Laynie Portland, Spy Resurrected

by Vikki Kestell

  She had sung until her voice gave out. Then, each time she thought her voice was completely gone, she would rest it for a while and it would come back, still rough, but functional.

  Bula gestured behind him, and “Not Alyona” crept into the cell. She clutched a bundle of clothing in her shaking arms. Her soft brown eyes, the only exposed part of her face, were wide and fearful. Perhaps she, too, had expected to find Laynie dead or close to it.

  Unexpectedly, Bula withdrew from the cell, leaving the girl with Laynie. The girl offered the bundle of clothes and mimed that Laynie should dress herself.

  Laynie would have, but her fingers were stiff from the cold, dehydration, and lack of nourishment.

  Since she knew the girl understood at least a little Russian, she asked, “Please. Will you help me?”

  Glancing over her shoulder toward the barred entrance, she nodded and then whispered through the veil’s fabric, “Da.”

  She held up a stocking and gestured for Laynie to lift her left foot. When she picked up Laynie’s foot, she muttered something disapproving under her breath. She began to rub Laynie’s foot between her hands.

  “Ohhh . . .” The warmth radiating from the girl’s hands was marvelous—until her gentle massage revived feeling in Laynie’s toes. As blood rushed to them, Laynie flinched and moaned.

  With a little grunt of understanding, the girl stopped rubbing and drew on the clean stocking, then pulled the sandal onto Laynie’s foot. She repeated the same with Laynie’s right foot—gently massaging it first until Laynie could stand it no longer. Then she helped Laynie don a clean shift and an abaya. Although she still shivered, Laynie immediately felt warmth coming back into her limbs.

  Her hair, however, was a matted mess. The girl sniffed it and shook her head.

  “Yeah, not much I can do about that,” Laynie muttered in English.

  The girl jerked at the sound of the unfamiliar words.

  Laynie switched back to Russian. “Thank you for your kindness to me. May I . . . may I ask your name?”

  She again glanced toward the cell gate. Softly, she answered, “I am Ksenia.”

  “Ksenia. It is a beautiful name.”

  Ksenia’s eyes filled with tears.

  “I-I am sorry,” Laynie whispered.

  Ksenia shook her head. She wiped her face on her sleeve and turned away.

  “Wait.” Laynie touched her hand. “Ksenia, thank you again for your kindness to me. My name . . . my name is Laynie. I want you to know . . . you are not alone.”

  Ksenia stared at Laynie’s hand on hers. She wiped away more tears.

  Then she was gone.

  Bula returned. He studied Laynie for several minutes. Laynie, in turn, studied him back.

  “You broke General Sayed’s fingers,” Bula said.

  “He tried to drug me. Then he slapped me.”

  “He will kill you for embarrassing him.”

  “I understand.”

  “But first, he will debase you in ways you cannot imagine.”

  “Not until his fingers heal, he won’t.”

  Bula grunted. Laynie wasn’t certain, but she thought—imagined?—that the ghost of a smile touched his mouth.

  The truth was, Laynie recognized the numerous and unimaginable horrors Sayed could inflict on her, either personally or at his command. Hadn’t she witnessed his ugly, volatile temper? But she sensed that, for some hidden reason, he had curbed his normal inclinations.

  The brute should have killed me for humiliating him publicly, but he held back. His restraint has to mean something. I must provide some strategic benefit to him, something I know nothing about. Whatever it is, Lord? I am grateful.

  Laynie added, “I would rather die knowing I had done all I could to preserve my dignity and honor before God and man.”

  She saw a tiny, reluctant nod.

  “I must agree. The honor of a man and his family rests upon a woman’s virtue, and so she should fight to preserve it—although, once her virtue has been taken, there is no restoring it.”

  “With respect, as a woman loved by God, I know differently. The Lord my God has restored my virtue.”

  Bula laughed under his breath. “You are a strange one.”

  He left Laynie, locking the gate behind him.

  LATER, A GUARD DELIVERED a plate of food and a jug of water to her. She devoured everything on the plate, all of it. She sipped water between bites, trying to slow down and make the food last but failing at it.

  The guard returned to take away the plate. He also removed the bucket in the corner and replaced it with an empty one. The empty one didn’t smell any better than the full one. In fact, because it and the residue within it were warmer than the temperature in her cell, the stink was noticeable.

  As Laynie relieved herself in the bucket, the smell started to get to her, and the food in her stomach lurched. She held her breath until she finished, then returned to the bench. When she was certain she would keep the food she’d downed, she began to warm up her muscles.

  You have to ignore the smell. Keep the food in your stomach. It’s time for another set of exercises and stretches.

  She told herself that the odor of the bucket would lessen as its temperature cooled, but the niggle of a complaint lifted its head in Laynie’s heart. Why do I—

  No. Don’t do it. Don’t go there. Don’t allow that thought even the smallest toehold, Laynie.

  Laynie lay on her back on the bench and counted sit-ups. She reached inside her heart and retrieved a passage of scripture. Recited it aloud.

  But we have this treasure in jars of clay

  to show that this all-surpassing power

  is from God and not from us.

  We are hard pressed

  on every side, but not crushed;

  perplexed, but not in despair;

  persecuted, but not abandoned;

  struck down, but not destroyed.

  We always carry around in our body

  the death of Jesus,

  so that the life of Jesus

  may also be revealed in our body.

  For we who are alive are always

  being given over to death for Jesus’ sake,

  so that his life may also be revealed

  in our mortal body.

  “Jars of clay, Lord. Jars of clay.” She managed twenty-five sit-ups before she rested, repeating the same lines out loud, over and over.

  “Lord Jesus, I pray that your life in me will be revealed through my body, this vessel of breakable clay . . . even while it is being given over to death for your sake.”

  Chapter 20

  SAYED VIEWED HIS NEWLY arrived guest from under hooded eyes. “I did not expect you until well after the New Year. Until after the Hammer of Allah had fallen upon the Americans’ heads.”

  His guest nodded, properly respectful. “I apologize. However, I had reason to believe that my cover was blown. I could have run and hidden for a time, but if I had been captured, I may have been forced to give up valuable information. I deemed it better to come a little early than risk capture.”

  He grunted. “You may be right—and perhaps you will be of assistance to me concerning the American operative.”

  “I wish to serve, Sayed. How may I help?”

  Sayed sat back and stroked his chin with his uninjured hand. “The woman is strong. She has both a strong body and an obstinate and recalcitrant spirit.”

  His guest laughed softly. “I assume you did not blacken your own eyes.”

  Sayed shot a withering glare across the table. “She had the temerity to say I could not humble her. Some nonsense about having already humbled herself before her God and, therefore, I could not. It . . . momentarily distracted me and, in that moment of distraction, she broke two fingers and my nose. I would have had Bula snap her neck on the spot, but as she is the key to our final attack, I am temporarily constrained. I cannot kill her until my use for her is at an end—nor can I damage her so much that I cannot retrieve the info
rmation I need. Unfortunately, having witnessed her strength of will, I believe we would need to bring her to the point of death before she breaks—and even then, she might choose death rather than give me what I need. I must find a more effective means of obtaining the information.”

  “Ah. I see. You planned to debase her sexually until you’d crushed her spirit.” His guest offered a cunning smile. “Would you be open to suggestions?”

  Sayed seemed hopeful for the first time since his guest had joined him. “Suggestions? Indeed I would.”

  IN THE SPACE OF ONLY a few days, the task force had risen to victory and crashed in defeat. With Rosenberg’s escape, the celebration for saving Sherman’s wife and son and ridding Wolfe’s organization of its two moles now tasted like ashes.

  Tobin stationed himself by the gym door as the team dragged themselves inside the next morning and helped themselves to coffee or tea. He was watching for Jaz. By 8:30, it was starting to look like she wasn’t going to show.

  “Anyone see Jaz?”

  Vincent said, “Not since yesterday when . . . you know.”

  “And she skipped dinner. What about last night?”

  Gwyneth, Jaz’s roommate, said softly, “She never came to bed. I figured . . . I figured she just needed to be alone for a while, except . . .”

  “Except what?”

  “When I woke up this morning, she wasn’t there and she hadn’t slept in her bed.”

  Tobin grimaced. “All right, I’ll go look for her. In the meantime? We, as a team, have a choice to make. Do we fold up? Give in to despair and quit? Or do we soldier on? Don’t forget, there’s a whole lot of hurt headed down the pipeline for New Year’s Eve—exactly two weeks from today.”

  He put his hands on his hips and addressed six members of the task force who’d showed up to work. “None of us dreamed we’d ever see Jaz crack, but it goes to prove that even the toughest of us can break. That’s why a team is so important, why the strength of the team is not in any individual, but in the whole. That ‘gestalt’ business Bella laid on us.”

  He lifted his chin toward Vincent. “You’re doing a bang-up job of organizing the task force’s findings, keeping us centered and focused on the holes in the data, so this is what I’d like the six of you to do. Walk through every assumption to date. Look at each bullet point like it’s the first time you’ve seen it. Talk through how you got there—make certain you haven’t glossed over anything and jumped to an unsubstantiated conclusion. Poke holes and then plug them. Can you do that?”

  Vincent looked around, uncertain of his teammates. “Guys? Ladies?”

  A dispirited Rusty shrugged. “Sure, Marshal Tobin. We can do that.”

  “Good. Get to it. I’ll hunt down Jaz.”

  TOBIN LEFT THE GYM and headed for the house. He’d gone through all the possible hiding places on the grounds. Unless Jaz had bedded down with the horses, that left only one place where she might be.

  He took the stairs to the second floor bedrooms and stopped in front of Bella’s room. Seraphim had taken the second bed until she left Broadsword with Wolfe. That left the room empty. He tried the door handle.

  Locked.

  “Hey Jaz? It’s Tobin. Open up, please.”

  “Go away.”

  “Nope. We have work to do.”

  No response.

  “Jaz, the task force is assembled in the bullpen. They are working. You don’t have any right to sit on your butt up here while they are carrying on.”

  He heard a rustle. Then the door cracked open. A bleary, black-smeared eye peered out.

  “For your information, I haven’t been sitting on my butt.”

  “Have you been working?”

  “No, but—”

  “No, but? Point carried. No sitting on your big ‘buts.’ Everybody has them. No one gets to rest on them. You don’t get to give up because of them. Wash your face, change your clothes, and get cracking, missy. People are counting on you.”

  That one bloodshot eye blinked back a tear.

  “I blew it, Tobin.”

  “And you’re not used to ‘blowing it,’ right?”

  “Well . . .”

  “How fortunate for you that you lead such a perfect life. The rest of us slugs blow it on a regular basis—and we still get up in the morning and push on. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Think of someone other than yourself for a change.”

  “I—”

  But Tobin had stomped off and was halfway down the stairs.

  WHEN JAZ SLUNK INTO the gym an hour later, the team was debating another of Rusty’s impassioned theories. When they looked her way, she waved at Rusty to continue.

  “That’s what I’m telling you—I’ve changed my mind. I don’t think AGFA is manufacturing fentanyl,” he insisted.

  “But you were the one who said they were in the first place!” It was Brian, the volume of his retort rising with each word.

  “Well, like Tobin asked, I’ve been punching holes in my own assumptions, and a bunch of stuff doesn’t quite add up.”

  “What doesn’t add up?” Jaz asked. She plunked herself into her seat, her face a careful mask.

  “Gee. Glad you could make it, Jaz,” Brian sneered.

  “Yeah, sorry about that. Had to look up the meaning of the word ‘loser.’ I was unfamiliar with it.”

  Jubaila snickered. “Unfamiliar territory, you mean.”

  Soraya deadpanned, “And it took you twenty-four hours, did it?”

  “Yah. Had to slog through pages and pages of Brian’s face popping up under the definition.”

  “Hey!”

  Jaz finally cracked a smile. It was a sad and tired little smile, but sincere. “Just kidding, Brian. What I really mean to say—to all of you—is I’m sorry. Had me . . . a humbling moment. I . . . apologize for bailing on the team.”

  “Are you back, then? Are you with us?” Vincent asked.

  “Yup. I’m all here. Heart and soul. Now, what about the fentanyl, Rusty?”

  “I don’t think AGFA is manufacturing it.”

  “That was pretty much our whole underlying assumption, Rusty. And didn’t Cossack affirm our assumption?”

  “Yes, he did. And if AGFA isn’t making the stuff, how are they paying the mob?” Soraya asked.

  “Didn’t say they aren’t paying the mob with fentanyl. I said I don’t think they are making it themselves. And for the record? Cossack didn’t say AGFA was making fentanyl for the mob. He said they were providing it to the mob—as well as using it in their New Year’s Eve attacks.”

  “Explain the difference,” Jaz asked. “And start at the beginning for us slow learners.”

  Rusty chuckled. “Right. Okay. At the beginning, when we infiltrated the jihadi chatrooms in Kazakhstan and started monitoring them, we picked up significant chatter about lab equipment. Based on the type of equipment, we deduced it could be used to manufacture drugs. From there, we developed the assumption that AGFA had recruited some unemployed former Soviet chemical scientists and was standing up a fentanyl lab. Cossack’s intel, smuggled to us inside not-Bella’s casket, confirmed the use of fentanyl.”

  “With you so far. What’s changed?”

  “Well, my thinking has. See, fentanyl is much more potent than heroin. If I were a drug dealer, I’d buy a bunch of fentanyl, mix it with the heroin and, voilà—instant increase in profit.

  “But then I kept coming back to fentanyl’s lethality. I mean, I’d have to be super careful how I mix it with the heroin, right? Because, gee whiz, I don’t want to kill my customers, right? Bad for business.

  “So, I figured that, in order to double my profits, I’d have to first cut the heroin with some harmless powder that doesn’t change the heroin’s appearance or the size of the dose I’m selling. The ratios would look like this.”

  Rusty went to a white board and wrote, 1 kilo heroin + 1 kilo HP = 2 kilos street product. “HP means harmless powder.”

  Brian sniped at him. “Glad, you can add, Rusty. I’m
impressed.”

  “Shut it, Brain Dead. I’m making a point.”

  “And we’d all like you to get there sometime today,” Tobin said from the sidelines. He was on his feet, pacing back and forth behind the bullpen.

  “All right. Then, say you are the dealer. How much fentanyl will you add to two kilos of this street product to give it the same kick as one kilo of pure heroin—without killing anyone?

  As one, the team’s eyes turned to another board where Rusty had previously taken a penny from his pocket, taped it to the board, and touched the tip of an erasable marker three times to the board next to the penny.

  The penny was still taped to the board, three dots signifying a lethal dose of fentanyl adjacent to it.

  “Not very blessed much,” Brian breathed.

  “You’re right. The entire two kilos of street product would require only one grain of fentanyl per dose on the street.”

  “That makes the margin of error really, really small,” Jubaila whispered.

  “Yeah, I’ve crunched the numbers, but I won’t bore you with the math. Bottom line? Twenty kilos of fentanyl carefully added to heroin cut with an equal amount of harmless filler totals twenty million doses on the street. Twenty million hits doubling the profits of the entire American branch of the Ukrainian mob from New York down to Florida and wherever else they have their hooks into the heroin trade.”

  Tobin had jumped ahead to Rusty’s conclusion. “We get how easily someone could OD on a fentanyl-heroin mix, but that’s not what you’re getting at, Rusty, is it?”

  “No, it isn’t. What I’m saying is that twenty kilos of fentanyl would satisfy the mob’s needs for six months, maybe a year.” He looked at the team. “So why would AGFA set up an entire lab just to make a mere twenty kilos of fentanyl?”

  “Don’t forget the fentanyl they need for the New Year’s Eve attacks,” Brian said, his doubt still evident.

  Rusty shook his head. “Still can’t imagine them manufacturing their own.”