She chuckled softly. “Despite how I enjoy the lake and the forest, I cannot be on holiday forever, you know.”
“I told you to quit that job, Linnéa! For the past five years I have ordered you to quit—and still you defy me!”
He towered over her, crowding her personal space. Glowering. Shaking with rage, fists clenching and unclenching.
Linnéa did not shrink; she straightened and faced him. She was a tall woman herself, but her uplifted chin scarcely reached his shoulders. She placed her hands upon his chest and smiled her best smile—the one that dimpled both sides of her mouth in innocent, girlish fashion. She knew what was needed and looked past his fury, deep into his eyes, disclosing her soul to him. Offering him deference. Making herself submissive. Acquiescent. Adoring.
“You know my heart belongs to you, lyubimaya moya, my love. My job is but a distraction for those times when we cannot be together. Please do not deny me this little thing, this trifling diversion.”
“Deny? You speak of deny? I have denied you nothing, Linnéa. I have given you everything a woman could wish for—a grand house outside of Moscow, an extravagant apartment in the city, this lakeside dacha, another cottage by the sea, a yacht, and money to shop the finest stores in the world. So! So, what have I ever denied you? Eh?”
Only my freedom, Linnéa thought. But after all these years in service to my country, I shall soon take back my life.
Linnéa leaned into his chest, lifting her chin higher, baring her neck and making herself vulnerable to him. She never pled or wheedled, for Petroff despised whining in any form. Rather, she “capitulated” her desires, providing him the opportunity to bestow his munificence upon her.
As a benevolent tyrant.
A tyrant, nonetheless.
“Why, Vassili Aleksandrovich, you yourself told me last evening that you must leave for Moscow this morning, nyet? And after you have gone, what is here for me? The days . . . and the nights will be unbearable. And you will be busy for long hours in Moscow—unable even to come home and sleep with me, will you not? This checking in with my company will amuse and divert me a little from your absence. So, then: I shall complete this business, shop a bit, perhaps pamper myself at a spa, and then come home to await your return.”
He searched her face, searching it for deceit and finding nothing but what Linnéa wanted him to see. Then he could not help himself. His arms came up and wrapped themselves around her; he pressed her close to his chest—not in selfless affection, but in the pride and power of ownership—for whatever Petroff “loved,” he had a pathological need to possess completely. Linnéa was a beautiful, intelligent, and successful woman, a jewel Petroff owned body and soul, a pearl he flaunted before the world as his and his alone.
“It is true that I have been summoned to a special assembly of the Security Council. Some emergency of state over rumors of an impending attack on high-value targets of unknown number, the information coming to us via a source I have little confidence in. However, Secretary Rushailo himself wishes me on hand for my technological advice, should he require it.”
As with many powerful men who felt their vaunted positions were unassailable, Petroff’s pride was his weakness. He trusted his patrons and inner circle and believed the rules of operational security applied only to those peons below him. In his efforts to augment his self-importance, he was frequently not as circumspect as his position warranted.
Linnéa’s unspoken opinion was that Russian politicians on the Security Council and their advisors lived in a state of perpetual agitation, reminding her of the characters in a folk story who cried over and over, “The sky is falling! The sky is falling!” Nevertheless, she assiduously gathered and passed on to her superiors the crumbs Petroff’s carelessness let drop.
Feigning concern, Linnéa’s brow furrowed. “An attack? Will you be safe, my love?”
“Da, without a doubt. I surmised from the call that it was not a threat toward the Motherland, and I am not certain how much credence I give the intelligence—coming through Afghani sources—but I cannot decline the summons. However, if the situation clears quickly, I will return here, perhaps as early as tomorrow evening.”
Still chewing on where the supposed attack might be aimed and hoping to pass the nugget on to her superiors without delay, Linnéa pouted. “Ah, my darling! We both know our holiday is over, do we not? For the sake of the Council’s safety, they will keep you in seclusion for a week, perhaps two. I might just as well return to Moscow and wait for your return to our house or apartment—equally alone in either place—or . . . or I can take advantage of the present crisis to visit my office in St. Petersburg so that, afterward, my time is all yours as it should be. I hope you will not say no, Vassi.”
Linnéa willed her eyes to moisten just a little and blinked to push the gleam of unshed tears to the corners of her eyes. “This job helps me bear the lonely hours until we are together again.”
Petroff’s grip loosened marginally. “Marstead knows how vital my connections and favor are to their success in Russia. They know better than to hold you responsible that I wish you near me at all times.”
“Just so! But your superiors will keep you sequestered until the present crisis passes, and while they keep you, I cannot be with you, can I? It is only two nights in St. Petersburg, Vassi, zvezdochka, my star—two nights I would be alone in our bed, without you, missing you.
“Save me from such longing, Vassili Aleksandrovich! I shall drive into the city this morning and check in with Marstead, pro forma. Nyström will give me my next assignment, and I shall return to you with another list of upcoming technological exhibits you and I will enjoy visiting and scientific breakthroughs on which I am to write my reports. This I do for them every quarter, as you know—although my present report is quite past due.”
He pursed his lips and regarded her, hovering between admiration and puzzlement, even as his anger slipped a little. “Truly, I do not understand you sometimes, Linnéa. You do not need this ‘job’ as you call it.”
“Need? No, I need for nothing, Vassili Aleksandrovich, nothing except you. You have made me your queen, and you shower me with luxury and your love.” Linnéa dimpled again. “You even allow me my insignificant pet projects.”
The former intelligence officer of the now defunct KGB studied her, finding nothing duplicitous in her words or expression. Only adulation. He sighed. “I wish you always near me, Linnéa.”
“Dal'she ot glaz—blizhe k serdtsu. Further from the eye—closer to the heart, my darling. These infrequent trips to my office in St. Petersburg and my little assignments away from you? They keep our loving fresh . . . and thrilling, do they not?”
She winked and whispered the promise of something racy she would buy in St. Petersburg and model for him when they were reunited in Moscow.
He grinned, then roared a laugh in response.
Linnéa grinned back, even as she wondered how much longer such wiles would work on him. So much of her “free” time was given over to the beauty treatments and rigorous workout schedule that kept her body as lithe, youthful, and attractive as possible despite the inexorable advance of age.
Her looks and sweet compliance were the sole means by which she navigated the labyrinth of Petroff’s shifting moods: cloying, spiteful control at one end of the spectrum and lavish overindulgence at the other.
With fits of cruelty and physical abuse sprinkled between.
He sobered and cleared his throat. “Are you all right, Linnéa? I did not hurt you, did I? If only you would not anger me so . . .”
Linnéa’s smile did not falter. “I am yours, Vassi. I did not mean to displease you. I am sorry.”
She had iced the lump on her temple. Makeup would cover the bruise, but she could do nothing for the blood that had seeped into the sclera in the outside corner of her left eye. Would he refuse to let her appear in public because of it?
“What of this?” He caressed her temple with his thumb, indicating the blood-red s
tain in her eye.
She shrugged. “It is nothing. Everyone has, on occasion, scratched or poked themselves while sleeping and wakened to a reddened eye, is this not so?”
He grunted, over his “remorse.” “Da, this is so. And you have this report of yours ready? It will project Russia’s technological advances in a favorable light?”
“But of course.” Linnéa smiled once more, knowing she had won. She gestured toward the portfolio atop her laptop, both lying on the bed next to her handbag. “Do you wish to review the report before I hand it in?”
He had already seen it—Linnéa knew Alyona had slipped him the portfolio, then returned it.
Because nothing I do goes unreported.
“No, but if you insist upon this trip, Alyona must accompany you,” Petroff announced. “I will also send Zakhar with you. It is not right for the woman of such an important Russian man to traipse about the country without a proper escort.”
“Alyona’s assistance will be welcome, and Zakhar’s help with the traffic and crowds of St. Petersburg will be appreciated.”
Linnéa knew how to “negotiate” with Petroff to procure the best situation she could hope for. Although she had expected to be strapped with Alyona and a driver, she had harbored a very small hope that she might manage to leave without the company of Zakhar, the dour, middle-aged lout who, like Alyona, dogged Linnéa’s every step.
Zakhar was ex-Soviet military and loyal only to Petroff—another element of Petroff’s elaborate, layered ring of supervision and control over her.
Dimitri Ilyich Zakhar! How she hated Petroff’s single-minded lapdog—she hated how he stared at her, undressing her with his eyes, the red birthmark that ran from his throat up the right side of his cheek darkening with lust as he watched her.
Linnéa shuddered.
“And you will keep your mobile phone with you at all times so I may reach you?”
Only one response was acceptable.
“Certainly, Vassili.”
The phone was the electronic leash that tethered her to him. She dared go nowhere without it or ever turn it off. And woe be to her if she neglected to keep it charged!
Linnéa would check in with her St. Petersburg office later today, and she would find out if Alvarsson and his Marstead superiors had approved her request to quit the field and “come in from the cold.” If so, Nyström, her St. Petersburg boss, would deploy resources to facilitate her escape from Zakhar and Alyona’s overwatch, either this afternoon or, at the latest, tomorrow.
I am so close to freedom! I can—I must—keep it together a little longer.
Linnéa tried not to envision a scenario in which her Company superiors turned down her request. The possibilities crept in anyway.
What if they will not pull me out? If they insist that I stay?
But I cannot maintain this façade forever. I am nearly forty-six years old. True, Petroff does not keep me only for sex. No, and he has never been ‘faithful’ to me in that regard—it was not agreed to. But I know he is growing restless, dissatisfied with me! The beatings come more frequently, and he is less remorseful after.
How long before he perceives that I am aging, before he no longer wants me? How long until he finds a younger, more accomplished woman, and his admiration for me pales in comparison?
If he were to take a new mistress, would he simply allow me to leave? To return to Sweden to live a quiet life? I cannot believe so: I am too well known in his circles; it would prick his pride to say I returned to Sweden.
If—no, when—he drops me for another woman, he will not let me go—for he would not be able to tolerate the idea, even the remote possibility, that another man might have me. He could not abide that. I would, I think, simply disappear . . . as so many of his enemies have.
She also played out a terrifying scenario in her thoughts where Petroff held her in tender embrace and whispered in her ear, “Do you think me so naïve, kotyonok moya, my kitten? I have known from the beginning who you were: a spy for the Americans and their lackeys.
“I have enjoyed our little game all this time—letting you ‘find’ important papers I brought home, giving you access to just enough emerging intel to make your superiors believe you were an invaluable asset that helped America to win the Cold War. I let you believe these things—all while feeding you dezinformatsiya, disinformation we wished the U.S. to act upon—as they have.”
She needed no imagination for what would follow such a conversation.
Linnéa’s breath caught in her throat. I have waited too long already; it must be today!
But what if her superiors did not approve her request? Slipping away from both Zakhar and Alyona in St. Petersburg—without assistance, without others running interference to aid her—would not prove easy. On her own, she might fail . . . and then?
Then Petroff would realize that her adoration was and always had been a sham.
Linnéa experienced a sudden insight: how close Lake Komsomolskoye was to Lake Ladoga, the largest freshwater lake in Europe—one hundred thirty-six miles long, nearly eighty-six miles wide, seven hundred fifty-five feet deep at its lowest point.
How many weighted bodies lined the icy depths of the lake?
She could not stop the shiver that rippled over her.
“Are you cold, my sweet?”
Think!
“No, Vassi, but I have just now sensed . . . something. An encroaching evil.”
“What!”
Petroff, for all his sophistication and scientific acumen was, like many Russians, incredibly superstitious. On rare occasions, Linnéa affected to have received premonitions—forewarnings that Petroff heeded more seriously than she had believed possible. Caught now, having allowed her dark thoughts to surface, Linnéa used this ruse to distract him.
“Only an impression, Vassili Aleksandrovich . . . although it disturbs me.”
“What is it? You must tell me!”
“Da, da. It was . . .” Think! Think!
“It-it was about the train . . . your train! Oh, I am suddenly frightened, Vassi! Perhaps you should . . . take a later train, not the morning one.”
“Zakhar! Zakhar, come quickly!”
Petroff’s roar deafened Linnéa. She withdrew from his embrace and Petroff, distracted by her presentiment, released her.
“I am here, Vassili Aleksandrovich.”
“I will take the automobile to Moscow, not the train—even though the journey will take a little more time. Tell the driver to ready himself.”
Zakhar slid his eyes toward Linnéa. “And Miss Olander?”
“You will call for a rental car and escort her to her office in St. Petersburg; take Stepan to drive for you. Also, Alyona will accompany Miss Olander as usual,” Petroff commanded.
Linnéa swore in silence. She had, through painstaking machinations, acquired her own key to Petroff’s car: If Marstead’s decision were to go against her in St. Petersburg, she was prepared to appropriate Petroff’s luxurious automobile—to elude Zakhar, if ever-so-briefly—in order to give herself a head start.
A rental car quashed that hope.
Linnéa berated herself for her mistake. Stupid, stupid, stupid! If Marstead would not help her, she would be forced to access more “creative” methods of escape.
Petroff turned to Linnéa. “You will not mind that I take the car? The rental will be suitable?”
Maintaining a docile, compliant countenance, she replied, “Mind? Not at all, Vassi. Naturally, you must take the car; I wish you to be safe.”
He preened under her care and concern. “I will leave sooner than planned, then.” Petroff left their room, shouting for his driver and valet.
Before Alyona returned to interfere, Linnéa opened her Bottega Veneta handbag and poured its contents out onto the bed. Marstead had altered the roomy purse for her needs. Linnéa had designed the customizations herself.
Her fingers found a small tab in the seam of the purse’s bottom lining. She tugged. With a soft “snic
k,” the inside layer of the purse’s flat underside came free.
From beneath her pillow, she withdrew a thin case containing two CD-ROM disks. She placed the case flat on the purse’s bottom and fit the loose inner layer over it. She pressed it until it locked in place with an imperceptible click. Gathering her purse’s contents, Linnéa dumped them back into her purse. With her plans in place, she closed her suitcase, zipped it closed, and unbent.
Either today or tomorrow, she would break free . . . or she would die trying.
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Laynie Portland, Spy Rising—The Prequel Page 22