Laynie Portland, Spy Resurrected

by Vikki Kestell

  “They wouldn’t.” That was Tobin. “Wouldn’t be anywhere close to cost effective. They could buy as much as they need for thousands less—if they had a supplier.”

  Rusty jumped back in. “That’s exactly what I’m saying. AGFA needs some fentanyl, but they don’t need so much that they would go into the business of making it.”

  “Then what’s the lab equipment for?” Soraya asked.

  Tobin left off prowling the back of the bullpen and joined Rusty and Vincent at the front.

  “I haven’t been a contributor to the team like the rest of you have been, but I do know a little bit about the drug trade from my years with the US Marshals. That said, because AGFA has purchased equipment consistent with manufacturing drugs, we can assume that they are manufacturing something. However, Rusty’s calculations have convinced me that it’s unlikely the ‘something’ is fentanyl—meaning our first assumption has changed.”

  Heads slowly nodded.

  “Since our first assumption is now ‘AGFA is procuring fentanyl’ rather than making it, I suggest that we validate that assumption by proving that they’re buying it.”

  Vincent grabbed a marker and started a bullet point. “Got it. Find the point of sale?”

  “Yes. Then we need to ask ourselves, what are they manufacturing in that lab? Because whatever it is? In my book, it has to tie to their next attack, has to be essential to it. And if we figure out what they’re making, we can extrapolate the nature of the attack.”

  “Well, they can’t make whatever ‘it’ is from nothing. They would need chemicals—the right chemicals,” Gwyneth said, “and they’d have to buy them on the black market.”

  Amid excited chatter, Vincent added another bullet. “Identify chemicals bought.”

  Jaz brought the team to order. “Okay, everyone. We have new lines of investigation, and we know what we need to do. Soraya, Jubaila, Gwyneth? We need the list of chemicals AGFA has bought. If we have a list, we should be able to extrapolate what witches’ brew AGFA is concocting.

  “Brian and Rusty? You’re with me. If AGFA bought fentanyl, they had a supplier. The list of fentanyl manufacturers open to selling in bulk is a short one, and the Chinese manufacture it on the cheap, so I’m betting on them. Unfortunately for us, their cybersecurity is as vicious and paranoid as a junkyard dog—meaning we need to be extra careful and extra sneaky.”

  “Wait.” It was Brian.

  “What?”

  He wrestled with an emerging thought. “Just . . . if the Chinese manufacture cheap fentanyl, why do the Ukrainians need AGFA? Why doesn’t the mob buy it direct from the Chinese?”

  All eyes turned to Jaz.

  “Good question with a simple answer—competition. The US Russian and Ukrainian mobs are locked in mortal competition with the Chinese for the North American drug market. The Hong Kong triads have most of Canada and the US west coast sewn up and are encroaching on Russian and Ukrainian mob territory. The Chinese won’t knowingly provide an edge to the Ukrainians by selling them fentanyl.”

  “But they’ll sell to AGFA?”

  “As long as they don’t know that AGFA is passing it on to the US Ukrainian mob.”

  “Got it. We need to find AGFA’s Chinese supplier.”

  “And once we’ve identified the supplier, finding AGFA’s order should be relatively easy. Can’t imagine anyone other than drug dealers ordering twenty kilos of this crap, can you?”

  She ended on a note of determination. “When we have their order, we’ll follow the money right to them.”

  Chapter 21

  WITH FOOD IN HER STOMACH, Laynie slept well that night. When she woke, she was hungry again and hoped one of the soldiers would bring her another meal soon. When the gate clanged open, the rumble in Laynie’s belly became a demanding roar.

  It wasn’t one of the soldiers. It was Bula, and the cold look on his face told Laynie breakfast wasn’t on today’s menu. She noted how he kept one hand behind his back.

  “Get up.”

  Laynie stood. Bula pulled his hand from behind his back. In it was a rope.

  No. A leash.

  “Do not fight me on this,” he warned her. “I will not hesitate to break your arm.”

  Laynie looked down, indecision fogging her sight. Then the stones beneath her feet came into focus.

  I have licked water from these filthy stones—and it does not matter. My standing before you, God Almighty, has not changed. Lord, I humble myself under your mighty hand. In due season you will lift me up.

  But she was tired. Cold and hungry.

  In due season? Lord, when is “due season?”

  The answer hummed in her spirit.

  It is when I declare it to be, my daughter.

  “All right,” Laynie murmured. “Due season it is.”

  She straightened. “Whatever happens, I have determined to conduct myself in a manner worthy of the gospel of Christ.”

  Bula cocked his head. “What are you saying?”

  “Oh. Sorry. I was not talking to you.”

  She held out her hands. Bula slipped a knotted loop over them, crossed her wrists and snugged the loop to bind them together. Then he unwound the veils from her head and tossed them aside.

  “If you do not wish to be jerked off your feet and dragged, you will keep up with me.”

  He set off, tugging her through the narrow passageway. The passageway curved, and the number of electric bulbs increased. The light grew brighter. Then they reached the junction where the tunnel widened, and she recognized it, the domed cavern on her right, the long tunnel straight ahead eventually reaching the mine cars.

  But Bula jerked the leash and pulled her down the passageway to the left. To Sayed’s quarters. The same guards stood at the entrance to Sayed’s lavish salon and swept the heavy curtain aside. Eyed her as she passed. She stood tall and held her chin up. Stared straight ahead.

  Sayed’s salon was empty except for Sayed, his servant in the far corner, and a figure shrouded in glistening veils seated next to Sayed. Bula led Laynie to the low table. He again forced her to kneel across the table from Sayed.

  Laynie sank to her knees, keeping her expression a perfect mask but her eyes fixed on Sayed. His nose was swollen and distorted, the skin around both eyes a vivid kaleidoscope of blues and purples. Two fingers of his right hand were splinted and taped together.

  The sight of her handiwork sparked a thrill of gratification in her flesh.

  Sorry, Lord.

  She glanced down at the table. On it were the remains of a sumptuous breakfast—figs, almonds and pistachios, breads, creamy butter, scrambled eggs, fresh chopped tomatoes, pickled herring. At the sight, her body trembled with hunger.

  Out of her peripheral vision, she inventoried the woman seated to the left of Sayed. Laynie took in the beautiful kaftan of blue shot with silver thread and a hijab of expensive, shimmering blue fabric. The woman had drawn the tail of her headscarf across the lower part of her face. All Laynie’s once-over told her was that the woman was short and dark skinned.

  Sayed spoke. “You have information I want—the location of your so-called task force.”

  A short laugh slipped from Laynie’s mouth. “I thought we’d covered this topic.”

  Bula slapped her from behind, and Laynie’s ears rang.

  “I will ask you again. I warn you—if you do not give me a credible response, you will live to regret it. Give me the location of the task force.”

  “No.”

  Laynie waited for Sayed to speak—to rant or rage at her. Instead the woman greeted her.

  “It does my heart good to see you again at last . . . Magda.”

  Laynie kept her expression passive and did not flinch. But inside? Her heart ached and throbbed, each pounding beat threatening to burst from her chest. She could not swallow. Could not breathe.

  And then sweat broke out on her brow and dribbled into her eyes, down her nose, onto her upper lip.

  Gupta.

  LAYNIE
COULDN’T CALM her mind, make it grasp what she was seeing. “You. You were the mole in Wolfe’s organization. All along, it was you?”

  Gupta tugged the scarf aside from her face so Laynie could see her triumphant smile. “Why yes, of course it was me, and I did play a superb game, didn’t I? Had you and Wolfe chasing your tail for months?”

  She chuckled. “It is amazing the level of clearance given to me, a trusted in-house psychiatrist, and the depth of confidential information I was granted when I requested it—all in order to better understand and treat my Marstead patients, those whose minds hold vast operational secrets.”

  Laynie’s thoughts raced through every event and problem since she was introduced to the task force, plugging Gupta into the blanks and question marks—Gupta’s behind-the-scene machinations to have herself assigned as Laynie’s counselor. Her subtle attempts to coax Laynie into talking about the task force and their assignment. The “bugs” planted in the hotel suite after Ruth took over Laynie’s counseling. The Ukrainian mob’s assassination team and their hit on the apartments—their attempts to execute Tobin and Laynie and take Jaz. The car bomb in the hospital parking lot that had nearly killed Seraphim, had almost cost Tobin a kidney.

  Yet the only reason we were in that parking lot in the first place was to visit Gupta after she was . . .

  “You had your own men beat you to a pulp. You acted the role of victim to remove yourself from suspicion.”

  Gupta couldn’t restrain her smirking pleasure. “What is a little transient pain when compared to our future great gain?”

  “What future great gain might that be?”

  “Nice try, Magda.”

  Laynie watched Gupta smile on Sayed and his nod of amiable agreement.

  “It was you who laid the ambush for us in that hospital parking lot. To draw us into a kill box.”

  “Well, there was that.” She giggled a little, and Sayed smiled indulgently.

  “I am confused by one thing.”

  Gupta, enjoying herself immensely, played along. “Are you? Oh, let me see if I can guess. Is it how I could be a follower of the Prophet? Blessed be his name.”

  Her smirk widened. “Dear me. How shortsighted, parochial, and utterly unimaginative you are—and always have been, Magda. Am I the only woman of Indian and Hindi extraction to convert to Islam? Not at all. I proclaimed shahada decades ago—and served Allah inside of Wolfe’s organization even before he rose to the directorship. But neither he nor you, with your narrow, biased mindset, could see what was right before your eyes.”

  Gupta placed something on the table, but Laynie didn’t look away from the woman. She couldn’t keep herself from staring at Gupta’s raw evil and marveling at how effectively she’d masked it . . . for years.

  “I did so try to warn you, Magda. Remember? We are all the products of our choices—some are, admittedly, considerations made for the good of the many. There’s no shame in that. I told you what I was, that I had chosen the good of Allah’s will, but you did not listen.”

  Something in the woman shifted. “And how did you reward me?” Gupta’s eyes narrowed. Her swarthy complexion flushed red with hatred. “You struck me. Knocked me over—and everyone heard of it. You humiliated me.”

  Laynie mimicked Gupta. “Awww, what’s a little transient pain when compared to your future great gain?”

  Bula was standing close behind Laynie. When Sayed lifted his chin, Bula slapped Laynie across the back of her head. Laynie swayed. Her ears rang. She slowly shook her head. Blinked her dripping eyes to clear them.

  Gupta smiled her thanks on Sayed, then returned her attention to Laynie.

  “What an impudent, prideful mouth you have, Magda. So full of yourself! But at this point we should concentrate on satisfying General Sayed’s interests. Why, just yesterday, he confided in me how very much he wished to see you humbled. I told him I would dearly like the opportunity to do so. After all, you humiliated me. Shouldn’t I repay the debt?”

  She giggled again, and Sayed laughed aloud.

  “Wait,” Laynie interjected. “I . . . Gupta, I see how you look at Sayed. You are infatuated with him, with his leadership and importance, aren’t you? You have visions of a happily-ever-after ending? A high position in his council? Perhaps something more intimate? But it’s not going to happen. He doesn’t see you the way you see him, because women have no value in his worldview. To him you are merely a useful tool. That is all.”

  Gupta frowned and slanted an uncertain look in Sayed’s direction. He, too, frowned but was quick to pat Gupta’s hand.

  “Pay her no mind, Halima.”

  At Sayed’s signal, Bula moved—quicker than Laynie could react. He jerked the rope binding Laynie’s wrists up to her chest and looped it around her shoulders. Startled, Laynie resisted, but Bula had already pinned her arms to her sides. She tried to launch herself to her feet—he slammed her back onto her knees. He wound the rope around her torso once more, threw his knee into Laynie’s back as leverage to cinch the rope tighter, then twined the rope around Laynie’s feet and tied it off.

  Abruptly, Laynie stopped struggling.

  Whatever was coming, she could not stop it. Could not prevent it.

  Laynie, my daughter. I am here.

  “Thank you, Lord,” she whispered. “Now and forever, I am yours.”

  Gupta picked up the item she’d placed on the table. It gleamed.

  “I told General Sayed that humbling a woman such as you required another woman’s insight and touch. Your hair? It’s been your glory all your life. Let it now be your shame.”

  Gupta stood. “Drag her into the middle of the room, please. Yes. Just there, on the drop cloth. Too bad her hair is such a ratted mess. I would have liked it to shine and look its best. Ah, well. Is the video camera ready? Yes? Excellent.”

  Sayed’s servant trained a camcorder on Laynie. Gupta stood to Laynie’s side . . . with a large pair of scissors.

  “I am Halima bint Abra, Halima, daughter of Abra Gupta. We humble this kafir woman, this blasphemer of the Prophet—blessed be his name—this filthy woman who has played the harlot with many men in her service to the Great Satan. She has plotted to thwart the will of Allah and the establishment of his caliphate across this land. At the appropriate time, when her use in Allah’s work is ended, we will end her. In the manner she deserves.

  “Today, however, we make this statement to the world: Those who oppose the will of Allah will suffer defeat and humiliation as she does—this woman who has spied upon the Great Satan’s enemies as the imposter, Linnéa Olander, and, more recently, in another false identity, Anabelle Garineau.”

  Gupta opened the shears wide. Slowly, so slowly, Gupta drew the length of the outer blade across Laynie’s cheek, letting her feel the weight of the cold steel, allowing the cutting edge to lightly score her cheek. Gupta ran the blade diagonally across her lips, drawing a fine line of blood. Then Gupta grasped a thick hank of Laynie’s hair from the crown of her head and held it high to demonstrate its length. At Laynie’s hairline, Gupta began to saw through the hair.

  Lord, even my hair? I must surrender that?

  Did I hold anything back, my daughter?

  Laynie sighed. No, Lord.

  When long strands began to float to the floor, Laynie said aloud, “I proclaim that Jesus is the Christ, my Lord and Savior.”

  “No! Stop the camera. I want that edited out.” Gupta moved in front of Laynie and slapped her across the mouth. “Do not speak again.”

  Gupta returned to Laynie’s side. “Resume recording.” She didn’t pick up another strand, She simply began at Laynie’s forehead and cut at the root line whatever hair the points of the scissors fed into their blades, letting the tips stab and dig at Laynie’s scalp first.

  Laynie shouted. “For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, Jesus!”

  Gupta slapped her twice and continued cutting.

  Hair fell down Laynie’s face and onto the floor. She saw it l
ying on the drop cloth in chunks, strands, and chopped bits.

  Whatever happens, I have determined to conduct myself in a manner worthy of the gospel of Christ.

  Laynie licked blood from her lips. Took a breath. Stared into the camera. “At the name of Jesus every knee will bow, in heaven and on earth and under the earth, and every tongue will acknowledge that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God—”

  As soon as Laynie began speaking, Gupta walked to the table and returned with a stone ashtray. Making certain the camera would capture her actions, she slammed the ashtray into Laynie’s mouth.

  Laynie’s head snapped back.

  When she came to herself, Bula was holding her upright, and Gupta was cutting her hair. Her eyes strayed to the large mound of matted blond hair now piled on the drop cloth.

  Must have been out . . . a while.

  Laynie spit out the blood pooling in her mouth. A tooth dropped into the pile of hair along with blood and saliva. Her mouth ached and throbbed.

  For it has been granted to me on behalf of Christ not only to believe in him, but also to suffer for him . .

  If Bula were to let her go, Laynie would have fallen over.

  Thank you for Bula, Lord, that I might make my declaration for you.

  Laynie looked directly into the camera.

  “My name is . . . Beloved of God. I am the daughter of Yahweh, Creator and King of the Universe, the Ancient of Days, God Almighty.

  “There is no God but Yahweh and Jesus his only begotten Son. I—”

  AT GUPTA’S DIRECTION, Bula continued to hold Laynie’s unconscious form upright. Gupta tipped Laynie’s lolling head forward to cut the hair from the nape of her neck. It was the work of a few minutes more to shear the remainder of Laynie’s hair from her head.

  Gupta stood back and surveyed her work. Laynie’s scalp was scored with little cuts and jabs, all bleeding. The ugly, uneven stubble left behind was the artistry of a madwoman.

  “Very good. I see no need to shave her scalp and tidy things up,” Gupta decided. “What I have left behind will further her disgrace.”