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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“And I’ve just withdrawn my approval.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 promised.
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.
Why? Why this man? Why does he draw me? Attract me? Why do I feel such untapped emotion when I’m with him?
As jaded as her heart had grown through her various love affairs, it was a new and disturbing experience for Laynie to find herself pulled toward a mark. She might be tempted to give more than her body to this dangerous man—even after she had heard the tales circulating about him.
PETROFF WAS A KNOWN connoisseur of fine things—he employed the best tailors, drove the best cars, drank the finest wines and vodka, ate the choicest foods—and only sparingly, for he scorned overindulgence. He was also a lover of art, music, architecture, and . . . dogs. His favored breed was the Chornyi Terrier, known in the west as the Black Russian Terrier.
The breed was developed in the Soviet Union during the late 1940s and the early 1950s for use as military dogs. The breed’s pedigree included lines from the Giant Schnauzer, Airedale Terrier, Rottweiler, and other guard and working dogs. In show, the Chornyi closely resembled the Giant Schnauzer. In conduct, the breed was protective and fearless, often thought by its owners—to their amazement—to be more intelligent than they were.
And as Petroff made the rounds of the St. Petersburg clubs, a disturbing story circulated with him, a tale of Petroff’s favorite Chornyi, Alina, a female dog he had hand-raised from a pup. Petroff doted on her. Alina traveled everywhere with Petroff, slept in his room at night, and served as a further layer of personal protection after his bodyguards.
According to the rumors swirling in Petroff’s wake, on a certain trip, unexpected celebratory fireworks had so disturbed Alina that she had become terrified and had run off, ignoring Petroff’s repeated commands to come to him. When Petroff’s people located the dog two days later and brought her back, Petroff had pulled his sidearm and shot the dog in the head.
He had said to his people, so the anecdote went, “I will not tolerate the disobedience of something I own. There can be no forgiveness for disloyalty.”
It was also rumored that Petroff treated his women with similar possessiveness. As long as a woman held his attention, he kept a jealous leash on her—although most endured only a night or, if particularly engaging, a week or a month.
When he was finished with a woman, when he no longer found her of interest, he cast her aside.
But there were also stories of Petroff’s longer-term women, of which only two were known. One, it was said, displeased Petroff’s sense of ownership. He had beaten her senseless. The other, a Lebanese beauty, turned out not to be Lebanese, but Israeli. The loathsome spy of a hated nation.
The Israeli woman traveled with Petroff when he left to visit Islamabad on state business.
When he returned to Moscow, she did not.
Linnéa shuddered a second time. I am to be the bait on the end of this hook. I must be careful, so much more careful than I have ever needed to be.
Still, the thought of being with Petroff aroused feelings in her, feelings that surprised and concerned her. Why am I like this? she asked herself. Why am I so cold and unfeeling toward a decent man but drawn to someone who might snap my neck on a whim?
A familiar voice in her head sneered, Because you don’t deserve a “good” man, Laynie.
“MISS OLANDER! ARE YOU listening?”
“Of course, sir.”
Considering the subject closed, Alvarsson focused on his calendar. Today’s date nudged them closer to the end of August, and the northern hemisphere was still in the grip of summer. “If you play your cards right, Linnéa, Petroff will have you installed in his Moscow apartment by Christmas.”
He fixed her with another glare. “This assignment is too important to jeopardize for any reason. It is your job, this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, to convince Petroff that you are the woman he’s been looking for—not for another tryst or fling, but for a long-term relationship.”
Linnéa inclined her head. “Of course, sir. Petroff wants someone with whom he can share his life, a companion who is his intellectual equal and who shares his passion for technology. A woman who can be an asset to him in his social circle. An acquisition he can flaunt—not merely an escort or a temporary lover. To that end, I must cultivate the cerebral and companionship aspects of our relationship. I will, initially, resist intimate overtures. I mustn’t yield to him too quickly. The ‘courtship’ and pursuit must prove my worth to him.”
Linnéa said nothing further as the tenderly nurtured prospect of seeing her sister again died.
Alvarsson was right. She had a job to do, a crucial role to play. Nothing took precedence over the job. Everything gave way to it. The job was all that mattered.
The job was espionage.
Linnéa was a spy, and her modus operandi was seduction.
Her work was “appropriating” emerging technology and other classified information from America’s strongest rival.
And this very week, after painstaking months of careful moves, her relationship with Petroff had taken a desired turn. He had sent Linnéa a short letter—an invitation—via her Stockholm office.
Others read Linnéa’s mail before she did, another aspect of Marstead’s supervision of Linnéa’s cover. They would read and approve her reply, too, before it was sent.
“How do you propose to respond to Petroff’s invitation?” Alvarsson asked. He held the single sheet between two fingers, rereading it.
Linnéa had scanned it once and memorized it.
MY DEAR MISS OLANDER,
I find myself thinking on our last conversation in St. Petersburg, and I would enjoy the opportunity to continue it. The seaside in late summer holds many pleasures, and I have time to indulge in a holiday. I own a modest dacha on the shore of the Caspian, and my yacht is moored nearby. The sea is open to us for adventure, be it swimming, snorkeling, fishing, or bathing in the sun.
If you were able to arrange your busy schedule so as to spend a week with me, I would send my private jet to fly you from Stockholm to Grozny on August 26. I would personally meet you in Grozny and escort you to my dacha.
Miss Olander, if you accept my invitation, I promise to pamper you during the day, while we explore the delights of evening together. Whatever you wish will be my command. Exquisite food. Fine wines. Music. Dancing—and, perhaps, more. I hope to receive your reply soon.
With great admiration,
Vassili Aleksandrovich
THE LETTER’S TONE WAS confident—as though, by simply crooking his finger, she would do his bidding. He had also signed the correspondence with his first and patronymic names, a familiarity. But the coveted invitation, arriving so close to Kari’s wedding in early September, couldn’t have come at a worse time.
“Miss Olander.” Alvarsson was staring at her.
“Yes, sir?”
“How do you propose to respond to Petroff’s invitation? August 26 is next Friday.”
Linnéa cleared her throat. “I will accept his invitation with an apologetic limitation. I will only be able to stay the weekend—three nights. Work obligations require that I return to Stockholm Monday morning, August 29.”
Alvarsson nodded his approval. “A good strategy. Two days and three nights. Time enough to deepen the acquaintance but stave off sleeping with him. A taste of your companionship to leave him wanting more.”
“Yes.”
“Write your response to him, then go shopping. You’ll need a new wardrobe.”
“Yes, sir.”
Linnéa returned to her own office, lecturing her heart for feeling sorry for itself.
I dread giving Kari the bad news—even though I did warn her that my life was not my own.
Well, she hadn’t planned to become a spy.
Who does that? she reflected. Who says, “When I grow up, I want to infiltrate our enemy’s homeland, trade my body and soul for secrets, and abandon hope for marriage, family, or future—all for love of country”?
Yet it seemed to Linnéa that, from her earliest years, she had been destined for this duplicitous, dangerous, and emotionally barren existence . . .
LAYNIE AND HER BROTHER grew up in Seattle, the adopted children of Gene and Polly Portland, a mixed-race couple in an era where racial intermarriage was frowned upon. After years of a childless marriage and being refused adoption because Gene was “white” and Polly was “black,” the couple had tried private—and expensive—avenues.
Laynie was age three and her brother less than a year old when they came to Gene and Polly. The couple had been overjoyed. They wanted nothing more than to lavish their love upon Laynie and her brother. Sadly, the transition had been neither peaceful nor easy. Some unfathomable horror haunted their little daughter. Laynie had wept and wailed for hours upon end and refused to be comforted.
Eventually, she had calmed, and their family thrived—but Laynie never could shake the grief and longing for what she had lost. Fragile, wraithlike threads of memory were all she had, but she clung to them. And so, a ritual developed between Laynie and her new mother, a ritual that mystified Polly but, in some way, mollified her precious child.
“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 held you and rocked you ever’ night till you wore yourself out. You cried ever’ night for weeks, you did.
“You cried until your 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.”
“But what about our names, Mama? Our real names?”
Laynie always asked about the names, because the tale her mother told her was what made Laynie feel closest to her old memories—closest to the longing she felt, to what she had lost but could not remember.
“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 claimed. 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 continue.
“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!’”
My real name, Linnéa thought. Not Linnéa. Not Helena.
The next part of the story was where Laynie’s memories sharpened and where her sense of loss was the greatest.
“What else did I say?”
Polly would dither, but she knew that Laynie would insist.
“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.”
Laynie’s mama liked to move past that part of the story in a hurry, but Laynie wouldn’t let her. That one word, Care, invoked such deep anguish in her that she would weep and sob.
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!”
Laynie would cry as though her heart would break, and Laynie’s mama would pull her onto her lap and rock her, knowing she could not heal a wound that Laynie herself could not identify, let alone articulate.
Polly could only rock and love on Laynie until the storm subsided.
“Well, we named you Helena Grace, after Papa’s grandmother. Yes, Hel-LAY-na, close enough to Laynie that it didn’t send you into a tizzy,” Polly would conclude.
“But you called me Laynie anyway.”
“Yes, sugar. We called you Laynie anyway. We still do,” Polly would agree, agonizing over the shapeless, faceless pain from which her daughter suffered.
Afterward, Laynie would go in search of Sammie. When she found him, she would tug his roly-poly toddler’s body into her lap or, as he got older, close to her side, and tell him a story.
Polly would watch from around the doorway as Laynie, sometime during the story, would pat Sammie’s hand and murmur, “You are Sammie. I am Laynie. Care said so.”
Despite Gene and Polly’s love and nurture, Laynie never did escape the sense of loss. Perhaps that was why, as she grew older, her inability to make sense of those feelings settled within her as two words infused with profound negative impact, labels that shaped her young, tender identity.
Failure. Worthless.
Long before Laynie could articulate such loaded statements, an emotional certainty had taken root in her heart. My life has no value. No purpose.
This inner conviction, without a doubt, was why she had given herself to Marstead.
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Linnéa rode a city bus into the heart of Stockholm to shop for clothes. Her selections needed to impress Petroff. He was wealthy and she—in possession of a Marstead-backed credit card—was to spare no expense on her wardrobe. Many a woman would have salivated at the task, but Linnéa chafed under it and hurried to finish.
She knew which shops were exclusive enough to meet Petroff’s exacting standards and which pricy brand-name clothing fit her with little or no alteration. She tried on and selected two expensive suits for travel to and from Grozny, then two bathing suits and matching cover-ups, two shorts-and-halter-top combos, and two glitzy pairs of sandals—a set for each day on Petroff’s yacht—and three gowns with accessories for the evenings she’d be there. She added a filmy shawl to cover her bare shoulders should the evening prove chilly.
Hours later, leaving behind a wake of generous tips and large smiles, Linnéa was armed with the tools for her weekend with Petroff. She arranged for the shops to deliver the bags and boxes to her apartment’s doorman, Gustav, and turned her attention to the question that concerned her more.
How do I tell Kari I cannot come to her wedding?
Linnéa joined other shoppers outside as they perused window displays and chatted with friends. She moved down the cobblestone walkway at a leisurely pace while she chewed on her problem.
The date of Kari’s wedding was two weeks out.
The maid of honor canceling at the last minute? No matter how I tell her, she is going to be hurt.
A simple phone call would be quickest, but Kari was perceptive and would ask questions Linnéa could not answer. Besides, calling was . . . problematic. Marstead monitored her phones—the landline and clunky cellular phone in her apartment and a desk phone in her Stockholm office. Furthermore, Marstead tracked unusual movements or activities on her part. A long-distance call from a pay phone required a credit card. Marstead would flag those charges in a heartbeat.
Then there was Petroff. According to Alvarsson, Petroff’s people were investigating her, looking at her life and background.
They could be watching me this very moment.
Linnéa’s training had taught her to check for a “tail” wherever she was, but Petroff’s people would be seasoned, perhaps too professional for her to spot. She slowed and stared into a window display, using its reflection to scan the street behind her, her thoughts and her stomach a synchronous churn.
Now that she had engaged Petroff’s attention, the stakes were mounting higher. So was the danger level. Linnéa cared little for her own safety, but if Petroff were to uncover her family ties? He would have leverage over her. Terrifying leverage.
Linnéa shook off the fear that juddered down her spine and thundered at the door of her heart. Stop that, she told herself. Keep your head in the game.
She flexed and rotated her tight shoulders and returned to the problem confronting her. She had to tell her sister that she could not attend her wedding, and the means by which she told Kari had to be both unremarkable and untraceable. Linnéa was determined that Marstead remain ignorant of Kari’s existence. Neither could she allow Petroff to sniff out Kari or her family.
I suppose it must be a letter. A letter in place of myself.
A letter might take the entire two weeks to arrive, but it was, she acknowledged, the most secure means of communicating with Kari. Initially, Linnéa had told Kari they could correspond through a Marstead “cutout” address. This was how Marstead had allowed Linnéa to correspond with her brother, how she kept in contact with her parents. They wrote to a Posten box Marstead rented and managed. Marstead passed letters in both directions, but they also read all correspondence from Linnéa’s parents and the letters she wrote in return.
And they occasionally edited her letters.
I’m weary of Marstead’s constant probing, of their tentacles delving into every corner of my life. I want to keep Kari to myself.
Besides . . . we are both safer if I do.
Safer, Linnéa believed, because Kari had money and, as the owner of her own company, had a significant public persona while, in contrast, Marstead had scrubbed Laynie from the public record. An innocent connection made between Kari Michaels Thoresen and one Helena Portland might focus attention on Laynie—whose near-total nonexistence was a suspicious flag in itself.
That was why, during her return trip to Stockholm after her brother’s funeral, Linnéa had changed her mind . . . had concocted a better arrangement.
In Linnéa’s apartment, under the cushions of her sofa, and built into the recesses of the sofa framework, was a safe. Within the safe, Linnéa kept the bulky Marstead-issued cellular telephone she used to call her parents on special occasions. It was the only phone she was allowed to use for family calls—and only infrequently. On the cellular phone Linnéa could become Laynie again, even if only for a few minutes.
But Linnéa kept other items in the safe, namely cash and false identities. The cash she had squirreled away, bit by bit, from her earnings. The IDs had been more difficult to obtain. Her coworker and friend Christor Vinck, Marstead’s Director of Information Technology, had provided her with the name of a man who specialized in counterfeit papers. Linnéa had sought him out at night, circumventing Marstead’s watch over her, and had paid for the identities out of her precious cash reserves.
The truth was, after more than a decade in clandestine services, she was tiring. She saw a day out there, on the horizon, a day when she could no longer pretend to be Linnéa Olander.
I want to go home. I want to live the remainder of my life as Laynie—but not just yet.
Her goals were to hook Petroff, milk him, and turn him. Using the classic technique of threatening to expose to the Russian secret police the number of secrets he had “allowed” Linnéa to steal, she would blackmail and turn him into a full-fledged Marstead double agent.
When I am finished with Petroff, I will leave this life, she promised herself. A year, perhaps two, but no longer than that.
Consequently, in order to keep Kari’s existence a secret when she returned to Stockholm following her brother and sister-in-law’s funerals, Linnéa used one of her precious false identities, that of one Judith Johansson, to rent a Stockholm Posten box, paying cash for it every six months. She then wrote a short note to Kari, enclosing the box number, but leaving the return address blank. In her note, Linnéa cautioned Kari on future correspondence, directing her to address her envelopes to Judith Johansson, to leave off the return address, and to be discreet with identifying details she shared in her letters.
Kari, empathetic to her sister’s concerns, wrote every other week and filled the letters with news of their niece and nephew, Shannon and Robbie, and of Gene and Polly, referencing them by initial rather than name, providing Linnéa with brief insights into her parents’ well-being, particularly Polly’s health and the progress of her MS.
But no matter what Kari wrote about, she always ended her letters in a prayer—a prayer that, although not always worded the same, ran along a universal theme.
Remember that I pray for you daily, my sister. I ask him—our great and awesome God, who answered my prayer to bring our lives together after years of being lost to each other—I ask him, the God of all Grace, to uphold you by his Holy Spirit. He is able to comfort, encourage, and help those who call upon the name of Jesus, the Lord and Savior of the world. For with God all things are possible.
The first time Linnéa read such a benediction, she had blinked and felt something tug at her heart—until she hit the phrase, “uphold you by his Holy Spirit.”
Holy? What would a holy God want with her?
I am soiled beyond redemption. Worthless. I have no value . . . except as a thief and a whore for my government.
Linnéa responded to Kari’s letters once a month with unrevealing lines that contained no personal details, only brief comments on the news Kari’s most recent letters carried. Kari was getting the short end of the stick, but at least they were staying in contact, using a method that would keep Marstead’s sticky fingers off of Kari. More recently, Kari had announced her engagement to their half-cousin several times removed. Laynie remembered Kari telling her about Søren Thoresen and his young son, Max. Kari wrote of ST’s intention to adopt S and R, and hers to adopt M.
Linnéa had shaken her head at the news. Kari has gone from single woman to single mother of two. Now she’s taking on a husband and a stepson? She’s braver than I am.
But apparently, or at least according to what Kari wrote, the three children were thrilled with the idea of becoming one family.
At the end of the letter, Kari had said it would be a September wedding, and she had asked her sister to be her maid of honor.
Hardly a “maid,” but I would have been honored to stand with you.
Out of the question now.
Linnéa shook her head with regret. Kari will receive a cold note of apology, and it will arrive on the cusp of her wedding day. What a wretched excuse for a sister I am.
Then it hit her, and she swore aloud. A gift. I must send them a wedding gift.
Linnéa walked on, racking her brain. She turned at the corner and wandered down a street toward a popular tourist district. Much of Stockholm was built on the islands dotting the inland waterway of Sweden’s easternmost shore. Bridges and ferries tied Stockholm’s districts together—meaning that in Stockholm you were never far from water. She kept walking. She smelled the water before she saw it—that tangy, salty sea scent.
Near the docks, in a nondescript shop in an area of Stockholm she did not frequent, she saw it, the carved wooden model of a two-man sailboat. Linnéa stopped and stared, a little in awe. When she went inside and pointed to it, the owner, a trä hantverkare, the master woodworker who had crafted the replica, pulled it from the window and placed it in her hands.
Linnéa held the little boat with reverence, the memories as fresh as the billowing waves had been that day on Puget Sound . . .
IN THE HAZE OF GRIEF that followed Sammie and his wife’s funeral, Laynie and Kari had spent time with their niece and nephew, but also with each other. The truth was, although they were sisters, Laynie and Kari were strangers—strangers with painfully connected pasts. Laynie was withdrawn and cool toward Kari. Kari, for her part, wanted more than anything to break through Laynie’s crusty reticence. At first, the sisters had used the kids as a buffer between themselves while they slowly tested the other out.
“I had been searching for you and Sammie—I mean, Stephen—for a couple of years,” Kari told Laynie. “I hired private investigators—dear friends of mine—and poured a small fortune into the search, but they came up empty.”
Then, Kari shared how her investigators had found Stephen Portland through his and his wife’s obituaries.
“When they broke the news to me, I was devastated. Heartbroken. I would never see my brother or get to know him! Then my friends pointed out that Stephen and Kelly Portland’s memorial service was the next day. If I flew from New Orleans to Seattle that afternoon, I would be able to attend their services. I thank God for that mercy, Laynie, because it meant that I found you.”
Laynie brushed off Kari’s reference to her faith, but she felt obligated to reciprocate—just a little. “I have lived and worked in Europe for more than fifteen years, returning home to Seattle on leave only once a year. Thirty precious days. Once a year, I cram all my family time into that short month—time with Mama and Dad, but also time with Sammie, especially out on the water in his sailboat, The Wave Skipper.”
Sammie and his two-man sailboat seemed safe topics, so Laynie told Kari how her fondest memories were of the two of them sailing on Puget Sound.
It saddened her to add, “Mama and Dad will have to sell the boat now. They can’t afford the berth fees.”
“But they haven’t yet, have they? Take me?” Kari asked impulsively. “Not today while we have the children, but before you leave? Take me sailing?”
And so, Laynie had taken Kari out on The Wave Skipper. It was during that day, out on the water, that Laynie and Kari had connected, had found each other, the sisters who had been torn apart as children.
They sailed all morning, then ate lunch on one of the uninhabited islands on Puget Sound. Kari talked a lot. Laynie said little but listened. When they had cleaned up after themselves and pushed the boat off the shore and back out into the water, Laynie started the small engine and motored them out of the cove.
Away from the island, they flew before the wind. Kari and Laynie lapsed into companionable silence until Laynie asked the question that burned inside of her. “And you never once thought of Sammie and me during all those years you were growing up?”
Laynie was four years younger than Kari. Her question held an unspoken accusation.
“I did, that is, I tried to think of you. I knew I’d forgotten something—something truly important—but each attempt to remember what I’d forgotten would trigger a panic attack.”
Kari had tried to laugh, but it ended on a groan. “You’ve never lived until you’ve experienced a full-on panic attack.”
“Then I’ve never lived,” Laynie snorted. Her eyes did a 360-degree sweep around them, even though they were bobbing across the choppy waves of the sound—far from land or another vessel.
She dropped her voice and, for the first time in her employment with the company, Laynie broke operational security. “I’ve been in some tight places, Kari—tight enough that I’m surprised I don’t have anxiety attacks, situations that could have ended with me in a Russian interrogation room. The day I ever have such an attack? I’ll be finished in my present line of work.”
She shook her head. “Not that the end of my ‘career’ would necessarily be a bad thing. For me, anyway.”
That afternoon out on the water—without admitting to any facts—Laynie confirmed Kari’s suspicions that her newfound sister was involved in dangerous work.
It was an admission of trust. No . . . it was an unexpected and unprecedented leap of faith.
Kari had studied Laynie for a long while afterward, her worried eyes slowly changing. Warming. “You know, Laynie, I think we’re beginning to bond or something. That’s the most open you’ve been with me.”
Laynie’s gaze swept the water and the weather in the distance. She wasn’t watching Kari when she said, “Would you know what I meant if I said that I’m not really the ‘girlfriend’ type? You know. The ‘girly-girly, slumber party, call-your-bestie-six-times-a-day, let’s-do-lunch-and-get-our-nails-done-together’ type?”
Kari smiled. “I think I would. And?”
Laynie turned her head toward Kari but still stared out into the distance. “And it’s different with you. Talking with you. Being with you feels . . . natural. Comfortable. Like it was with Sammie.” Laynie had sniffed and added, “In spite of our glaring differences.”
Kari agreed. “Yeah. Out here on the water? You have let your guard down, and I’m so glad, Laynie. I like that we can talk about real stuff and not get bent out of shape when we don’t agree.” She waggled her brows and giggled. “Even share secrets.”
Laynie again scanned the waters around them. “But only because we’re in a boat out on the ocean, far from prying eyes and eavesdropping ears.”
Kari’s eyes were sober when Laynie looked back at her, but abruptly she grinned. “Check this out. Do you know what the word ‘fellowship’ means?”
Laynie’s response was classic, unblinking deadpan. “I’m sure you’ll fill me in.”
Kari snickered. “Why, yes, of course I will. See, fellowship is like two fellows—wait for it!—two fellows sitting in the same ship. Get it? Fellow-ship—and here we are. Together. In a boat.”
Laynie groaned. “That is . . . terrible.”
But she laughed anyway.
Kari laughed, too.
And they laughed together, the tension between them lifting, floating away.
Laynie turned the boat in a wide sweeping arc to begin the long sail home. As they sped over the wave tops, she said softly, “You know what? You’re all right, Kari Michaels.”
“I love you back, Laynie Portland.”
Oh, Care! I love you, too, Laynie whispered in her heart.
LINNÉA WAS CARESSING the tiny tiller and bench seat when she came back to herself. “The detail,” she murmured. “It is flawless.”
“Ja? You wish to buy?”
The miniature reproduction was the wedding gift she wanted to give Kari. Without words, it would tell her sister how important, how precious that day spent together had been.
“Yes, it will mean a great deal to . . . someone special.” She frowned, not knowing how she would package and get the replica to Posten without being observed.
“Is it a gift, then?” the carver asked.
“Yes, but I wonder if I could prevail upon you for a bit of customization?” It lacked a single detail for the replica to be the gift Linnéa needed it to be.
She explained what she wished the man to do. She wrote it out.
“By all means. An hour for the paint to dry,” he said.
“Then I will leave you to it and call back in an hour.”
Faced with the wait, Linnéa finally listened to her stomach’s complaint. She glanced at her watch. Two in the afternoon! She followed her nose toward the docks and found a ferry landing—and a line of food vendors parked nearby. She spent the hour eating lunch while watching disembarking passengers drive or walk off the ferry, then the reverse as passengers queued up to board.
It was a pleasant wait. The hot summer air was cooled by the nearby water, and Linnéa allowed herself time to think, to reason out the best way to ship Kari’s gift.
Nothing feasible had come to mind when she returned to the shop and the craftsman showed her his work.
“It is perfect! I’m very appreciative.”
Linnéa traced the red, flowing script on the bow of the boat, the words that read, SS Fellowship.
Not that she’s a steamship, Kari, but the “SS” sounded right. I don’t think you’ll hold my misnomer against me.
“And will you be shipping your purchase? For a small fee, I will pack it as a gift for you so that it arrives in perfect condition,” the man promised.
Linnéa couldn’t believe her luck. “You would do that? Would you also . . . would you be willing to take it to Posten for me? I would pay for you to ship it express and would compensate you for your time. I . . . I just need to enclose a card.”
She wrote out the card, sealed it, paid cash for her purchase, added the cost of shipping, and gave the man a generous tip. She arrived home late that afternoon, satisfied that she had done all she could to apologize to Kari.
I hope you’ll forgive me, Kari, and understand . . . my life is not my own to command.
Not yet.
Thoresen Homestead,
Northwest of RiverBend, Nebraska
MANY PACKAGES HAD ARRIVED in the weeks leading up to the wedding. Kari’s soon-to-be sister-in-law handed Kari another.
“Who’s it from, Ilsa?”
“Not sure. The postmark is foreign, and it’s marked urgent and sent express mail, so I thought I should bring it over.”
Kari’s fingers on the paper wrapping slowed. She examined the postmark and nodded. “I . . . I think it must be from Laynie.”
Kari had sent the invitation two months ago. And Laynie had replied. She was supposed to arrive early this morning. In time for the wedding.
Laynie, where are you? You promised to be with me today.
Kari removed the paper and cut open the stout outer box. The box was filled with packing peanuts. Kari dug down and found a smaller box wedged inside. As she pulled it out, Styrofoam bits went everywhere. Kari didn’t care. She let them fall. She needed to know what was in the smaller box.
Ilsa cleared a spot on the table so that Kari could cut open the smaller box. Inside, nestled in tissue paper, was an envelope. Below that, Kari glimpsed a tiny model sailboat. She lifted it out with tender care. Every part of the boat was crafted with extreme attention to detail.
“It-it is a replica of-of Sammie’s boat.”
Kari’s fingers traced the tiny stern and the bench across it, the miniscule tiller in the middle. “This is where we sat when we went sailing together. Laynie handled the tiller and the sails almost all by herself. I held the tiller steady once or twice.”
She felt the salt spray and the wind on her face, saw again Laynie’s hair flying free . . . and the joy on her sister’s face.
Laynie! My sister! Where are you?
“What’s the boat’s name?” Ilsa asked.
“Oh, it’s the—” Kari stopped when she read the tiny red script flowing across the stern. She swallowed against the emotion that rose in her throat.
“What is it?”
Kari whispered, “Sammie’s boat was The Wave Skipper. This boat is the SS Fellowship.”
She knew then what the gift meant—and she knew Laynie would not be coming to her wedding.
Laynie’s work—her dangerous work—would not permit her to.
“Oh, God,” Kari prayed. “Please keep Laynie safe.”
