know I can’t make change for you?”
“Yeah. No worries, mate.”
Laynie moved to the back of the bus. When the bus arrived downtown, Laynie left through the rear door and faded into the town’s pedestrian traffic.
Unfortunately, Moncton wasn’t large—only around sixty thousand residents. Most everything she did would be noted and remembered by someone, eventually leading those tracking her to this location. She needed to make that trail go cold, right here and right now.
She ducked into a public restroom. As soon as she’d locked herself in a stall, she eased out of her long-sleeved T-shirt, revealing the short-sleeved shirt beneath it. She opened her handbag and removed hairbrush, elastic hair holders, backpack, and billed cap. Then she transferred her hoodie, the long-sleeved shirt, and the contents of her purse to the backpack.
She stuffed her telltale Bottega Veneta handbag into the restroom trash, burying it deep under used paper towels.
“Goodbye, old friend.”
When Laynie left the restroom, she was wearing a different colored shirt, she carried a small backpack on her back, and her long hair was braided and tucked up into her hat.
She boarded another bus, one she knew was headed down Main Street. She got off several blocks before the intersection of Main and Cameron, the closest Codiac bus stop to the Maritime bus station, cut left on Canada Street and walked, unhurried, the rest of the distance to the station. Inside the bustling station, she exchanged all but fifty of the American dollars Tobin had given her for Canadian currency, then bought a cup of coffee, a sandwich, and a ticket to Edmundston.
Two hours later, her bus arrived at the Edmunston station, but Marta had gotten off early at the junction of NB-2 and NB-120 where she flagged down a trucker.
“Where you headed, miss?”
“Toronto, to visit my cousin.”
“I can take you as far as Montmagny, if that suits?”
“It does. Thanks.”
The highway would shortly take them out of New Brunswick and into the province of Québec. Montmagny was on the far outskirts of Québec City but still on the highway. The driver was talkative about the flights that had been diverted to various airports in Canada and more than willing to rehash other horrors of the day, details of the attacks Laynie had not yet heard.
“Wife and I watched the news coverage all day long until I had to run my routes. When that second tower fell, we knew there weren’t gonna be survivors—and the firemen, those brave souls who ran into the buildings to evacuate everyone? Dead when the towers fell.”
He shook his head. “All those emergency people, standing around, waiting for the wounded that would never show up. Saddest thing I’ve ever seen.”
“You say there was another plane as part of the attack? Do the authorities know where it was headed?”
“Yeah, Flight 93, out of Newark. Heard that some of the passengers charged the hijackers—kinda like the two sky marshals did on that American Airlines flight from London—but not with as much success. The hijackers still managed to take control of the cockpit and crash the plane in Pennsylvania. Killed themselves and everyone else on that plane.”
“I wonder where the hijackers had intended to fly the plane when they took control of it.”
“Rumor has it they were headed to Washington, looking to hit either the Capitol Building or the White House.”
“Despicable,” Laynie whispered.
When conversation tapered off, Laynie leaned against the truck’s window and slept until the driver pulled up at the junction of Highways 20 and 283. She woke and saw they were at a truck stop on the outskirts of what she assumed was Montmagny. The clock on the truck’s dash read just past one in the morning.
“Sorry to leave you, but I turn off here, miss.” He pointed. “That’s a nice 24-hour café over there.”
“It’s not a problem,” Laynie assured him. “I’ll wait inside the café until daybreak. With luck, I’ll be at my cousin’s in Toronto before dinner tomorrow. Thanks for the lift.”
Laynie walked away from the highway, down the embankment, and into the bushes rather than waiting the remainder of the night in the café where she would be noticed, remarked upon, and remembered. She pulled out her hoodie, zipped it on, and squatted down in the brush, arms wrapped around herself to spend the rest of the night.
AFTER WITNESSING THE attacks on the twin towers and leaving JFK, Zakhar and his men had been forced to return to the house on Long Island. Where else could they go? Zakhar’s team could not leave Long Island. In fact, they could go nowhere.
Their plane—like all others—was grounded. New York City and its waterways were on lockdown by order of the local and federal governments—every bridge, tunnel, and mode of water transport to or from the city, including Long Island.
The only redeeming information reported by the news was that passengers on flights diverted to Canada were in similar straits. They were required to remain where their planes had landed until US airspace reopened.
Zakhar hoped that meant Linnéa could not leave the town she’d landed in until international air flights resumed. He wished to immediately set out for Canada by automobile and reach the woman before the ban on commercial flight ended. However, even getting started on his way to Canada would be problematic. The only way off Long Island was to hire a private boat, one that was willing to risk being boarded by the Coast Guard.
The caretaker told Zakhar, “I know a captain. He can take you, not tonight or tomorrow night, but the following night.”
“That is too long of a wait!” Zakhar fumed. “Double his price.”
The caretaker shook his head. “No, Dimitri Ilyich. This man, he has other clients, regular customers, whom he cannot refuse. You understand what I say?”
Zakhar nodded.
“So. Do you wish his services in two days’ time or not?”
“Da. I will take his offer.”
Zakhar reported his arrangements to Petroff, who could not seem to grasp the extent of the attack or the tumult that had ensued. Instead, he subjected Zakhar to twice-daily tongue lashings.
“Bring her to me, Zakhar, you idiot! Do not show your face before me again until you have her in your grasp, do you hear me?”
But Petroff’s invectives were no longer Zakhar’s highest motivation. His own desires had burned within him until they outstripped Petroff’s threats.
I would swim across to the mainland, if I were able, Zakhar seethed
within himself. I will do whatever I must to capture this woman. Whatever it takes, I will have her.
Part 3: Elaine
Chapter 13
AT DAWN, LAYNIE WOKE. She was stiff and cold. The mid-September temps had dropped into the high forties overnight, and she had slept sitting up, the hood of her light jacket pulled up over her head and neck, her knees tucked up against her chest, her arms around them. Shivering, she got up and shook out her arms and legs to warm them. She brushed off bits of dried weeds and dirt, then drew out her hairbrush, pulled back the hoodie, and redid her hair, again tucking it up under her hat.
She walked out the kinks on her way up the embankment and across the highway to the truck stop. The place was already busy. Truckers who had spent the night in their cab’s sleeper berth were up, filling their tanks with diesel, checking their tires and loads, and getting a hot meal before hitting the road.
Laynie was hungry, too. When she entered the café, the breakfast rush was on.
“Sit anywhere you like,” the waitress told her. “This time of day, we share tables.” She had four plates balanced in her hands.
“I’d like to clean up first.”
“Through that door, hon.”
Laynie used the facilities, washed up, then sat at the counter and ordered coffee and the full breakfast special. She kept her ears attuned to the conversations around her, listening to the truckers talk among themselves.
She ordered a coffee to go, paid in US dollars and received Canadian as change, then hung around outside in the warming sun until a fifty-something trucker wearing overalls sauntered out the café door. He paused not far away to light up a cigarette.
“Hey,” Laynie said.
He turned, ran his eyes over her. “Hey, yourself.”
“You running into Ottawa today?” Ottawa was west of Montreal.
He drew on his cigarette. “Might be.”
“I’m looking for a ride.”
He continued to inspect her. “Might be able to accommodate you. What’s your name?”
“Beverly. Yours?”
“Colin.”
“Well, Colin, I’m interested in the ride. Nothing else.”
He shrugged. “I can take you as far as Montreal. From there, I head south. I’m crossing over into the States and running into New York today.” He eyed her again.
“Montreal is fine.”
She estimated her ride with this particular trucker would end around three hours or one attitude adjustment down the road.
She was right. Midway to Montreal, Colin pulled into a rest area with overnight parking for trucks and RVs. He set the brake, letting the engine idle, then slid his hand onto her thigh.
“I have a comfy bed back there. Why don’t we climb up and have some fun?”
Laynie smiled. “I wondered when you were going to ask, Colin.”
He grinned and reached higher on her thigh. Faster than his eyes could follow, Laynie bent his index finger over the back of his hand, twisting it along the way. She heard a pop and a crack before his scream deafened her and he jerked his hand away.
“You *blanking blank*! You broke my finger!”
“Didn’t your mother teach you not to put your hands on a woman without her permission? Oh, wait—I’ll bet she did, am I right?”
“Get out! Get outta my truck!”
Laynie grabbed her backpack. She opened the door and climbed down to the rest area’s asphalt parking lot.
“See you, Colin.”
A string of obscenities followed her, cut off when Laynie slammed the passenger door on them.
She walked over to the women’s restroom. After she’d done her business, she went back outside and sat on a bench against the wall of the restroom to wait. The wall had soaked up the morning sun, so she closed her eyes and reveled in its warmth. She stayed that way for more than an hour—long after Colin had driven away—waiting for the right ride came along.
She was alone in the rest area when an older couple with Ontario plates pulled into a parking slot in front of the facilities. A grandmotherly woman got out. Before she did anything else, she attached a leash to a little Scottish terrier and let him out onto the sidewalk. She pulled a bowl from the car with her other hand, poured water into the bowl, and set it down on the walkway for the dog to lap.
“What a beautiful little Scottie. What’s his name?”
She was cautious. “Thank you. His name is Bernie.”
Bernie, pulling at the leash, pranced over to Laynie, sniffed her hand, and let her pet him.
“He’s precious. Would you like me to hold Bernie’s leash while you go inside?” Laynie asked. She knew the woman would refuse.
“No . . . but thank you for offering.”
“Not a problem. He reminds me of my brother’s dog, poor thing.”
“Oh?”
Laynie stared away into the distance. “My brother died in a car crash some years back, and we were heartbroken. But then his little Scottie, Angus, the joy of my brother’s life, passed away not long after. You know, we all believe Angus died of grief. Your Bernie reminded me of Angus . . . and my brother.”
“I’m so sorry, dear.”
“You’re very kind. Thank you.”
The woman went into the restroom, taking Bernie with her. When she came out, she led the dog into the adjoining field to do his business. Out of her peripheral vision, Laynie watched the woman’s husband join her. They talked, and Laynie saw the woman’s hand flutter in her direction once.
She leaned against the restroom’s sun-warmed block wall, closed her eyes, and waited.
“Excuse me, miss?”
Laynie sat up, glanced around, fixed on the elderly gent. “I’m sorry—are you speaking to me?”
“Yes. We, my wife and I, don’t see any other cars here. So, we were wondering if you needed a ride somewhere?”
“Well, the truth is, the man I was riding with made advances toward me. I sort of had to get out of his truck in a hurry—if you catch my meaning.” Laynie sighed. “I’m just glad he didn’t pull over in the middle of nowhere.”
“What? Oh, my. Yes, I take your point.” The grandfatherly man appeared suitably shocked. “Uh, where are you headed, miss?”
“Toronto.”
“If you like, we can take you as far as Montreal.”
“But I’m a stranger,” Laynie pointed out.
“My wife is a pretty good judge of character. Come on. I’m Don. My wife is Midge. You can ride with us.”
“Thank you, Don. I’m Beverly, by the way.”
Laynie sat in back with Bernie’s head on her lap answering the couple’s questions, telling them she’d been staying with friends in northern Québec for the past month.
“I have friends in Toronto, too, so I’m heading there. I was supposed to have flown, but after those terrible attacks . . .” She let her words hang.
She had won over the couple, and they were eager to aid her.
“Such a shock! Don’t know how long US and Canadian planes will be grounded,” Don said over his shoulder. “Some folks who are stuck here can’t find a place to stay. Hotels are filled up.”
“And we don’t usually pick up hitchhikers,” Midge confided, “but it does seem as though the Lord brought us along at just the right time to help you on your way—even if we can’t take you all the way into Toronto.
“We live in Saint-Alexandre, you know, southeast of Montreal. Been to visit our son and his family.” She ended with the proud declaration, “We have three grandchildren. Such a blessing.”
Since most hotels were filled because of the grounding of all air travel, Don and Midge insisted on dropping Laynie on the outskirts of the city at a little motel with a flashing vacancy sign. When they continued on their way and were out of sight, Laynie walked up the street looking for a bus stop. When she’d found one and had studied the route map, she waited for the next bus that would take her across the river into downtown Montreal.
As she dropped h
er coins into the fare box, she asked the driver, “How close to an HSBC bank does this route run?”
The driver tipped his chin at the seat closest the door. “Sit there an’ I’ll point one out t’ you. We stop a block farther on from it.”
“Thanks.”
Laynie watched the bustling city go by until the driver said, “Look down that street. See the bank?”
Laynie did. “Yes. Thanks.”
When he let her out at the next stop, she backtracked to the bank, then began her quest for a hotel within walking distance of the bank, one that promoted what was being called “a business center.” A business center or business hub was a room containing computers, printers, office supplies, and broadband service for hotel guests.
Laynie found several hotels that fit the bill. She chose the Westmount, about a mile from the bank, deciding that the distance was an added security measure in her favor.
She ate lunch in a small restaurant first, then used their restroom to tidy up. While locked in the restroom stall, she switched out her French ID for her American passport and its matching driver’s license and credit card.
Leaving the restaurant, Laynie found a busy department store. She quickly purchased two suitable pants outfits, undergarments, a light jacket, and a pair of slip-on pumps and stockings. She also chose an unremarkable handbag and wallet and another carry-on suitcase with wheels. Her last purchase was a simple watch. She used her credit card for all of her purchases.
Before she left the department store, she transferred everything into her new suitcase and handbag. She loaded her shopping bags and the backpack into the rolling case and returned to the hotel.
She was not as presentable as she would have wished to be, but she’d soon remedy that. The larger issue was whether or not the Westmount had rooms available.
She approached the check-in counter. “Good afternoon. Have you any vacancies?”
“We didn’t last night after the airport closure, but we have a few today. How many nights?”
“Two, perhaps three.”
“ID and credit card, please.”
Laynie handed over her passport and credit card.
Laynie Portland, Retired Spy Page 18