Laynie Portland, Spy Resurrected

by Vikki Kestell

  “I require advisors and confidants, men I can trust,” she had begun, “captains who will help ensure that this transition, per my father’s decision, is a seamless one.” She then told them of the agreement she’d made to rid the organization of the threat hanging over them.

  “I have arranged that, within the week, our financial records presently in the hands of the FBI will no longer be a concern. However, should anything . . . unexpected happen to my leadership? I fear the deal I brokered would fall apart. And should that happen, the FBI would eventually find the means to decrypt the data.”

  Her eyes had rested on each man, assessing them as much as they were assessing her. She finished with, “It would break my heart should the FBI access those records and use them to systematically dismantle our organization . . . and its dedicated people.”

  On the one hand, the men understood the danger those records posed to them personally and the prison time they would face. On the other hand, they knew that they would never rise above their current stations in the organization on their own, certainly not to the level she dangled before them—unless they swore their allegiance to her.

  One by one, they had done so, scribing the invisible battle lines for the war ahead.

  This morning as Svitlanya received the condolences of friends and neighbors, her pakhans’ trusted, armed soldiers—now her trusted, armed soldiers—guarded the grounds of Svitlanya’s home, taking care to remain out of sight. Her pakhans had also salted a select few of their men—her men—among the mourners who had come to pay their respects. Two more posed as servants, two others acted as butlers.

  “Nico.” Svitlanya called the man to her. “I must make an important call. Please apologize to my guests for a short delay of no more than half an hour.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Nico left and closed the door softly behind him.

  Svitlanya spun the dial on her father’s wall safe and ran it through the combination. She removed a burner phone from the safe, checked the phone’s charge, and sat down at the desk. She placed the burner nearby.

  A quick glance at the clock told her it was near 11:00 a.m. The time would almost be 7:00 p.m. where AGFA was. Svitlanya scribbled a few notes and paused to compose herself. She had listened in on her father’s conversations with this man she would be calling, this “Sayed.” She knew what he was.

  But I think he does not know what I am.

  She lifted the receiver on her desk phone and dialed the number Wolfe had given her.

  “Wolfe here.”

  “Director Wolfe. Are you prepared on your end?”

  “We are, Ms. Davydenko. Would you care to test your phone?”

  Svitlanya reached for the burner and pressed the call key. The device attached to the phone—delivered to her house early that morning hidden within a floral arrangement—picked up the hiss of the phone’s empty air and conveyed it to Wolfe through her desk phone.

  Wolfe said, “Very good. Our people tell me we will be able to hear both sides of your conversation loud and clear. Please make the call at your convenience.”

  “Calling now.” She set her desk phone aside and dialed the lone number stored in the burner.

  NINE PEOPLE CIRCLED the FBI conference table to listen in on Svitlanya Davydenko’s call to AGFA. The FBI Special Agent hosting the surveillance, two of his agents, plus Wolfe, Seraphim, Tobin, and Jaz were intent on monitoring the call itself. Two FBI technicians—with Jaz intermittently lurking over their shoulders while snapping her gum—were focused on Svitlanya’s call as it reached out to connect to the orbiting satellite and then the number on the other end.

  The special agent said, “Here we go, people.”

  “We appreciate the assist this morning, Special Agent Marrs.”

  The man turned to Wolfe. “Our pleasure. What will you do with the location of the other satphone once we have it?”

  Wolfe smiled. “I hope to meet this guy up close and personal.”

  Marrs seemed surprised. “You’ll go into the field yourself, sir?”

  “For this I will.”

  They stilled as the call was picked up.

  “Da?” The man spoke in Russian.

  The response was in English. “General Sayed? This is Svitlanya Davydenko calling.”

  Sayed switched to heavily accented English. “I see.”

  “Yes. General Sayed, I am calling to inform you that my father, Semion Davydenko, passed away yesterday morning.”

  “Inshallah. I am sorry to hear this.”

  “Thank you, General. Per my father’s wishes, I have assumed the leadership of our organization. I also called to assure you that the agreements between our organizations are unaffected by the change in leadership. I will ensure that your American commander receives your incoming shipment as agreed upon.”

  Sayed was silent for several long moments, and Svitlanya did not interrupt the pause. Obviously, if Sayed, due to religious and cultural mores, was displeased with the idea of working with a woman, it stood to lose him the shipment she spoke of.

  The shipment of carfentanil needed for his grand strike, Wolfe mused. If it’s a tossup between making nice with an uppity American female or losing the shipment, my money is on the shipment.

  “I see,” Sayed said. A slight chill had attached to his voice.

  Svitlanya pretended not to notice. “While we are on the subject of our agreements, may I inquire into your progress toward acquiring the location of the hacker named Vyper from the American woman?”

  Sayed sounded irritated. Truculent. “Unfortunately, she arrived in less than optimal condition, after which she came down with dysentery. She is recovering, but these things have impeded our ability to properly interrogate her.”

  Svitlanya’s tone sharpened. “Oh?”

  The reaction on Wolfe’s end was immediate. He, Seraphim, Tobin, and Jaz exchanged worried glances, first at the news of Bella’s poor health, second that Svitlanya might, inadvertently, put pressure on Sayed to extract the information regardless of how it might harm Bella.

  But it seemed Svitlanya had already thought through her role. “I would not wish the woman to die in your care, General, without her first delivering the hacker’s location.”

  “Then more time is needed.”

  “In fact . . .” This time it was Svitlanya who paused before she spoke. “I believe I will wish the woman returned to me at a later date. She may have additional uses for us.”

  She added, “As you may understand, I am dealing with personal grief over my father’s passing and am pressured by the preparations for his funeral—a much longer and more detailed affair in our traditions than in Islamic culture—as well as my other responsibilities. I will think on this situation and call you again say, just prior to the shipment’s arrival? We will make the arrangements for the woman’s return at that time.”

  It seemed to those listening that Sayed was reluctant to express his appreciation for the delay but he hardly had a choice. “Yes. Thank you.”

  “You are welcome. I look forward to our continued cordial relationship, General Sayed.”

  Wolfe exhaled his relief. Svitlanya had handled Sayed perfectly.

  “Goodbye, Miss Davydenko.”

  “Goodbye, General.”

  Wolfe snapped his fingers to get the technicians’ attention. Both of them were grinning. Jaz, hanging over them, was smiling, but also surreptitiously wiping the inner corners of her eyes.

  Wolfe understood and swiped a hand across his own eyes.

  Tobin, Seraphim, and Wolfe joined Jaz in peering over the techs’ shoulders to their laptops.

  One of them pointed to his screen. “Here you go. Latitude N 42°43'44.7", longitude E 45°48'07.2".”

  Wolfe stepped back and spoke to his FBI counterpart. “Thank you, Special Agent Marrs, and thank you to your team. We appreciate the assist.”

  “And the rescue?”

  “I’ll be using a team under my command.”

  “It�
�s Russia, Director.”

  “Oh, trust me, I know. Don’t worry. We’ll be coordinating with the appropriate authorities.”

  IT HAD BEEN ESSENTIAL to Svitlanya’s plans to convey a sense of confusion and helplessness to her father’s pakhans—Gregor, in particular. She had called Gregor yesterday, soon after the coroner had taken her father’s body away, to give him the news.

  “I-I’m in shock, Gregor.”

  “Of course. I am very sorry.”

  “I don’t know how I will manage everything.”

  “I will come at once to help you, Svitlanya.”

  He hadn’t been able to keep the thrill of victory out of his voice, Svitlanya sneered inwardly.

  “How I thank you, Gregor! I am certain I will need to lean upon you many times in the coming weeks. However, at the moment, I am wearied and wound too tight at the same time, near to breaking. The doctor gave me a sedative and instructions to lie down, so I am going to take the pills and rest a while.”

  “I understand. I—”

  “Could you come late tomorrow afternoon? I will be inundated with visitors all day and exhausted by then, so I will need help making decisions concerning the funeral arrangements. The priest is coming at six. If you and the others on my father’s council could come an hour before then? We could discuss the service and you could help me through the meeting with the priest.”

  “We would all be honored to assist you, Svitlanya.”

  “Ah, Gregor. Thank you. I knew I could count on you. Until then.”

  Gregor had not waited until late in the afternoon, however, to send scouts into Svitlanya’s home to spy out the land. What his scouts had observed and reported back to him were dozens of family, friends, and business partners from outside the organization, a handful of servants pressing refreshments upon the visitors—and not even a whiff of defenses.

  Two of those “servants” had gently but firmly closed the door on new visitors at 4:00 p.m., had ushered the remaining visitors out before five o’clock, and then turned the door over to one of the Davydenkos’ longtime maids.

  By the time the maid showed Gregor and his companions into Semion’s office, not another soul was in view.

  Svitlanya was standing when they entered. She embraced each of Semion’s pakhans and received their condolences. She invited them to sit, taking the seat behind Semion’s desk herself.

  Gregor smiled and spread his hands. “Svitlanya, we have been friends since we were children, yes?”

  Svitlanya nodded and returned a wan smile. “Yes, I have known you my entire life, Gregor.”

  And have known what you are for almost as long.

  “And we have been your father’s counselors, his trusted pakhans, for more decades. We know the ins and outs of our organization’s businesses. We recognize the great burden all this responsibility would be while you are grieving. Perhaps we should take the load from your shoulders for a little while, Svittie—just while you adjust.”

  Svitlanya studied her twined fingers for a moment, then spoke—but not in response to Gregor.

  “You know that I met with a Director Wolfe earlier this week and agreed to give up the incoming shipment we were to deliver to our Chechen friends?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “You will, however, be unaware that I struck a deal with the hacker whose actions resulted in our encrypted financial records ending up in the possession of the FBI. Within the week, she will either remove or destroy all copies of our data in FBI custody.”

  The man to the left of Gregor moved uneasily. Gregor’s elbow between his ribs stilled him.

  “You did this with Semion’s permission?”

  “No. I did it on my own authority as my father’s successor.”

  It was then that her visitors began to sense a chill in the room.

  “Svitlanya, how can you be confident that this hacker will follow through? What if she were to decrypt the files instead? Use them against us?”

  “She and I have discussed what each of us hopes to obtain through this exchange. I wish our organization’s data removed from the reach of the FBI, and she has the power to accomplish that. I possess things she values, including her own continued health and well-being and, uppermost to her, the well-being of a dear friend. She understands that her friend will be safe only as long as I decree it. Conversely, it is within my power to destroy her friend—so you see, I need not fear this hacker woman.”

  Svitlanya leaned forward slightly and tilted her chin toward the men. “You must realize that our organization has been threatened far too long by the FBI’s attempts to decrypt our records. For that reason, I acted and removed the obstacle that kept us in this untenable position. I wish you all to understand that I will not tolerate anything or anyone who jeopardizes our businesses or our freedom.”

  Svitlanya watched Gregor’s face turn red. She knew he was intuitive and conniving. He would have caught the essence of her statement—had he not been preoccupied by the sensation of power slipping through his fingers, eluding his grasp.

  The expressions on the faces of Gregor’s companions, however, told Svitlanya that they had heard, had followed the oblique reference Svitlanya had made. They understood what—or rather who—had been “the obstacle” she’d removed.

  They grew utterly still, while Gregor, confident he could bully Svitlanya aside, barged ahead.

  “Svitlanya, such a dangerous, unilateral decision was not yours to make. Why, it is plain that you are in no fit condition to lead our organization at this time. I must insist that you step aside and let us steer it forward.” He smiled ingratiatingly. “We can, of course, revisit your participation when you have sufficiently . . . recovered from your grief.”

  One of Gregor’s companions moved his head side to side, just enough for Svitlanya to notice. He placed his hands on his knees, palms up, in surrender and supplication. Pleading.

  At Svitlanya’s tiny nod, the man swallowed hard and dropped his head.

  She returned Gregor’s smile. “Yes, I was certain those would be your sentiments, Gregor.”

  She rang the little bell on her desk. Nico, with her other newly sworn pakhans, entered the room. Following them, a half-dozen of their soldiers—her soldiers—circled behind Gregor and his companions, their weapons trained on their heads.

  “What is this?” Gregor hissed.

  “Nico?”

  “Six of Gregor’s men attempted to approach from the rear of the house, ma’am. Three did not survive the encounter. Four more from the front—as you anticipated.”

  Svitlanya nodded to her new captains and the soldiers. “Well done. You have proven yourselves this day and may expect rewards for your loyalty.”

  She returned her attention to Gregor and said softly, “You asked what this is, Gregor? It is your curtain call—the last scene in the last act of my father’s pakhans.”

  Pointing her chin at the man who had surrendered moments before, she added, “That one.” She did not even use his name. “He has twenty-four hours to relocate his family to Australia or suffer the consequences.”

  She stood and walked to the door. Serene. Regal. Confident. Breathing the air of power and very much liking its scent.

  “Their bodies are not to be found, Nico.”

  Nico’s chest expanded. “You may be sure they will not, ma’am.”

  “Thank you, Nico.”

  “Mader! Mader, wake up! Please!”

  Laynie’s head pounded. She struggled to breathe, to draw in enough air. Because of the pain, she resisted rising from the solace of unconsciousness.

  But the voice calling to her was insistent. “Mader, please! Don’t leave me here alone!”

  Laynie needed to answer. Love compelled her to respond. To comfort.

  “Ksenia.”

  “Oh, Mader! Thanks be to Jesus! I feared you were dead.”

  I feel like I should be, Laynie thought. She began to sort through her body’s various conflicting signals.

  My
head. She tried to reach her hand to her head and the pounding source of pain. Ksenia restrained her.

  “Do not touch, please, Mader. I have wrapped my niqab around the cut to stop the bleeding.”

  Hard to breathe. Laynie touched her side. Again, Ksenia gently clasped her hand between hers.

  “I-I fell on you, Mader. I am sorry—I did not mean to.”

  Laynie groaned. “If you are all right, then I am not sorry. Help me sit up, please?”

  Her vision dimmed, and she sagged briefly against Ksenia, then pushed herself to sitting. Tested her legs. Her arms. Flinched when her fingers encountered the burn on her left forearm. She could feel its heat even through her abaya.

  Arms and legs undamaged. With the exception of a side of bruised ribs and a nasty headache, I am all right. That burn, though, is infected.

  “Are you hurt, little daughter?”

  “No, Mader, but . . .”

  Laynie silently finished Ksenia’s sentence. But after a few days down here, our injuries won’t matter.

  “We need to get out of here.”

  “How? There is no way out.”

  “Help me to stand. Now. Help me up.”

  With reluctance, Ksenia assisted Laynie to her feet. Laynie put her back to the cistern wall, faced the wall opposite her and looked up. The faintest bit of light told her where the edge was. She measured the distance to the edge with her eyes.

  Closer to twenty feet.

  If it had been twelve or fifteen . . . But it wasn’t.

  She ran her hands around the walls, looking for purchase, for any protruding edge to give her a toehold.

  Nothing.

  After a while, her aching head and ribs forced her to sit down. Rest.

  Ksenia crouched down beside her. She gently wrapped her arms around Laynie’s torso and laid her head on Laynie’s shoulder.

  “Will you sing of God’s amazing grace to me, Mader?”

  Laynie knew Ksenia loved the song, so she did her best. The words and melody came in clipped, jerky phrases, because breathing was short and painful, but she sang anyway. And the song rose to heaven, not from her heart, but from a place far deeper within her.