Laynie Portland, Retired Spy Read online

  Table of Contents

  Laynie Portland, Retired Spy

  Prologue

  Part 1: Linnéa

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Part 2: Marta

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Part 3: Elaine

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Postscript

  Books by Vikki Kestell

  Nanostealth

  A Prairie Heritage

  Girls from the Mountain

  About the Author

  Laynie Portland,

  Retired Spy

  ©2019 Vikki Kestell

  All Rights Reserved

  Faith-Filled Fiction™

  http://www.faith-filledfiction.com/

  http://www.vikkikestell.com/

  Laynie Portland,

  Retired Spy

  by Vikki Kestell

  Available in Print and eBook Format

  “Retirement” means something

  altogether different to a spy.

  It means someone in authority over you

  has decided that “coming in from the cold”

  is out of the question.

  It means you’d better run.

  LAYNIE PORTLAND HAS masqueraded as Swedish citizen Linnéa Olander for more than two decades, the last seven years as companion to Vassili Aleksandrovich Petroff, senior technology advisor to the Secretary of the Russian Federation’s Security Council.

  Life as Petroff’s mistress is lonely and difficult, even brutal, for Petroff has a pathological need to master what is “his.” But the woman Petroff knows as “Linnéa” is not the compliant, deferential woman he believes her to be. She is Laynie Portland—spy extraordinaire—and Laynie has stolen a wealth of secrets from Petroff and fed the treasure to her Marstead agency handlers.

  As Petroff’s abuse intensifies, Laynie fears for her life, and she petitions her agency to pull her out. Instead, her agency declares that she is too well-placed to decommission. Laynie is dismayed to learn that her Marstead chain of command would rather risk her death under Petroff’s hand than lose the valuable intel she provides.

  Out of options and faced with no viable alternative, Laynie runs.

  Enraged by her betrayal, Petroff vows to capture and punish her, a certain death sentence. And when Laynie disobeys orders, Marstead issues her a “retirement package”—a short walk off the deck of a ferry into the icy black rollers of the Baltic Sea.

  Pursued by Russian assassins and hunted by her own agency, Laynie scrambles, fights, and claws her way toward freedom—although she knows that it is only a matter of time before her pursuers overtake her. Desperate and despairing, Laynie is stunned to sense a higher presence at work, acting on her behalf. Could it be the God in whom her sister, Kari, trusts?

  No. Why would he help me, Laynie asks herself, given the life I have lived?

  Laynie Portland

  THEY RECRUITED AND trained her for their purposes. She turned out better than they expected.

  LAYNIE PORTLAND

  Book 1: Laynie Portland, Spy Rising—The Prequel

  Book 2: Laynie Portland, Retired Spy

  Book 3: Laynie Portland, Renegade Spy

  Book 4: Laynie Portland, Spy Resurrected, 06.02.20

  Acknowledgements

  ALL MY THANKS AND APPRECIATION

  to my esteemed teammates,

  Cheryl Adkins and Greg McCann.

  We are a team, and our fellowship

  is in Christ Jesus for his glory,

  to which he says and I add “amen.”

  “And behold, I am coming quickly,

  and my reward is with me,

  to give to everyone according to his work.”

  (Revelation 22:12, NKJV)

  VERY SPECIAL THANKS TO

  Lora Doncea

  for her invaluable contributions to this book.

  Cover Design

  Vikki Kestell

  Scripture Quotations

  THE HOLY BIBLE,

  NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®, NIV®

  Copyright ©1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.®

  Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.

  and

  New King James Version®.

  Copyright ©1982 by Thomas Nelson.

  Used by permission. All rights reserved.

  To My Readers

  This book is a work of fiction,

  what I term Faith-Filled Fiction™.

  While the characters and events are fiction,

  they are situated within the historical record.

  To God be the glory.

  Prologue

  Stockholm, Sweden, August 1994

  “YOU WANT TO TAKE A leave of absence? What, now? No. Nej. Absolutely not.”

  “I put in for the time weeks ago, sir. I was told my request was approved.”

  “And I’ve just withdrawn my approval. You cannot go anywhere while our most coveted target—Vassili Aleksandrovich Petroff—is within reach. Petroff is the payoff for your years of work, Linnéa! He’s not just a ‘big fish,’ he’s the catch of the century.”

  He scowled. “We lost our last opportunity to hook him—as I shouldn’t have to remind you. I can’t allow you to mess it up a second time. You must succeed.”

  Lars Alvarsson studied the woman standing before his desk. She was tall and slim but shapely in all the right places, even for a woman on the far end of her thirties. Milky-soft blue eyes appraised him from beneath a graceful upsweep of dark blonde hair.

  Withdrawing the approval for her leave of absence should have shocked and even angered her. Instead, not a flicker of emotion disturbed her serene expression. She projected intelligence. Composure. Confidence.

  It was the rare glimpse of vulnerability that set her apart in a room of beautiful women. It was the allure that drew intelligent and powerful men to her. Alvarsson had never been able to decide if the hint of fragility was her natural personality surfacing or if it was yet another facet of her skills—for this woman was, by far, the best actor he’d worked with in his pro­fessional capacity.

  Dressed in tasteful simplicity, she could have posed for a photo lay-out captioned, “Today’s Consummate Female Swedish Professional.” Except that she was not Swedish.

  Outside the tight circle of her Marstead super-visors, no one knew that she was born an American, recruited straight out of the University of Washington in her early twenties, transplanted to Sweden, and “attached” to a family that had lived for generations in a village not far from Uppsala.

  Her real name was not Linnéa Olander.

  It was Helena Grace Portland—Helena, pronounced heh-LAY-nuh—although she had always insisted that she be called “Laynie.”

  Laynie Portland.

  THE WOMAN LIFTED HER chin and met Alvarsson’s gaze. “I would not ask, but it is important. A family matter, sir.”

  My only sister is getting married in two weeks. I need to be with her on her wedding day.

  I prom
ised.

  She had kept her boss and his superiors ignorant of her sister’s existence. Alvarsson knew of Laynie’s adoptive parents in Seattle. He knew that her only brother and his wife had died in a car crash eight months ago, orphaning their two little ones. And, as far as he knew or cared, the children’s maternal grandparents had assumed guardianship of the children.

  He did not know about Kari, or that the children, Shannon and Robbie, were with her now.

  Kari, my sister. You searched for me. You hunted high and low, and you found me—after a lifetime apart!

  Laynie had taken pains to ensure that her watchful, jealous employers did not know about her sister.

  Kari was safer that way.

  The scowl Alvarsson turned on her was as unsympathetic as it was unyielding. “You don’t have a family, Linnéa, remember? With the exception of a single, covert holiday in the US once a year, you gave them up. That was the deal, and it hasn’t changed.”

  “Sir—”

  “No. Regardless of how careful we are, returning you to the States hazards blowing your cover and exposing the company. And the risks don’t even compare to the expense. To transition you from Stockholm to the US in your previous identity requires the allocation and coordination of many resources, and each operation sets Marstead back something in the realm of a hundred thousand dollars.”

  Marstead International. A respected and flourishing enterprise with a global reach but, unknown to a large slice of its employees, also a well-developed front for a joint American-NATO intelligence agency. Marstead’s largest European office was located in Stockholm, Sweden—even though Sweden was not a member of NATO, that nation preferring a neutral position in the world’s conflicts. On Marstead’s part, basing many of its operations out of Stockholm had been intentional, a means of functioning in plain sight and close proximity to the Soviet Union—now the Russian Federation.

  Alvarsson stabbed the desk with his finger. “We permitted you to take emergency leave to attend your brother’s funeral back in January. That was your vacation for the year. You aren’t owed more leave at this time—we’re still paying the price of your last one! During that unscheduled, three-week absence, Petroff’s ardor cooled, and we lost our window of opportunity to intercept the Russians’ new laser schematics.”

  “I am aware, sir.”

  As if I weren’t conscious of the setback. It has taken six months of tedious, cautious maneuvering to reignite Petroff’s interest.

  Alvarsson raised one eyebrow. “Are you, Linnéa? Do you grasp the long-term implications? If you do, if you care so much about those people in the States you call ‘family’—and if you are concerned at all for your own skin—then you know exactly why we cannot have you jaunting off to the States at this crucial juncture.”

  Alvarsson steepled his hands in a judicious manner. “Hear me on this, Olander. Our sources tell us that your Russian ‘friend’ already has his people doing a deep dive into your background. At this very moment his people are scouring your family tree, your education, your work history, your travel records. We cannot risk sending you to the States now.”

  He added, almost as an afterthought, “You don’t become the exclusive plaything of a formidable, highly placed Russian politician without coming under great scrutiny first.”

  Exclusive plaything.

  Inwardly, Linnéa flinched, but she never flicked an eye or moved a muscle. She understood her role. It was the daily bread of her job—guiding the selected “man of the hour” through the phases of infatuation, romance, affection, love, and trust. Followed by betrayal.

  Linnéa had accrued her sordid skills through the company’s rigorous tradecraft training program. She had learned well, and she was good, very good, at her job. Moreover, she had convinced herself long ago that excelling at this work was her only goal.

  She must always succeed.

  My life may have no value, but the information I gather does.

  WHEN THE SOVIET UNION dissolved in 1991, the Cold War had come to an end. In the Russian political and economic upheaval that followed, the city of St. Petersburg—Russia’s gateway to the Baltic Sea—became a thriving hub of Russian scientific discovery and technological innovation. St. Petersburg was rich in culture, and it was burgeoning with opportunity.

  St. Petersburg was Linnéa’s hunting ground.

  Marstead operated a branch office in St. Petersburg, and Linnéa traveled from Stockholm to St. Petersburg each month, ostensibly to work her Russian Marstead accounts. In reality, she spent her evenings trolling the nightclubs and hot spots where bored, overworked scientists, engineers, and inventors came to refresh themselves.

  She was cautious, and she chose her marks herself—that is, until Petroff arrived. Vassili Aleksandrovich Petroff, brilliant scientist, wealthy Russian powerbroker and politician, lived in Moscow and normally worked there. He breathed the rarified air of the Russian Federation’s Security Council on a daily basis, serving as Secretary Rushailo’s personal technology advisor.

  With Petroff’s appearance, Marstead’s interests shifted. Petroff was a man whose access to state secrets could satisfy Marstead’s intelligence needs for years. He possessed every quality Marstead desired, rolled into a single mark, but in Moscow he had been beyond Marstead’s reach.

  Then, just over a year ago, Petroff’s official duties had changed, requiring his occasional ad hoc presence in St. Petersburg, opening the door for Linnéa.

  According to Marstead’s 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.

  Approaching his mid-forties, 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.

  Linnéa’s superiors had pulled her off her other assignments and ordered her to focus her attentions on Petroff. Under Marstead’s orders, Linnéa studied Petroff. She “learned” the man so as to win her way into a long-term relationship with him. If Linnéa conducted herself well, if she ingratiated herself into the Russian’s life, Petroff was to be her next—and possibly her last—mark.

  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.

  But then her brother had died, and she had returned to the US for his funeral. She had been playing catch-up ever since her return to work.

  She’d had brief encounters with him in the months that followed, 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.

  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’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 believed she had, after that encounter, left him wanting more.

  Nevertheless, as Alvarsson intimated
, it was 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 deadly—mistake. Up close, his seemingly gentle, probing brown eyes had revealed a shrewd and calculating mind.

  Second, Petroff was possessive. Nothing he considered “his” was permitted outside his watchful control. If Linnéa succeeded in attaching herself to Petroff, the relationship would likely become restrictive. Even 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. Sure, the KGB had been replaced by the FSK, the Federal Counterintelligence Service, but Linnéa had heard whispers that the FSK itself might soon be going through yet another makeover and name change under the Russian Federation’s President, Boris Yeltsin. Regardless of its name, the FSK had inherited many of its players from the ranks of the former KGB.

  This meant Petroff was both connected and influential.

  Dangerous.

  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.

  When it came to her family, Linnéa was grateful for her agency’s stringent security constraints. Marstead strictly controlled Linnéa’s cover. Nothing—not love, not family, not choice—was allowed to compromise her Swedish identity.

  The final danger Petroff presented confused and unsettled Laynie. She found that Petroff appealed to her in a way that was . . . troubling. Petroff moved her. His nearness spoke to her in strange ways. And his boyish good looks and energy never ceased to raise her heart rate.