Laynie Portland Renegade Spy Page 2

  Laynie walked to the window. It afforded them a view of the hillside they’d traversed. Heavy woods flowed away from the cabin in all directions. Then she perceived the curious thickness of the window’s glass.

  Bulletproof?

  Such glass was more bullet-resistant than bulletproof. “Bulletproof” glass consisted of layers of laminated glass, polycarbonate, or acrylic. The outermost layer would be composed of a “soft” material that possessed a relatively elastic quality. When a bullet struck the window, that outermost layer would “stretch” upon impact to absorb and offset the force of the round before the bullet penetrated to the next layer—which would, in a perfect world, prevent the round from going farther, thus protecting the intended target standing only feet beyond.

  The composition and thickness of the fused materials dictated how resistant the glass was rated, the rating based upon the number and caliber of rounds for which it would provide protection. A bulletproof window was something of a delaying mechanism, saving the target from the first attack, giving him time to take cover and respond in kind.

  Of course, no glass, however bulletproof, ever stood up against a well-aimed RPG.

  Laynie came to herself. “What?”

  “I was saying, miss, that you have the second room at the top of the stairs to the left. The gentleman will have the room just beyond yours. A guard will stand post in the hallway while you sleep, and we have two guard-and-dog teams patrolling the grounds at all times.”

  “Nice.” The word emerged through her gritted teeth.

  Note to self, Laynie. Don’t try to sneak off the grounds. This place is designed both to keep attackers out and to keep inmates in. I wonder how many Soviet defectors have been “guests” here over the years?

  “Did you have an opportunity to sleep during your journey? If not, feel free to take your leisure now.”

  There was an accent down deep in Richard’s cordiality. Although he’d worked hard to eradicate it, Laynie’s fine-tuned ear caught it. British, she concluded, from the north country.

  “Thank you, no. I’m fine for the moment.”

  “Very well. As it is near enough morning, we could prepare breakfast for the two of you if that suits?”

  Tobin spoke. “That would be great. Thanks. And is there a private place where the lady and I might speak?”

  “Private place” translation? Secure and soundproof.

  “Of course. Our little conference room—which is swept regularly for bugs. Oh, and I have been asked to inform you that your things are on their way, miss, and will be delivered here by this evening.”

  “My things?”

  “Yes, I understand that Director Wolfe had his people empty your apartment and send along your personal belongings. He felt you would prefer to have your own things sooner rather than later.”

  Tobin’s brows lifted. “Impressively efficient.”

  Laynie didn’t react immediately.

  Impressively efficient. Meaning Marstead.

  Why, how kind of them.

  Hypocrites!

  She responded with biting sarcasm. “Ah, me! Would that Director Wolfe had been as ‘impressively efficient’ when I begged and pleaded to be pulled from the field—but I guess that was just too much for li’l ol’ me to ask—someone who’d given twenty-four years of loyal service to the director’s precious Marstead International.”

  Richard’s mouth opened in astonishment. Tobin, though, frowned, clearly troubled by the vehemence of her outburst.

  Laynie swiveled on her heel. “Which way to your secure conference room, Richard? I have the feeling Marshal Tobin here is dying to brief me on my new assignment.”

  Richard saw them to the conference room and left them there with a whispered, “I’ll just see to your breakfast, shall I?”

  Laynie sauntered around the small room—its furnishings composed of conference table, conference call equipment, and six matching chairs, all modern, totally belying the cabin’s rustic atmosphere.

  She flopped into a seat. “So, what’s up, Deputy Marshal Tobin? Whatcha got in your little Marstead folder for me?”

  Tobin took a chair more carefully, eyeing her. “Would you prefer that I call you Elaine instead of Marta?”

  Laynie shrugged. “Whatever. I’m sure it’ll change anyway, Tobin.”

  “Told you m’ friends call me Quince or Quincy.”

  “Ah, but are we friends, Tobin? That’s the burning question, isn’t it? I mean, if Marstead has co-opted you, how can I determine if you’re friend or foe?”

  Tobin slapped the folder on the table, and Laynie started at its sharp crack.

  Tobin didn’t notice.

  “I’m about t’ lose m’ temper with you, Marta. I hain’t done a thing t’ warrant your disdain. Fact is, last time we spoke, you called me and we talked fer a long spell, even tossed ’round dinner date ideas. What, ’zactly, have I done since then that is so all-fired stuck in your craw?”

  “What’s stuck in my craw? You joining up with Marstead, that’s what! And why does that bother me? Well! Let me tell you. Until quite recently, I’ve been deep undercover as the live-in mistress of one Vassili Aleksandrovich Petroff. I spent the last seven years of my life with that man. Do you know who I’m talking about, Tobin? Vassili Aleksandrovich Petroff? Name ring a bell?”

  Tobin slowly nodded.

  “Yeah, him. Filthy-rich Russian politician-slash-oligarch. Seven years! Oh, does the idea that I slept with him shock your tender sensibilities? Well, guess what? I spent the entirety of my Marstead career as a whore for their purposes. What do you think of that, huh, Tobin?”

  But Tobin didn’t want to meet her gaze, didn’t want to acknowledge that truth about her.

  So much for freaking dinner dates.

  “I stayed true to Petroff and my undercover legend through those seven years—never a misstep. I singlehandedly stole critical intel from him, more than you could imagine. It became easier to steal from him as time went on, as Petroff became inured to my presence and his personal OPSEC at home slackened.

  “But in order to remain in place, I had to tolerate Petroff’s tyrannical control over all aspects of my life—his say over every bite I ate, the clothes I wore, where I went, and the opinions I voiced—not to mention that I had to endure his insane jealousy, his temper, and his violence.”

  Tobin’s chin jerked up then, and she watched the pupils of his eyes flare.

  His outrage only added fuel to her anger. “Oh, dear me! Does it bother you, Quincy, that Petroff beat me? That I suffered his repeated physical abuse? Oh, yes, I knew that Petroff had a cold, unforgiving temper when I engaged with him. I knew that he often yelled and cursed when angry. I put up with his idiosyncrasies. I was able to deflect or tolerate them—until about two years ago when things abruptly changed.

  “On that momentous day, Petroff, while in a perfect fury, pinched me. Hard. Hard enough to bruise. Soon his pinches broke skin. Then, he slapped me. It was the first time, but certainly not the last. His slaps came more often after that, until he began to punch and hit me at will, knocking me down or intentionally raising bruises on my face, arms, abdomen.

  “I think he came to enjoy the abuse, the physical release of his anger. He particularly relished grabbing my hair and slamming my head into the nearest piece of furniture. Over the past year, he ‘gifted’ me with two concussions and six stitches—and his control and abuse grew worse by the day.

  “In the seven years I’d known him, six years lived with him in Moscow, I hadn’t had a single respite from the stress, hadn’t known a moment of peace or safety, not a second when I didn’t need to watch what I said or did, when I wasn’t hypervigilant, carefully gauging his moods, assuaging his ego, and juggling my survival on the tightrope of grand deception.

  “Nearly a year ago, I reported the violence to Marstead and requested they bring me in. The answer was, ‘No. Stay on task.’ Five months later, I told them I didn’t know how much longer I could maintain my cover. I was close to cracking under the pressure, you see, and worried that I would blow the entire charade. Did they listen to me? No—because the intel I passed to them was too valuable for them to forego. The intel was, apparently, more valuable than my sanity or my life.”

  Her mouth twisted up in anger, and Laynie looked away. She stared over Tobin’s shoulder into the wall behind him. Dropped into sullen silence.

  Tobin sucked his bottom lip between his teeth, chewed on it a moment, then said carefully, evenly, “I don’t know much about the Marstead organization yet, Marta. Wolfe briefed me on a few things with the assurance of more to come, but here’s the thing. I don’t know of any US government agency that treats their people the way you’ve described.”

  Laynie shook her head. “But that’s just it, Tobin. Marstead isn’t a US government agency. Not officially. We—they—are self-financed through the company’s legit business enterprises, so no congressional oversight.

  “Also, it’s a joint US–NATO intelligence-gathering venture focused on acquiring intel on emerging aeronautics and, specifically, weapons technology—and I have fed them thousands of Soviet and Russian secrets via Petroff’s swaggering braggadocio and lax personal vigilance.”

  “And you petitioned Marstead to bring you in? Twice?”

  “Yes. After waiting months for a response to my second request, I had an opportunity to meet personally with Nyström, my direct supervisor in St. Petersburg. I confronted him, demanded an answer to my request. He had the gall to tell me he hadn’t taken my request seriously! He ‘suggested’ that I buck up, go back to Petroff, and stick it out—even though he could, with his own eyes, see the bruises creeping out from my hairline and the blood in my eye from Petroff’s latest fit of rage.

  “I told him I c
ouldn’t go back, that I was losing it. When I demanded an official answer to my request, Nyström had an immediate and inexplicable change of attitude. He quite miraculously pulled new orders for me from his desk drawer. What were those new orders, you ask? Show up in Stockholm for a morning meeting with my former handler, Alvarsson. Take the afternoon train to Tallinn, Nyström said, and catch the night ferry to Stockholm.”

  Tobin looked confused. “And?”

  “It was a ruse, Tobin, a means of getting me on the ferry. Nyström had orders to feel me out, to test how resolved I was to quit my field assignment. Someone in my chain of command had already decided that if I showed myself determined to leave Petroff, then I would be deemed ‘unstable’ and, therefore, a security risk to the Marstead intelligence network. An unacceptable risk.”

  “And that meant . . .”

  “That meant I was about to have a ‘tragic accident’ during the crossing from Tallinn to Stockholm. Marstead agents would ensure that I ‘slipped and fell’ overboard during the crossing. Whoops! Problem solved!”

  Her voice rose to a near shout. “Marstead issued a network-wide hit on me, Quincy!”

  He swallowed. “Are you . . . how could you be certain that was their plan?”

  Laynie’s reply was all ice. “I have an ally within Marstead who confirmed the order, warned me not to insist that they pull me from the field—that if I did, they intended to kill me. Well, his warning came too late. I’d already triggered the order. So, I did the only thing left to me—I took matters into my own hands and left Petroff that day, but I also left Marstead. Resigned. I thought I had a foolproof ‘mutually assured destruction’ insurance policy in place. Enough dirt to keep both the Russians and Marstead at bay.”

  She shook her head. “But they kept after me anyway. I was okay the first couple weeks, until I reached Paris, intent on flying to the States. That’s when I spotted a Marstead team in the airport and was forced to change plans. I evaded the team and fled to London on the channel train and boarded the flight to New York the next morning. That’s when I met you.”

  Tobin looked up. “I told you before, Marta. God put you on the flight. If he hadn’t, everyone on the plane would have died that day, as well as hundreds or thousands on the ground.”

  “That may be so, but it sure didn’t end my problems. Somehow Petroff’s assassin, Zakhar, discovered I was on that flight and followed me to Moncton when we were rerouted. Remember Lieutenant Paul Moreau?”

  Tobin shot her a dark look. “I do. The news reported that someone murdered him and his wife. What do you know about it?”

  “I know it was Zakhar who killed the Lieutenant and his wife. He assumed the Lieutenant’s identity and nearly caught me several times on my way to Nebraska. Every step I took, I knew the Russians and Marstead were hunting me, closing in.”

  “But it ended well, didn’t it?”

  “Ended well? You mean I survived despite my own agency’s perfidy? Last night, Director Wolfe told me the retirement order came from one of his European deputy directors, that it was an ‘unsanctioned’ hit. Talk about passing the buck! He insists he knew nothing of the order, but I’ve learned my lesson. I can’t trust a word he says.”

  Laynie’s anger petered out. “I don’t know who I can trust anymore—and that, all that, Tobin? That’s what’s stuck in my craw.”

  She lapsed again into that thousand-yard stare over Tobin’s shoulder.

  “I’m having trouble understanding, Marta. Not the Russians pursuing you part, but the retirement order bit. We . . . we Americans don’t do that to our own people.”

  Laynie shrugged. “Well, sure. The Marshals and FBI don’t and, supposedly, the CIA doesn’t. But, like I said, Marstead doesn’t operate by US agency rules. They are a law unto themselves.”

  She uttered another sardonic laugh. “Welcome to the world of Marstead, Tobin. A word of warning, Quince? Watch your back.”

  It was Tobin who flinched this time.

  A knock sounded on the conference room door, putting an end to their conversation for the moment. Tobin opened the door to Richard, who wheeled a cart into the room.

  “There now,” Richard said, “I have a hot, nutritious breakfast for the two of you, sure to perk you up. Scrambled eggs, fried potatoes, bacon, buttered toast, honeydew melon, and fresh coffee. Oh, yes! Chilled OJ, too.”

  He positioned place settings before them and transferred the covered dishes to the table.

  “Press star 7 on the phone’s keypad if you require anything further, anything at all.”

  “Thanks, Richard,” Tobin answered.

  Laynie said nothing. She uncovered the food, served herself a small helping of eggs and fruit, and began to eat.

  Tobin, fixing a dubious eye on Laynie, filled his plate—there was more than enough for the two of them. “Hey, Marta, eat up. Have a few slices of toast and bacon. Looks to me like you’ve lost some weight since I last saw you. Too much, I think.”

  Laynie glanced up and blinked stupidly. On her third blink, her chair flew backward, crashed into the wall, and fell over. She stood where her chair had been, threw her fork onto the table, and screamed, “Don’t you dare tell me what to eat or how much to eat! Don’t you *bleeping* dare!”

  Tobin gaped. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry—you’re right, completely right. What you eat is not my business. It’s no one’s business. I apologize. I truly do.”

  Her body shaking, Laynie stared down at the table.

  “Marta. Please forgive me?”

  Still trembling, she picked up her chair and dropped into it. “Sure, pal. Whatever. Just keep your *blank* opinions to yourself.”

  Despite the thick haze of tension in the room, Tobin continued eating. Laynie alternately picked at her eggs or stabbed bites of melon again and again without ever putting them in her mouth. She remained angry, but when Tobin polished off his plate, she cleared the table, stacking the dishes on the cart, and resumed her seat.

  “I need to tie up a couple of loose ends, Tobin. I don’t want them weighing on me going forward.”

  “Okay. Let’s hear them. I’ll do what I can.”

  She folded her hands on the table and stared at them. “I made some friends after I left Moncton and became Elaine Granger. Bought a motor home from a sweet retired couple, Shaw and Bessie Bradshaw. They’re precious people, Tobin. When they found out Zakhar was hunting me, they helped me anyway. After we parted company, we kept in touch by text. But if they don’t hear from me soon, I think they will be worried sick. Afraid Zakhar’s found me.”

  “You’re off the grid now, no longer Elaine Granger. What exactly is it you want me to do about these people, Marta?”

  “I know Director Wolfe won’t allow me to have direct contact with them . . . ever again, but he could arrange two things that would, I believe, relieve their minds . . . and mine.”

  Tobin opened the folder to a clean sheet of notepaper. “I can’t promise anything, but I can pass along your requests. Give me the details.”

  Laynie recited the Bradshaw’s mobile phone number. “They are staying with their son in Penticton, B.C. If someone could call them . . . or show up on their doorstep and let them know I’m safe? Tell them thank you for everything, and say goodbye for me—”

  Laynie’s throat closed on her. She had to stop talking and wait a moment for her emotions to relax their hold on her throat. “I bought Daisy from the Bradshaws, you see, but had to abandon her along the way, and—”

  “I’m sorry, you bought what from them? A daisy?”

  “I bought their old motor home, sort of a retro hippy mobile. Shaw and Bessie named her Daisy. I had to leave Daisy and cross the US–Canadian border without her. Since I never filed the bill of sale, Daisy legally still belongs to them. I’d like for Shaw to retrieve her from where I left her. Find her a good home.”

  She dictated the directions to Bart and Liz’s bait shop, explaining that Bart had the keys to Daisy.

  “I’ll pass your requests along to Director Wolfe’s aide. Again, no promises, but I’ll press their importance as much as I can.”

  Having made her requests, Laynie felt a small measure of relief, but only for a moment.

  “Yeah, I get it. No promises, but thanks anyway. So, what’s next, Tobin?” The anger that had boiled over minutes before heated again and scorched her words with sarcasm.