“For you, Søren Thoresen? It’s always my pleasure.”
Kari had her own work to do each day, telecommuting from their home in Nebraska to her company’s offices in New Orleans. Once a month, she made a five-day whirlwind trip down south to meet with her staff in person.
While Søren washed up from lunch, she flipped through the mail he had stacked on her desk. She sorted it efficiently, tossing the junk, setting aside bills, glancing through newspaper headlines. By the time they received the papers, they were always a little stale—RiverBend being off the beaten track as it was. Kari was about to toss the Omaha paper into the “to-be-read” pile when she stopped and stared hard at the grainy photo on the front page under a bold headline,
HAVE YOU SEEN THIS WOMAN?
She pulled the image closer, as if “closer” would make it clearer. She called over her shoulder, “Søren?”
She read the article as fast as she could, then started over.
“Søren? Søren!”
He arrived, pulling on his work gloves. “What is it?”
“That.” She pointed. “That . . .” Kari couldn’t breathe.
“What am I looking at, Babe?”
She shook her head, still staring. “Søren . . .” She stabbed her finger at the picture again.
“Søren, that’s Laynie. That’s my sister!”
Chapter 15
LAYNIE KNOCKED ON JUSTIN’S door at five that afternoon. She felt rested and mentally sharp. She also knew how enticing she appeared in snug jeans and a tight sweater, her hair intentionally blowsy about her face. She carried her purse and a shopping bag holding the two bottles of wine in one hand. She held two wine glasses in her other hand.
When Justin opened his door, he grinned. “I’m really glad you came, Beverly. Been looking forward to this all day.”
“Me, too, Justin. Me, too.” She walked into his room and swept her eyes around, taking inventory of the layout. “I thought that after we’ve played our video game for a while, we could order dinner in.” She lifted the bag holding the bottles. “I brought the wine.”
Justin’s reaction to her unmistakable message made him stumble a little. “That’s super. Uh, make yourself at home, Beverly. Does the wine need to be chilled?”
“Great idea, Justin.”
He grabbed up the ice bucket. “Be right back.”
After both bottles were on ice, they started playing. Justin had skills and, for Laynie, it was fun not having to pretend he was a better player as she had with Petroff. She lost herself in the game, laughing and celebrating with Justin when he beat a challenge, then taking her turn, feeling smug when she outscored him. They worked well on the shared game play. All in all, Laynie was enjoying herself.
“Wow. You are a boss, Beverly!”
Laynie lifted a wicked brow. “You have no idea.”
“Have you ever played paintball? I’d love to have you on my team.”
After an hour, Justin asked, “Want to order dinner now?”
“Sure.”
Laynie ordered a seafood salad. Justin ordered a sirloin. They played Final Fantasy, taking turns in the field and fighting together in the battles until their food arrived. While Justin was tipping the room service delivery boy, Laynie opened a bottle and poured the wine. They sat down to eat, and Laynie kept Justin’s glass full.
“What did you do today?” he asked, fumbling for something to talk about.
“Nothing out of the ordinary. Paperwork. A little shopping and banking. How about you?”
“Got through to my corporate office in Vancouver. They think when the US and Canada open their airspace, it’ll be a mess, everyone trying to get home. I’m probably stuck here until Saturday or Sunday at the earliest. Until then, my boss has ordered me to make thirty cold calls a day and try to drum up a few appointments.”
“Well, that doesn’t sound like fun.” Laynie put down her fork. “Ready to play again?” she asked.
“Sure.”
Another half hour passed. Laynie emptied the first bottle into her glass and pulled the cork from the second, filling Justin’s glass. He hadn’t noticed that the second bottle had been opened prior to Laynie’s arrival nor could he know that she had, on two trips to the bathroom, dumped most of her glass and refilled it with water.
“Cheers.” Laynie touched her glass to his. “I’ll be right back.”
She visited the restroom a third time, dumping her glass again and filling it half full of water. As she returned, she made a show of gulping down the contents of her glass.
Justin followed suit.
“One more?” Laynie asked, her voice lazy. Seductive.
“Absolutely. I’ll get it.”
“Let me,” Laynie smiled. She filled his glass, but not hers.
“What? You’re not having any more?”
“Oh, I’ve had plenty for what I have in mind,” Laynie purred.
“Uh . . . and what do you have . . . in mind?”
“Drink yours down, and I’ll tell you.”
With his eyes glued on her, Justin downed the glass. His head wobbled a little.
“Man, I think I’m drunk.”
“Not too drunk to keep playing, I hope?”
“What? I thought . . .”
“We will, Justin, we will. All in good time. First a little more game play, okay?”
They sat down and started where they’d left off, but Justin couldn’t keep up. He struggled and fought it, but five minutes later, he dropped his controller. “Shoot. I’m wasted.”
“Want to get into bed with me?”
“Oh. Oh, yeah, I do.”
Laynie pulled the covers back, helped him sit on edge of the bed, and pulled off his shoes. She went around to the other side and slid in.
“Come on, Justin. Let’s snuggle.”
He turned her way and flopped onto the mattress, his head hitting the pillow.
She didn’t need to take the farce any further. He was unconscious and would remain so until morning.
Laynie smiled as she tucked him in. “Was it good for you?”
Then she got to work.
She connected the room’s broadband cable to Justin’s PlayStation, ejected his game disc from the console, and replaced it with the one from her purse. When the game had loaded, she took a deep breath and pressed the controller shortcuts that would take her online to Petroff’s game console.
I’m so glad you neglect to remove your game discs, Vassili Aleksandrovich.
She did know him well.
THE LOCAL TIME IN MOSCOW was 3:45 in the darkest part of night. After the frustration of waiting all day for news from Zakhar but hearing nothing from him, Petroff had gone to dinner with a colleague to distract himself. The two men spent the evening discussing the terror attacks on the US and drinking heavily.
They parted company near eleven o’clock, and Petroff went to his Moscow apartment to sleep off his overindulgence.
After sleeping nearly five hours, something pulled him awake. In a haze, he sat up, wondering what had disturbed him. He noticed the low light coming through his open bedroom door. And faint music? It sounded like pipes playing the music of Final Fantasy’s opening scene.
“What is this? What is going on?”
He staggered a little as he climbed from his bed. After he’d steadied himself, he slipped his silk robe on over his pajamas and reached for the Makarov pistol he kept in the drawer next to his bed. He’d kept the little semiauto as a memento from his days with the KGB—and the gun was always loaded.
Petroff shuffled into the hallway. The light came from beyond the living room. He heard the music, but no other sounds, so he continued forward, sweeping his gun left to right, scanning for an intruder.
When he reached the gaming room, he saw that his PlayStation was awake. The light he’d seen and music he’d heard was coming from the screen. In the center of the screen, a message glowed.
vassili aleksandrovich, wake up
vassili aleks
androvich, wake up
vassili aleksandrovich, wake up
“What is this?” Still half drunk and clumsy, he fell, rather than sat, in his accustomed gaming seat. “What is this?” he repeated.
The words on the screen changed.
vassili aleksandrovich
if you are awake
pick up your controller
The superstitions that haunted him assumed the worst. Was the game alive? Were the characters within its worlds talking to him? Were their intentions diabolical?
Petroff began to shake. He stared around the room. “Who is this? Who are you?”
vassili aleksandrovich
if you are awake
pick up your controller
pick up your controller
pick up your controller
With trembling hands, he reached for the controller. He pressed the “join game” button. A window for him to type a response popped up. He wiped his bleary face and slowly keyed in, “Who are you?”
linnéa
Astounded and half-terrified, Petroff’s eyes widened. “How?”
He looked down at the controller and typed, “How are you doing this? Where are you?”
A moment later, new words appeared.
it does not matter where i am because
i can reach you from anywhere in the world
isn’t technology wonderful?
Her flippant response angered Petroff. He typed his reply, “I will teach you to disrespect me, you whore!”
i have never been your whore, petroff
but YOU have been MINE
pay attention
i have something to say to you
YOU WILL LISTEN
Furious, Petroff typed, “My people are hunting you. I will enjoy strangling you and watching you die.”
will you?
for 7 years, i was with you
vassili aleksandrovich
for 7 years, i stole russia’s secrets for the west
AND YOU NEVER SUSPECTED
guess what?
Petroff read the words and gaped. He was afraid of what was coming.
A lone line of text appeared.
i have copies of the secrets i stole
A second line followed.
with them,
i have the power to destroy you
you will receive a package from me
later this week
it will contain proof that i am not bluffing
He shook all over, but he could not tear his eyes away.
if i die or disappear
the security council will receive
copies of everything i have stolen
from you and from mother russia
The screen refreshed. Petroff could not stop watching the flow of text that flashed across the screen.
if i die or if i disappear
the evidence will be mailed to
the security council automatically
His heart pounded. Sweat beaded on his brow.
FAIL-SAFE
if i die or if i disappear
nothing can prevent the evidence
from being sent to the security council
The contents of his stomach lurched. He was going to be sick to his stomach.
the security council will believe
you were complicit in my theft
by your careless neglect of duty
He grabbed a wastebasket and heaved into it.
how long will it take them to
confine you to a cell
in the basement of Lubyanka
and begin to torture you
vassili aleksandrovich?
He retched until nothing more came up. Petroff wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his robe. He muttered to himself, “This cannot be happening. It cannot!”
As if she could look into his home from halfway around the world, she asked,
are you all right?
And to pour salt on the wounds she was raking through his flesh, she added,
moy lyubimyy?
She was mocking him?
He grabbed the controller and cursed her, calling her every vile name he could conjure. Her response was chilling.
mind your temper, vassi
we have conditions to discuss
conditions to prevent disaster
from coming upon you
are you paying attention?
The room revolved around him and would not stop. He nodded. Slowly. But she could not see him nod.
we have conditions to discuss
are you paying attention?
When he did not reply, more lines appeared on the screen.
are you paying attention?
are you paying attention?
are you paying attention?
His hands were shaking so hard, it took him several tries to type, “Yes.”
good
you will recall zakhar
and his men to moscow
you will do this NOW
Trembling more, he keyed in, “Yes.”
if I catch even a whiff of zakhar
or any of your people
one phone call will send the evidence
on its way to the security council
my conditions and promise
you will never look for me again
and i will never bother you again
do you agree?
He blinked stupidly at his controller. I am done with video games.
do you agree?
do you agree?
do you agree?
He entered the terse two-word reply. “I agree.”
No further messages appeared on the screen. Petroff waited ten minutes. Twenty. At the end of thirty minutes, he got up, ejected the game disc from the console and snapped it in two. He pulled the broadband and power cords from the wall.
And he picked up his phone.
Chapter 16
PETROFF THREW THE SAT phone to the floor. He’d heard nothing but an unanswered ring on Zakhar’s end for the past twenty minutes.
Why is that imbecile not answering?
The reason was simple. In New York, it was evening. In Moscow, it was the middle of the night. Not expecting Petroff to call when he would normally be sleeping, Zakhar had left the sat phone in his bedroom, where it rang out of earshot.
Petroff turned his attention to his landline and considered calling the safe house directly—but would he get through? According to the news, communication lines into and out of New York were still overloaded. A glut of callers, trying to reach their loved ones, had overwhelmed the system, blocking communications between and among the government and the city’s various emergency response services.
The authorities, therefore, had ordered the citizenry to keep the lines open for emergency communications.
Petroff did not care about the state of emergency communication in a distant city—he had his own emergency. He glanced at the clock. A quarter past four.
It will be after eight o’clock at night in New York.
With shaking fingers, he dialed, half expecting a busy signal—but the call rang through to the other end. The main phone at the house on Long Island was located in a hallway alcove outside the living room. A man answered on the third ring.
“Give me Zakhar,” Petroff demanded.
Zakhar came on the line, wondering at the timing of the call—was it not still night in Russia?
“Dobroye utro, Vassili Aleksandrovich. Good morning to you. We are ready and will be leaving for—”
Petroff wasted no time. “Zakhar. I have new orders for you and the men with you. You will remain where you are until the Americans open their airspace. The moment it is possible to fly again, you and your men are to return home to Russia. Until then, you are not to leave the house, do I make myself clear?”
Zakhar went silent, too dumbfounded at Petroff’s change of direction to immediately reply.
Petroff screamed into the phone, “Zakhar! Do you hear me? You are recal
led to Russia at the first possible opportunity! Do you understand?”
Zakhar caught the scent of desperation in Petroff’s shouted orders. It was not yet five o’clock in the morning in Moscow, and Petroff usually did not rise until 6:30.
He perceived the truth in an instant.
Gavno! The woman is a spy—and she is blackmailing Petroff!
The inferences tumbled through his mind. And when this Olander whore manipulates him, she endangers all of Petroff’s confidants—including me.
Zakhar pulled the phone away from his ear. It was his role to clean up Petroff’s mistakes—while protecting his own backside. If the FSB suspects that Olander used Petroff to spy upon Russia, they will immediately arrest him and all those within his circle.
I will be as guilty and as dead as he is.
What followed was a moment of clarity for Zakhar, the realization that the risks he faced as one of Petroff’s close supporters—and a Ukrainian one, at that—far outweighed any reward Petroff might offer him. Something dropped and landed in the pit of Zakhar’s stomach. It settled down deep with cold finality.
A way out . . . and, if he handled his cards with finesse, the means to a better future.
I will not be swept up in a scandal of your making, Vassili Aleksandrovich. I refuse to allow my many years of service and loyalty to become a millstone hung about my neck because of your blunders!
Zakhar knew that his three men could hear his end of the conversation. They would be hanging on his every word.
“Da, Vassili Aleksandrovich, I understand. You have recalled the team to Russia at the first possible opportunity.”
“Do not fail me, Zakhar.”
Petroff hung up on Zakhar without further ado, but Zakhar remained on the line with the lifeless receiver humming in his ear.
“Da. I will continue the search as you order, Vassili Aleksandrovich. I will keep the arrangements I’ve made to follow the woman’s flight into Canada tomorrow. Do not fear. I will find her. Do svidaniya, Vassili Aleksandrovich.”
He replaced the receiver and walked with purpose into the living room to deliver Petroff’s orders.
“The three of you have been recalled to Russia as soon as our plane can leave American airspace,” he announced.
“Dimitri Ilyich, you will not be accompanying us?” This from Nicor, although Zakhar was positive he and the other two men had heard his closing words to Petroff.
Laynie Portland, Retired Spy Page 22