That evening after they’d cleared away the dinner dishes, the family gathered at the table to play Uno, tournament style—five hands per round.
“Max, we need paper and pen to keep score. Grab a pad off my desk, please?” Kari asked.
Max left the dining room and wandered into the corner of the living room where Kari kept her desk and worked each day. He yanked open the center drawer where she kept pens, grabbed one, then looked for the pad she’d said he’d find.
What he saw lying on top of her magazines stopped him cold. He slowly picked it up and gaped. His mouth worked.
“M-mom?”
“Did you find the pad, Max?”
“Mom!”
“Hey, Max. Don’t yell at your mother,” Søren chided him.
Max called back. “Sorry, Mom. But . . . Dad, could you . . . could you and Mom please come here? Please?”
Kari looked at Søren, then got up. Søren followed her.
“What is it, Max?”
He was pale and serious. She saw a newspaper clutched in his hand and searched his face. “What’s wrong, Max?”
Shannon and Rob, ever curious about adult conversations, came running.
Max, though, shook his head. “Hey, Shannon, Robbie? This is between me and Mom and Dad.”
They looked from Kari to Søren, indignant at being excluded, certain they’d miss out on something cool or important. But Søren, noting how upset Max was, seconded Max’s order.
“Kids, give us a minute of privacy.” It wasn’t a request.
“Okaaaay, Dad,” Rob grumbled, while Shannon huffed her displeasure. They moved toward the dining room together.
“Now, what’s up, Son?”
Max lifted the newspaper and pointed to the grainy photo under the bold heading HAVE YOU SEEN THIS WOMAN?
“This woman. I’m pretty certain that I know her. She was in Lincoln—at my school! She-she-she—shoot! She’s the lady we played paintball with yesterday!”
Kari’s breath whooshed out of her body. “You’re sure, Max? You’re positive?”
“Yeah, I’m sure. She took us for burgers after the game. I sat right across from her. Her hair is, I dunno, different. Blonder? But it’s her, I swear it.”
“Don’t swear, Son,” Søren admonished.
“Sorry, Dad, but . . .” Max turned his worried eyes to Søren, and his eighteen-year-old voice quivered. “Is she a terrorist, Dad? Is she . . . is she gonna blow up our school or something?”
Søren shook his head. “No, Max. She’s not a terrorist.”
“But . . . what about this paper? I know it’s her!”
Kari flicked her eyes toward the dining room to ensure that Shannon and Rob were not listening in. She lowered her voice anyway.
“Max, did the woman tell you her name?”
Max ran his hand up the back of his neck into his shaggy hairline—a sign of stress he’d picked up from Søren. Kari knew it well.
“Yeah. She said her name is Elaine Granger.”
Kari gasped and sobbed. “Oh, thank you, Jesus! Thank you, Jesus!” Søren’s arm came around her waist.
Max, more confused than ever, turned to his dad. “I don’t get it. What’s going on?”
Kari, still sobbing, put her hand on her son’s arm. “Max, you have nothing to fear from this woman. She . . . she’s my sister, Laynie.”
“Your sister? Aunt Laynie?” Max had never laid eyes on his near-mythical Aunt Laynie Portland. “But . . . why didn’t she tell me or just come here, if she knows where we live? Why is her picture in the newspaper? Why are the FBI and police looking for her?”
Kari whispered, “Max, you will have to trust us on this. She is not a terrorist.”
Max stared at the paper. “Are you sure, Mom? I mean, are you sure this is Aunt Laynie?”
Wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, Kari added, “Do you remember that Laynie and our brother Sammie were separated from me when we were children? That they were stolen?”
He nodded. It was part of the family lore, the miraculous means by which Kari had found the Thoresen family, then found her sister, Laynie . . . but, sadly, had located her through the public announcement of her brother and sister-in-law’s death. Later, Kari had adopted her brother’s children, Shannon and Robbie.
Kari smiled. “This woman didn’t stumble upon you by accident, Max. She knew you were in your first semester at UNL because I wrote and told her. She sought you out, because I think she must be hiding from someone—someone who might hurt her.
“She found a way to make an impression on you, Max, and sent you home to me, hoping you’d mention her. She even sent a hidden message with you, believing I would hear it and understand.”
“Hear what?”
Kari laughed low in her throat. “See, the name Aunt Laynie was born with? It wasn’t Helena or Laynie Portland. It was Elaine. Elaine Granger.”
CHAUCER MAY HAVE BEEN the first in the English language to write, “Idle hands are the Devil’s tools,” but the Russians, too, have a similar old saying, “The Devil finds work for idle hands to do.” Laynie hated waiting with nothing to occupy her time except to wonder if Max had, by chance, mentioned her to his stepmother in passing.
It’s all too obscure. Kari won’t think anything of it—even if Max does say something. Not unless he says my name aloud. Even then . . . would either of them pick up on my message?
She filled the hours with two things, working out and reading Shaw and Bessie’s Bible. On Friday morning, she drank her coffee while rereading the Gospel of Luke, followed by breakfast. After that, she sought out a good gym and joined it, using a debit to her new checking account instead of a credit card to pay the monthly membership. She threw herself into a training regimen exacting enough that she fell into bed exhausted that night.
Saturday was the same. Coffee. Read. Eat. Work out. Eat. Read. Sleep.
Shopping helped for a while. The dropping temperatures warned that winter loomed near. She bought cold-weather clothes and a pair of waterproof boots. The apartment didn’t come with linens, and her cupboards were bare. She shopped for sheets, blankets, a pillow, towels, and groceries. She hadn’t performed a righteous clean on the HK since using the gun on the plane during the shootout on 9/11. It was filthy. She bought a cleaning kit and a box of .380 ACP ammo. She cleaned and oiled the little gun and refilled the HK’s magazine.
Her combined activities could not keep her active mind busy more than a scant handful of hours. Too often she found herself thinking on the three weeks she spent with Roger, his abrupt decline, his passing. Those memories threatened to send her into a funk, so, Saturday evening, she called the Bradshaws and they talked for nearly an hour.
Laynie couldn’t believe they would have enough of any topic to fill sixty minutes, but between the three of them, they did. For her part, Laynie told them about her new pastime, paintball. Shaw and Bessie were both amazed and drawn in by her descriptions of the game. She even confessed to taking their Bible—and reading it.
Bessie was thrilled. “Elaine, I can’t think of a better home for our old Bible and all its memories than with you.”
Shaw and Bessie talked about the fun they were having with their grandchildren, but neither of them mentioned Daisy. They had to understand that Daisy had served her purpose, and Laynie had been forced to leave her behind in order to cross over into the US.
After they spoke together, Laynie went to the gym and used her body hard, trying to exorcize the loneliness she felt, succeeding for a while. But the next day when she returned, Laynie found her gym unexpectedly closed—and not just closed Sunday—closed Sunday and Monday for the holiday!
Afraid she might pitch a rock through her own window out of boredom, she opted to run. She bundled up and jogged through her neighborhood, getting a feel for her neighbors, setting a demanding pace, logging five miles before calling it quits.
She took a long, hot shower, put on warm pajamas, and ate leftovers while she reread the Gospel of
John.
Stared at the walls.
Called Tobin.
“Deputy Marshal Quincy Tobin,” he answered.
“Tobin, er, Quince. It’s . . .” She petered out at her name.
“Marta?”
“Yeah, it’s me.”
“Are you okay?”
“Sure. Never better.”
“I see. What’s new?”
Nothing. Laynie couldn’t think of a single thing she wanted to tell him or a real reason for calling him.
Except what we shared on Flight 6177.
“Um, how’s the shoulder.”
“My shoulder? Perfect. Nothing better than a shot in the arm.”
Was he yanking her chain? Really?
She snickered.
He did, too.
“I’ve thought about you a lot, since Moncton, Marta. Frankly, I’ve wished about ten times I could call you up and take you to dinner.”
What? Laynie blushed like a teen. “Ummm. I . . .”
His twang reemerged. “This good ol’ boy knows how t’ show a woman a proper good time—an’ you kin take thet t’ the bank. So, what kinder cookin’ turns yer crank?”
“Well, I . . .” Again, she stalled out.
“Ya like chitlins? Them’s deep-fried pig innards, by-the-by. How ’bout fried okra? Fried grits? Fried chicken?”
Laynie snickered again. “I have never had chitlins. Or grits. And the one time my mama tried to make me eat okra? It wasn’t fried. It was slimy. I threw up all over the dining room. She never served it again.”
“Houston, we may have a problem.”
“But I do like chicken!”
“Houston, hold the phone—what kind of chicken do you like?”
“Well, baked, broiled, or fried. Doesn’t matter. I like chicken a lot.”
“Saved by the bell! And what venue would constitute the setting of a satisfactory date?”
Laynie laughed and blushed at the same time. Tobin was flirting with her, flirting hard—and, truth be told, she was getting a big kick out of it.
Laynie had the perfect comeback, too. “Let’s see. How about any venue that doesn’t include getting shoved into an airplane lavatory or getting shot at by hijackers?”
“Owww! That stings, Fortier! And after I saved your bacon?”
“You saved my bacon? At last count, I took out three terrorists—how many did you handle?”
“Ouch again. Yer killin’ me, Marta!”
They laughed together, and Laynie imagined Tobin’s breadbox-sized hands and quirky grin. She didn’t have to imagine his country schtick.
“Where do you live, Tobin?”
“I’m based outta D.C. but have an apartment in Arlington. You, Marta?”
“I . . . I’ve landed somewhere, for a while, anyway. And you know that my name’s not really Marta Forestier, don’t you?”
“Right. We covered that on the plane.”
“It might be better though if, going forward, you keep thinking of me as Marta.”
“Going forward? Does that mean we have a future? Be still my heart!” Though he said it all with glib humor, Laynie thought she heard a flicker of hope.
All she said in answer was, “You have my number now. I don’t keep my phone on all the time, but . . . we can talk again.”
CANADIANS DON’T CELEBRATE Columbus Day, but they do celebrate their national Thanksgiving on the same date, the second Monday in October. Vyper, who held Thanksgiving and other traditional celebrations in derision, arrived at her office early Monday morning. Few administrative workers were in the office due to the holiday, although the full complement of RCMP officers were out on patrol.
Vyper had her own computer setup in her house—and its backup in her secret apartment—but from behind the RCMP’s firewall, she had engineered a better and more anonymous Internet presence than what she could devise from home. Bottom line? She could do more from work with less risk.
Furthermore, over the weekend, she’d developed a niggling but persistent uneasiness regarding Zakhar’s Odessa mafiya hacker. It had been too easy to stymie Syla’s surveillance of Elaine Granger. In particular, the program she’d planted in Granger’s phone service provider should have, at least once, alerted her to Syla’s attempted intrusion—and should have sent him false data. Same with her credit card company. Her code inside the company’s system should have sent Syla Granger’s fake bus ticket purchase—and should have alerted Vyper to his intrusion. At least once.
It hadn’t. Not even once.
Neither hacks had alerted her.
She’d wakened in the night, her nerves jangling with disquiet.
Now seated in front of her “other” workstation, she logged in, opened a command prompt, and keyed in the backdoor code she’d planted within Granger’s phone service provider’s system.
The window opened and . . . her monitor exploded in jumping, whirling, Hopak dancers in Kozak boots, peasant shirt, sash, and billowy red trousers. Ukrainian folk music and a harsh, repeating laugh blared out accompaniment to the cartoonish male dancers.
Vyper fell back in her chair, stunned. Chagrined. Peeved.
Syla! Syla had hacked her hack? Had booby-trapped her backdoor?
Grrr!
As the first sting of affront washed through her, she turned the air blue with profanity. And no matter what she did, she could not end the high-kicking male dance characters or the music and hideous laugh. She had to force a shutdown, reboot her system, and run her own, customized virus software to rid herself of the laughing, taunting Ukrainian dancers.
Vyper shoved three sticks of Black Jack into her mouth at one time. Her jaws working like steam-powered pistons, she plotted her response.
If Syla thought he’d beaten her, he was about to receive a dose of reality! She could not—would not—allow Syla’s disrespect to stand. She had her reputation to protect and, furthermore, she was better than him. No, he might think he’d won, but his attack on her was only the initial volley in all-out war . . . and nothing was off the table in love or war.
Vyper sneered at her rival. She had weapons up her sleeves neither Syla nor Zakhar knew of—and not every weapon need be a cyber one.
She logged on again and created a new entry point into Granger’s phone provider’s system. She located the code Syla had inserted to alert him of her intrusion, the code that had launched the attack of whirling Ukrainian devils. Vyper navigated around it and wormed her way deeper inside.
She saw that Granger had initiated two lengthy phone calls. One call Saturday evening was to the couple from whom she had bought the motor home. The second call, on Sunday, was of more significance. Vyper back-traced the number to the US Marshals Service, area code 202. Washington, D.C.
Whoa! What have we here? Can I conjure a use for this? Turn it to my advantage? Why, yes, I believe I can.
Vyper spit out her gum and unwrapped a fresh stick. She added the phone number to the arsenal she was assembling.
She executed the same painstaking drill into Zakhar’s phone service provider. She avoided tripping Syla’s alarms yet made no attempt to attack him.
I want you nice and relaxed when I hit you, Syla. Nice and relaxed.
She studied Zakhar’s phone records and identified where it had pinged most recently. Syla must have warned Zakhar off the Detroit bus ticket and set him back on the right track. As of this morning, Zakhar was nearing Lincoln.
Elaine, Elaine. The Russians have your scent, my dear, and Zakhar is on his way. That checking account in your name? A mistake, I’m afraid, since your apartment is within a mile of the bank’s branch.
But not to fear. Vyper is here.
Chewing slowly and methodically, she outlined and prepared her assault. When she was satisfied with her plan, she opened a plain-text document and typed a message, pounding away at it until its content was just right. Tight, concise, and perfectly worded. The message was long, but it needed to be.
Vyper then pulled up a website that allow
ed users to send texts to mobile phones— anonymous and untraceable texts. Since each text message had a character limit, she “chunked” her lengthy plain-text document into short, pithy paragraphs to accommodate the character limitation.
Paragraph by paragraph, she copied and pasted the contents of her document into the program’s message box, sending the entire document to her recipient in a long line of texts.
Vyper laughed. “Now for my next trick.” She logged in to Yahoo and created a new email account, using false information and an IP anonymizer. When the account was ready, she composed an email.
She took her time with the message, including as much detail as possible, even screen shots to sweeten the bait.
She sat back, smiling, and treated herself to a fresh stick of gum. Vyper had done her research. She knew exactly which US FBI area office to send the email.
She couldn’t care less about the Russian contract at this point, but her reputation would survive the encounter intact. Intact and quite possibly enhanced.
Oh, yes. Get ready, Syla. I’m about to burn you to the ground—you and Zakhar both.
Chapter 30
AT 8:00 A.M., ZAKHAR’S phone vibrated. He picked it up. “Da?”
“I have pinpointed the woman’s laptop.”
Zakhar was impressed. “How were you able to do that?”
Syla laughed. “Actually, Vyper did it for me. She had already hacked the woman’s laptop. I created chaos in Vyper’s computer and, while she was distracted, I scoured her data and stole the woman’s location.”
“I will be sure to tell Baskin how inventive you were, Syla,” Zakhar lied. “Rushailo will reward you handsomely, but he will also owe both you and the Odessa mafiya a debt of gratitude. Give me the woman’s address, please.”
Syla rattled it off. “It is an apartment complex. You will need to determine which unit she is in. Let me know when you have apprehended her so I can claim my fee.”
“I will, indeed. I thank you again for your assistance.”
Laynie Portland, Retired Spy Page 36