Laynie Portland, Spy Rising—The Prequel

by Vikki Kestell

  Under Marstead’s orders, Linnéa studied Petroff; she “learned” the man. Approaching age fifty, he was tall and lean and still owned a full head of sandy-colored hair. From a distance he projected a mild, naturally curious, perhaps bookish countenance, particularly when he swept aside the front locks of his hair with unconscious indifference.

  According to Marstead’s ubiquitous intelligence sources, Petroff was seeking a suitable long-term companion: a woman of the world; his equal, intellectually and socially; a suitable trophy to flaunt before his friends, but also a beauty who would be suited to Petroff’s public life.

  And so, for the past year, Linnéa had refrained from seducing new targets, and Marstead had scheduled Linnéa’s visits to St. Petersburg and her sorties into the city’s club life to correspond with the dates of Petroff’s visits. With careful deliberation, Linnéa had edged her way nearer to Petroff’s orbit.

  She’d had brief encounters with him in the past year, moments that amounted to little more than cordial familiarity. But—finally—on her last trip to St. Petersburg, she’d arranged herself so that Petroff “stumbled” upon her, and they had spent several uninterrupted hours talking over drinks in a quiet side room of a luxury club. She had kept her part of the conversation witty and cerebral, making him laugh and relax. She’d spoken openly of her position with Marstead and had expounded with expertise and insight on the current technology market.

  She had learned that Petroff was a man who sought to own the best of everything; thus, Linnéa had demonstrated that she was far more than arm candy or an inconsequential one-night stand. She believed she’d left Petroff that evening with the impression that Linnéa Olander could be a complement to both his brains and his savoir-faire: a beautiful, accomplished, and independent woman. A rare commodity. A match.

  Linnéa had declined his invitation that evening to a nightcap in his hotel room. She would string him along until they were further acquainted. It was essential that she prove worthy of his enduring attentions.

  She had, she believed, left him wanting more.

  Nevertheless, it was, as Alvarsson intimated, important to fully prepare herself for what could lie ahead, because the risk of entering into a long-term relationship with him had more than one dangerous facet.

  First, the man was fascinating. Brilliant. Not to be underestimated. Ever. In his younger years, Petroff’s unsuspecting adversaries had ascribed a boyish naiveté to him. Many had found that assumption to be a costly, even a deadly, mistake. Up close, his gentle, probing brown eyes had revealed a shrewd and calculating mind.

  Second, Petroff was possessive. Nothing he considered “his” was ever outside his watchful control. If Linnéa succeeded in attaching herself to Petroff, the ‘relationship’ would, more than likely, become restrictive and oppressive.

  Third, Linnéa worried that her meticulous backstory might not stand up under this man’s scrutiny, because Petroff was more than political: He was a former agent of the now-defunct KGB—and once KGB, always KGB, meaning Petroff was both connected and influential.

  Sure, the KGB had been replaced by the FSK, the Federal Counterintelligence Service, but many of the players remained the same—and, Linnéa had heard whispered, the FSK itself might soon be going through yet another makeover and name change under the Russian Federation’s President, Boris Yeltsin.

  Petroff has remained friends with his former KGB comrades, those who still have authority and influence. They provide him the means to sniff out and dissect my background, perhaps uncover my former life. My family.

  She shuddered to consider what Petroff might do to her parents or her sister’s family should he come to trust Linnéa and discover that his trust had been betrayed.

  It was under the shadow of such jeopardy that “Linnéa Olander” lived in deep cover. For that reason, every part of Linnéa’s Marstead cover was strictly controlled. Nothing—not love, not family, not choice—was allowed to compromise the sanctity of her Swedish identity.

  When it came to her family, Linnéa was grateful for Marstead’s stringent security constraints.

  The final danger Petroff presented had dawned as an unsettling revelation to Laynie: Petroff held an attraction for her that was . . . troubling. What Linnéa saw of Petroff somehow moved her, spoke to her in strange ways, and his boyish good looks and energy never ceased to raise her heartrate.

  Why? Why this man? Why do I feel such attraction for him? Such untapped emotion when I’m with him?

  As jaded as her heart had grown through her various love affairs, it was a new and disturbing experience for Laynie to find herself pulled toward a mark. She might be tempted to give more than her body to this dangerous man—even after she had heard the tales circulating about him . . .

  Petroff was known as a connoisseur of fine things—he used the best tailors, drank the finest wines and vodka, ate only the choicest foods—and only sparingly, for he despised self-indulgence. He was also a lover of art, music, architecture, and . . . dogs. His favored breed was the Chornyi Terrier, known in the west as the Black Russian Terrier.

  The breed was developed in the Soviet Union during the late 1940s and the early 1950s for use as military dogs. The breed’s pedigree included lines from the Giant Schnauzer, Airedale Terrier, Rottweiler, and other guard and working dogs. In show, the Chornyi closely resembled the Giant Schnauzer; in comportment, the dog was protective and fearless, often thought by its owners (to their amazement) to be more intelligent than they were.

  As Petroff made the rounds of the St. Petersburg clubs, a disturbing story circulated with him, a tale of Petroff’s favorite Chornyi, Alina, a female dog he had hand-raised from a pup. Petroff doted on her. Alina traveled everywhere with Petroff, slept in his room at night, and served as a further layer of personal protection after his bodyguards.

  According to the rumors swirling in Petroff’s wake, on a certain trip, unexpected celebratory fireworks had so disturbed Alina that she had become terrified and had run off, ignoring Petroff’s repeated commands to come to him. When Petroff’s people located the dog two days later and brought her back, Petroff had pulled his sidearm and shot the dog in the head.

  He had said in the hearing of his people (so the anecdote went), “I will not tolerate the disobedience of something I own. There can be no forgiveness for disloyalty.”

  According to the rumors, Petroff treated his women with similar possessiveness. As long as a woman held his attention, he kept a jealous leash on her—although most endured only a night or, if particularly engaging, a week or a month. When he was finished with a woman, when he no longer found her of interest, he cast her aside.

  But there were also stories of Petroff’s longer-term women, of which only two were known. One, it was said, displeased Petroff’s sense of ownership: He had beaten her senseless. The other, a Lebanese beauty, turned out not to be Lebanese, but Israeli. A spy.

  The woman traveled with Petroff when he left to visit Islamabad on state business.

  When he returned to Moscow, she did not.

  Linnéa shuddered. I must be careful, so much more careful than I have ever needed to be.

  But why am I like this? she asked herself. Why am I so cold and unfeeling toward a decent man but aroused by someone who would snap my neck should the circumstance dictate?

  A familiar voice answered. Because you are worthless. You don’t deserve a “good” man.

  “MISS OLANDER! ARE YOU listening?”

  “Yes sir.”

  Considering the subject closed, Alvarsson focused on his calendar. Today’s date nudged them closer to the end of August, and the northern hemisphere was still in the grip of summer. “If you play your cards right, Linnéa, Petroff will have you installed in his Moscow apartment by Christmas.”

  He fixed her with another glare. “This assignment is too important to jeopardize for any reason. It is your job, this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, to convince Petroff that you are the woman he’s been looking for—not for anot
her tryst or fling, but for a long-term relationship.”

  Linnéa inclined her head. “Of course, sir. Petroff wants someone with whom he can share his life, a companion who is his intellectual equal and who shares his passion for technology. A woman who can be an asset to him in his social circle. An acquisition he can flaunt—not merely an escort or a temporary lover. To that end, I must cultivate the cerebral and companionship aspects of our relationship. I will, initially, resist intimate overtures. I mustn’t yield to him too quickly; the ‘courtship’ and pursuit must prove my worth to him.”

  Linnéa said nothing further as the tenderly nurtured prospect of seeing her sister again died.

  Alvarsson was right. She had a job to do, a crucial role to play. Nothing took precedence over the job; everything gave way to it. The job was all that mattered.

  The job was espionage.

  Linnéa was a spy, and her modus operandi was seduction.

  Her work was “appropriating” emerging technology and other classified information from America’s strongest rival.

  This week, after painstaking months of careful moves, her relationship with Petroff had taken a desired turn: He had sent Linnéa a short letter—an invitation—via her Stockholm office.

  Others read Linnéa’s mail before she did, another aspect of Marstead’s supervision of Linnéa’s cover. They would read and approve her reply, too, before it was sent.

  “How do you propose to respond to Petroff’s invitation?” Alvarsson asked.

  He held the single sheet between two fingers, re-reading it.

  Linnéa had scanned it once and memorized it.

  My dear Miss Olander,

  I find myself thinking on our last conversation in St. Petersburg, and I would enjoy the opportunity to continue it. The seaside in late summer holds many pleasures, and I have time to indulge in a holiday. I own a modest dacha on the shore of the Caspian, and my yacht is moored nearby. The sea is open to us for adventure, be it swimming, snorkeling, fishing, or bathing in the sun.

  If you were able to arrange your busy schedule so as to spend a week with me, I would send my private jet to fly you from Stockholm to Grozny on August 26. I would personally meet you in Grozny and escort you to my dacha.

  Miss Olander, if you accept my invitation, I promise to pamper you during the day, while we explore the delights of evening together. Whatever you wish will be my command: exquisite food and fine wines, music, dancing—and, perhaps, more. I hope to receive your reply soon.

  With great admiration,

  Vassili Aleksandrovich

  The letter’s tone was confident—as though all he needs do was crook his finger for her to come at his bidding—and he had signed the letter with his first and patronymic names, a familiarity. But arriving so close to Kari’s wedding in early September, the coveted invitation couldn’t have come at a worse time.

  “Miss Olander.” Alvarsson was staring at her.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “How do you propose to respond to Petroff’s invitation? August 26 is next Friday.”

  Linnéa cleared her throat. “I will accept his invitation with an apologetic limitation: I will only be able to stay the weekend—three nights. Work obligations require that I return to Stockholm Monday morning, the twenty-ninth.”

  Alvarsson nodded his approval. “A good strategy. Two days and three nights. Time enough to deepen the acquaintance but stave off sleeping with him. A taste of your companionship to leave him wanting more.”

  “Yes.”

  “Write your response to him, then go shopping; you’ll need a new wardrobe.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Chapter 1

  Late Summer, 2001,

  Lake Komsomolskoye,

  Northeastern Russia

  LINNÉA WRESTLED THE Gucci bag from the top of the bedroom closet. She opened it on the bed and began to pack. Her maid, Alyona, hovered nearby.

  “Mistress, what are you doing? May I be of help?”

  Linnéa knew that Alyona’s question, “What are you doing?” not her, “May I be of help?” was uppermost in the maid’s concern. Linnéa never went anywhere: not out of the dacha, not into another room, not even to the toilet without Alyona’s ubiquitous presence hovering nearby. And should Linnéa do anything unplanned or out of the ordinary—such as an unscheduled, unsanctioned walk along the lakeshore before breakfast? Alyona was charged with knowing (and reporting) Linnéa’s unexpected activity posthaste.

  “Since Vassili Aleksandrovich has been called back to Moscow, I have decided to drive into St. Petersburg this morning,” Linnéa replied without looking up. “I will be gone two nights only, at the most three, to check in at my office. My quarterly report is a month past due. I also wish to do a little shopping, perhaps spend a day at a spa.”

  Alyona’s fingers twined together; it was a nervous habit. “You gave me no notice, Mistress, or I would have packed your bag and been prepared to travel with you.”

  “I hardly require your services for such a short trip; when I have finished my business, I will return to our house outside Moscow. I wish you, in the meantime, to attend to our apartment in the city this afternoon. Ready it for Vassili Aleksandrovich, should he wish to sleep there this evening.”

  “But . . .” Alyona fidgeted further. “This is highly irregular, Mistress. Is . . . does Master Petroff know your plans?”

  For seven years, Linnéa had played Petroff’s game, and for seven years, she had played her own game, right beneath his nose. It had taken all her skills of subterfuge, her strength of will, and her loyalty to the Company, but she had succeeded beyond Marstead’s wildest dreams.

  If Petroff’s superiors were to ever learn the volume and importance of the intel the mistress to the Russian technology czar had “acquired,” and if the Security Council were to discover how she had, subsequently, conveyed that intel to a joint NATO intelligence alliance? It would rock the Russian government to its core.

  And would earn Petroff a slow, painful death in the dank basement torture and execution chambers of Lubyanka Prison.

  Yes, the rewards were well worth the risk, but the “game” had cost Linnéa. The price had been years of her freedom—a price she was no longer able to pay.

  She was exhausted. Worn. Frayed.

  Like finely spun silk stretched beyond its capacity, the network of threads holding her façade of composure together might rend and give way without warning, leaving in its place a gaping hole. The walls in her psyche separating farce from reality, madness from sanity, possessed the strength and resiliency of wet tissue paper.

  I’ve had enough.

  I want out.

  I need out.

  Linnéa had sublimated so much of her will and identity to Petroff’s control that she recently found herself wondering, Who am I? and, Why am I? And while those questions of being and purpose resounded in her head with growing intensity, another force bubbled within her. More powerful than responsibility or logic, it was the acute awareness of a growing emotion, a primal sensation that terrified her because she had so little control over it.

  Rage.

  Rage burned in her with a fervor that defied duty and obligation, that required every ounce of Linnéa’s training to stem—because she no longer had the desire to restrain or suppress it. Suppress it? No. Linnéa yearned to release the rage; she wanted it to burst from her mouth and from her hands. She imagined acts of violence against those who, at Petroff’s command, kept her on a leash . . . and she daydreamed of setting Petroff’s bed on fire—with him in it.

  How long can I continue to do this? How much more can I endure before I shatter and give myself away?

  “Mistress?” Alyona repeated.

  Linnéa’s Marstead sources had sussed out Alyona’s background: Petroff had handpicked the maid—a Belarusian close in age to Linnéa—from the ranks of the Red Army. Linnéa did not need Marstead’s sources to tell her that Alyona was Petroff’s first line of supervision and control over Linnéa. Th
e woman had been Linnéa’s “maid” and keeper for the past three years.

  During that time, Linnéa had hidden her real emotions from the woman, but it was getting harder as time wore on . . . and as the day of her deliverance drew near.

  This morning, Alyona’s impertinence came perilously close to igniting the rebellion Linnéa had envisioned too often of late. She unbent and fixed the woman with a cold stare. “Are you questioning me, Alyona? Perhaps I should slap the presumption from your mouth.”

  Oh . . . how good that felt!

  Linnéa had never before threatened Alyona. The woman’s expression froze, and her usually florid complexion drained to a mottled white.

  “I-I beg your pardon, Mistress. I will . . . I will leave you now to-to arrange the car and driver for you.”

  “You do that,” Linnéa whispered to the maid’s back.

  Careful! Oh, please be careful! the voice of sanity and self-preservation urged her, but she cared little at this point.

  She calmed and resumed her packing, readying herself for the coming confrontation. But moments after the maid conjured an excuse to leave the room, Linnéa anticipated that the man to whom she was companion and mistress would storm into the bedroom of their lavish cottage to confront her.

  Linnéa, get a grip on yourself! You cannot indulge the luxury of letting your anger bleed through; you must not rouse his suspicions.

  She was expecting his furious roar and did not flinch when he threw open the bedroom door, sending it crashing against the wall, rattling the cottage’s windowpanes.

  “What is this? Where the *blank* do you think you are going?”

  With the placid mien she had perfected during her years with Petroff firmly in place, Linnéa glanced up from her packing.

  “Ah, my love. There you are!” She tucked her makeup bag and a small box of jewelry into the suitcase. “Your being called back to Moscow today provides the perfect opportunity for me to hand in my quarterly report. As I told you last week and reminded you yesterday, I am overdue at my office.”