All God's Promises (A Prairie Heritage Book 7)

by Vikki Kestell

  She stepped out into the chilly concrete hallway that led away to Christor’s lab. “Lab” was the right word for his work area. From the five spacious rooms he occupied, Christor kept Marstead and its agents moving forward as new technologies emerged, while his team of technicians managed Marstead’s computer and internal security systems.

  As part of his role, Christor developed and printed photographs, analyzed their data, and delivered concisely worded reports to the appropriate parties.

  Linnéa glanced up at the camera mounted above his door. Even if someone managed to accidentally (or intentionally) reach the sub-basement, Christor’s lab was nearly impenetrable. Only a finger on the inside of the lab could open the solid steel door once it was under lockdown.

  When the door slid open, Christor was waiting, a steaming cup in hand.

  He handed the cup to Linnéa with a flourish. “Freshly brewed!”

  “Thank you, my friend,” Linnéa murmured. She exchanged film for coffee and followed Christor as he led toward his workspace.

  “We won’t be using film much longer,” Christor threw over his shoulder.

  “No? What then?”

  “Photography is moving into the digital age. Before you go out again, I will fit new hardware to your case and handbags, smaller hardware that will hold the tiniest camera you have ever used.”

  “And the photographs? What will capture them if not film?”

  “A small computer chip the size of a fingernail. You’ll get clearer pictures with the new camera and will be able to fit more photos on a single chip than you could on six rolls of film.”

  “Really? Interesting.”

  “Yes, quite. And no development needed. I will download the photographs from the chip to my terminal and print them from there. But until then? Into the gaping maw we go.”

  Christor’s “gaping maw” was his euphemism for the large machine into which he loaded the film and printed both negatives and large, glossy photographs. The negatives went directly into a safe larger than the developing machine. The photographs went into Linnéa’s report to the director—and, at the end of the day, into his safe.

  An hour later Linnéa left the sub-basement with a sealed envelope. She returned to her office, locked the door, and booted up the terminal on her desk. While it whirred and came to life, Linnéa opened the envelope, took up a magnifying glass, and studied the photographs she’d removed.

  Satisfied with what she’d seen, she began to type her report. It took her four hours to adequately document her “take” from the two weeks in St. Petersburg. Then she typed a synopsis that she would attach to the front of the report.

  When she finished, she printed the report, placed the photographs and report in a fresh envelope. Before she turned off her machine, she copied the files to a floppy disk and added it to the envelope. Then she deleted the files from her machine.

  Ever security conscious, Christor’s computer team remotely scrubbed her machine’s contents each evening. The only existing files of Laynie’s work resided on disks in the director’s safe.

  Linnéa sealed the envelope. Then she hand-delivered the materials to the director for his perusal and disposition.

  Marstead was, after all, engaged in the development and acquisition of the world’s most cutting-edge technologies. Marstead workers—even Beta staff—were tightly screened. And Marstead management drilled all employees on the pervasive dangers of technology theft.

  As a result, Marstead operational security was tight: Unauthorized personnel and cameras were forbidden on the premises; all employees signed strict confidentiality agreements and adhered to austere rules against “loose lips.” They were accustomed to the strict handling of documents.

  That Linnéa prepared and hand-delivered sealed documents to her boss was not only common knowledge, it was standard operating procedure.

  After a late lunch, Linnéa returned to her office and faced the tasks that had built up during her foray into Russia.

  —

  IT WAS DARK WHEN LINNÉA RETURNED TO HER APARTMENT. She had put in a long day and the evening stretched out before her.

  Empty.

  Like me.

  She shied from the question that seemed to face her at the end of every day: What does it matter?

  What does all this matter?

  And the question she did not dare look full in the face: What does my life matter?

  In her core, in the deepest part of her being, Linnéa found only one abiding certainty: I am worthless.

  As a child, long before Linnéa could articulate such a word, that emotional conviction had found a residence.

  My life has no worth. No value. No purpose.

  Because I am worthless.

  This, without doubt, was why she had given her life to Marstead.

  ~~**~~

  Chapter 17

  KARI PATTED THE HOOD OF HER CADDY. “I’ve been neglecting you, my old friend. But not today. Today I’ll take you for a fine, long drive.”

  She backed out of the garage and pressed the button to lower the door.

  God bless Toller, she thought. I must remember to thank him for having the opener installed.

  I’ll leave a note, since I so rarely see him.

  Kari shrugged away the nagging guilt that she rarely communicated with Azalea or Toller in person anymore. Rarely saw them.

  In typical NOLA fashion, a steady, soaking rain had fallen during the night. Now, as midday approached, the moist air was warm and pleasant on this fourth Thursday of November. Kari put down the Caddy’s top before backing down the driveway to the street.

  It had been months since she had taken anything other than a Sunday off. The relative unfamiliarity of time on her hands bothered her—but not as much as the cold fact that Søren had not invited her to fly to Nebraska for the holiday.

  In actuality, months had gone by since Søren had last called.

  What did you expect? Your lives have nothing in common except Jesus and a distant familial relationship.

  Kari turned a corner and sniffed at the air. Fall. Not quite the fall I’m used to, but still . . .

  Not the fall of Nebraska, you mean.

  She turned on the radio to drown out her thoughts.

  Thanksgiving dinner at Clover and Lorene’s was the next best thing to spending the holiday with Søren, Max, and Ilsa. Oskar and Melanie would be there along with Scarlett and their other daughter Suzanne and her family. Owen and Mercy Washington would be there, too. Lorene had promised that after dinner they would play games, stuff themselves on desserts, and visit far into the evening.

  Good. That way I won’t be sitting home wondering what Søren and Max are doing.

  For heaven’s sake! Stop thinking about them!

  Perhaps Clover and Lorene will even invite me to spend Christmas with them.

  —

  LINNÉA APPRECIATED THE FACT THAT SWEDES did not celebrate Thanksgiving. The U.S. holiday was just another workday at Marstead.

  That did not keep Linnéa from wondering what her family back home would be doing or wishing she might be with them—but she was allowed only one trip into the U.S. per year. Why? Because the logistics of transitioning Linnéa to her American identity and slipping her into the States for a visit were complicated and fraught with security concerns.

  It had been drilled into her for years: The work is paramount. Nothing must jeopardize the work. All—every desire or attachment—must be sublimated to the work.

  The work? Linnéa’s account executive position with Marstead was deep cover for her real work: Russian technology acquisition and information gathering.

  Put more plainly, Linnéa’s work was stealing emerging technology and other classified information from America’s strongest Cold-War rival.

  For that reason, every part of Linnéa’s Marstead cover was strictly controlled. Nothing—not love, not family, not choice—was allowed to compromise her Swedish identity.

  How many Thanksgivings and
Christmases have I spent alone? Away from Mama and Dad. Away from Sammie and his family? All to ensure that American and Allied interests win the Cold War.

  But the Cold War is over, she reminded herself. The Soviet Union is no more.

  This was true, but the Russian Federation and a number of its former satellite countries still possessed nuclear devices and nuclear material. Who knew what would become of them or who might obtain them and use them against America and its allies?

  Since the 1991 dissolution of the Soviet Union, Russia was a nation whose political, economic, and military structures were in tremendous flux. The old order and ways were devolving into chaos while new power brokers and agendas were rising.

  The very real concern was that no one was minding the store. Who was actually holding the reins of power during Russia’s struggle to reinvent itself? Who would emerge victorious from the battle? What weapons or nuclear materials might fall through the cracks while the warring political, military, and intelligence factions struggled to assert their authority?

  Meanwhile, Russian scientists were still hard at work, designing and testing new weapons systems and prototypes, inventing fresh technologies, and refurbishing and advancing older ones. In Russia’s budding new economy, information and technology enterprises were booming, and St. Petersburg was Russia’s hub for global economic initiatives.

  Marstead had a branch office in St. Petersburg—a vital foothold on Russia’s flank. Marstead was always on the hunt for prospective partnerships and capital investment opportunities, and Linnéa spent two weeks out of every month in that city, ostensibly networking with Marstead’s Russian counterparts.

  In reality?

  Linnéa was a spy.

  The Cold War might officially be over, but the United States would never surrender her role as the world’s scientific leader. America and her allies needed to ensure that former Soviet Union arms and materials remained intact and tightly controlled. The U.S. government needed eyes and ears in sensitive places. What better means to an end than for one of their agents to form attachments with those ‘in the know’?

  Linnéa was that agent, and her role was to form such “attachments” with highly placed men—military or scientific—and, over time, ferret out the information Marstead wanted.

  It was Seduction 101.

  It was Linnéa’s job.

  It was her patriotic duty to safeguard America’s freedom and security.

  She had surrendered her body, heart, and soul to the effort—with emphasis on “her body.”

  Why not? I have no value, and the information I gather does.

  Although Linnéa knew with her mind that her work was important, the role she played was repugnant and depressing: The dangerous, flirtatious dance to attract and snare the right mark. The initial, innocent conversations over drinks leading to long dinners and whispered confidences. Her eventual surrender to the mark and her “enjoyment” of it.

  It was all part of her job—guiding the man through the phases of infatuation, romance, affection, love, and trust.

  Followed by the betrayal.

  She had spent a full year stringing one middle-aged mark along. He was unhappy and underappreciated at home and at work. Linnéa made him feel young and virile again; she listened to him talk. She flattered him. Appreciated him. Her soft, milky blue eyes assured him that he was interesting, intelligent, and charming.

  She adored him, she said; he worshipped her in return.

  They had planned a life together, she and Ludya. For a month, they doodled out the details, first on cocktail napkins, then in long weekends of detailed discussions. They dreamed and talked and planned until there was nothing more to do but take the leap.

  Linnéa had produced fake travel documents and they booked separate travel arrangements to Buenos Aires where they would meet. They planned to rent a secluded house, miles from the city, and go to ground for six months. Eventually they would purchase new papers and a car and drive to Venezuela. From Caracas, they would fly to Barbados and a life of long, golden days on the beach.

  Ludya had left his wife, his grown children, and his grandchildren for a life with Linnéa—a lush life to be financed by the files he agreed to pass to her. She, in turn, told him she would trade the technology to a prospective buyer for more money than they would ever need.

  Ludya had turned the information over to Linnéa. He had, perhaps, at that last moment, perceived the truth about them—about her—but she had wept tears of joy as they parted, swearing to meet him in two short days. He had stared into her eyes and vowed to always love her.

  Two days later, Ludya had arrived in Buenos Aries with little to his name. He waited where they had agreed to meet.

  Linnéa had not appeared.

  She had not asked her handlers what became of him—that would have been unprofessional. Her revulsion with herself was only marginally improved when she imagined that Marstead had picked him up. Ludya, having nowhere else to turn, would have chosen to give up every secret he possessed rather than fall into the hands of the hands of the FSK—the FSK, Russia’s Federal Counterintelligence Service, the successor to the KGB.

  This was how she preferred to think of him spending the remainder of his ruined life. At least he would not have perished in the FSK’s “care.”

  Yes, her job was seduction, but there was nothing pure or simple about it.

  It was treachery. Emotional treachery.

  And I am very good at my job.

  That thought collided in her mind with its companion belief: Because it is all I am suited for.

  With every liaison, Linnéa had surrendered more of herself. Every betrayal had chipped off a piece of her heart, a chunk of her soul.

  At first Linnéa had assured herself that, when the time was right, she could leave Marstead, start over, reassert her “real” self, and recover what had been stripped away.

  But now, as the end of her thirties loomed near, Linnéa made the dispassionate observation that the course of her life was set. There would be no “recovery.”

  Her real self—Laynie Portland—stared back in the mirror.

  Linnéa Olander was not her real name.

  Ironic that Linnéa means “twin flower,” isn’t it? It was a question she’d posed more times than she could tally.

  She had been raised as Helena Portland. Laynie, for short.

  Linnéa, Laynie. Laynie, Linnéa. Another facet in her complicated life.

  But then again, Laynie Portland isn’t my real name either.

  Don’t go there, Laynie.

  She made herself look in the mirror again, at the woman she was, not the woman she could have been.

  That ship has sailed, Laynie. Or Linnéa. Whoever you are.

  She swallowed and frowned.

  I could have chosen differently, couldn’t I?

  But she was no longer certain, no longer sure she could have chosen differently. She was too good at what she did. Too good at playing the seductress to see herself in any other role.

  Why? Why did I start down this road?

  It was the question that she would not—could not—delve deeply enough into the shadows of her own heart to answer.

  Linnéa did what she usually did when her spirits sank this low. She removed a cushion from her divan. Built into the recesses of the sofa frame was a safe. Linnéa dialed the combination and removed a bulky Marstead-issued cellular telephone. She switched it on and checked the battery as the phone powered on.

  Then she dialed a number she knew by heart. This was the only phone she was allowed to use for these calls and only infrequently. Linnéa glanced at the clock. It was midmorning in Washington State, nine hours earlier than Sweden’s time zone. They would be gathering, cooking and baking for the festive dinner.

  “Hello, Mama?”

  Her mother’s distinctive Southern accent—marking her as a transplant to the Evergreen State—flowed over the lines and over Linnéa’s soul. “Laynie, Sugar! I been missing you somethin
’ fierce. You must of heard me wishin’ and prayin’ for you to call.”

  “How are you and Daddy?”

  “We’re fine, darlin’ girl. We’re fine. Ever’one’s here. Wish you were, too.”

  They talked for twenty minutes and then Linnéa asked to speak to her father.

  “Laynie? I’m so glad you called.”

  “Mama sounds good, Daddy. Is everything really okay?”

  Her father didn’t answer until he’d moved around the corner, out of the kitchen and into the dining room, to answer. “Not as good as we could hope. She’s relapsed a little and cannot walk right now. The doctor has started her on another new medicine. He hopes the MS will go into remission again and she’ll regain the strength in her legs.”

  Laynie shivered. Multiple Sclerosis. It was the boogie man in their family’s life, particularly for Laynie’s father. MS was stealing his beloved wife away, piece by precious piece. Stealing the only mother Laynie had known.

  “I’ll call again next week to hear how it is working.”

  “It would be nice if we could call you, Laynie, instead of waiting for your calls. What if we really needed to get ahold of you? What if we had an emergency?”

  The precautions Marstead demanded were stringent: Her family knew she worked for Marstead and had the number to the Marstead switchboard. However, her family believed Laynie Portland was a Marstead employee. They had never heard of a Linnéa Olander.

  “If you call during business hours, the Marstead switchboard can reach me, Daddy. You have the number.”

  “Still. Seems strange that we can’t call you direct or at home.”

  The rationale she’d been told to give her family was that the cost of calling from the U.S. was too expensive, so they should call her at work. Marstead gave her unlimited long distance—from her office.

  In reality, it was about maintaining her cover by controlling access to her.

  During office hours Laynie’s parents or brother could call and leave a call-back request with the switchboard operator. After hours, they could leave a recorded message. If the message were urgent and after hours, they could send a wire to an address they believed was Laynie’s apartment in Stockholm. In reality, the address was a Marstead operations center. The wire would be screened and forwarded by courier appropriately, including to Laynie’s apartment.