Laynie Portland, Spy Rising—The Prequel Page 3

  Trammel and Angela led them into a room just off the lodge’s great room. They took seats (assigned by their color) at a table before a whiteboard.

  Trammel spoke. “You have chosen to proceed with this weekend’s activities. You are taking a chance on us—and we are taking a chance on you. It is time now to codify our spoken agreement in writing.

  “I will ask you to sign a raft of permission paperwork including a binding nondisclosure agreement—a contract. Whether you sign the NDA or, upon further reflection, choose not to, you are, due to your verbal agreement, already under its legal restrictions.

  “Should you speak of this weekend, employing verbiage other than the specified wording we will provide to you, you can expect us—and we promise—to rain hellfire down upon you and yours. I further promise that you will have difficulty finding meaningful employment in your chosen discipline if you break the terms of our agreement. Have I made myself clear?”

  Laynie glanced at the other three candidates and noted their shock and stillness, but Trammel’s threat had not taken her by surprise.

  Only because I’ve already construed what Marstead really is, obscured by its elaborate façade.

  Trammel offered again, “Does anyone wish to be excused at this time? No?”

  Angela had closed the door to the classroom when they entered; now she locked it. She then placed a pen and a stack of papers before each of the four candidates.

  Trammel turned the room’s white board around and pointed to the list of documents printed on it in black erasable marker.

  “The first document is the nondisclosure agreement. You have seven minutes to read and sign the NDA,” Trammel said, pointing to the board.

  Laynie placed the NDA before her and perused the first page. Huh? If I break the terms of this nondisclosure agreement, I can be brought up on charges in a closed, secret court and serve a prison term outside American jurisdiction?

  The idea of prison was concerning in itself, but what was more concerning was where it would be served.

  Why outside American jurisdiction? How is that even legal?

  She read further and, without shifting her head, side-eyed her fellow candidates. They, too, were considering the unusual terms they read.

  Well, I know how to keep my mouth shut. That’s the deal. That’s all I need to do at this point—agree to keep my own mouth shut.

  She read and initialed each page where indicated, then signed and dated the document, then turned it over and placed it to the side of the stack.

  Eventually Trammel announced, “You have one minute remaining to complete the NDA.”

  Three of them had finished; the fourth, Blue, fiddled with his pen, but had not put it to paper.

  Trammel spoke again. “Time’s up. If you wish to decline the NDA, please exit the room now.”

  Without a word, Blue stood and left. Angela followed him out. The three remaining candidates looked at each other and shrugged, but Laynie noticed that Red was blinking her eyes more often than was normal.

  Trammel collected the NDAs. “The next document gives us permission to . . .”

  During the next forty minutes, Laynie read and signed document after document, giving her consent to be evaluated, as Trammel said, in every manner she could conceive of.

  When Laynie’s permissions were initialed, signed, dated, and neatly restacked, Angela collected them, and Trammel announced dinner.

  The meal was a quiet, efficient affair. Trammel sat at the head of the table; the three candidates ate without speaking—given there wasn’t a single topic they could talk about.

  Black tried anyway. “How ’bout those Yankees?” he quipped.

  One stony glance from Trammel shut him down.

  Laynie toyed with her chicken Alfredo. Tough room.

  Following dinner, Trammel again herded them into the classroom.

  “You are here as potential employees of Marstead International. Marstead is a global aeronautics and technology firm, but you may, rightly so, suspect that Marstead is much more than that. Let me tell you what we are not.

  “We are not FBI, CIA, NIA, DIA, or any shirttail relation. We are neither a governmental nor law enforcement organization. You won’t find us on any U.S. federal org chart or budget line. So, what are we?

  “Marstead International is a bona fide, profit-making company. As such, we are self-funded, not subject to Congressional oversight. Of Marstead’s some 6,700 employees worldwide, approximately seventy-four percent are classed Beta, meaning they know nothing more of Marstead’s activities than the profile Marstead projects to the world.

  “Marstead’s ‘other’ activities and its affiliations? Marstead is an unofficial U.S./NATO partnership. As such, we are concerned with the acquisition of emerging technologies and with foreign intelligence gathering. Our goal is to keep the NATO Alliance strong; our focus is on those nations whose ideologies and weapons production pose a threat to the free world. I refer, specifically, to the Soviet Union, although other Communist nations such as Cuba, North Korea, and China are also on our list.

  “Twenty-six percent of Marstead’s employees are designated Alpha. The greater number of Alpha employees are support personnel for our covert activities; support personnel possess need-to-know information about and access to Marstead’s mission and field personnel, but they are not intelligence operatives. If you wash out this weekend or later, during training, we may offer you a position in our support area.

  “The remaining small percentage of Alpha employees, those on the front lines of our mission, will be employed either directly by Marstead or indirectly through a Marstead holding company. Holding companies provide our intelligence network with additional levels of security.

  “Alpha operatives are tasked with doing direct business with these aforementioned nations under the umbrella of legitimate tech transfer. Our operatives provide us with a clear picture of the advancements of our enemies—particularly where those advancements affect or have the potential to affect weapons design or delivery.

  “Finally, Marstead Alpha personnel in the field will acquire the technologies of our enemies, using all means necessary. In short, if you are selected as an Alpha field operative, you will be a spy.

  “So, let me be clear: Marstead Alpha employees in the field are intelligence operatives of the highest caliber. To achieve this status, you must work through four stages, excelling at each: vetting, evaluation, initial training, and probationary training.

  “We have already done your background checks, and you have passed the vetting stage. If, after this weekend’s evaluation process, you are selected, you will return here for fourteen weeks of intense training.

  “If you pass your initial training and are nominated to probationary status, we will relocate you to your country of operation, and Marstead will continue to train you as you take on assignments and we increase your responsibility. Finally, as a fledgling agent, we will support you and provide the cover, backing, and tools you will need to perform and succeed at your tasks.”

  Laynie’s body tingled with an unanticipated thrill.

  Trammel looked at the three candidates. “That is all for now. Get a good night’s sleep—but I remind you: No sharing of personal information. No names, not where you live or where you went to school, not even your favorite flavor of ice cream. If discretion is the better part of valor, you might consider a frank “no-talk policy” the best idea while you are here.

  “Last instruction: You are to eat nothing after midnight tonight. Meet back here for a fasting blood draw at 0700 hours; breakfast will follow your blood draw.”

  He nodded at them. “Dismissed.”

  Black, Red, and Laynie trudged up the stairs to their rooms.

  They did not speak to each other, not even to say, “Goodnight.”

  THE ENTIRETY OF SATURDAY morning was spent in physical exams. After having three tubes of her blood drawn, Laynie joined Black and Red for breakfast. The three of them did not talk during the m
eal, but they did heave the occasional sigh and exchange brief, appraising looks heavy with shared questions, concerns, and messages—all without making a sound.

  “I’m nervous; are you?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “What have we gotten ourselves into?”

  “Dunno. Will you stay?”

  “I will if you will.”

  “Guess I will, too.”

  When they finished eating, they were called away by separate nurses and walked to a clinic-like building behind the lodge.

  Laynie’s nurse took an extensive physical history from Laynie followed by her temperature and blood pressure. A tech escorted her to radiology for a chest x-ray. Laynie was then seen by a doctor who tested her reflexes, looked in her eyes and ears and down her throat, listened to her heart, lungs, and digestive tract, and reviewed her x-ray.

  Next, a tech escorted her to an exercise room. He recorded Laynie’s shoe size, hat size, and other clothing measurements, after which he wired Laynie with a handful of electrodes and set her running on a treadmill.

  “You’ll run for a total of forty minutes. Warm up with a light jog during the first five minutes. I will time you. Then I’d like you to move up to your optimal “cruising” pace for twenty-five minutes, after which you will run flat-out for an additional five minutes, and walk the final five to cool down.”

  Laynie jogged four to five miles per hour as instructed. She moved up to an easy eight miles per hour and maintained it for twenty-five minutes. She ran “flat-out” for five minutes hitting ten-plus miles per hour—and was grateful when she could slow to a walk for the last stint.

  The electrodes attached to her body conveyed her heartrate and respiration to a printer that spit them out in jagged lines. The tech marked on the paper as it printed, nodding as he did so. “Good,” he said, several times.

  Her last clinic appointment was with a female doctor.

  “Hello, Miss Green. I’m Dr. Gupta, and I’m a gynecologist. First, I’ll take your gynecological history, then I’ll be doing your pelvic exam.”

  Dr. Gupta gestured to a chair. Laynie sat down.

  Gupta looked up from Laynie’s chart. “Are you sexually active, Miss Green?”

  Laynie flushed. If there was one thing her mother had drilled into her daughter, it was modesty.

  “Laynie, our bodies are sacred things, made special by God for to glorify him. We keep our bodies pure and holy a’cause he is pure and holy. A lady is modest; she don’ uncover hersel’. She don’ show off her body to ’tract men. An’ a good man will look for a lady who knows she’s special and who has saved all her specialness for only one man, her husband.”

  Between tight lips, Laynie muttered, “No.”

  “Are you a virgin?”

  It was the first point in the exams where Laynie had balked. “Why do you ask?”

  “Do you wish to exit the program?”

  “What?”

  “You were read into this weekend’s activities, yes? You gave your permission for them?”

  “I did. I merely asked why you need this information.”

  Dr. Gupta put down her pencil and Laynie’s chart; she faced Laynie and assumed a frank manner.

  “Miss Green, female agents have what one might call, uh, tools—powerful tools—at their disposal, tools male agents do not have. Do you follow me?”

  Laynie kept herself from blinking or looking away; she assumed an impartial expression. “You’re talking about sex. Seduction?”

  Gupta nodded. “That’s right. If you clear the exams and are selected for agent training, if you pass that training, and if you are hired, you may be encouraged to use the tools at your disposal to accomplish your missions. Will that be a problem?”

  Laynie faked dispassionate consideration, but inside, the morals of her childhood warred a heated battle over the doctor’s loaded question.

  “Laynie, our bodies are sacred things, made special by God for to glorify him.”

  But behind her mama’s words, she heard an insidious whisper, How does any of that concern you? Do you think you are ‘special’ to God? That you could ever glorify him?

  She didn’t disagree with the whispers, but something stubborn on the inside would not capitulate to the voice’s hopeless message, either. Instead, she shunted it aside to deal with the immediate issue in front of her.

  If I say, ‘yes, it’s a problem,’ will they scrub me from the program?

  Laynie wanted to stay. She knew she could pass the exams. More than that, she was keen to move on to the actual training.

  She repeated Doctor Gupta’s statement to herself. “If you clear the exams and are selected for agent training, if you pass the training, and if you are hired, you may be encouraged to use the tools at your disposal to accomplish your missions.”

  Three “ifs” and a “you may be.” Don’t sweat it. Just get through this stage.

  “No,” Laynie lied.

  “Good. Let’s continue.” She picked up Laynie’s chart. “Are you a virgin?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, no pregnancies, miscarriages, abortions, or live births?”

  “Well, no.” Duh.

  “Just verifying.”

  Gupta asked a number of other questions then performed the pelvic exam. Laynie hated every moment, but she endured it.

  “That’s it; we’re done, Miss Green,” Gupta announced. “Your nurse will walk you back to the lodge.”

  It was clear to Laynie that the candidates were not allowed to go anywhere within the compound unescorted.

  After lunch, the three candidates endured four hours of psychiatric exams. Laynie met with a woman who introduced herself as Dr. Silverman.

  “Hello, Miss Green. This afternoon, I’ll be taking your family history and asking you to describe your family and childhood in detail.”

  Under Dr. Silverman’s questioning, Laynie spoke of her parents, her brother, and their family dynamics. She mentioned early on that she and Sammie were adopted.

  “And your birth parents? What can you tell me about them?”

  Laynie lifted one shoulder. “Not a thing, actually. I have no memories of them. And because it was a closed adoption, Mama and Dad received no information about them or why we were placed up for adoption.”

  Everything Laynie said was factually correct—it just wasn’t the whole truth. Oh, she willingly answered all of Dr. Silverman’s questions, but under no circumstances would she volunteer additional information or insights. In particular, Laynie would not share how traumatized she had been when she came to Polly and Gene and the difficulties her parents had endured during her adjustment, not knowing how to comfort a tormented three-year-old.

  What Laynie still remembered of that time, vividly, was Polly rocking her for hours as she wept and wailed. Laynie couldn’t recall what she was weeping for but, through her childhood, Polly had recounted Sammie and Laynie’s first weeks in the Portland home so many times that Laynie could no longer tell her mama’s voice from her own memories . . .

  “In a private, closed ’doption, you aren’t given much t’ go on,” Mama’s rich, mellow voice echoed in Laynie’s head. “The only paperwork we were given said that your birth parents were killed in a car crash. Well, our hearts jest ached somethin’ fierce for you and Stephen, but we were so grateful to have you, to give you all the love we had stored up.”

  “Tell me about our names,” Laynie would ask. She always asked, because the tale her mother told her was what made Laynie feel closest to her oldest memories, closest to the aching longing she felt.

  “Well, you wouldn’t stop crying, baby girl,” Mama would whisper. “Our poor Little Duck! So confused and distressed. What a fuss you made! I jest held you and rocked you at night till you wore yourself out. You cried ever’ night for weeks, you did.

  “You cried until your poor little voice was gone and you could only croak. Daddy said you quacked like a little baby duck, and that seemed to tickle you. You liked it when he called
you Little Duck.”

  Laynie did like it; it was still her favorite pet name.

  “But what about our names, Mama? Our real names?”

  “You always in such a hurry at this part, baby girl! Well, a’course the agency would not give us your names, your birth names, since ever’thing ’bout the ’doption was sealed. They told us you were both so young that we should give you the names we chose, so we named your brother ‘Stephen’ after Daddy’s grandfather.”

  Laynie would always argue at this point of the story. “But that was wrong.”

  “So you told us! ‘No; he’s Sammie,’ you insisted. We called him Stephen and his ’doption papers read ‘Stephen Theodor Portland,’ but you refused to call him anything but ‘Sammie.’”

  “That’s right. Now me,” Laynie would demand.

  “Yes, you, Little Duck,” Mama would laugh. “We tried to name you Grace after my mother and, my word! How you pitched a fit. ‘I Laynie!’ you screamed again and again. ‘Laynie! I Laynie! Laynie, Laynie, Laynie!’”

  “What else did I say?”

  “Well, honey, you talked about Care. You would stomp your little foot and shout, ‘Care say I Laynie! Care say I am! I not stupid Grace! I Laynie!’”

  Polly would sigh and add, “You sure were a handful, honey, let me tell you.”

  Care. Something about Care sparked a voice Laynie clung to, a voice that, to Laynie, meant everything . . . and yet nothing. A voice screaming . . . “No! You can’t take them away! You can’t take them!”

  “And what one word would you use to describe your childhood, Miss Green?”

  Laynie yanked herself out of her memories and glanced up. “Except for the normal ups and downs, I think ‘idyllic’ applies.”

  “Tell me what, in particular, about your childhood makes you use the word ‘idyllic’?”

  “Well, Sammie and I had two loving parents, and not all of our friends did. Our homelife was, for the most part, happy and conflict-free. Sammie and I have always been great friends, and we had all the typical childhood experiences: We went to church regularly; Sammie and I both played sports; we had good schools and did well academically; our folks truly love and respect each other; and they love us unconditionally.”