Laynie Portland, Retired Spy

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Laynie Portland, Retired Spy Page 20

by Vikki Kestell


  She opened her handbag and drew out the CD-ROM case she had been so careful not to lose or leave behind in her travels. She removed the Final Fantasy IX disc, set it aside, popped out the unmarked disc hidden beneath, and slipped it into the computer’s CD drive. When the CD’s window popped up, she browsed its folder.

  She clicked the program on the disc that would enable her to bypass the Westmount’s network administrative restrictions. In only minutes, it overrode the restrictions and granted her admin privileges. Once she had unfettered access to the system, she copied the VoIP software installation code from the CD, buried it inside the computer’s operating system, and executed its installation program.

  It was after eleven in Stockholm when Laynie slipped on the headphones and dialed Christor’s laptop. The call rang and rang. She hung up.

  Perhaps he’s gone to lunch early?

  She wasn’t worried that someone in the IT Department would see the call on his screen. Christor always locked his computer before stepping away, and the call wouldn’t register on the monitor when the system was locked.

  She tried again. Still no answer.

  Another hotel guest, up early, entered the business center. He sat down at the second computer and started typing. Laynie turned her head a fraction to check out his screen. He was reading email.

  On her screen, Laynie dialed Christor’s number a third time.

  Could Marstead have discovered Christor’s VoIP program? And if so, have I given away my location? Worse, by giving away my location, have I exposed my last ID?

  She sat at the computer, waiting. Hoping. Her teeth on edge.

  When a call warbled in her headset, she jumped.

  Exhaling, she picked up the call.

  Christor’s cautious voice whispered in her ears, “Linnéa?”

  Laynie had never heard anything as welcome as Christor’s voice. She opened a chat window and typed, “Yes. No microphone.”

  “I’m so glad to hear from you, Linnéa! Are you all right?”

  “So far. News?”

  “Lots. I hardly know where to start.”

  “Marstead?”

  “No changes there, I’m sorry to say.”

  She typed, “Petroff?”

  Christor’s voice dropped to a whisper. “That’s the news. Marstead agents followed Petroff’s people into Sweden a week ago. The Russians visited the village you supposedly grew up in. They dug around and asked about you. All was fine until they spoke at length to a retired teacher from your primary school.

  “After the Russians left, Marstead agents interviewed the same teacher. He said the Russians had asked about you. Even though your name was on the roster of classes he taught, he told them that he’d never heard of you. Your cover is blown, Linnéa.”

  Laynie shivered. Once Petroff realized that Linnéa had lied to him about her past, whatever influence her persuasive letter may have had on him would be gone. She had betrayed him, and he would never stop hunting her . . . not unless she forced him to.

  Her fingers touched the keyboard again. “Send the package.”

  “Are you sure, Linnéa? It might . . . it might backfire. Might cause an international—”

  “Do it.”

  “All right. I will.” He hesitated, then added, “I, um, did I see your face on the news, Linnéa? Flight 6177 from London to New York?”

  Laynie bowed her head, rubbed her eyes. If Christor had recognized her from the grainy photograph, both Marstead and Petroff’s people—specifically Zakhar—surely would have, too.

  Zakhar.

  He could be on the ground already. Here in Canada. Right now.

  “Linnéa? Are you still there? Are you okay?”

  She typed, “Yes, okay. Will be okay. Thank you, Christor, again, for your friendship. SEND THE PACKAGE.”

  “I will, Linnéa.”

  “Today?”

  “All right. Today.”

  “Goodbye for now, Christor.”

  She ended the call and closed the VoIP program window. While she was removing all traces of the program from the computer, she was thinking hard.

  Zakhar! He has disliked me for years, but I earned his permanent animosity my last day in St. Petersburg. He won’t ever forget how I humiliated him in Petroff’s eyes—his hatred will fuel his determination. An angry Zakhar is more of a threat to me than Marstead.

  She thought about the contents of the package, her letter threatening to expose Petroff and the CD backing up her threat.

  Petroff is the only one who can deter Zakhar, but even if Christor sends the package today? It may take as long as a week before it is delivered to Petroff and he calls off Zakhar. I need to move and keep moving, never stopping long in any one place. Until Petroff recalls Zakhar, that man remains my greatest threat.

  She ejected the disc from the CD drive and put it back in the case. She had picked up the game disc to do the same when a voice behind her spoke.

  “Hey. Um, you play Final Fantasy?”

  Laynie snapped the case closed. She turned with an open smile. “I do. Not as much as I would like since I’m on the road a lot for business.”

  “I am, too—on the road a lot, I mean. That’s why I bring my PlayStation with me when I travel.”

  Laynie laughed. “Really? You have your console here? In your room?”

  “I sure do. It’s a great way to unwind after a long day in yet another hotel.”

  “That’s brilliant.”

  “Thanks. I’m really glad I have it right now. Since I’m stuck here. With all the canceled flights, I mean.”

  She watched him gather up his nerve.

  “Uh, if you’d like to play, this afternoon or evening, we could meet up? I always pack an extra controller in case my first one craps out.”

  She took inventory of the man. He was probably in his early thirties. Interested. Eager.

  And way out of his league.

  “I’d like that, um . . .

  “Justin. I’m Justin.”

  Laynie’s smile warmed. She reached out her hand. “I’m Beverly. What room are you in, Justin?”

  He flushed as he took her hand, more excited than he wanted to let on. “I’m in 6096. Sixth floor.”

  “Can I come up later on when I’ve finished my work?”

  “Oh, yeah. I mean, sure. Absolutely.”

  “Well, Justin, I look forward to . . . playing with you later on.”

  She let her fingers linger in his hand a moment longer than necessary. Then she gathered her things and left, dropping another high-wattage smile in her wake.

  Laynie returned to her room to better prepare herself for the busy day ahead. She ordered breakfast, then took a long shower. While she stood under the hot water, she wondered at the serendipitous nature of this new acquaintance, Justin. Out of the blue, she had a means of warning Petroff off in a timelier manner, ahead of the arrival of the package containing her threatening letter with the proof that would make her threat stick.

  Her thoughts roamed back to the genesis of her relationship with Petroff and how their work in technology had brought them together on common ground. In fact, before they became lovers, Petroff and Linnéa often attended tech and tech-related conventions and exhibitions at the same time—Petroff as a member of the Russian government and Linnéa as an account executive for Marstead. After their relationship caught fire, they had used the conventions as a means to further their trysts and to compare notes on interesting technological advances.

  The conventions and expos were all about faster and more complex computers, cell phones, and compact disc systems. However, the major tech companies, motivated by rapid advances in integrated circuitry, pushed out new products and applications faster than consumers could comprehend them—or the market could bear.

  That was the downside of new technology. It staled quickly. The window to capitalize on an emergent product was only about six months, meaning whichever company or nation could bring the hottest tech to market first—or weap
onize it first—would garner the envied reputation and reap its financial, often political, rewards.

  Enter the burgeoning world of video gaming.

  It had surprised Linnéa—and astounded her Marstead handlers—that it took a mutual love of video gaming to solidify her budding romance with Petroff. It was their shared fascination of gaming that helped her achieve what Petroff’s other women had been unable to attain, a long-term relationship with him.

  IT WAS MAY OF 1995, soon after Linnéa had moved to St. Petersburg. Linnéa accompanied Petroff to a new type of technology trade event, the Electronic Entertainment Expo in California, organized and hosted by the Entertainment Software Association. The Expo allowed developers, publishers, and manufacturers of video game software and hardware to showcase their gaming systems and game-related peripherals and merchandise.

  Although the event was touted as entertainment, Petroff had requested permission to attend. “Some of our scientists believe these gaming systems will have military applications,” he told Linnéa by way of explanation. “I do not believe it myself, but these games and their platforms are intriguing.”

  Only individuals who could verify a professional connection to the video game industry could attend. The Russian Ministry of Foreign Affairs provided Petroff with credentials attesting to such a connection. Marstead concocted the same for Linnéa.

  To Petroff’s amazement, forty thousand enthused vendors, buyers, and journalists crowded the Los Angeles Convention Center. He and Linnéa spent hours watching game demonstrations on large screens—race cars, soccer, American football, and battles ranging from epic fantasy to modern combat warfare.

  The convention produced two important results. First, Petroff—by leveraging the weight of the Russian government—took home his first game console, the latest version of the Super Nintendo Entertainment System. Second, Christor brushed past Linnéa in the crowd, leaving behind a folded slip of paper in her hand.

  An hour later, Linnéa left Petroff’s side to use the facilities. A convention official had whispered something of Petroff’s status in the Russian government to the Nintendo vendor, and Petroff was engrossed in playing an advance copy of a cartoonish game, Super Mario World 2—and something more about an island belonging to someone named Yoshi. The vendor was coaching Petroff in the game, and Petroff was determined to complete the level. He hardly noticed when she left.

  Linnéa exited the main convention hall, turned right, and spotted the door Christor’s note had said would be ajar. He drew her into the facilities hallway, out of sight of convention goers, and locked the door behind them.

  Linnéa was genuinely moved to see her friend and threw her arms about him. He hugged her in return and then stepped back, abashed at her physical closeness.

  “Alvarsson thought a friendly face might do you good.”

  “You have no idea.”

  Christor passed on messages to her, all verbal. She relayed the status of her relationship with Petroff.

  “He dresses me in jewels and gowns and flaunts me before his cronies at every formal function he is obliged to attend. He expects me to be charming, erudite, and apolitical. I’m allowed to be learned in art, literature, music—even technology—but must feign ignorance of geopolitics.”

  “How should I describe the status of your relationship with Petroff? Is it progressing?”

  “You can tell Alvarsson that Petroff has asked that I move to Moscow. It will soon become a demand.”

  “Alvarsson will be pleased, Linnéa.”

  She could tell Christor was anything but pleased. He was worried about her. That was one reason why she didn’t mention the aftermath of a recent state dinner she’d attended with Petroff.

  Linnéa had expressed an opinion Petroff had disapproved of. When they returned to his apartment that evening, she had been the object of his anger. It had started with him pulling her close, holding her too tightly and kissing her too hard—hard enough to bruise her mouth. When she attempted to pull away, he had bit her lip, drawing blood.

  “You must not embarrass me before my peers, Linnéa,” he had warned her.

  It had been the first and only time to date he’d hurt her. She hoped it would be the last. It had, however, produced Petroff’s desired outcome. Linnéa would be more reticent and circumspect in the future.

  “I cannot be absent much longer, Christor. Petroff will notice and be angry. Have you any orders for me?”

  “Yes. You are to play video games with Petroff.”

  “What?”

  “Be willing, even eager, to learn how to play video games with him. Make a habit of it. Relay to us which games are his favorites. I will purchase copies of the games, restructure them, and an agent will pass them to you. You will switch out the original games for the new ones.”

  “To what purpose?”

  Christor nodded. “Some upcoming games have chat functions built into them for what’s being called “online gaming.” That’s where competitors, across a broadband connection, meet up at the same time and play against each other. I will build enhanced chat capabilities into each new game so that you and I can message without using our laptops to access a bulletin board. It will be faster and more secure.”

  He saw the concern in Linnéa’s expression. “Don’t worry—Petroff won’t discover our chats. Only a series of specific moves within the game can activate a hidden chat session. I will send you instructions on how it works.”

  When Petroff and Linnéa returned to Russia following the convention, he brought with him the game console. Three months later, Linnéa moved to Moscow to live with him, and she saw that gaming had already become one of Petroff’s passions.

  One evening, after watching him play for hours, she asked, “Vassi, moy lyubimyy, these games fascinate me. Would you teach me how to play?”

  He was surprised by her request but agreed to teach her. Or at least try to teach her.

  You were not as surprised as I was, Vassili Aleksandrovich, Laynie reminisced, to discover that I was quite good at gaming. Good enough to best you, but smart enough not to win nearly as often as I could have.

  With both of them playing on a regular basis, Petroff turned his apartment’s dining room into a gaming den with a dedicated television screen. Each year, he upgraded to the best new gaming platforms and their games, but Final Fantasy—the epic battle between good and evil situated in a fantastical world of love, loyalty, magic, and rivalry—became their favorite and remained so through the game’s many evolutions.

  Each time Petroff ordered and received the newest version of Final Fantasy, Christor would have already provided Linnéa with a “restructured” copy, a copy with covert capabilities that improved with each game iteration. As soon as Petroff received a disc in the mail, Linnéa changed it out for Christor’s copy, destroying the original disc before she and Petroff had played on it.

  The most recent restructured copy of Final Fantasy remained with Petroff’s PlayStation 2. Christor, however, had provided Laynie with a duplicate of the disc. He had left it in the drawer of her desk in St. Petersburg, placed within the specially constructed case where the game served as a mask for the CD-ROM beneath it.

  Christor had left the game disc to do more than hide the CD-ROM—it, like his own copy, could communicate with Petroff’s copy.

  All Laynie lacked was a game console and yet—voilà!—one had “magically” appeared.

  Laynie toweled off and dressed. She was drying her hair when breakfast arrived. She took it out on her balcony and, while she ate, stared west. Where yesterday’s clouds had threatened rain, today’s sky was clear.

  From Laynie’s hotel room, she could see the shimmer of the Ottawa River as it joined the St. Lawrence, their combined waters wending their way to the Gulf of St. Laurence, to eventually reach the Atlantic. More than one hundred miles southwest of her room, Lake Erie, by way of the Niagara River, thundered over the great Niagara Falls and poured into Lake Ontario, which fed into the St. Lawrence Riv
er.

  Niagara Falls? Those poor newlyweds, Laynie thought. Are they still stuck in Moncton instead of enjoying their honeymoon adventure?

  She followed the ribbon of the Ottawa River to where it disappeared from view into the unfamiliar mountains that ran alongside it and into the distance. A glimmer of an idea began to take shape.

  Hmm. Worth exploring. Later.

  At present, she had more pressing matters.

  Laynie finished her breakfast, grabbed her purse, and headed downstairs. She left the Westmount and walked toward the HSBC branch about a mile distant. When she arrived, the bank’s doors had just opened. Laynie crossed the vestibule and approached a teller.

  “Good morning. May I help you?”

  “Yes, thank you. I’m an account holder at an HSBC branch in Singapore. I’d like to open a Canadian account and transfer money from my Singapore account into my Canadian account to fund my stay in Canada.”

  “Certainly, ma’am. I must notify you that HSBC banks in Singapore operate under different regulations than our banks in Canada. That means the full amount of your transfer will not be immediately available for use.”

  “I understand.”

  “Very good. To begin, I will need the following items—your HSBC Singapore account number, two forms of photo ID to confirm your identity, and your mailing address. Please write your Singapore account number on this form.”

  Laynie wrote the number, then produced her American passport and driver’s license. “You may use the address on my license.”

  The address on her license was the same as a retired D.C. accountant. Christor had located him, and Laynie had hired and kept him on retainer, paying him and his expenses on her behalf from her Singapore account. The tax specialist performed two recurring tasks for Laynie. He received her monthly credit card statements and paid them each month.

  The accountant also had a single, one-time task . . . which Christor would trigger in the event of Laynie’s death or if he did not hear from her for ninety days running, or—as a second fail-safe—if the accountant failed to receive payment three months in a row. Under those circumstances, he could assume that both Laynie and Christor were removed from the equation.

 

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