Laynie Portland, Spy Rising—The Prequel

by Vikki Kestell

  “I understand, sir. What are your orders?”

  “Our primary objective is to identify and capture the double agent, preferably alive, so that we can question him and ascertain how deep the damage goes, after which we take our man into custody, too.”

  “And if the primary objective can’t be managed?”

  Alvarsson lifted his chin. “You’ll need to take him out.”

  Linnéa sank into her training, letting it take and guide her, walling off emotional responses. “Yes, sir.”

  Then, “Why me, sir?”

  Alvarsson nodded slowly. “You deserve to know. For one, you are young and unknown in the field. That means neither our man nor the traitor will know you. For another, Olaf here tells me you are the brightest young operative he has brought up in a decade, that you think on your feet, that you are up to this job.”

  He leaned across the table, his eyes boring into hers. “If he is wrong, tell me now.”

  Linnéa, her gaze unwavering, answered, “I can do what you are asking, sir.”

  Alvarsson sat back. “Very well, then. Let’s go over the operational plans.”

  He placed a photograph on the table. “This is our man, Gerold Weiß. He is known to frequent a Hamburg bar called the Wilder Krieger in the Speicherstadt warehouse district. This is where he meets the traitor.”

  “What can you tell me about Weiß?”

  “He is accustomed to the trappings of wealth and moves easily in monied circles. The nightlife of Wilder Krieger is precisely what he prefers. We will put you into the country under a solid cover. You’ll go to that bar and attract our man. We’ll have two teams on the ground to support you, but the initial work—that of cozying up to Weiß, then sticking around to ID the double agent—will be yours.”

  Alvarsson coughed to clear his throat, that same sign of discomfort Linnéa had noted earlier.

  “We think the best way to exit the bar with both men in tow is on the pretext of a ménage à trois. Suggest taking them to your hotel room. Our people will be watching the bar’s exits. They will alert the next team to follow you, and they will follow the team following you. Our operatives will take them both at the earliest possible opportunity.

  “I am sending you to a clothier, one of ours. Olaf will drive you to her as soon we finish here. She will outfit you with attire, uh, suitable for cruising the Wilder Krieger.”

  Linnéa nodded.

  I’m to be the bait on the hook. Can I do this?

  I think so.

  But can you kill a man if you need to?

  She shuddered inside.

  It might be easier than playing a whore.

  Alvarsson gestured to Olaf. Olaf placed a compact semiauto and a thigh holster on the table between Alvarsson and Linnéa. He added a second magazine.

  Laynie glanced at the weapon. Beretta, .32 ACP. 3.5 inch barrel. Fairly light, but a tricky safety.

  She scooped them into her handbag.

  “Olaf will finish briefing you, Miss Olander. You leave for Hamburg tomorrow.”

  OLAF TOOK LINNÉA TO Marstead’s clothier. Two hours later, Olaf piled seven shopping bags containing evening gowns, undergarments, shoes, and accessories into his back seat.

  On the drive back to the parking garage, Linnéa was quiet. I’ll be a tart but a well-dressed, high-end one, her sardonic humor commented.

  When Olaf pulled in to let her out, she didn’t move. She was still deep in her own considerations.

  Finally, she asked, “Olaf, are you carrying?”

  He glanced over, concerned. “Why do you ask?”

  “I want a backup piece. Something even smaller than the Beretta.”

  He grunted. “I saw those dresses you’ll be wearing. Where on God’s green earth would you put it?”

  He was right; she planned to carry the Beretta in her fancy clutch for that very reason, because nothing she would be wearing in Hamburg stood a chance of concealing a gun, even one smaller than the Beretta, except in a thigh holster. And Linnéa could not risk Gerold Weiß’s roaming fingers coming upon it.

  “I’ll come up with something,” she answered.

  Chapter 19

  “PULL OVER TO THAT CORNER, please,” she asked the cabby in passable German. When he stopped, she opened the cab’s rear door. Around her, music pulsed from various bars and nightclubs and the shouts and laughter of partiers and boisterous bar hoppers reverberated in the street.

  Arranging a silver fox stole about her shoulders, she levered a long, stockinged leg from the cab to the street and placed a sparkling-red, three-inch heel on the pavement. She pivoted her foot a little to the side to flex her calf muscle, ensuring that, as she stood, the slit in her dress split open like a crimson curtain all the way up her sleek thigh—thus guaranteeing that the eyes of every watcher would be glued to her.

  They were.

  With a casual toss of her upswept hair, Petra Nilsson freed a few dangling curls caught in the fur wrap and stepped onto the sidewalk and into Hamburg’s bustling, sordid nightlife.

  A glitzy red evening bag clutched in one hand, she twined her arms loosely within the stole. That allowed the fur panels to hang from the crooks of her elbows and the wrap to swoop below her bare back. The stole draped over the curves of her hips and derrière, undulating like a living thing with every languid step.

  In the cold evening air, the shimmering stole did absolutely nothing to warm her, and that was just fine. To onlookers, she was already lit from within, a walking furnace of sensuality.

  Down the sidewalk she strode, toward her destination, the Wilder Krieger—the Wild Warrior—rumored to be “the place” where men and women of certain means and appetites gathered to play. Men passing her from the opposite direction turned to stare; women nudged each other. Catcalls and whistles followed her, but Petra’s lofty serenity never altered.

  The doormen at the entrance to the bar saw her coming, glanced at each other, and cleared a path for her to the front of the line.

  “Mein Himmel,” a man whispered behind her back.

  Petra did not linger inside the entrance; she made her way directly to the middle of the glossy-black bar where she ordered a brandy. When she received the snifter, she turned her back to the bar, put the glass to her lips, and surveyed the room.

  Half the men were looking back, but she made eye contact with none of them. She had Gerold Weiß’s image on a mental poster while she scanned the room and made like she was sipping her brandy.

  “May I buy you a drink?” The man had appeared at her elbow as if by magic.

  Petra smiled seductively. “I am waiting for someone in particular . . . but if he doesn’t show?” She let the suggestion hang.

  The man bowed. “I must hope he is unavoidably detained!”

  Petra laughed softly and turned away—only to spot Gerold Weiß himself at a table perhaps twenty feet away.

  “Hello,” she whispered low in her throat.

  He could not possibly have heard her, but he glanced up anyway.

  His eyes widened. Petra’s welcoming smile caused him to shiver with happy anticipation. He came to her immediately. Petra shifted her body toward him, knowing his gaze would fall to her bare bosom. It did.

  “My word—you stand out in this room like a beacon,” he gushed. “There isn’t another woman here who holds a candle to you.”

  “Perhaps I wanted to ensure that the right man saw me.”

  He held out his hand. “Gerold Weiß. I hope and pray I am the right man.”

  “Petra,” she purred. “I apologize that my German is not as good as yours. I’m Swedish.”

  “Not at all! Come, Petra; I have a table. I would love to know you better.”

  She allowed him to draw her along after him, passing the man who’d offered to buy her a drink and who raised his glass to her with a woebegone expression.

  Once seated, they made light conversation, the polite exchange of surface information.

  “Petra, what brings you to Hamburg?�
��

  “Business, of course. I am a bored accountant by day . . . and a wild, passionate woman by night. I heard this place was the right place to find men who are also . . . wild and passionate.”

  Weiß’s pinkening complexion told Petra that he was excited. “You’ve certainly gotten my attention.”

  Petra sipped her brandy, merely wetting her mouth with it. Her sultry glance scorched him, then passed on to look around the bar. “Good; I am so glad to hear it. Perhaps we could go to my hotel? All we need is . . . a friend. Another man. I am a little picky, though. Surely you have someone suitable in mind?”

  The pupils of Weiß’s eyes flared. “I do, indeed! You will like him—he can be quite droll at times, but he is a man of exceptional taste with an eye for quality; however, I am to meet him elsewhere . . .” he looked at his watch, “in about twenty minutes.”

  Petra sighed and leaned toward Weiß. “How troublesome . . . unless we could meet him together? Is it another bar?”

  “No, it is . . .” He frowned, considering something, then brightened. “It does not matter, my dove. Come with me—that is, if you will be warm enough?”

  “Why, where are we going?”

  “I am to meet him on the Brooksbrücke, a bridge over the Binnenhafen, about a ten-minute walk from here.”

  “We could take a taxi, no?” She smiled and drew her stole over her bare shoulders. “I didn’t exactly come dressed for winter pastimes.”

  “You certainly did not!” He laughed; it was an easy, relaxed laugh, and Petra laughed with him.

  “All right, then. A taxi it is. And when we reach the bridge, you can remain in the warm cab while I . . . . tell him about our plans for the evening.”

  Weiß signaled the maître d’ and had him call them a cab. While they waited, he lifted her hand and stroked it. “Ah, Petra . . . what a lovely woman you are.”

  “Oh, no. I assure you, I am not a lovely woman, but an outrageous one, as I intimated.”

  It was all she could do at this point to keep the pretense going, but she had to push, keep edging him a little further, lest his better judgement prevail.

  When the cab arrived, a delicate, frosty fog had descended on the night. Weiß began to issue the driver turn-by-turn instructions—but not, at first blush, for any destination a meagre ten-minute walk from the club. The driver, throwing a dubious look over his shoulder, drove a circuitous route through the warehouse district as Weiß directed him. Petra tried to keep track of where they were, but as the fog increased, even the street signs were swaddled in it. They twice turned down alleyways, and where they emerged, Petra could not tell. The cabby, however, under Weiß’s guidance, eventually delivered them to their destination.

  The bridge and the water beneath it were shrouded in mist; the frosty particles suspended in the air muted the many lights around them, enclosing them in a hazy web.

  Weiß got out. “Wait here,” he ordered the driver. “I’ll return shortly.”

  Petra scanned around, but saw no sign of the team that was supposed to follow them. She reassured herself with, If they are that good, I shouldn’t be able to spot them.

  Weiß started across the bridge, the mist swirling about him, clearing away a little with the breeze. He had reached the center of the bridge when a small car, on its way across, slowed, then stopped. A figure got out and joined Weiß.

  They talked. Petra thought the stranger shook his head. She saw Weiß gesture with his hand and point toward the cab. The stranger again shook his head. Weiß appeared to be pleading with him.

  Petra’s heartbeat quickened. The traitor doesn’t like the idea. Perhaps he smells the trap.

  But minutes later, Weiß returned and paid the cabby. “Come, Petra. We will go to your hotel in his car.”

  “Your friend appears reluctant.”

  Weiß shrugged. “He prefers not to mix business with pleasure. However, when I described you, he made an exception.”

  “I said I was selective,” she sniffed, stalling for time. She still hadn’t caught sight of their Marstead tail and was growing concerned.

  “Do not worry, Petra; my friend has suggested that we return to the club, have a drink, and give you opportunity to take his measure. I promise you will approve of him. If, however, you do not, you may decide then how you wish to proceed. Come. Let’s get you into his warm car.”

  The bridge was not a long structure, but the fog, now falling in tiny, icy bits, obscured its far end, the arching girders disappearing into the shimmering haze. As they drew closer to the center, Petra saw that the roadway was just broad enough for a car to pull to the side, compelling the light traffic to flow around it.

  Petra wrapped her stole about her against the wet chill, and she grasped her pocketbook beneath the furs, one hand fingering the flap of the pocketbook’s side pouch. The man, who’d had his back to them, turned as they approached.

  “Good evening,” he drawled. “Petter Eklund at your—”

  His greeting hitched—and he produced a small cough to cover his blunder. Nicely done though it was, she knew he was startled.

  Dumbfounded.

  As dismayed as she was.

  Was it a flicker of regret that flashed from his eyes to hers?

  Then he recovered himself and sketched a light bow. “At your service,” he finished, smiling at her. Confident. Unshaken.

  Well, wasn’t that how they had been trained to respond should they encounter another agent in the field, someone they knew “from before”?

  Weiß spoke next, “Miss Nilsson is not dressed for the out-of-doors; shall we go somewhere warmer to get acquainted as you suggested?”

  Eklund inclined his head in agreement and reached for the handle on the car door, but Linnéa had already drawn the Beretta. She leveled it at him and backed to a safe distance.

  “Step back from the vehicle, Taylor. Over to the railing.”

  Taylor. Her gorge rose; she felt nauseous. Sick.

  Weiß stared at Linnéa. “What the *blank*? What is going on?”

  “Get over there with him,” she ordered. She used her free hand to wave him toward the railing of the bridge, but she didn’t allow her gun hand to shift even a fraction from Taylor.

  “He’s working for the Stasi, Weiß, did you know? He’s a traitor. The question is, are you?”

  Weiß looked from her to Eklund, first in confusion, then in horror as understanding dawned. “No! I’m no traitor! We had orders. He . . .” he pointed at Taylor but spoke to Linnéa, “he showed me our orders, encrypted orders. We were working an op together to penetrate the Stasi. He had turned one of their operatives, and we were feeding him doctored intel. Disinformation.”

  Linnéa sneered at how quickly Weiß had shed his cover to protest his innocence, but she kept her focus on Taylor.

  “Not disinformation, Weiß. Real intel. You and he have been feeding the East Germans authentic, actionable intelligence. Where do you suppose that leaves you?”

  “But I didn’t know! I-I . . .” His mouth worked. “I swear to you, I didn’t know. Whatever the Company asks me to do to prove it, I’ll do it.”

  “I’m sure you’ll get your chance.”

  Taylor hadn’t moved or changed his expression, so Linnéa couldn’t watch him sort through his options, but she didn’t need to. With Weiß already testifying against him, coupled with the fact that Marstead had enough evidence on him to send an agent undercover to smoke him out, Taylor had to know that he wouldn’t be talking his way out of the trouble he was in.

  . . . we promise to rain hellfire down upon you and yours.

  Oh, Taylor!

  Her old friend lifted one shoulder and smiled that lazy smile she would never forget. “Certainly, we had orders—orders I fabricated. Quite a good forgery, in fact, I’d say. And it wasn’t personal, Weiß. I just like the money.”

  Linnéa’s gun hand shook with disbelief. Rage. “Money? You sold us out for money?”

  He shrugged again. “I didn’t betray M
arstead’s secrets or network—how could I have done so, given their rabid culture of ‘anonymity’? I simply sold information to the highest bidder.”

  He laughed. “Well, perhaps I sold the same information to more than one interested party.”

  “Information that undermines us, weakens us.”

  Taylor spread his hands, “Nothing Marstead can’t recover from, I assure you.”

  He took a step toward her, still smiling. “Come on, Maggie. Let’s not do this. Permit me to go my way—for old time’s sake, eh? I have enough money saved to disappear; I won’t be a bother to Marstead in the future.”

  “No. Stay back, Tay. My team will be here momentarily, but I will shoot you if I need to—and you know I can shoot.”

  Please. I don’t want to shoot you, Taylor.

  “Ah, dearest Mags, could you? Could you shoot me? Me? You have no idea how many times during training I fantasized about us, about holding your shimmering blonde hair between my fingers, about your long legs and you and me togeth—”

  “Shut your filthy, lying mouth.”

  A car roared onto the bridge, then slowed. She spared it a fleeting glance; its passengers were not from Marstead, only curious onlookers who, upon seeing her gun, roared away as quickly as they’d arrived.

  Taylor had timed his move to match Linnéa’s momentary distraction. He was a tall man whose length spanned the distance between them. He lunged for her, swept her gun hand aside while squeezing, twisting her fingers and wrist.

  The Beretta fired once before it dropped from Linnéa’s numb, nerveless fingers without her say-so. The gun clattered onto the bridge, through the railing, and down, down, down to the dark, swirling water below.

  Linnéa smacked Taylor’s ear with a cupped palm and drove her knee into his groin. The instant he let go and fell back, she rammed her elbow up, clipping his jaw. He cursed but bulled forward, shoving her onto the bridge’s ornate railing.

  With his weight pressing her against the top rail, Linnéa’s back was close to breaking. She was pinned, bowed backward, flailing, when he wrapped both hands about her throat. She attempted to jam her flattened hands between his arms to lever them apart, but he bent his elbows, pulled them together, and tucked them close to his chest—leaving no point of entry for her stiffened fingers. He pushed her harder until she was hanging out over the water, her feet dangling and thrashing above the bridge’s walkway, while he tightened his grip on her throat, choking her.