“I am to go on without you. Vassili Aleksandrovich feels that four of us traveling through Canada in search of Miss Olander would be too obvious, that strengthened screenings at the borders would place us under unwanted scrutiny. I will leave tomorrow as scheduled. You will return to Russia when the Americans open their airspace.”
He turned on his heel and started upstairs to his room. He had provided no room for discussion and had left his three men nodding servile compliance to his departing back.
Zakhar went to his room and recalculated the time in Moscow. He must wait at least four hours. The time in New York would be one o’clock in the morning, but in Moscow it would be 9:00 a.m. He could not even consider sleep, so he would remain awake through the next hours.
While he waited, he took inventory of his supplies—a supply of ready cash, two sets of passports, driver’s licenses, and credit cards—one set American, the other Canadian—a mobile phone, and a suitable weapon with ammunition. He packed a duffle bag, adding the supplies to his clothes and personal items.
LAYNIE ENDED THE GAME’S chat with Petroff and set to work cleaning Justin’s room. She ejected her game disc and returned it to her purse. She wiped down Justin’s game disc and slid it into the PlayStation console.
She gathered the wine bottles, wiped them down, and put them into the bag she’d brought them in. Wiped and added the wine glasses. Wiped the room service dishes and set them on the floor outside Justin’s door. Wiped down every surface she’d handled—the table, broadband cable, game controllers, game console, bathroom fixtures—erasing, in short, every trace of her presence from the room.
After she had rechecked her work, Laynie picked up her purse and the bag, hung a Do Not Disturb sign on Justin’s door, and took the elevator to the second floor. She walked down the stairs to the ground floor, avoiding the lobby, down the hallway, past the laundry, to the back of the hotel, and out the exit leading to the dumpsters. She disposed of the bag containing the wine bottles and stemware in one of the full dumpsters, pulling other garbage on top of the bag.
Then she returned to her room and wiped down everything to remove her fingerprints. When she had finished, she grabbed her suitcase, wheeled it to the elevator, and rode it down to the second floor. From the second floor, Laynie again took the stairs, avoiding the lobby. She used a side door to find her way to the parking garage.
Laynie handed the valet her claim check. When he returned with her rental car and put her bag in the trunk, she tipped him modestly, then drove away, ending her short trip at the Fontainebleau Hotel.
She handed her keys to the valet. “I’m checking in.”
“Very good, ma’am.”
Wheeling her suitcase behind her, Laynie entered the hotel lobby and approached the check-in counter.
“I have a reservation. Elaine Granger.”
The clerk looked in the system. “Yes, I have your reservation, Ms. Granger. Welcome to the Fontainebleau. You’re in room 3705.”
SØREN STEPPED INTO the kitchen. “Hey. The kids are asleep now. I’m going to shower. Afterward, can we grab some decaf and talk?”
“Sounds good.”
Kari made a fresh pot while Søren was showering. They’d decided to wait until after Shannon and Robbie were in bed before they revisited Kari’s assertion—her certainty—that the woman who had helped the sky marshal save Flight 6177 was not this Marta Forestier, as the paper called her, but Kari’s sister, Laynie.
When Søren wandered into the kitchen, his reddish-blonde hair still damp, Kari poured their coffee and they sat down in the breakfast nook. The newspaper sat at her elbow.
Søren stirred in two spoons of sugar, then took a long pull on his mug. “Mmm. Good.”
“You’re welcome. Ready to talk about this now?”
“Yeah. I’ve been gnawing on it all day as I worked. I’m sorry we couldn’t discuss it in depth after lunch.”
“Don’t be. You have more to shoulder with Max off to college. I didn’t want to be the reason you got behind.”
Søren stroked her hand. “Thank you. I’m so grateful the Lord put you, Shannon, and Robbie in our lives—Max and mine.”
“And I’m grateful the Lord put our family together the way he did.”
Søren leaned in, kissed her, and smiled. “To God be the glory.”
“Yes, amen!”
Kari unfolded the paper to the photograph of Marta Forestier. “I’ve studied this picture on and off all day. I’m convinced it’s Laynie, although it’s been seven-and-a-half years since I’ve seen her. She’s older, and she’s darkened her hair, but everything else is the same—even the set to her jaw.”
Kari stared into Søren’s deep blue eyes—the Thoresen family eyes, so much like her own—and Laynie’s. “You know that Laynie confided in me that day we spent out on Puget Sound in Sammie’s sailboat. We were both trying so hard to find the sister we’d lost when we were kids, and we both had questions.
“It took her a while, but eventually, she asked me why I’d forgotten her, why I hadn’t remembered her and Sammie while I was growing up. I said, I tried to remember. I knew I’d forgotten something—something truly important—but each time I wanted to remember, it would trigger a panic attack.
“I didn’t go into the details of how my anxiety manifested. I didn’t tell her how, when it swept over me, I would pass out. Didn’t tell her about the nightmares I suffered as a child. Instead, I made a joke about the attacks and tried to laugh them off.
“I told her—and I was so flippant, Søren! You’ve never lived until you’ve experienced a full-on panic attack.
“That’s when she let me in, when she admitted to why she was living in Europe. Even though we were alone, out on the water and far from anyone else, she lowered her voice and said, I’ve been in some very tight places, Kari—tight enough that I’m surprised I don’t have anxiety attacks, some tight corners that could easily have ended with me in a Russian interrogation room. The day I ever have such an attack? I’ll be finished in my present line of work.
“My point, Søren? She said Russian. She’s been spying on the Russians!”
Søren’s expression radiated concern. “You’ve never shared this with me. I get now why you’re so worried.”
“I’m sorry. Although I told you we suspected she was some kind of federal agent or operative living abroad, I didn’t want to . . . to betray her confidence by repeating her words—particularly the word Russian.”
“I understand.”
“Before she returned to Sweden, Laynie hinted that something ‘big’ was afoot and, as the day for her flight back to Europe approached, she withdrew from us emotionally. It was horrible, Søren, watching her harden herself for what was waiting for her back in Sweden. Then, when we got married and Laynie didn’t come . . . I knew. I knew she was caught up in something she couldn’t get out of.
“After she returned to Sweden, I wrote her twice a month, receiving only the barest of replies—until . . . until her last letter, about six years ago. She said her situation was changing and that she would no longer be able to reply to my letters. She could continue to receive mail from me, but I wouldn’t receive any from her.”
Kari raised her chin and stared at Søren. “Only now I think Laynie is in real, imminent trouble. As fantastic or fictional as it might sound, I believe that she disguised herself and took on a new identity to get away from whatever or whoever she was spying on. I think the reason this Marta Forestier disappeared from Flight 6177 after it landed is because that someone is after her. And she’s alone out there, Søren. Alone!”
“What about her organization? Why wouldn’t they help her?”
“I don’t know. I only know—I surmise—that whomever she’s been with in Russia is powerful and connected.”
“All right, but wouldn’t she come to us for help?”
Kari shook her head. “She has cut ties with everyone she loves so that whoever is hunting her will have no leverage to use against her.�
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“Then there’s only one thing we can do to help her, Kari.”
Tears streaming down her face, Kari nodded. “Pray for her. Ask the Lord to send her aid. Ask him to hide her from her enemies and make a way for her to escape. I believe this is why, more than two weeks ago, I felt that she was in danger and we were to pray for her.”
Søren took her hand. “Then let’s pray for Laynie. Right now.”
WHEN THE CLOCK READ one in the morning, Zakhar used the satellite phone to place his first call. He wasted precious time “worming” his way through the bureaucratic watchdogs that guarded Russia’s most powerful men—until his call was, at last, routed as he requested.
A male voice answered, “You have reached the offices of Secretary Rushailo. How may I direct your call?”
Zakhar steeled his voice. “I am Dimitri Ilyich Zakhar, Chief of Security for Vassili Aleksandrovich Petroff. I must speak to Secretary Rushailo’s chief of security. My business is urgent.”
He had decided to go straight to the top of the political food chain—or at least as close to the top as he could reach. Reporting Petroff to the FSB might take the man out of circulation, but the FSB would likely come after Zakhar, too—and he did not relish spending time in the cellars of Lubyanka explaining his role in Petroff’s treason.
No, Zakhar would rather report Petroff to his superiors. Was this not the old way, the Communist way? As Secretary of the Russian Federation’s Security Council and a patron who had shown Petroff great favoritism, Rushailo would act swiftly to distance himself from Petroff, lest Petroff’s sins taint him or his administration. With the right prompting, Rushailo would order the FSB to take Petroff into custody. Rushailo would also be honor bound to direct the FSB to leave Zakhar alone.
Yes, Rushailo was the better choice . . . because Zakhar had no intention of wasting the golden opportunity that lay before him.
“This is Baskin.”
“Good morning. I am Dimitri Ilyich Zakhar, Chief of Security for Vassili Aleksandrovich Petroff. You and I have met working state dinners. Do you remember me?”
“Da, I remember you, Dimitri Ilyich. What can I do for you?”
“I have urgent information of a treasonous nature, information that could damage Secretary Rushailo should it come out. I wanted to report this information to you at once, because I wish to preserve the Secretary’s good name.”
Baskin’s attitude was instantly wary. “What information? You must tell me, Dimitri Ilyich.”
“I will. That is why I called. I am, at present, in the city of New York. I was sent by my master, Vassili Aleksandrovich Petroff, to track down and retrieve his mistress, Linnéa Olander, supposedly a Swedish national.”
“Supposedly?”
“Yes, we suspect she is not who she presented herself to be. Miss Olander left a letter stating that she was leaving Petroff and returning home to Sweden. She had been gone more than a week but had not returned to Sweden, so my team and I visited the village near Uppsala where Miss Olander grew up.
“Although her name is on the village school’s roster during the period she was supposedly in school there, we interviewed a retired teacher—a teacher whom, also according to the school’s roster, was her instructor for several years. However, this man insists he knows of no Linnéa Olander—not in his classroom, nor in the school or the village itself.”
“Go on.”
Zakhar could hear Baskin scratching notes.
“This led Vassili Aleksandrovich to suspect the woman of spying on him during the years she lived with him. He ordered me to bring Olander back to Russia. I believe he wished to dispose of her quietly without notifying the authorities of her crimes—or the damage she may have caused.
“I and my team traced Olander on a flight to New York the day of the terror attacks and arrived ahead of her plane, planning to apprehend her when she landed. However, her plane, like the others, was diverted to Canada, so we made plans to follow her there.
“Only hours ago, Petroff recalled my team—all of us—to Russia. He was most insistent that we return the moment the US airspace reopens. As these orders contradicted his previous ones, they confirmed to me that Linnéa Olander was and is a spy and that she is blackmailing Petroff. My assessment is that she has threatened to expose him, and Petroff has recalled us to avoid her threat.”
“You are certain of your intelligence?”
Zakhar shrugged, a motion that did not convey well over the phone. “I can state with confidence that the woman who called herself Linnéa Olander was Petroff’s mistress for seven years, that her background was falsified, that she had unrestricted access to Petroff’s home office, and that Petroff often spoke to her of his work for Secretary Rushailo.”
Four nails in Petroff’s coffin.
He heard more furious scratching by Baskin. “These are dangerous accusations.”
“Yes. I wished Secretary Rushailo to be made aware of the situation immediately lest it became publicly known and harm him.”
“I see.”
Zakhar imagined he could see the wheels revolving in Baskin’s head.
“What do you intend to do next, Dimitri Ilyich?”
“The men with me are unaware of our reasons for hunting the woman. They will return to Russia as ordered. I, however, will follow the trail of this woman and apprehend her so that we may question her and find the truth. Or . . .”
“Or?”
“Or, if Secretary Rushailo wishes otherwise, I will follow his instructions.”
In other words, if the Secretary wishes me to make the woman disappear so that the mess that has the potential to taint his administration never comes to light, I will do as he orders.
“You are a good man, Dimitri Ilyich. I will report your findings to the Secretary immediately and call you back.”
Zakhar hung up and waited. He was ready to leave the safe house, but perhaps Rushailo would authorize him some assistance?
Twenty minutes later, the sat phone buzzed with an incoming call. Zakhar picked up.
“This is Zakhar.”
“Baskin here, Dimitri Ilyich. Take down this number.”
Zakhar did so. The international code was Canadian. “Whose number have you given me?”
“An operative we employ—a skilled computer hacker—placed within the Canadian’s Mounted Police. When you call her, you will ask for Ms. Gagnon, a common French-Canadian name. When she says, ‘Yes, this is she,’ reply with the code word pomoshch. Our operative works in the RCMP computer center and has unfettered access to their system. We have directed her to give you any assistance you require. Also, Zakhar, I wish you to take down my direct number. You will call and provide regular updates, understood?”
Zakhar wrote the number down. “Da. I understand. And I hope the Secretary will remember that I have placed the welfare of Mother Russia and the Secretary’s administration above my loyalty to Vassili Aleksandrovich.”
“I assure you the Secretary will honor you appropriately, Dimitri Ilyich. Continue as you have proposed. Say nothing to anyone. Follow the woman and abduct her. I will have further instructions when you have her in your custody.”
With Petroff out of the way—and unable to order a hit squad after him—Zakhar was now free to hunt the woman with impunity and do with her what he had so often fantasized he would do. And when he had finished playing with her, would he return to Russia? Did a bright future await him, a man of “inferior” Ukrainian birth?
No.
Zakhar had no intention of “checking in” with Baskin to “provide regular updates.” He would not utilize Rushailo’s “skilled hacker” or return to Russia to receive the Secretary’s “honors.”
Instead, he would find the woman himself. When he finished with her, he would put the money he carried to good use, losing himself in either Canada or America, beginning a new life—a better life than he could ever expect in Russia.
I will vanish—I will vanish, and no one will come after me. Who would bo
ther? The FSB will never release Petroff alive, and Rushailo will not care when I drop off the grid. He will, eventually, assume that I died in my pursuit of Olander.
And that was fine with Zakhar.
Chapter 17
AT FOUR THAT MORNING, Zakhar boarded the boat he had chartered to get him off Long Island. The captain and his crew of two said little. They took his money and indicated where he was to sit during the voyage.
The boat’s engines were quiet but efficient, as they used the last of the night to motor far out to sea, first east and then north, making a wide berth around Nantucket and Cape Cod in order to avoid the Coast Guard. Zakhar had nothing to do during the passage, so he dozed, catching up on the hours of sleep he had missed during the night.
He awoke once during the voyage, reached into his duffle, and retrieved the sat phone. It made no sound as he dropped it overboard. He slept soundly after that.
By early afternoon, having passed Boston Harbor to the west but remaining far offshore, they continued north until they approached the coastal islands of Maine. Soon it became obvious to Zakhar that the captain was very knowledgeable of both the island waterways and the Coast Guard’s preferred routes. After slowly navigating narrow channels, the man—who had yet to utter a word to Zakhar—came alongside a dock just below a wooded knoll. Zakhar’s eyes followed the grassy rise that sloped from the small inlet up to the trees. He spied a cottage tucked into the woods above them. The inlet itself was rocky and uninhabitable on all sides but the one, leaving the house above them the lone witness to their arrival.
Then the captain spoke to Zakhar. “The cottage you see upon the knoll is vacant at present—the owners do not arrive until tomorrow afternoon to spend the weekend.”
He handed Zakhar a set of keys. “The vehicle you requested sits in the driveway. Use it and then abandon it where you will—it cannot be traced back to us.”
He held out a folded map to Zakhar. “I have marked your route to Bangor, which should take you a little more than an hour. I have not marked the map farther than Bangor, but you should have no difficulties following the map from there to a border crossing into New Brunswick. If you drive conservatively and are not detained at the border, the journey from Bangor to Moncton should take less than five hours—putting you in the town later this evening. I will also remind you that the time zone changes when you cross into New Brunswick.”
Laynie Portland, Retired Spy Page 23