Laynie Portland, Spy Rising—The Prequel Read online

  Sweden seems to be well-represented here. Odd, considering Sweden is not a NATO signatory.

  “I will repeat a word of warning regarding the staff and your fellow trainees. You have surely realized by now that not everyone on this campus is American. This stands to reason since Marstead is a global entity. However, I must also caution you, yet again, not to pry into your fellow trainees’ backgrounds and not to, even in casual conversation, give up your own personal details or, if another trainee questions you, respond to those queries. In point of fact, if anyone, staff or otherwise, seeks to garner your identity or background information, please report them to myself or Mr. Trammel immediately.

  “Mr. Olifant?”

  The last staffer from the senior staff table stood. “Thank you, Ms. Stridsvagn.”

  He stood with his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels, quite casually. “Why? Why are we, on the issue of anonymity, careful to a fault? What is our point? Just this: If you complete your training and advance to probationary status, you will be assigned to a country of operation where you will assume a new identity.

  “In the interests of ongoing operational security and for your own safety, your assumed identity must remain unknown to all—your fellow trainees, your family and friends, and those whom you’ve known in your previous life. Your ‘previous life’ must include the here and now.

  Let me say it differently: This period of training is the buffer between your past and your future. Who you were yesterday must be sharply severed from who you become in the field. Only Marstead recruiters, HR, and upper management may ever know your true identity and origin.

  “Again, why? I mentioned ‘operational security’ or OPSEC—that is, the protection and well-being of the operation itself and those involved in it. While all that is true, please consider other, further hazards a field operative may face.

  “Should your cover be ‘blown’ in the field and your original ID uncovered? Your family and loved ones could become unwitting pawns leveraged against you in an international chess game between good and evil. Threats to their safety and well-being could be used to turn you, to force you to commit treason, to ‘out’ your fellow operatives, putting at risk field personnel all over the world.

  “Aliases equal anonymity, and anonymity is your greatest protection—and ours. Do not compromise your anonymity or that of your fellow trainees in any manner. Remember, too, that although we take care not to assign fellow trainees to the same fields of operation, you may, someday, encounter one of your fellow trainees ‘out there’ in the great, big world. What you do not know about that individual can never be used to harm him or her—and vice versa.”

  He let his warnings sink in. “Anonymity is vital to your safety. Have I said enough on this topic?”

  “Yes, sir,” came the murmured response.

  “You are dismissed.”

  Laynie and the other trainees beat a path to the logistics shack. As Gunny had said, it was past the gymnasium and the commissary, set off on its own. However, “shack” didn’t do it justice. The building, while not large, was built of high-quality concrete and steel on a concrete foundation, with a thick door and a steel slide-up service window. Both the door and service window, Laynie imagined, would require a couple of grenades to breach.

  The building’s courtyard was, furthermore, surrounded by a twelve-foot perimeter fence topped with spotlights and loops of wicked-sharp razor wire. At the moment, the fence’s gate was open, as was the service window. Trainees lined up in front of the window under the bright lights that illuminated the courtyard.

  Behind the “shack,” encompassed by the perimeter fence, sat a steel bunker.

  “Ammo bunker,” Chuck breathed in her ear. “Restricted access.”

  Laynie hadn’t realized he’d followed her from the dining hall, but she was glad he had.

  “Hey, Black.”

  “Chuck,” he reminded her.

  Laynie smiled. “Yeah, I know, but I think you’ll always be Black to me—Black with the superhero chin, and never a Dud.”

  “Thanks. I think.”

  The wait per person was short: The supply officer had their rangewear packages preassembled and labeled. Laynie flashed back to the tech who’d taken her shoe size and measurements during exam week.

  They think of everything, she marveled. Been doing this a while, I guess.

  After she’d pulled her packaged gear—bound in a bundle made heavy by the box of boots on top, she headed back to the dining hall to find the briefing room.

  She and eleven other women took seats at the long tables facing a podium. When Dr. Gupta entered, the female trainees stilled.

  Dr. Gupta was not alone; with her was a nurse Laynie recognized. The nurse pushed a wheeled cart. Dr. Gupta addressed the women.

  “I have called you here to discuss your sexual health. We have screened all the trainees for STDs, so you can be at ease on that score. And, since you are all adults; what you do on your off time is your business.

  “However, an unplanned pregnancy is our business. We have invested quite a lot of time and money into your candidacy up to this point and will invest more with each day of training. If you were to fall pregnant, you would be dismissed from the program.

  “Therefore, it is our policy to provide birth control for our female candidates. Your health profile will follow you wherever you go in Marstead; if you are operating in the field, your contraceptive implant will be updated as needed.”

  On her signal, the nurse held up what looked like a thin capsule.

  “This will be implanted just beneath the skin of the inside of your upper arm. We’ll inject a light numbing agent first, then inject the implant. It is quite painless and very efficient.”

  Laynie could not believe what she was hearing. Her gorge rose, and she was not the only woman in the room who objected to Gupta’s precipitous—her cool, presumptive—manner.

  A girl jumped up, both her voice and head shaking. “No. You don’t have the right to do that. It’s against my religion, and I’m not doing that.”

  Dr. Gupta nodded. “Very well. An instructor is waiting outside with a golf cart. He will accompany you to out-processing and arrange transport home for you.”

  The girl looked around, stunned, blinking her eyes. “That’s it? No choice in the matter? No discussion or options?”

  “I believe you signed and agreed to the policy that specifically gives Marstead control over any and all health procedures we deem necessary, did you not?”

  The girl nodded, reluctantly.

  “Please,” Dr. Gupta pointed to the door, “Exit through there.”

  “But . . . well, what if I—”

  “I’m sorry. You have been dropped from the program.”

  Laynie fumed. Had to make an example of her, didn’t you? Had to make sure we all took the rules seriously.

  Laynie understood the logic, but it didn’t stop her from disliking Gupta more now than she had on their first meeting. At that moment, Laynie itched to get up and follow the flustered ex-trainee out the door. She slid her eyes around the room and saw she wasn’t the only one considering the same thing. Steph stared at her hands. Nora glanced her way and shook her head.

  That’s a ‘no’ from Nora—although she’s as ticked off as I am.

  So, Laynie didn’t leave.

  Not because she wasn’t angry, not because she wasn’t brave enough, not because she didn’t dislike Gupta’s high-handed manner, but because, in spite of every good reason, she was willing to pay the price.

  Well, what does this implant mean to me, anyway, other than a moment of discomfort? Am I going to throw myself into bed with some guy and rejoice, ‘Gee, I’m so glad I have it?’ Not likely, not even remotely.

  The bottom line for Laynie was in the future: She wanted to finish the training, graduate, and advance to probationary status—and the bottom line was the only line Laynie wouldn’t cross.

  I don’t much care what it takes to get
through the training—as long as I get through it.

  Chapter 6

  LAYNIE, DRESSED IN running gear, liberally dosed with mosquito repellent, a bandage covering a small entry point on her left, inner arm, was under the flagpole outside the dining hall at 5:35 the following morning. She hadn’t slept soundly for a number of reasons but mostly out of fear her alarm would not wake her on time and she would be late.

  She was not the only trainee early to the flagpole that morning. Just one person fell into line at the last possible moment—but no one was late.

  Black, coming up beside Laynie, stepped in place to warm up his legs. “Did I hear right? We lost a trainee already?”

  Laynie pressed her lips together and answered with a single, sharp nod.

  “Let’s go, people!”

  In two lines, the trainees set off down the road, jogging lightly behind Gunny’s two assistants, Júlio, and Hristo. They passed the gymnasium, commissary, and logistics shack on the right, obstacle courses on their left, then the firing range and the shoot house on their right. Set way back from the road where it took a sharp left, stood that sprawling, incongruous slice of town plunked down where a forest should have been standing.

  Laynie got a better look at the “urban mock-up” as Hristo picked up the pace and they drew abreast of it, although it was still a thousand yards distant. From what she could see, it truly was a fake city, or at least two full blocks of it, complete with shops, offices, a market, a bank, a little park, and second-story apartments, knit together by two streets, several intersections, and alleys. It was built out far in a field where the trees had been cleared, set apart by itself. A single paved street intersected the road and led to town.

  Laynie was not the only trainee scoping it out.

  Whatever that’s for, it’s gonna be interesting.

  “Come on, trainees!” Hristo shouted to pull their attention back.

  She fastened her eyes on the backs of Júlio and Hristo’s heads. Hristo. What nationality it that? Belgian? And is Júlio a Mexican or Spanish name? Like Sweden, neither Mexico nor Spain were NATO signatories—but Portugal was. So, maybe Portuguese?

  But Sweden is not a NATO member, and we’ve got a Swede on staff, another Swede as a trainee, and the linguist during my exam weekend made a big deal about my dad’s Swedish heritage and my having a working use of Swedish?

  Not to mention, Bert bringing up my Scandinavian looks during our interview.

  It was an odd mash-up of factual tidbits that Laynie pondered as the road looped around east and came back down the other side of the obstacle courses and hotel. The road’s circuit delivered the trainees back to the dining hall parking lot and the flagpole.

  “Line up! Five abreast!”

  Hristo led them in a series of calisthenics and stretching for another twenty minutes.

  “Okay,” Júlio said to them. “Not bad; we’ll add some steam to our run tomorrow. Today, go grab a shower and meet in the dining hall for breakfast at 7:00.”

  THEIR FIRST CLASS AFTER breakfast, held in the classroom adjoining the briefing room, began at 8 a.m., marking the true start of Marstead’s rigorous training program.

  “I want you to understand the uniqueness of Marstead,” their instructor, Mr. Chin, said by way of introduction. “It is this: Marstead is not a law enforcement agency, and you are not law enforcement officers. While we’ll cover International Law as a necessary part of your tradecraft and you’ll receive further instruction relative to the laws of your country of operation, I need to impress that distinction upon you now: You are not training to enforce the law. We do not report crimes or apprehend criminals. The reports we write are limited to what we accomplish and the intel we provide.

  “What this means is that, technically, everything we do is off book. Yes, we’re working under the joint sponsorship of the U.S. and NATO on behalf of the free world, and our objectives are to ensure that our world stays free, but how we do that is covert, behind the scenes, and often extralegal. Outside the scope of the law. Definitely without the knowledge of pertinent law enforcement organizations.

  “We exist in broad daylight but operate in the shadows; we use the means and methods necessary to complete our assigned tasks, cutting out red tape and bureaucracies, skirting legalities and conventions. Yes, occasionally our field operatives land in hot water with local law enforcement. If that happens, Marstead will, in many instances, extricate you, but we will do it quietly and covertly. More on that later.”

  In many instances? More on that later? What if Marstead can’t manage to “extricate us?” What then?

  “We will teach you how to conduct yourself and survive in the field—these often being one and the same.”

  He put his hands on his hips and surveyed the class. “The majority of you have seen no military training—and we like it that way. Why? Because our personnel should seem to be ‘normal people’ who blend in, and because it is hard, once trained to the military way, to drop the habits the military has drummed into you.

  “For example, if you, as a trainee, are given an order to jump and you respond with, “Yes, sir; how high, sir?” and you can’t break that habit? If you are wound too tightly and cannot change? You will fail this course.”

  Many trainees chuckled, but Laynie, seated to the left of Stephanie, then Black, slid her eyes toward Black. His brow was furrowed.

  Will it be too hard for him to break those responses? Laynie wondered.

  “We’ll begin with the basics of covert communications in the field.”

  Chin talked about brush passes, dead drops, and coded messages such as one-time pads, key-encrypted ciphers, and crossword puzzles or word scrambles published in newspapers. “Each of these tried and true communication methods has an infinite number of variations. Let’s watch a training film and discuss what we observe.”

  He dimmed the lights and ran a reel loaded onto a projector. The three-minute film was of a crowded subway station, taken from across the tracks, looking down on the waiting, jostling passengers. Laynie’s eyes darted back and forth across the packed platform, but she caught nothing out of the ordinary.

  The film ended, and Chin, without turning on the lights, asked, “What did you see?”

  Silence. No one in the class had an answer.

  “Let’s watch it again. This time, look for and note two individuals—the woman with the green hat and the man with a folded newspaper under his arm.”

  He rewound and restarted the film, pausing it as the subway platform came into view. “I want you to find the two subjects before we continue. Lift your hand as soon as you’ve spotted them.”

  It took an entire minute for everyone to lift their hand. The woman was standing on the left side of the screen, near the edge of the platform. Her expression was bored and impatient. The man was behind the press of waiting passengers, far to the right of her, the newspaper clearly visible under his right arm.

  Chin let the film run again. Without shifting his head, eyes, or expression, the man edged through the crowd, until he was directly behind the woman. When the train arrived, she stepped forward to board. Laynie caught only a glimpse, but she was certain: The woman now had a newspaper under her arm. The man seemed to fall back from the crush of boarding passengers, yet naturally so. He moved down the platform and boarded using a different set of doors.

  The film ended and the class exhaled. Laynie had leaned forward, mesmerized, because the couple on the film were amazing.

  “It is as equally important to recognize a pass when it happens—such as the one you just witnessed—as it is to learn the skill yourself,” Chin said.

  He then ran other scenarios spliced into the film, stopping at each scenario to orient the class to what was about to happen, then to have them discuss what they’d seen. They spent an hour reviewing scenario after scenario.

  After a break, he talked about dead drops and the signals involved. “A ‘dead drop’ or ‘dead letter box’ allows intel to be passed, agent
to agent, without them ever meeting. The drop can be arranged for any time of day, reducing the possibility of either agent being detected.

  “The elements of a drop are the location—where the drop exists—and the signals. The drop itself is a hiding place using a common, everyday location. The receiver must be able to retrieve the intel from the hiding place without being spotted.

  “If you are the agent leaving intel in the drop, you have prearranged a signal with your receiver that tells him the drop is active. Conversely, you must have a signal that says the drop has been compromised—or burned. These signals are most often in plain sight, along the receiver’s everyday route, so that he has only to pass by to see them.”

  Chin started a list on the chalk board. “A casement curtain or blind opened/closed or up/down, a houseplant set in a specific window, a porch or window light on or off, a wad of chewed gum stuck on the back of a stop sign, an advertisement on a public notice board.”

  Chin turned on an overhead projector and, from a folder, withdrew a transparency. When he laid the transparent “foil” on the projector’s surface, a laundromat’s bulletin board came into view. The board was stippled with business cards, scraps of paper asking for rides to certain towns, apartments for rent, even free kittens.

  “See the Lost Dog notice? What can you tell me about it?”

  A trainee spoke up. “It has ten phone number strips hanging from the bottom.”

  “What about those numbers?”

  Laynie noticed it. “The fifth phone number strip from the left has two transposed digits.”

  “Very good.” He replaced the transparency. It was the same bulletin board, but the strip with the misprinted phone number was missing.

  “That’s the signal? But what’s to keep anyone from tearing off that strip?” someone asked.

  “What do you think?” Chin asked.