Laynie Portland, Spy Resurrected

by Vikki Kestell

  Wolfe considered his options and reached a decision. “All right. I approve. Miss Jessup? Marshal Tobin? You’re with us in the conference room to map out the operation.”

  LAYNIE’S EYE OPENED to darkness yet again, but something had changed.

  The truck has stopped.

  She heard voices raised in greeting, in victory and celebration. Then grinding metal close to her—a tailgate being lowered. More voices and excitement.

  Hands laid hold of the box and dragged it from the truck bed, carried it along with shouts and exclamations. Moments later, the box jarred to a stop. Laynie heard sounds she’d heard before—scraping, clawing, the wrench of wood and nails. Before the lid was lifted, Laynie closed her eyes, determined to pretend she was still unconscious.

  Cool air wafted over her as the lid was lifted away, and a brilliant glare struck her face. After days of darkness, the light, focused directly on her face, was a violent shock. It burned her. Her eyelids scrunched, and her head twisted, trying to escape the pain.

  “So. She is awake. Get her up,” a man ordered in Russian.

  The light moved and a pair of hands jerked her to her feet.

  The earth whirled about her. She could not stand. Her head lolled, and she swayed, nearly toppled, but again a pair of hands held her up. Then someone behind her slipped a dark bag over her head. It stunk of mildew, but she didn’t have the strength or will to protest. Even with nothing in her stomach, nausea overwhelmed her, and she gagged.

  Another voice in accented Russian shouted, “Fools! She’s not been upright in more than a week. Even without an injured foot, she would not have the strength to stand. Sit her here. I will remove the IV catheter from her hand.”

  She was dragged forward and pushed down to sit on a box. A glow of light, perhaps a flashlight, penetrated the fabric of the bag over her head.

  She felt a few tugs followed by the cold sting of alcohol on her skin. The same voice that removed the catheter said, “I need to cut the dressing on her foot and examine the wound.”

  Wound? Laynie fell forward and gagged again.

  “Pull that bag up a bit, off her nose and mouth, and bend her over—unless you wish her to vomit all over herself.”

  A disgusted voice answered, “She already stinks—she has fouled herself many times.”

  “As you would have, too, if you’d been nailed into a box for days.”

  Days? How many days?

  The doctor—that was the label Laynie put on him—lifted her foot into his lap and snipped away. Laynie, shivering in the night air, now felt an icy breeze on her left foot.

  I don’t have any socks or shoes on. Whatever I’m wearing is flimsy, and it’s cold here. Really cold. She shivered and grew colder by the moment.

  “Ah. The stitches have already been removed. The wound is healing well. Good. No need to rebandage it.”

  “May we go now?”

  “Yes—but don’t expect her to stand or walk without support. It may take her days to recover her equilibrium and muscle tone. And get something warm to wrap about her. General Sayed will not be pleased if she comes to him ill.”

  The breeze reached out its icy fingers and stabbed her in the chest.

  Sayed!

  Someone pulled the bag down over Laynie’s mouth and chin. A man dragged her to her feet and swept her up into his arms. He was large and solid. She was actually grateful for the warmth of his body against hers. He strode away with her, other men ahead of and behind them.

  Suddenly, the wind died. The men’s chatter and noise changed. All sound went hollow and echoed.

  We’re not in the open air any longer.

  With no warning, Laynie’s keeper dumped her onto a hard seat. She didn’t know up from down. She tried to keep herself from falling sideways, but her hands were still bound. Her fingers scrabbled against cold metal before the man who had carried her climbed in beside her and shoved her upright.

  The seat on which Laynie sat jerked and shuddered. Crawled slowly forward. Gained a little speed. Her “keeper,” as she thought of him, spoke. In front and in back of her, she heard other men, three or four, answering. Talking to her keeper and to each other.

  She labored hard to make sense of what her ears told her. Her mind sifted through past experiences, trying to tell her where she was.

  An old train. Perhaps. A carnival ride? No. What, then?

  It came to her in a rush. Neither of those. A mining car. I’m in a mineshaft, in an old mining car. A string of three cars, by the sounds of them.

  They are taking me into a mountain—into Sayed’s stronghold.

  Chapter 15

  WINTER HAD SET IN. Six inches of new snow lay on the ground outside the caves housing Cossack’s militia. With the next good storm, they would see feet, not inches of snow. Then hiking in or out of the stronghold would be next to impossible.

  Why is it that Sayed and his men have no difficulties leaving their stronghold? What do they have that we do not?

  Cossack, his men, and the few wives Cossack had allowed his officers to bring with them would survive within the mountain, although the conditions were harsh and primitive. The caves generally maintained a steady temperature that, while less than comfortable, would never drop to freezing. His men had stockpiled supplies for the winter. They had gathered enough wood and painstakingly packed in a load of coal. A constant fire in an old stove warmed the largest cave, a sort of common area where his men both ate and slept.

  The wives cooked and washed clothes for everyone, but Cossack had drawn the line at allowing children in the stronghold . . . or “loose” women to service his men. Some militia leaders viewed non-Muslim women as fair game, taking female prisoners for such purposes. Cossack was not one of those leaders. On the other hand, with several feet of snow confining the men to the tunnels except when on guard duty, long months of inactivity could negatively affect discipline and morale. Cossack had devised a strict schedule of work and training to offset boredom.

  Routine and discipline will keep the men in shape and prevent restlessness. Perhaps a few harmless diversions such as games will also help to balance morale.

  “General?”

  “Yes?”

  “General Sayed is on the radio, sir.” This radio operator was a mature soldier, battle-tested and dressed for the cold.

  “Tell him I will be there shortly.”

  Cossack strode toward the radio room, stopping at his niche to grab his cloak on the way. The common area, far back from the entrance, might be warm enough, but the radio room was never warm. Even though his men had built a wall and a door to screen out the wind, the temperatures at the mouth of the caves could be brutal. No wonder the radio operator was dressed for the outdoors.

  Sayed’s unscheduled radio call concerned him. After the pounding they had taken at the hands of the Russian military over the past spring and summer, the militias had agreed to hunker down and recover over the winter.

  If Sayed wishes our assistance with some previously unannounced plan, it will take days for us to break trail to the Chechen border. My men would be exhausted by the effort and be of little help—and that does not take into consideration the likelihood of being hit by a storm on the way.

  Getting caught on the difficult trek into Chechnya during a winter storm would be disastrous.

  He entered the radio room. “You may go,” he told the radio operator. He picked up the headset, adjusted it, and clicked his microphone.

  “As-Salamu Alaykum, General Sayed,” he said with appropriate respect.

  “Wa alaykumu s-salam, General Labazanov. We live in great times, my brother.” Sayed’s words were measured, but beneath them, they betrayed his ebullience.

  Cossack’s thoughts darted into a higher gear. All Glorious for Allah must have overcome the last logistical obstacles standing in the way of the New Year’s Eve attacks.

  He thought of what he’d entrusted to the woman’s casket and hoped it would be enough for Wolfe’s people to unc
over and thwart the schemes.

  Keeping his response light, he said, “Did you receive much snow where you are?”

  “Come and see, my brother.”

  Cossack laughed with good nature. “I would have to dig my way out of the mountains, General. My scouts tell me our route into Chechnya gained more than a foot of snow from yesterday’s storm.”

  “I would not ask you to endure such an inconvenience if it were not important. Important, and perhaps even earthshaking.”

  An inconvenience? Sayed, like all narcissists, downplayed real objections when they countermanded his wishes.

  Wariness stole over Cossack, even as he set himself to play Sayed’s game. “You have whetted my appetite, General. Can you not give me a clue regarding this earthshaking news?”

  “I can do better than a clue, brother. We have captured an American agent—and not just any agent, the very agent who defeated our plan to assassinate that Russian pig, Petroff.”

  Cossack felt the room whirl around him. He called upon all his discipline not to react but to respond as Sayed expected. “Even so? Allahu Akbar! What will you do with him?” He switched from “her” to “him” at the last possible moment and began to sweat at how nearly he had blundered.

  “Not a man, General, but a woman, a deceptive infidel woman. She is quite valuable to us and to our plans, so when my American operative told us she was being sent to Tbilisi, I sent my men to capture her. What is even better? The Americans believe their agent to be dead.”

  Cossack’s stomach lurched. He felt its contents rise as Sayed continued.

  “I have not yet seen her, but my people have her. At my command, they hid her for a week in Tbilisi as a precaution—in case the Americans were to see through my ruse and use their influence to have the authorities set up roadblocks and begin searching vehicles for her. However, she is on her way to me now, and I expect my men to deliver her to me later today or tomorrow.”

  Cossack was instantly wary. He has other reasons for delaying the woman’s arrival, but as is his custom, he will hold those cards close to his vest.

  He answered enthusiastically. “Subhan Allah! Is this true? I must hear how you have managed this great feat.”

  While he spoke aloud, he thought, There is no cell service in the mountains. I have no means of contacting Wolfe, no means of telling him that his operative is alive except through this radio, and I dare not use it lest it give me away.

  “I will tell you how we arranged her capture—and much more—when you arrive.”

  “Ah. And yet, because of the snow, General, I fear I must decline your invitation.”

  “Yes, yes, I know the snow will make the journey long and difficult. But I must have you with us, Arzu, for this glorious event. Come as soon as you can, but please arrive no later than the thirtieth of the month. The generals of our other militias are also coming. We will celebrate this great victory together, and afterward, I will brief you on the follow-on attack. Then we will plan our spring offensive—to take back Chechnya and Dagestan.”

  “Will not the many Russian troops stationed in Chechnya and Dagestan respond to another offensive?”

  “After the follow-on attack, Russian command will soon be entirely too preoccupied with the Americans to think of us. I expect the Russians to move their troops out of Chechnya and Dagestan and reposition them along Russia’s western border. They will be too busy with the Americans to swat the little flies stinging their backside.”

  Sayed laughed. “Little flies? From Ukraine to the borders of China, we will join with other like-minded jihadi militias. We will take all of southern Russia and its former satellites and unify them under one flag, the flag of Islam!”

  Cossack was accustomed to Sayed’s bravado and his arrogant, boastful plans. But today he heard a note of calm assurance in Sayed’s voice that had sometimes been lacking in the past.

  I know that, in addition to the string of New Year’s Eve attacks, Sayed has some grander scheme planned. But what could he have planned—so audacious and destructive and so obviously a Russian attack on America—that it would spark a war between the two superpowers?

  He made a split-second decision. “Of course, I will come, Sayed. I cannot miss such a celebration. The crossing could take up to five days, depending on the snow depth, so I will leave early. That way, if we are delayed, we will not be late. However, should the weather be amenable for the crossing, I hope you will not mind if I arrive a few days ahead of the thirtieth? I will radio when we leave and when you may expect us, should our trek go as planned.”

  “Good, good! I will provide a rendezvous point and have a delegation meet you—and then you will finally see our stronghold, eh?”

  Cossack laughed along with Sayed and added, “I must see your trophy, too, eh? The American operative?”

  “Yes, you shall certainly see her. Perhaps by then I will be willing to share her with you.”

  LAYNIE COULD TELL BY the noises bouncing off the walls on either side that they were in a tunnel. The mining cars rolled slowly onward, sometimes swaying side to side as the track made a wide turn. There was little light in the tunnel. She would have seen a glow through the fabric of the bag over her head had there been.

  From the moment the cars had started forward, Laynie had given herself to calculating the time they were in transit. She silently counted off the seconds—one thousand one, one thousand two, one thousand three—until she reached one thousand sixty. One minute. Her hands were still bound together, but she was able to press and hold her thumb down on the back of her hand to signify the first minute, changing to her index finger when she hit the second minute.

  She took her best guess at their speed. We cannot be doing more than a whopping ten miles per hour.

  Speed and time. Speed multiplied by time equaled distance.

  While she kept her count of seconds and minutes, she also tried to catalog the several noises she heard. The bag over her head made it difficult for her to distinguish the origin or distance of some sounds. The echoing bits of conversation between her captors combined with the scree and reverberating clank of the mining cars’ wheels on the old track increased that difficulty.

  It was more problematic to discern the track’s trajectory. Was it level as opposed to up or down? Was it angling downward? After a few minutes, she decided they were steadily descending, if only by a couple of degrees.

  Laynie kept counting. Far away, however, she caught the faint rumble of a motor or an engine. Before long, the engine’s throb seemed closer. Then she heard something new. A heavy ratcheting noise, a ponderous but regular chunk, chunk, chunk.

  Like a chain. Fed onto a sprocket. A gear with teeth. Taking up the links in the chain, the chain pulling the train of mining cars into the mountain.

  Keep counting.

  Keep counting.

  When the car squealed to a slow, grinding halt at the end of the track, Laynie had counted off nine minutes. Nine minutes into an old mine shaft.

  Nine minutes. Ten miles an hour. A mile and a half, give or take, but . . . a mile and a half into a mountain is pretty far.

  Her keeper stood and growled a command in a language she didn’t know. It may have been Chechen, but it could just as well have been a dialect from Georgia, Dagestan, or Azerbaijan. Any of a hundred tribal tongues.

  Her keeper jerked her arm, and she could not mistake its meaning. Get up.

  She attempted to rise, but her body, dehydrated and weak from inactivity, would not support her. Muttering under his breath, her keeper hauled her to her feet.

  The moment she put weight on both legs, her calf muscles knotted. It was all she could do not to scream. As it was, she moaned and sagged and would have fallen if her keeper hadn’t slid his hand under her arm.

  Why? Why am I so weak and helpless?

  The epiphany, when it struck her, explained her deep lethargy, mind fog, and inability to stand. The sudden, sharp insight terrified her.

  I’ve been kept sedated
longer than just two or three days. Much longer. Long enough for my muscles to lose their tone.

  The man holding her up grumbled a complaint under his breath. He climbed from the car and dragged her out after him. He lifted her up in his arms and started walking. Not long after, he stopped, shifted her weight, then threw her over his shoulder—then Laynie understood why he’d done so.

  Steps. He was trudging up steps inside the mine. Steps too narrow to carry me without slinging me over his shoulders like a bag of potatoes.

  They arrived at the top of the stairs and what Laynie thought was a guarded checkpoint. Her captor was greeted and allowed to pass, for then they left the darkness of the mine behind. Through the bag over her head, Laynie could tell they had stepped into a lighted passageway. She thought the temperature had changed subtly, too. The farther her captor walked, the more certain she was that the temperature was warming.

  Warm air? In a cave? Perhaps not merely a cave but a substantial system of caves.

  Laynie was still cold to the bone, but the air around them was nearing a comfortable, livable temperature.

  Livable. Yes, a cave system. Heated somehow to provide living quarters . . . a winter stronghold for Chechen freedom fighters.

  The man carrying her kept walking, but now other men’s voices greeted him, some in Russian, others in the dialect she did not recognize. Still others in Arabic.

  “As-Salamu Alaykum, Bula!”

  “Wa alaykumu s-salam, brother.”

  All the clues came together in a rush.

  Not merely Chechen freedom fighters—Islamic militants. Jihadists.

  Her keeper came to a stop. He grunted as he unslung her from his shoulder. Dumped her onto . . . a carpeted floor? Tugged the bag from her head.

  Soft, pervasive light assaulted Laynie’s senses. She ducked her face toward her chest and squeezed her eyelids together as hard as she could. Her eyes began to stream tears, the body’s response to the shock and pain.