Then Shaw sighed and nodded at Bessie. “We should tell her, love.”
Laynie slid her eyes from Bessie to Shaw and back.
Bessie got up. “I’ll make us some tea first.” She measured tea into a tea ball, dropped the ball into the teapot on the table, then fetched the steaming kettle from the stove and filled the pot. “We’ll let that steep a bit.”
She sat down—and reached for Laynie’s hand. Laynie had not expected the gesture and jerked away. She was tensed on the edge of her chair, ready to spring.
“Give me your hand, Elaine. I’m not going to bite you, but I need to tell you something.”
Laynie reluctantly gave her hand to Bessie. The older woman held Laynie’s fingers between her two stout, work-worn palms and sighed, searching for a place to begin.
“Don’t know if you believe in the God of the Bible, Elaine Granger, or if you understand that sometimes he sends us dreams. I’m not talkin’ ’bout regular dreams, but dreams with specific meaning. Well, I believe God sometimes sends us dreams with a message from him, and last night I had me a doozy.”
Laynie frowned. “You had a dream.”
“A dream from God, mind you. In that dream, I saw you—clear as crystal, it was you—and you were a-runnin’ from a dark man, a bad man. I couldn’t see much o’ his face, except that it had a reddish stain on one side that ran up one cheek, like a birthmark. He was a-chasin’ you, that’s for certain, and you were trying to get away.”
Laynie swallowed. Her heart thundered in her chest. Zakhar! But surely, Petroff would have spoken to Zakhar by now and called him off. He will have received my package, the proof Christor sent days ago—and he would not have disregarded my threat.
The contents of the CD proved that she’d stolen Russian Security Council secrets from him. More importantly, the data implicated Petroff' in the thefts due to his own negligence. She had included more than enough evidence to convict him of treason and ensure a very bad end to his life.
Laynie clenched her hands. But only four days have passed since I threatened Petroff. Perhaps he has not spoken to Zakhar yet . . . or maybe Zakhar hasn’t checked in lately?
Bessie interrupted Laynie’s reflections. “That man, he kept a-shouting at you, a name, I think, but I couldn’t quite get it. Sounded like Lynn or Lynette, but a mite different than that. And you were frightened of him, child. Just like you’re a-frightened right now.”
Laynie couldn’t speak. She could only nod. If, for whatever reason, Zakhar is still tracking me, I have to take Bessie’s warning seriously.
“Well, all that fear and runnin’ woke me up. I sat straight up in bed, it disturbed me that much. After a minute, though, I told myself, ‘Bessie, ’twas just a dream.’ I laid my head down and went back to sleep—but, soon as I was asleep again, the same dream just started over. You a-runnin’ and the man with the stain on his face chasing you.”
Bessie paused and poured tea into three mugs, handing one to Laynie. Laynie stirred honey into the tea, wondering where Shaw and Bessie’s conversation would take them, worrying that they had changed their mind about selling her their motor home.
I’ll have to start over, find another vehicle or catch a bus to another town.
Bessie blew on her tea and took a sip. “Lot’s o’ things in the Bible happen in threes, Elaine—did you know that?”
Laynie shook her head.
“It’s another God thing, a confirmation. Like, when the Apostle Peter had him a dream in the middle of the day. T’was more like a vision than a dream, but he saw it three times—and then a Voice from heaven told him what the vision meant and what to do. Three times he saw the vision, then came the confirmation.”
Laynie glanced up. “Did you . . .”
“Yup. I woke up a second time, went back t’ sleep, and had the same dream a third time—only this time, a Voice—the powerful but sweet Voice of the Savior, it was! He said to me, ‘Bessie, you help her.’”
“Help her?”
“Yep. He said to me, ‘Bessie, you help her. The dark man is coming. Get up and go.’ Well, I got up all right. Scared spitless, I got up. Got up and walked about in the sitting room, a’prayin’ up a storm and wondering what it all meant. And the stack of newspapers on the hearth—we keep ’em to start the fire, see—that stack kept catching my attention. I couldn’t get shook of that stack of papers! Finally, I stopped walking and, random-like, just picked up part of the stack. I looked down, and right there, on top, in front of my face, was this photograph.”
Bessie patted the newspaper in front of Laynie. “Your photograph. Recognized you all right, even though it’s not a good likeness and your hair’s a different color. And then that Voice spoke one time more, real insistent, ‘Bessie, help her. The dark man is coming. Get up and go.’”
Shaw leaned toward Laynie. “This dark man—who is he? Is he the man you’re running from?”
“Yes. No. That is, I told you that I’m running from a very powerful man. This dark man? He is the powerful man’s . . .”
“His what?” Shaw demanded.
“His hit man, Shaw. His assassin. This man, his name is Zakhar. I believe he’s been sent to kill me.”
Shaw and Bessie drew back, mouths slack.
“Lord have mercy,” Bessie muttered. “And he’s a-comin’? Here? Why, how would he know to come here, to our house? Did he follow you?”
Those were the questions troubling Laynie. She shook her head. “I wasn’t followed. That’s why I drove my rental car back to the agency and walked from there to here rather than take a cab—so I wouldn’t leave a trail.”
And then it struck her.
“Oh, no! This morning I bought a cashier’s check to pay for Daisy. The check has your names on it.” She opened her purse, pulled out the check, handed it to Shaw. “Here.”
Shaw took it and read it over. “This says twelve thousand dollars. We only asked for eleven.”
“I wanted to . . . you know . . . because you’ve been so kind to me. But if this man has somehow found my bank? He may have convinced them to give him your names, and—”
Laynie stopped mid-sentence. And if he has found my bank, then he knows my American alias!
“Tell me, are your names listed in the phone book? With your address?”
Shaw and Bessie exchanged glances. Bessie muttered, “Yes.”
Laynie jumped up. “We have to go. Not only me. All of us. If Zakhar comes here after I leave? He will kill you. First, he will torture and interrogate you. When he’s done, he will kill you. He will show you no mercy. You have to come away from here. Now!”
Shaw climbed to his feet, nodding. “Bessie insisted that the Voice’s order, ‘Get up and go,’ was for us. She’s been a-packin’ and fussin’ all morning.”
Laynie closed her hand around the check Shaw held in his hand. “Which of your children lives the farthest away?”
“Our son. Lives in Penticton, B.C.”
“Go there. Give me his phone number so I can reach you later.”
Bessie jotted names and numbers on a pad and tore off the sheet. “Here. Our mobile number and the numbers of our three kids.”
“Do you have their names and addresses anywhere in the house? We can’t leave that information for Zakhar to find.”
Bessie held up a small, spiral-bound address book. “Only in our diary. We’ll take it with us.”
Shaw stared Laynie in the face. “Give me your attention for a moment, Elaine. I already changed the oil in Daisy and filled her water tanks. Did that Friday after you said you planned t’ buy her. Gassed up both her and our car this morning, too. I put Daisy’s title in the glovebox, and Bessie’s stocked a bit o’ food in the cupboards and refrigerator. You follow us out of town. We’ll take the highway over t’ Ottawa. Lots of roads from there for you t’ choose from.”
“I don’t know how to thank you.”
“Seems t’ me, you just gave us a thousand dollars outta the goodness of your heart. More than enough t�
�� pay our kids a long-overdue visit.”
“But your dialysis?”
“We’ll figure that out. Don’t you fret none.”
“Thank you. Thank you for everything. I—” Laynie fidgeted. “Just one thing. I know how much you love Daisy, Shaw, but . . . I need to be honest with you about her.”
He cocked one brow. “Okay. Say on.”
“I’ll drive Daisy as long as she can hide me from Zakhar. However, you know I can’t take her across the border. Too much time, cost, and red tape to do that. Before I cross over into the States, I’ll need to . . . let Daisy go. Sell her or leave her.”
Shaw sighed and looked upset, but Bessie put her hand on his and reminded him, “Shaw, Daisy belongs to Elaine now, not us.”
She turned her attention to Laynie. “You do what you must to be safe, Elaine. We’ve been praying this morning that the Lord will lead you and keep you safe, and we will keep on praying for you. Now, I’m not saying God is a giant vending machine, that you simply ask him for what you want, and he gives it to you. God isn’t a machine, and his blessings belong to those who belong to him.
“So, we’re praying, too, that you will come to a point of repentance in your life. No one can be saved without repentance. Repentance is where we—every one of us—acknowledge and confess our sinful, needy state before God and ask for forgiveness through the blood of Jesus. A place where we surrender fully to the Lordship of Christ, where he becomes our king, and we become his children—where we become the family of God. But while he works in your heart to bring you to that place? We’re asking him to keep you safe.”
Bessie commanded Laynie’s attention a last time. “Is anything too hard for God, Elaine?”
“I-I don’t know.” She was preoccupied with Bessie’s words about repentance.
“Then let me help you out. No, nothing is too hard for the God of the Bible. I want you to go on your way carryin’ his word in your heart, in your thoughts, and on your lips. With men it is impossible, but not with God. For with God all things are possible. That’s Mark 10:27, and those are Jesus’ very words. When the fear starts a-creepin’ in, you keep those words close, do you hear me? With God all things are possible—even when they look impossible.”
She held out her arms. “Now, then, give this old woman a hug, Elaine. God willing, we’ll see you on your way once we reach Ottawa.”
She enfolded Laynie in her soft, plump arms, and Laynie bent down to lay her cheek on Bessie’s shoulder, a shoulder much lower than Laynie’s chin. Laynie melted into Bessie’s warm embrace . . . and memories flooded her heart.
Mama! Oh, Mama, will I ever see you or lay my cheek on your head again?
“Come on now,” Shaw insisted. “We got to go.”
Five minutes later, the Bradshaws’ house was vacant and locked, their driveway empty.
ZAKHAR ARRIVED AT THE bank nearest the Westmount Hotel and paced while he waited for its doors to open. As soon as the key turned in the door, he pushed his way in and strode to the nearest teller.
He flipped open Paul Moreau’s credentials and said in French, “I need to see the manager on an urgent issue of national security.”
Within moments, the manager’s footsteps clicked across the tile floor toward him.
“I am the bank’s manager, monsieur,” the woman said.
“And I am Lieutenant Paul Moreau, Canada Customs and Revenue Agency, looking for this woman.” He held up one photograph of Linnéa Olander. “I must ask each of your tellers if they recognize her.”
“Oui. Mais bien sûr. But of course. Come with me, sir.”
The manager led Zakhar to a door secured by a keypad. She keyed in the code and took him through the door, then behind the counter where the tellers waited on the bank’s customers.
One by one, moving down the line of five working tellers, Zakhar showed the photograph to them. Every answer was the same. “Sorry, sir. I do not remember waiting on this woman.”
He turned on his heel and demanded of the manager, “You must know your competitors. Which banks are closest to both this branch and the Westmount Hotel?”
“There is a branch of HSBC Canada not far from here.”
Zakhar ran from the building, jumped in Moreau’s car, and followed the directions the woman had given him. Minutes later, he reached the bank’s entrance.
He presented himself to the manager. “I am Lieutenant Paul Moreau, Canada Customs and Revenue Agency, looking for this woman.” He lifted the photograph of Linnéa Olander. “I must ask your tellers if they recognize her.”
Like the manager of the previous bank, the man escorted Zakhar behind the teller gates and instructed his employees to look at the photograph. The third teller nodded.
“Oh, yes. I remember her. One moment.” She keyed in “accounts by date opened” and scrolled through the list. “Here she is. Elaine Granger.”
“Elaine Granger? What identification did she provide to open the account?”
The teller continued to look. “American passport and driver’s license. She has an account with HSBC in Singapore and transferred forty thousand dollars from her Singapore account to open this account.”
“Residence?”
“An American address in Washington, D.C.”
“Print it out—all of it. Everything having to do with her.”
The teller slanted her eyes at her manager, who murmured, “Lieutenant, this must require a warrant, non?”
Zakhar rounded on the man. “You are aware of the terrorist attacks, not even a week ago? This woman’s flight was detoured from New York to New Brunswick after which she disappeared. We have reason to believe she is part of yet another terrorist plot. This is a matter of national security, and you will print the information for me as I request.”
The manager blanched. “Oui, monsieur. Right away. The machine is in back. My teller will fetch the printout for you, sir.”
The teller returned with several sheets of paper. “Here you are, sir.”
Zakhar tore through the printout, looking for something—anything—to lead him onward. He saw that the woman had made a cash withdrawal only an hour earlier, and he ground his teeth.
While I was waiting on the wrong bank to open, she was right here doing the same!
His finger ran down the page and stopped. “What is this?” he demanded.
The teller leaned over. “It is the purchase of a cashier’s check, sir.”
“A cashier’s check? For what?”
The teller shrugged. “I cannot say, sir.”
“Well, do you retain the payee’s name and address?”
“Only the name, sir. See? It is here.” She pointed to the printout.
His eyes followed her finger to the words “George and Elizabeth Bradshaw”.
“The address! I must have the address for these people!” Zakhar roared.
The teller quailed before him. “But, sir, we do not have that information.”
“Lieutenant Moreau, I may be able to help you. Please come with me.” The manager was eager to remove the volatile official from his lobby.
Zakhar followed the manager to his office. The man sat behind his desk and motioned for Zakhar to sit. He withdrew a weighty telephone book from a drawer. He opened the phone book on his desk and began to scan through the listings.
“Braden, Bradford, Bradley, Bradmore, Bradshaw! Bradshaw, Andrew. Bradshaw, Denton. Bradshaw—here it is. Bradshaw, George W. Come see.” He placed the book where Zakhar could read the line where his finger rested.
Without a word of thanks, Zakhar ripped the page from the book and ran from the room.
Chapter 21
ZAKHAR STOPPED AT A gas station to fill the tank of Paul Moreau’s official car and pick up a new map of Montreal, one he hadn’t marked up doing his grid search. The wind gusted uncomfortably while he gassed the car, and he pulled Moreau’s jacket closed against the chill.
While he was paying, he unfolded the map and started looking for the Bradshaws’
address. One side had the full map. The other side had a list of street names and larger maps of key points in and around the city.
In a hurry and unused to how the map unfolded and refolded, he grew frustrated. The map became hopelessly folded the wrong way.
“You,” he said to the girl who’d taken his money. “Do you know Montreal?”
She shrugged and sucked down a slug of soda. “Well enough, I suppose.”
“Show me where Maplewood Street is.”
The girl didn’t move except to suck on the straw until it guttered at the bottom of her cup. When she finished, she said, “‘Please’ and ‘thank you’ go a long way, mister.”
Zakhar wanted to punch the brazen clerk in her disrespectful mouth. He restrained himself. “Show me where Maplewood Street is, please.”
“Well, what if I show you how to find it on the map, sir.” She expertly pulled open the map, folded it correctly until it was halfway open, and laid it on the counter. She took a pencil and made a dot on the map. “This is where we are, right here.”
She put her finger on the dot and with her other finger traced a straight line from the dot to the edge of the map and scribed a tick mark. Then, putting her finger again on the dot, she traced a straight line up to the top of the map and made a small tick with the pencil on the edge where her finger stopped.
“See these letters down the side and numbers across the top? They’re coordinates. They tell you in what general vicinity we’re located on the map. C-15, see?”
Zakhar huffed. “I understand coordinates.”
“Okay, then you should have no troubles. What street you lookin’ for?”
“Maplewood.”
She turned the map over and moved the pencil down the long list of street names until she found Maplewood.
“See the coordinates printed next to Maplewood? G-7?” She put her finger on them.
“Yes, I see,” Zakhar growled.
She turned the map over again, opened it up a bit, and refolded it to expose the section she needed. She traced the letter and number and put her pencil point where they intersected. Lightly, she sketched a square that encompassed the area where Maplewood Street was to be found.
Laynie Portland, Retired Spy Page 26