Laynie Portland, Spy Resurrected

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Laynie Portland, Spy Resurrected Page 29

by Vikki Kestell


  Their precautions did not work.

  On Laynie’s third day of illness, Ksenia took sick with the same symptoms. As weak as Laynie was and as best as she could, she tended Ksenia. She tore the hem from Ksenia’s shift, dipped it in water, and swabbed the girl’s feverish face, arms, and legs in an attempt to bring her temperature down.

  It was only as she was beginning to feel better that Laynie understood how much time she had lost track of. That she had missed Christmas Day.

  Christmas? Laynie exhaled in surprise and dismay.

  I was supposed to spend Christmas with my family in New Orleans. An entire week with Mama, Dad, and Kari’s family.

  Seraphim promised me.

  Wolfe promised me.

  Laynie caressed Ksenia’s flushed cheek. So what? It’s just a date. Christmas isn’t about the date. It’s the celebration of Jesus’ birth—and he transcends mere dates.

  Missing out on Christmas bothered her less than she had expected it to.

  She half-smiled. If we were to ever escape from this place, I would have a daughter to bring home for Christmas. She even laughed a little. I wonder what Tobin would think if I were to show up with a ready-made family?

  Ksenia fussed and moved in discomfort. Laynie freshened her rag and sponged Ksenia’s face. She began to croon over the girl.

  What child is this, who, laid to rest

  On Mary's lap is sleeping?

  Whom angels greet with anthems sweet,

  While shepherds watch are keeping?

  This, this is Christ the King,

  Whom shepherds guard and angels sing;

  Haste, haste to bring Him laud,

  The babe, the son of Mary.

  Laynie sang every comforting Christmas carol she could conjure from her childhood memories. When she stopped, Ksenia moaned and begged her to keep going. Laynie did, humming or singing the same songs over and over.

  Later, Ksenia was well enough to sit up and keep a little food down. She clung to Laynie’s hand and asked Laynie to sing to her again.

  Singing really isn’t my forte, Lord, Laynie thought, but she sang anyway—because she was available and no one else was. And because she had an audience. A shuffle from the shadows had caught Laynie’s attention an hour ago. She kept singing, and the shuffle came a little closer, squatting just yards from their fire. When her features came into view, Laynie recognized her, one of the other girls.

  Good heavens! She can’t be more than thirteen or fourteen.

  Laynie nodded to the girl, acknowledging her presence, letting her know she was welcome. The girl hung her head and glanced toward the other campfire, but she did not leave.

  Laynie didn’t want to infect her, so she didn’t beckon her closer, and the girl was satisfied just to listen. Laynie wasn’t certain, but she sensed the presence of at least one other girl farther back in the shadows.

  So she sang an old, familiar carol.

  Away in a manger, no crib for a bed

  The little Lord Jesus lay down his sweet head

  The stars in the bright sky looked down where he lay

  The little Lord Jesus asleep on the hay.

  Laynie sang on, just the slow, sweet hymns of Christmas to a captive audience who understood nothing of what she sang, but maybe, just maybe, sensed the holiness of what Laynie caroled.

  What a way to spend Christmas, Lord, even if we’re late. Right now, I wouldn’t trade this for anything. In fact, today, I feel like Paul. I know what it is to be in need, and I know what it is to have plenty. I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want. I can do all this through you, Lord Jesus, because you give me strength.

  Will you also give me these girls?

  Her communion with the Lord was interrupted by someone running to the kafir girls’ separate latrine. Laynie heard retching, vomiting.

  The sickness had taken hold on the other side of the cell despite the guards’ precautions.

  IT HAD TAKEN GUPTA and Sayed’s servant six days to produce the final cut of the video. The video editing process had been painstakingly tedious, made worse by the less-than-state-of-the-art equipment available to them.

  First they had to capture the taped video recording on computer. That had taken more than two days, days in which the capture process had glitched twice, forcing them to start over.

  Had taken them? Hardly! Sayed’s servant had demonstrated the capture process to Gupta, then left her alone in a dingy room carved from rock—the same room he obviously slept in—while he attended Sayed.

  Gupta ground her teeth. Her meals were delivered to her, and she ate alone. She had to ask the guard outside the room to escort her to the latrine. Late, at the end of the day, Sayed’s servant showed her to her quarters and told her, “You must remain here until I return to fetch you. You may not go about unaccompanied.”

  This is not what I gave up my whole life for.

  “I wish to see Sayed.”

  “General Sayed. You will show proper respect. I will convey your wishes to the general. However, you must realize, he has said he will see you when the video is complete. It would not be wise to appear before him without the finished product. Do you understand?”

  Gupta sank down on her bed. I understand I am trapped here.

  After the video capture was done, Gupta had to cut the audio of Laynie’s outbursts from the tape and overlay her own voice either narrating what she was doing or quoting from the Quran. When she had completed the process and saved the project, she had to “render” the file into a compressed, smaller file format that could be uploaded to websites and jihadi chat rooms.

  Rendering the final file took an unbelievable amount of time, so after six hours, Gupta let the process run overnight, only to find in the morning that the process had “hung up.” She had to force a program stop, reboot the computer, and restart the rendering process.

  Adding to her frustration and the time to completion, Sayed’s servant took issue with parts of her narration in the final file and insisted that she make corrections. The changes to the overall project required that she again render the video—another overnight process.

  Gupta was irritable and short with Sayed’s servant when, after the six days, the final product—a twelve-minute video—was loaded onto Sayed’s laptop for him to preview.

  Gupta sat in silence as Sayed watched the film. Twice he nodded. At the end, he sat back with a satisfied sigh.

  “Excellent! We will share this video across our network. It will bolster our credibility and, in turn, our numbers.”

  He turned luminous eyes on Gupta. “I am well pleased with your work, Halima, and I will honor you.”

  Gupta’s eyes teared, and she swallowed. “Then may I . . . may I now leave my quarters? Does that mean I may spend time with you?”

  Instead of answering, Sayed’s smile stretched wider. He called to the guard on station just inside the curtain to his salon. The guard returned with one of Sayed’s soldiers. Gupta thought the soldier looked sixty-five years old or older. More than a few years older than her.

  The man saluted Sayed, and Sayed motioned for him to sit opposite Gupta.

  “Halima, this is Maskhadan ibn Musa, a proven warrior in the jihad and a trusted lieutenant. He has given thirty years of his life in pursuit of the caliphate. Two years ago he lost his two sons and his wife to the Russians.”

  Gupta glanced at the old man. He nodded at her. Uncertain how to respond, she simply nodded back.

  “Good, good. Maskhadan, too, has agreed to this marriage.”

  Gupta choked on her own saliva. “I—what?”

  “I have bestowed this great honor upon you, Halima, in recognition of your service to Allah and the jihad. Maskhadan will make you a fine husband, and you will care well for his needs. It is a good match.”

  Sayed stood and offered Gupta his hand. Slowly, she placed hers in his. He led her out of the conversation area. When th
e old man followed, Sayed reached for his hand and placed Gupta’s hand in his.

  “You are new to our ways, Halima, but you must learn them quickly. Your husband requires you to behave in a manner that honors him. You will respect his wishes in all things and obey his commands at all times. If he expects you to help cook and clean for our soldiers, you will do so and your service to others will honor him. And, of course, you will surrender your body to him as well as your will. In all things, he is your master.”

  Sayed smiled. Gupta perceived—too late, now that her blind devotion was stripped away—the patronizing smirk in that smile.

  Anabelle was right.

  Gupta was mute as she followed Maskhadan from the salon into the tunnel, but the voice inside her head was not.

  “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.”

  She snarled in impotent rage. As she blindly followed her “husband,” she collided with a man approaching from the other direction.

  He, however, did not so much as look at her.

  Is this to be the remainder of my life? Will I—

  She hesitated. Something about the man she’d run into snagged her attention. She looked back, but he’d already gone through the curtain.

  She shook herself.

  What was it?

  THE HEAT HAD BEEN INTOXICATING and healing. When he could scarcely keep his eyes open any longer, Cossack scrubbed himself with soap, rinsed, and—reluctantly—climbed out.

  At the end of the hour, dressed in the clothes Sayed had provided, Cossack was ready. His guide, Usama, appeared to escort him.

  They returned to the junction not far from the entrance to the cavern. Cossack, with a clear sense of how to return to his quarters from the junction, paid attention to their next steps.

  Usama strode about ten yards down the well-lighted tunnel opposite the cavern. Where the tunnel ended, they encountered two guards in front of a curtain. One of them swept the curtain aside.

  Cossack’s guide motioned him into what was obviously the first room of Sayed’s personal quarters—a long, formal salon carved from the mountain. It may have been hewn from rock, but costly carpets covered the floors and hung from the walls. Soft lights illuminated a U-shaped conversation area formed by two divans and a chair for Sayed. A stove burned at one end of the salon, providing abundant warmth.

  Beyond the conversation area, Cossack’s examination took in a vintage desk and credenza flanked by tall bookcases. In the corner he saw curtains pulled to one side of a doorway leading, he presumed, to Sayed’s sleeping chamber.

  If Cossack’s mountain hideaway was primitive in comparison to the tunnels and common area of Sayed’s stronghold, Sayed’s salon, by contrast and by far, eclipsed both.

  But there was also something about Sayed’s quarters that, to Cossack, was discomfiting. Sayed’s rooms and furnishings were blatantly inharmonious with that of his men’s. They were too different and too much. They smacked of arrogance and ego.

  Can a true leader live in such opulence while the men who fight and die for him have so little?

  “Ah! You have come at last. Welcome to my humble home, General Labazanov.”

  Sayed was ensconced in his chair, the crosspiece of the conversation area. His seat, raised above the divans on either side, was the focal point of the room. He did not stand at Cossack’s entrance but waited for Cossack to present himself.

  Cossack bowed his head once. “Thank you for your invitation, General Sayed. I look forward to my stay with you.”

  “As do I, Arzu. I have much to show you, and we have a great deal to discuss.”

  “As you say, General—particularly if you, as you suggested you might, allow me to bed your enemy operative.” Cossack made himself chuckle in a crass manner. “You are certain she is an American, are you not? As I said when we spoke of her, I have never had an American woman. I wish to be confident—for bragging purposes.”

  Cossack’s pretense disgusted him, but he was not above using such a ruse to meet face-to-face with Wolfe’s operative. At least they would be assured of privacy.

  The sudden turndown of Sayed’s mouth made Cossack wonder if the man had bitten into something unexpectedly sour.

  “I am sorry to disappoint you, Arzu, but I wish . . . for more time with her. As you suggest, she is an . . . exotic commodity.”

  Sayed’s words rang just shy of true, but Cossack would not dare push the topic. Whatever Sayed’s character flaws, he was keenly intuitive and rabidly suspicious.

  “Of course, General.”

  “Shall we eat?” Sayed motioned to the cushioned divans and the low table. His servant began laying out a veritable feast—a variety of foods Cossack and his men had not tasted for months.

  “When we finish our meal, Usama will show you back to your quarters. Rest yourself from your journey. Tomorrow, after breakfast, I will show you my manufacturing operation.”

  After the meal, Usama escorted Cossack to his room. Although the room was fitted with carpets, a chair, a lamp, and a warm bed, there was no door or even a curtain for privacy. One of the soldiers stood post with his back against the wall outside the doorway.

  I am more a prisoner here than a guest. Perhaps tomorrow I will learn something further.

  IN THE MORNING, USAMA accompanied Cossack to the dining cavern for breakfast. Many soldiers greeted Cossack with earnest respect, coming to embrace him and express their happiness at seeing him. Although Usama tried to steer him to the officers’ table, Cossack first went from table to table, asking Sayed’s men about their wives and children and about their health or injuries and whether they had healed.

  When he joined Sayed’s lieutenants and commanders at their table, they welcomed him. He ate with them, sharing bits of how his own militia was faring through the winter, painting a contented picture while his own thoughts were not as certain.

  I can only hope Rasul is following my orders.

  “Come,” Usama told him after breakfast. “I am to show you our manufacturing operation.”

  Cossack was mildly annoyed. “Will not General Sayed join us?”

  Something flitted across Usama’s face. “Unfortunately, other business detains him. I will do my best to entertain you.”

  They left the domed cavern, taking the main tunnel back toward the mining cars. When they reached the checkpoint that led down to the cars, Usama made a sharp right. A ways down the new tunnel, they encountered yet another checkpoint and a heavy wall built across the tunnel with a strong door set in it.

  “On the other side, General, we will be required to put on special clothing to avoid contamination.”

  Cossack wondered what they might be contaminating. It did not immediately dawn on him that Usama meant they would be contaminated—not until he had changed into what reminded him of a space suit, completely enclosed and with its own oxygen supply. They had to go through yet another room that had overhead sprinklers, although they did not use them, before they entered the laboratory itself.

  Cossack marveled at the setup—two long aisles of stainless steel countertops and functioning lab equipment. Four men, dressed as he and Usama were, ran the production line. Usama walked him from the first complicated and timely step to the last, pointing out the batch farthest along in process.

  “The finished product is delivered to the next room where it is packaged. We were in full production up to three weeks ago. Now that the primary shipment is away, we have slowed down. Of course, when Sayed identifies another use for it, we will ramp up production yet again.”

  “What, exactly, is the product, Usama?”

  “Oh, a very potent drug, indeed. The process is, sadly, hard on our packaging area.”<
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  Cossack frowned, wondering at Usama’s meaning.

  In the packaging area, he found out. The workers in the processing area were protected the same as he and Usama were, but the equipment was used. Worn. Tears and cracks in the face shields were taped with ordinary duct tape. The workers glanced up, fear showing through those face shields.

  “Who are your workers?”

  Usama grunted. “Infidels we rounded up here and there. We use them until they die—not usually so very long. Constant exposure, even protected exposure, eventually gets them.”

  He led Cossack across the packaging room to a deep niche carved from the rock wall. He gestured, and Cossack peered inside . . . not understanding at first what he saw.

  Long bundles wrapped in ordinary cotton fabric and tied at both ends, reminiscent of five- or six-foot-long logs, stacked one atop another and piled like cordwood, filling the room.

  Bodies.

  Shocked, Cossack took a step back and bumped Usama.

  “I apologize, General Labazanov. I should have warned you. We will clear this out in late spring when the roads are clear and have firmed up after the runoff. We have a pit where we dispose of them.”

  Cossack composed himself quickly. “I’ve seen enough, Usama. Thank you.”

  On their way out, they stopped in the shower area. Usama turned on the water and stood under the spray. “Be sure to rinse every part of your suit. We’ve had accidents where workers going out were not thorough.”

  Cossack, recalling the room of bodies, shuddered.

  USAMA DELIVERED COSSACK back to Sayed’s salon. “Well, Arzu! What did you think of our laboratory?”

  Cossack was careful not to allow a hint of how much the drug lab had disturbed him seep into his reply. “I thank you for the tour of your stronghold, General Sayed. All of it, laboratory included, is impressive—far greater than what my men and I can boast.”

  “It is my pleasure to show you the spine that undergirds our victory.”

  “As you say! Very good, indeed. Well, now that I have seen your stronghold, it makes me wish to return to my own sanctuary and set my men to work. We have occupied our residence only months, and it is not nearly as sustainable or easily reached as yours is. We have many improvements to make—and I am filled with ideas from your stronghold I might incorporate into our humble quarters.

 

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