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LINNÉA LOCKED THE DOOR and sank onto her desk chair. Her limbs seemed to have lost all their strength. Her mind screamed again and again, They intend to kill me! They are going to throw me overboard!
The black rollers of the Baltic, thrashing and foaming beneath the ferry’s prow, reached their icy fingers toward her.
Stop! Stop it! Get hold of yourself. You cannot waste what few and precious moments you have.
She lifted her desk phone’s receiver from its cradle and laid it aside so no one could call and interrupt her. Then she yanked her laptop from its case, plugged in the broadband cable, connected her office printer, and switched the laptop on. When it had fully booted, she slipped on a lightweight headset, inserted the split cable into her laptop’s audio and mic jacks, and opened a command prompt. Typing furiously, Linnéa launched a Voice over Internet Protocol phone call to Stockholm.
Linnéa’s Marstead superiors insisted that her laptop hardware and software be kept on the cutting edge of available technology. VoIP technology hadn’t been commercially distributed yet, but Christor had configured her laptop with tricks her superiors were unaware of.
Linnéa and Christor had used the online calling technology sparingly, mostly when Linnéa was in desperate need of a friendly voice. To date, neither Petroff nor Linnéa’s handlers were aware of her laptop’s VoIP capability.
Was Christor still her friend and ally? Or had Marstead turned him?
Oh, God! If Christor withdraws his support from me now, I have no hope of escaping either Marstead or Petroff.
Those in Linnéa’s chain of command—nowhere tech savvy enough to be suspicious of their own IT director—were unaware of a great many things when it came to Linnéa’s backdoor communications with Christor or the various non-standard tech advantages he had provided for her.
The phone call rang inside Linnéa’s headset. Christor answered on the third ring.
“Linnéa? Where are you?” He was nervous. Wary.
“My office, St. Petersburg.”
“I’ve been trying to reach you for weeks.” Christor’s concern was evident. “I swept your office for bugs, by the way.”
“Thank you. We’ve been on holiday at the lake. No broadband service—no telephone service at all.”
He wasted no time. “Listen, Linnéa, I need to caution you. Don’t press Alvarsson to deactivate you.”
“Too late. We’re way past that now.”
He went silent for a moment. Then he whispered, “What are you going to do?”
Linnéa’s throat closed and she couldn’t speak. A familiar longing washed over her, that deep desire for the something or someone she had lost, the need that had haunted her from childhood and pursued her still—a yearning so powerful that its punch doubled her over.
She gasped and turned to the only memory that came near to quenching her need . . . She and Kari. On The Wave Skipper. The wind and salt spray whipped her face and hair, but her attention was fixed on Kari—Kari’s laughter, Kari’s unfettered joy as Sammie’s two-man sailboat leaped across the chop of Puget Sound.
That day. That perfect day with my sister. Two fellows in a ship. Safe.
It wasn’t what they had talked about while out on the water or while beached on the little island where they’d eaten lunch. No, it was Kari herself. She seemed to embody peace and contentment.
What gives Kari her joy? What does she have?
Why can I never possess such peace?
It couldn’t be what Kari had said to her. About God.
It couldn’t.
Linnéa shoved Kari’s voice to the back of her mind, but her sister’s gentle words would not stay there, would not be silent.
“All of God’s promises are true, Laynie, because he is true. One way or another, he will work those promises into reality. He is God, and he will have his way.”
No. God is a myth. A heartless fable.
Then she turned to memories of her dead brother’s two children. The last time she had seen them, Shannon had been four years old and Robbie not yet two. She and Kari had taken them to Lake Union Park for the day. Shannon had asked innumerable questions and Robbie had chased and tormented seagulls, screaming in delighted abandon as he hounded the scavenging birds.
But those memories were old. Shannon was almost eleven now, and Robbie had turned nine in early June.
Oh, how I long for a simple life, just be able to hug those babies! And I want to see my sister Kari. I want to see how she has made a family for our niece and nephew. I want, oh, I want, but—
“Linnéa? Linnéa, are you still there?”
She clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle the sob lurking in her throat, to prevent it from jumping out. When she had choked down her emotions, she whispered into the phone, “I’m here. Just . . . thinking.”
“Linnéa? What can I do?”
When she had cleaned out her Stockholm apartment before moving to St. Petersburg, she had emptied her safe and left its contents in Christor’s care. She’d handed off cash and three identities—three forged passports from different nations, one with an accompanying driver’s license. Christor was supposed to have renewed the documents if they were near expiration.
What if he hadn’t?
Those IDs may well decide whether I live or die.
Linnéa had understood that if Petroff found her out, it would be a one-way ride. She had made peace with that probability. That is, until Petroff began breaking her down, abasement by abasement and blow by blow. She hadn’t known how hard dying by his hand would be—she hadn’t known until then that Petroff would kill her long before she died.
She could accept a quick death. It was the slow, dying by inches—until she was no longer herself—that she could not endure.
Two years ago, she had begun making provision for the day when she could no longer bear her life with Petroff, when she knew she was close to cracking up—if Marstead should turn its back on her and she were forced to take her life back into her own hands.
That day was here.
I am between an unforgiving rock and a hard, grinding place, with little time and few options before those two forces crush me between them.
If I don’t get on the train to Tallinn this afternoon, Marstead will shift into high gear and assign every available agent to my “retirement party.” But if I don’t return to Moscow with Zakhar tomorrow morning, Petroff will hunt me with a vengeance even Marstead cannot match.
Unless . . .
If she were to survive, so much depended upon what she had entrusted to Christor.
It was Christor who had helped her establish numbered bank accounts in countries where they protected their account holders’ anonymity. Christor who had taught her how to transfer her Marstead salary into one of those numbered accounts then reroute it to others, using IP anonymizers and proxy servers to bounce the transactions around the world until no one but her knew that the money had landed in a foreign account under a secret American identity. The money, a tidy fortune after years with Petroff, was waiting for her on the “other side” of her escape. It was Christor who had helped her plan her escape and seen to the final details.
She cleared her throat. “Christor, are the, um, arrangements we discussed complete?”
“Yeah. I finished up when I visited St. Pete’s last quarter. Your documents are up to date. The, uh, package is in place. The claim check and key are you-know-where . . . with that . . . other thing you asked for.”
He coughed on his worry and discomfort. “Gotta say, that item was tricky.”
Linnéa exhaled. She could breathe again! “Thank you, dear friend.”
“But, Linnéa? Um, is there any possibility that you could reach out to Alvarsson yourself and negotiate a truce with our superiors? I . . . it’s just that . . . Klara and I? We have a baby on the way.”
When Marstead had recruited Christor in 1991, they had known the young man was a socially awkward but eager-to-please genius. Perhaps because Christor hadn’t fit into the Marstead “mold” any more than Linnéa felt she had, the two of them had hit it off.
Christor had, initially, suffered from a crush on Linnéa—even though he had guessed at what she did for Marstead, the men she seduced and stripped of their secrets. After Linnéa left Stockholm, Christor had met Klara, and he had bloomed. Matured. Linnéa could not have been happier for him.
She licked her lips. “A baby? Why, that is wonderful news, Christor. You and Klara must be over the moon.”
“We are, yes, but . . . but, Linnéa, if you go through with what we’ve planned? And if Marstead suspects I had a role in it? I could lose my clearance and my job. I could . . . go to prison.”
Linnéa lapsed into silence. She trusted and cared about Christor. She did not want to harm him or his family, but it was too late. He was in too deep—
It is too late for regrets, my friend.
Too late, because when Christor had agreed to hold Linnéa’s cash and documents, he had committed his first act of misleading Marstead for her. It was not to be his last.
Seven years ago, as Linnéa had prepared to leave Stockholm and move to St. Petersburg, she had handed off the contents of her safe to Christor. Then she had entrusted him with her greatest secret. I have a sister. Marstead doesn’t know. She is safer that way. No leaks, no leverage—right? I need your help. Please help me keep her safe?
After Linnéa left Stockholm, Christor had continued to pay the Posten box’s semi-annual fees and collect Kari’s letters. He then scanned the pages of her letters into tiny image files that he embedded in other images that he passed to Linnéa through their secret chat room visits—and Linnéa had sent short letters in reply.
Then, six years ago, when Petroff had insisted that Linnéa leave her St. Petersburg apartment to live with him in Moscow, she had written Kari a last letter, explaining that her situation was changing and that she would no longer be able to write but that, if Kari wrote to her, she would continue to receive her letters.
Kari had not given up on her, and Christor had kept encoding and forwarding Kari’s letters. Although Linnéa had not once replied since then, Kari had written faithfully, twice monthly, for the past six years. Her ongoing letters had been a godsend, a loving, normalizing influence in Linnéa’s otherwise emotionally barren existence.
In a letter not long after Linnéa moved to Moscow, Kari had managed to convey to her sister that she and Søren were in the process of adding a breezeway onto the back of their house, a walkway leading to separate, specially designed quarters they were building for Gene and Polly. Polly’s MS was not progressing rapidly, but Polly needed handicap facilities and personal care several times weekly that Gene was no longer able to provide for his wife.
Kari wrote later that the little casita behind their house was finished. Soon after, she and Søren had helped Gene and Polly sell their Seattle home and move to Nebraska. Even though Gene and Polly took most of their meals in their own little dining room, moving them close by had been a wonderful decision all around. Shannon and Robbie were a joy to the older couple, but they were a blessing not only to their grandchildren but also to Kari and Søren. Gene and Polly had taken them into their hearts as their own daughter and son—thus receiving and treating Max as a beloved second grandson.
With Gene and Polly nearby, Kari was able to send Linnéa regular updates on her parents. It was through Kari’s descriptions of family life on their great-grandmother’s homestead that Linnéa was able to visualize Kari’s husband, Søren, her stepson, Max, Mama and Dad, and, of course, Shannon and Robbie.
Kari’s most recent letter had been filled with details of Max’s preparations to leave home for his first year of college at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. “He’s going to study agriculture and agribusiness,” the letter said, “and by the time you receive and read this letter, he will have started the fall semester.
“I confess that, although my head reminds me that he will be only four hours away from us and will come home often, my heart insists it is too soon for him to fly the nest. I already miss him so.”
Linnéa shook herself. This is no time for reminiscing, for daydreaming.
She whispered, “I realize what I have asked of you, Christor, and the difficult spot I have put you in. I am also confident that if you are half as good at covering your tracks as you say you are—as I know you are—they may suspect you, but they will never be able to prove a thing. So, whatever happens, whatever they accuse you of, don’t cave. Not for an instant. Deny all knowledge. You can weather whatever—”
A knock sounded on her door. Linnéa threw off the headset, grabbed up the desk phone’s receiver and, cord dragging behind her, unlocked and cracked her door.
Ebba peeked through the crack. “Ah, yes. You are on the phone. I told Mr. Nyström you probably were. He wishes to see you before you leave, Linnéa.”
“Thank you. I am waiting for Vassili Aleksandrovich to come on the line. Please tell Mickel I’ll come as soon as I have spoken to Petroff.”
Ebba left, but Linnéa didn’t move.
Why does Nyström need to see me again? Has Alvarsson asked for reassurance that I will board that ferry tonight? But neither Alvarsson nor Nyström have any clue how desperate I am . . . how “done” I am.
Linnéa relocked her office door and discarded the phone’s receiver and the pretend call. With Christor forgotten on the VoIP line, she opened her lowest desk drawer, popped up a false bottom, and retrieved the drawer’s contents. A key, pawnshop claim check, subcompact handgun, and two single-stack magazines, each preloaded with eight .380 ACP rounds.
She inserted a magazine into the gun and let the distinctively blue HK P7K3—less than six-and-a-half inches in total length—rest in her palm. The solid, sure weight of it, light as a feather compared to most guns, was comforting.
Controlled and monitored by Petroff as she had been, she hadn’t held a real firearm in years. Yet out of all firearms, handgun proficiency was the most perishable. It degraded without continual practice.
Briefly she considered the semiauto and the choices it presented her. The gun had a squeeze-cocking system that would chamber a round when she tightened her hold on the front of the gun’s grip.
One squeeze followed by a steady pull on the trigger. It would be an easy way to end things, and it would release Christor from jeopardy.
Here and now?
Yes. Done.
I wouldn’t botch the job—and it would stick Marstead with the fallout Petroff would visit on them. She coughed a low laugh. Serve them right.
Then Kari’s face, smiling and joyous, rose before her—followed by her last moments with Shannon and Robbie, particularly Shannon’s stark little face, studying her, asking her Aunt Laynie, “Why do you have to go away? I don’t want you to go away!”
A year older than I was when my parents died. When Kari was ripped from us.
If I did this, Shannon would never know what became of me, any more than I knew what happened to Kari. Shannon would search for and never find me. I would be lost to her all her life. As Kari was to me.
I cannot do that to her.
Linnéa glanced at the gun. If worse comes to worst . . . you will be the ally I need most.
Just not today.
She reached deep into her handbag and felt for the pull tab that opened the compartment on the flat bottom. She withdrew the CD-ROM case. Then she sought a second tab, this one in the lining’s seam at one end of the purse. She gave that tab a sharp tug and a Velcro fastener released, opening a space within the handbag’s intentionally padded and reinforced sidewall.
She tucked the gun and spare magazine into the sidewall hiding place and pressed the Velcro closure back into place.
She’d traveled far in her thoughts—and had forgotten Christor.
A tinny, distant shout jerked her back. “Linnéa? Linnéa, are you there?”
No, no, no. I cannot afford slipups like this, she chastised herself as she grabbed up the headset. I must keep my focus.
“Yes, I’m still here. Listen, Christor, I’m sorry. This is my problem. I should never have dragged you into my mess. Just please believe me. As long as you don’t crack under Marstead’s questioning, you and your family will be okay.”
“All right. I hear you, but you’ll be careful, too, won’t you?”
“Don’t worry. I promise that I won’t give you away, my friend.”
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it. I’m concerned about you.”
Linnéa took a breath. She had to distance herself from his worry. She could not afford the emotional drag. Already a headache was pounding behind her eyes. “I’ll be fine. I’ll work it out.”
“Will you go back to Petroff, then, like they want you to?”
Oh, my dear friend. That’s no longer an option.
“No, Christor. I’m afraid I can’t go back . . . and Marstead knows I’m done.”
“So, will you . . . will you run?”
“I guess I’m still considering . . . alternatives.”
“What alternatives? If you don’t go back to Petroff, what else is there? Wait—listen to me, Linnéa. You can hang in there a while longer, I know you can. Just convince Alvarsson and his superiors that you’ll go back to Petroff, that you’ll be okay. But if you outright refuse Marstead’s orders?”
He hesitated before blurting, “Linnéa, if you give them cause to label you a risk, they will retire you. I know they will. I’ve been monitoring Alvarsson’s calls, listening in on his conversations with—”
As though a possible third option had dawned on him, Christor’s voice sank. “Linnéa? You already know what they’ve been discussing, don’t you? You-you wouldn’t do anything stupid, would you?”
“You think I should wait for the hit? Just walk into it like a dumb animal?”
Pain knifed through Linnéa’s head, as if the headset had grown a blade and thrust it into her left temple. In addition to the contusion Petroff had given her, stress was taking its toll.
She heard Christor asking, “Linnéa? Are you still there?”
She sat up. “I’m hanging up now. I have urgent things to do before I run out of time. But Christor? Before I go, I want to thank you for your friendship. For the endless rolls of film you developed for me before we went digital. The countless cups of espresso. Teaching me about computers and video games and the Internet. Your many acts of kindness. I . . . I appreciate you. More than you know.”
The other end of the line was silent, until, “Linnéa? You’re scaring me.”
“I’m sorry.” She swallowed. “Goodbye, Christor.”
Linnéa ended their call and closed the command prompt window. She removed her headset. She opened and flexed the CD-ROM case. The two discs inside snapped loose from the case. The top disc’s label read “Final Fantasy IX” for PlayStation2, but the second disc had no label. It was the kind of CD-ROM that was rewritable, and Linnéa had added to its contents for several years, a little to this folder, a little to that one.
She had sent a similar disc and made her “insurance” arrangements more than a year ago. What she did today amounted to “notifications” concerning those arrangements—notifications that she hoped would properly caution and incentivize both Marstead and Petroff.
Before she slid the rewritable disc into her laptop’s drive, she pulled the network cable from the back of her laptop. Then she pushed the disc drawer closed and waited for the CD-ROM to boot up.
When the window containing a list of folders and files appeared, Linnéa clicked on the file named “Alvarsson.” She read through the communication and nodded her approval. She opened the file named “Petroff 01”—a letter of similar warning couched in no-nonsense verbiage.
The final file, “Dear Petroff,” was different. She had taken great care with this letter’s overall tone because it needed to come across perfectly if it was to elicit the response she desired. She tweaked a word or two and saved the changes.
When she was satisfied, she sent it to print. Her LaserJet whirred and hummed and spit out the three documents. She signed and folded them. Set them aside.
She then copied two folders from the CD-ROM to her computer’s desktop. One folder was named, “Marstead,” the other folder was named, “Petroff.”
Next, she withdrew two unused CD-ROM discs from a drawer—the regular, single-use kind. With a fine-point marker, she wrote on one disc, “Marstead,” and on the second, “Petroff.” She placed the blank Marstead CD in her laptop’s drive and moved the Marstead folder from her laptop to the disc. She repeated the process, moving the Petroff folder to the Petroff disc. She placed the discs in soft, somewhat rubbery cases that were less likely to crack or break in the mail than an ordinary hard plastic case would be.
Linnéa removed one 8 x 12-inch and two 6 x 10-inch padded mailer envelopes and a plain letter envelope from her desk. She addressed the three mailers and the envelope. She placed the mailers and the letter envelope on her desk and grouped them with their corresponding discs and letters.
She snickered without humor. Mustn’t get these mailers, discs, and letters mixed up, right? I wouldn’t want to be responsible for single-handedly reigniting the Cold War . . . or worse.
She slid the Marstead disc into the padded mailer addressed to Lars Alvarsson in care of Marstead’s Stockholm offices, then added the letter to Alvarsson, sealed the mailer, and affixed the postage she’d predetermined the mailer would require. The mailer bore no return address, only a scrawled “Linnéa Olander” in the corner and “Personal and Confidential” printed across the back.
That should get Alvarsson’s attention.
And rock his world.
She put the Petroff CD and the “Petroff 01” letter inside the 6 x 10 mailer addressed to Petroff and sealed it—then slid that mailer into the 8 x 12 mailer. The larger mailer was addressed to Judith Johansson at Linnéa’s Stockholm Posten box and bore no return address.
Again, Christor was essential to her plans. He would pick up the mailer addressed to Judith Johansson, remove the smaller mailer that was addressed to Petroff, affix postage to it and, at Linnéa’s command, send it on its way.
Mailing Petroff’s package from Stockholm at Linnéa’s command meant Petroff would receive the letter and CD when Linnéa chose for them to arrive. This would leave time for her “Dear Petroff” letter to work—the letter that had a special, but temporary purpose to fulfill.
Linnéa unfolded the sheet of paper and reread the lines. Nodded to herself. Slid it into the letter envelope. The only words scrawled on this envelope were “Vassili Aleksandrovich Petroff,” because Linnéa would not be mailing it.
When she had readied her notifications, she put the read-write CD-ROM back into its case, placed the video game disc on top of it, and returned the case the bottom of her purse. She added the claim check and key to the hidden compartment before she snapped it closed.
Almost done. A final task to perform.
From a folder hidden within her laptop’s operating system files, Linnéa located and copied a string of text. She opened another command prompt and pasted the text. She stared at the final step.
Execute? Y/N
Her finger hovered over the “y” key.
Exhaling, she pressed it.
Two seconds passed before the laptop whirred to life. The code she’d executed began to reset her laptop to factory settings, wiping every added program, driver, folder, file, and file fragment from her hard drive, then logging her off and shutting down. The process would complete its work by defragging the hard disk the next time the power button was pushed.
Marstead itself had ordered its IT department to install the fail-safe on its operatives’ computers in the event their identities were compromised. Nothing could stop or interrupt the program’s work once it began, and not a trace of data would remain when it finished. Christor had made sure of both.
Linnéa packed up her laptop, tidied her desk, scanned her office a last time. Picked up her things and walked with practiced confidence to Nyström’s office.
She tapped on the door and peeked inside, a smile plastered on her face. “You wanted to see me again, Mickel?”
“Yes, uh, do come in. Just needed to confirm to Alvarsson that you will make the meeting tomorrow?”
“Yes, I will. I was, fortunately, able to reach Vassili Aleksandrovich in Moscow. As we surmised, he was unhappy with the unplanned trip, but he is preoccupied with state business at present. I assured him that Zakhar would see me safely to Stockholm and back, and he acquiesced.”
She winked at Nyström. “Petroff has no clue that he’ll never see me again.”
Nyström blanched at Linnéa’s “unconscious” double entendre, but her guileless smile never faltered. Instead, she glanced at her wristwatch.
“Goodness! Is it really 1:30? I must hurry if we are to catch the 4:05 train to Tallinn.”
“Yes, indeed.” Nyström rose and extended his hand. “I, ah, wish you the best of luck, Linnéa.”
She thought he’d turned a little gray around the edges and couldn’t resist a last dig.
“I won’t forget your steadfast friendship and trust, Mickel.”
Indeed, I won’t.
She turned and paced toward the elevator, leaving him to deal with his conscience. She hoped he had choked on his parting words to her.
I wish you the best of luck? With your knife embedded in my back?
Käre Gud! Dear God—I will need much more than luck.
LINNÉA SPENT THE SHORT ride down to the ground floor prepping herself. When the elevator doors pinged at the lobby, she fixed the same smile on her face that she’d plastered there for Nyström’s benefit. She cut her eyes toward the two Marstead security guards and cranked up the wattage. The guard with whom she was unacquainted dipped his chin, acknowledging her, but did not return her smile. He seemed wary. Alert. Jonas, the guard she’d known for years, swallowed and cut his eyes elsewhere.
Ah. Nyström has instructed the guards to watch what I do. Alvarsson’s orders, no doubt. And Alvarsson has probably assigned other Marstead agents to follow us to the train station.
She passed through the turnstile, and Zakhar jumped to his feet. Before he had opportunity to speak, Linnéa gushed, “Wonderful news, Zakhar! I have received a special assignment. It is quite the honor. Vassili Aleksandrovich will be so pleased.”
She hoped her performance was persuasive. Her life depended upon it.
Zakhar’s brow creased as Linnéa, without pause, dropped the assignment dossier in his hands and paced toward the exit, her heels clicking on the floor.
“Does Stepan have the car at the curb?”
“Yes. Stepan and Alyona returned from checking us into the hotel and are waiting outside.”
“Good, but now we have a train to catch this afternoon. I am to attend a briefing on the new assignment in Stockholm tomorrow, midmorning. Tell Stepan to return us to the hotel so we can pack and check out.”
Zakhar was quick to open and hold the entrance door for her. Linnéa let him. She turned and waved to Jonas. Jonas waved back. The two Marstead guards seemed to relax their vigilance.
Zakhar followed her outside. “Miss Olander, Stockholm has not been authorized.”
Linnéa lifted a palm to stop him. “This assignment is time-sensitive and will bring a great deal of attention to Russia’s technological advancements.” She slid into the rear seat of the waiting car. “We are to take the ferry from Tallinn to Stockholm this evening. You have our itinerary in the folder I gave you.”
In the rearview mirror, Linnéa saw Zakhar’s jaw jut out. “Petroff has not authorized Stockholm.”
Linnéa shot back, “Then I suggest that you call him, because we must check out of the hotel and be on the 4:05 train to Tallinn if we expect to make this evening’s ferry to Stockholm.”
On the seat next to her, Alyona shifted uneasily. “Mistress—”
“Yes—I am your mistress, and you do well to remember that. We will leave for Stockholm this evening!”
When they arrived at the hotel, Linnéa waited until Zakhar opened the door for her. As she stepped out, she addressed her three companions.
“Vassili Aleksandrovich will not tolerate losing out on this opportunity to showcase Russia’s achievements before the world. If you are concerned about this trip, call him immediately and find out for yourselves, but I must not be late to the meeting tomorrow.”
She turned on her heel and marched into the hotel lobby, confident that Zakhar would do just what she had goaded him to do. Linnéa headed for their suite with Alyona running behind her.
Twenty minutes later, Zakhar strode into the room. Full of himself, he announced, “I have spoken to Vassili Aleksandrovich at length.” He lifted his chin and slid his eyes over Linnéa. “He was most displeased that Marstead did not provide you with adequate time to consider this assignment and make appropriate arrangements.”
He arched one brow and held out a slip of paper. “He wishes you to call him at this number. Immediately.”
Ordinarily, Linnéa would have sent Zakhar and Alyona from the room, but her present plans called for a different approach. With an imperious finger, she pointed to the phone.
“Place the call, Zakhar.”
He and Alyona exchanged glances. Linnéa was behaving in an uncharacteristically high-handed manner, and it unsettled them both. Zakhar lifted the receiver and dialed the front desk, asking them to charge the call to their room. When Petroff’s aide and then Petroff himself answered, he handed the receiver to Linnéa.
She placed it to her ear. “Da?”
“Linnéa?”
“Vassili Aleksandrovich, moy lyubimyy! It rejoices my heart to hear your voice,” she murmured.
Zakhar and Alyona could make out Petroff’s shouted response from across the room. So loud was his roar, that Linnéa was forced to pull the receiver away from her ear.
“What is this *blanking* nonsense Zakhar tells me of? You were making plans to leave Russia without consulting me? Without obtaining my permission?”
Linnéa’s astonishment echoed back to him. “What do you mean, darling? Why on earth would I do that? I knew you would not appreciate the precipitous nature of this new assignment any more than I did, so I told Zakhar to call you directly and apprise you of the situation. Did he not do so?”
Petroff’s voice softened. “He failed to mention that you instructed him to call me. Tell me, then, what new trick this *bleeping* company of yours is trying to pull?”
“Ah, but I gave Zakhar the details. I handed the folder to him myself—the entire assignment, including the itinerary! Did he share none of the particulars with you?” She rounded on Zakhar, her eyes raking angry furrows into him.
Zakhar reddened, opened and closed his mouth, and shifted from foot to foot. Alyona edged away from him.
“That fool Zakhar told me nothing, only that Marstead—with no warning—told you to attend a meeting in Stockholm tomorrow.”
“Presumptuous of them, was it not?” Linnéa agreed. “I could scarcely believe it myself. Because they said the project would be a feather in Russia’s cap, they ordered me to attend! Ordered me! I posed my objections, but they overruled me and gave me no say in the matter.”
Petroff cursed Marstead again, then calmed himself. “I really cannot spare the time and effort at this moment to evaluate Marstead’s impetuous, *bleeping* behavior. I am too embroiled in the present crisis. Therefore, you will tell Marstead that I expressly forbid you to attend this so-called briefing. Tell them, furthermore, that I require you to arrive in Moscow by tomorrow evening. Come to the apartment. I will try to get away for a few hours.”
Linnéa gushed and sighed. “How I long to be home with you, my love!”
Abruptly, her demeanor and affect pivoted. She groaned, low in her throat.
“What is it? What is wrong, Linnéa?
“Oh, my, but this has been a long and tedious day. First, losing you and the remainder of our holiday to this urgent business in Moscow, then trying to please my Marstead superiors—followed by Zakhar’s bumbling ineptitude. I am quite distressed. The pressure has brought on a terrible headache. Ah, you were right, as always, Vassi. It is time for me to quit this job.”
She allowed another moan to follow.
“Are you all right, darling?”
Linnéa hesitated a tick. She dropped her forehead into her free hand and whimpered in pain. “Oy! Oy mne bol'no! It hurts! My neck and shoulders. They are so tight, so constricting! And the pain. It is radiating from my head into my eyes. I-I am quite ill from it.”
“Do not worry, my darling. I shall take care of everything. Put that fool Zakhar on the line and fret yourself no longer.”
This was the cloying, sickly-sweet side of Petroff that Linnéa knew well, the part of his pathological personality she had anticipated—had counted on—appearing.
“Oh, thank you, Vassi, my darling. What would I do without you?” Hanging her head further, she offered the receiver to Zakhar.
He took it from her hand much like he might receive a draft of poison.
“Da, Vassili Aleksandrovich?”
Shouts blasted from the earpiece.
“Zakhar, ty bezmozglyy idiot, you idiot! You have not safeguarded Miss Olander’s well-being as I ordered you!”
Zakhar studied his feet and pursed his lips. Petroff did not expect an answer. He expected Zakhar to suffer his insults in silence and then repair the disaster of his own making. Zakhar racked his brain for a way out of the mess he found himself in—a mess that had caught him unawares.
He shifted his gaze and saw Linnéa sitting on a sofa, Alyona standing behind her, rubbing Linnéa’s shoulders. Linnéa seemed in genuine distress, but Zakhar was unconvinced. The events of the past two hours perplexed him. Left him skeptical and guarded.
As he watched Alyona work on Linnéa’s neck, he found himself thinking, Ah, how I would like to put my hands about your neck, Linnéa Olander.
To Petroff he replied, “Vassili Aleksandrovich, I will book Miss Olander into Madame Krupina’s Spa within the hour for a stress-relieving soak in their hot pools, followed by a deep tissue massage. Whatever Miss Olander requires, I will supply. I will take care of her, Vassili Aleksandrovich. I promise you may trust me. I will see to her every need.”
“Trust you?” A plethora of denigrating expletives flowed across the line before Petroff had satisfied himself. “My duties call me away now, Zakhar. You have caused me many difficulties this day. Do not fail me again.”
“I will not, Vassili Aleksandrovich.”
