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ZAKHAR’S HANDS CLAMPED themselves like iron bands about Madame Krupina’s throat and squeezed. He throttled and shook her like a terrier shakes a sewer rat.
“Where is she? Where has she gone? Tell me!”
Madame Krupina’s fingers clawed at his hands on her neck but her efforts were entirely ineffective. Her mouth opened. Her eyes bulged. Her face reddened and then darkened toward blue.
A male attendant and a male masseuse, alerted by Madame’s female attendants, rushed to the hall and grappled with Zakhar, finally pulling him off their employer.
Madame fell against the wall, gasping and choking. When she could speak, she spat, “I told you, I don’t know, you imbecile! She soaked in the hot tub, then asked for a quiet room to sleep off her headache. We thought she was resting and did not wish to disturb her. No one saw her depart. And why would we think to watch her? Is my spa a prison that I should prevent my clients from leaving when they wish?”
By now a knot of Madame’s employees had gathered in the hallway, and a number of clients peered from behind doors to view the spectacle.
Linnéa’s maid, Alyona, hung back, terrified that blame for her mistress’ disappearance would fall upon her. Petroff had enough rage to encompass Zakhar and overflow onto her—easily!
“Let go of me,” Zakhar growled.
Madame’s men loosened their hold on him.
“Which exit did she use?”
“Not our main entrance,” a young aesthetician declared. “I was on the front desk this afternoon. I can attest that she did not pass through the foyer.”
Zakhar advanced on Madame—causing her men to catch hold of his arms and restrain him a second time. He shook them off. Stood nose-to-nose with Madame.
“How else might someone leave your miserable establishment?”
Madame drew herself up to her full height. “We have but two other routes. The employee entrance and a door in the laundry room that leads to the alley.”
“Show me.”
Her nose in the air, Madame gestured. “This way.” To her employees she hissed, “What is this? The Bolshoi Circus? Tend to our clients!”
Except for Madame’s two male attendants, the employees melted away, and the hall doors shut on excited whispers. Such juicy gossip!
Zakhar, Madame’s men, and Alyona trailing behind them, followed the spa owner to the very back of the building into the steamy laundry. A young woman folding towels paused in her work.
Zakhar pointed at the only door. “Did anyone leave by that door?”
The girl’s eyes widened. “Nyet, sir. That is, not that I saw.”
“What do you mean, ‘Not that I saw’?”
“I-I . . .” The girl cut her eyes to her employer. “I did leave the laundry for a time. To-to restock the linens—as I always do. I suppose someone could have used the door while I was gone, but we keep it locked and—”
“Bah!” Zakhar flung open the door. “As you can see, it is not locked.” He stepped into the alley. Hands on his hips, he looked up and down the narrow cobblestones.
Behind his back, Madame winked her approval to the laundry girl and placed a finger to her lips. As Zakhar strode back inside, he wiped his face with a hand. Now past the first frenzy of temper, he experienced a different emotion. Fear. For an instant—a mere fraction of a moment—he considered abandoning Petroff and leaving the country.
He trembled at the knowledge of what Petroff would do to the woman when he found her. Above all things, Petroff demanded obedience—the penalties for acts of infidelity were horrifying. Zakhar had seen such punishment inflicted on Petroff’s earlier women, women before Linnéa’s time. Zakhar knew that failing in his duty was one thing. Failure could be atoned for—but disloyalty was unforgivable.
He put the idea of fleeing Mother Russia straight out of his mind.
One of Madame’s attendants tugged on her sleeve. “Madame. I have just now found this. I was changing the bedding in the room where Miss Olander was sleeping. It was under the pillow.” She handed her employer a plain envelope.
Madame took the envelope. “It appears Miss Olander has left a message.”
Zakhar snatched the envelope from Madame and scanned the simple scrawl upon it.
Vassili Aleksandrovich Petroff
Personal and Confidential
He dared not open the letter but, even unopened, it confirmed what he believed. The fool of a woman had defied Petroff and run away.
“I must use your telephone. Urgently.”
“Come,” Madame murmured. “Come to my office with me.” She threw over her shoulder, “I do hope Miss Olander will be all right?”
Zakhar’s lips curled into a snarl, yet he kept his thoughts to himself.
You hope that whore will be “all right,” do you? She is as good as dead! But before Petroff grants her that kindness? She will beg and pray for death from a man who knows no mercy.
AT EXACTLY 4:15, WHILE Zakhar’s shaking hand was dialing the number to reach Petroff’s aide, Lars Alvarsson answered a call from Mickel Nyström. Alvarsson sank back in his chair as Nyström reported that Linnéa Olander had not boarded the 4:05 train from St. Petersburg to Tallinn.
His reaction was much the same as Zakhar’s. “What do you mean she didn’t get on the train? Where is she?”
He listened. “She went to a spa with her entourage? The car is still parked there? Well? Is she still there? Then find out, you fool!”
He hung up slowly, but his thoughts were racing. He’d received his orders from on high. For the secure future of the Marstead intelligence network and to protect the fact that a Marstead agent had been in place for seven years within the highest circles of the Russian government, Linnéa was to be “retired.” The job was to be done in such a way that Petroff—and the FSB—would never suspect Linnéa’s duplicity.
As much as Alvarsson detested those orders, he’d had no choice but to follow them. So, where was the woman?
According to Nyström, Linnéa asked for and received Petroff’s permission to take the ferry to Stockholm. He rubbed his jaw. But had Petroff given his permission? Had Linnéa’s persuasive genius convinced him? Not once in seven years has Petroff allowed Linnéa to return to Sweden without accompanying her.
He frowned and sat up. Wait. We have only Linnéa’s word that she had gained Petroff’s permission to leave Russia. What proof do we have that she even spoke to him?
His phone rang. He picked up and listened as Nyström spoke, his sentences coming in quick, jerky phrases.
“I sent a female agent into the spa. She reports that it is in an uproar. When she asked what was happening, several people said a Russian man, bodyguard to one of Madame’s patrons, had gone crazy and assaulted the spa’s owner—”
Alvarsson interrupted him. “Mickel, forget the ruckus at the spa. It is a waste of precious time. You say Linnéa assured you she would be on the train because she had obtained Petroff’s permission to come to Stockholm? Yes, well, she lied to you. She is running.”
Nyström spoke again but Alvarsson again cut him off. “Do not for one minute forget who we are dealing with. Linnéa is the consummate actress. This woman has fooled one of the most brilliant men in the world for seven years—you think she can’t fool us, too?”
He glanced at the clock. “What time did she arrive at the spa?”
He listened to Nyström, then replied, “We can assume she slipped away from the spa forty-five minutes to an hour ago, enough time to leave the city. We have no authority to operate in Russia, so we must be discreet. Ask yourself, where would she would go?”
He listened, then added, “Think, Mickel. What do we know of Petroff? What will he do when he hears Linnéa has disappeared? He will believe she has fled from his control and brutality, yes? But he is far too possessive to release her—he would rather see her dead than free. We can assume he will roll out his FSB friends to hunt her down and dispose of her.”
With Nyström’s voice ringing in his ear, Alvarsson quickly devised a plan. “Yes, because of Petroff’s reach within Russia, she would aim to cross the border as quickly as possible. That is certain. She would feel safest in countries where she could blend in, both culturally and ethnically. So! Set your people to work checking every route and mode of transportation out of St. Petersburg toward any western country.”
He ground his teeth. “We must find her—before Petroff does.”
Alvarsson slammed the receiver down and leaned his forehead on his fisted hands.
If Petroff’s men were to locate Linnéa and kill her while she is attempting to flee, it would solve all our problems for us, but we cannot count on that. Linnéa has tweaked the tiger’s tail. She has insulted Petroff’s pride. He would order his people to bring Linnéa to him so that he could watch her suffer and cry for mercy.
And we must not forget that Petroff was KGB. He is far too smart, too experienced not to, upon reflection, suspect the worst of Linnéa. If he were to find her before we do? No matter how good she is, Petroff would break her.
In the end, she would tell him everything she knows—and implicate Marstead. We would be set back a decade. This is worse than bad—it is disastrous.
Perhaps I should consider the retirement I have put off three years already.
Stiffening his spine, Alvarsson left his office and headed for the elevator. Inside the lift’s car, he bypassed the buttons and placed his fingers on the embossed words “Marstead International” and pressed twice. Push-push. And again. Push-push.
In actuality, Marstead owned the entirety of the four-story Stockholm building—including the basement and sub-basement levels, levels that did not appear in any architectural drawings, particularly those filed with the city. The hidden buttons would send the lift directly to the sub-basement without stopping at other floors.
The sub-basement was the most secure location in the building. It was home to Marstead’s fortress-like IT Department and tech laboratory. It also held a secure, shielded room for classified meetings and conference calls.
Alvarsson locked himself in the room and picked up the STU—Secure Telephone Unit. He placed a call to a number he knew by heart. The area code was 757, Langley, Virginia.
A woman picked up immediately. “Marstead International. How may I direct your call?”
“Access Alpha Two Five Five.”
“One moment please.”
He had to wait five minutes before the man he’d called picked up.
“Saunders here. Initiating secure transmission.”
Saunders pressed a button, and they heard a low, fifteen-second scree as their call was encrypted.
Then Alvarsson spoke. “We have a situation.”
PETROFF RESPONDED TO Zakhar’s news with predictable rage, and Zakhar was forced to listen to his employer’s profanities and endure his verbal insults without comment—but he did so while nursing his own anger.
You had better hope Vassili Aleksandrovich’s other men find you before I do, whore, he vowed.
Promising himself that he would make Linnéa pay for humiliating him—and planning just how he would do it—Zakhar left Madame’s office. He was pale but outwardly controlled. Signaling Stepan and Alyona, they returned to their hotel to pack and check out.
From the hotel, Zakhar dialed the number Petroff had given him and issued terse orders. Within the hour, every train station, bus station, car rental business, taxi, airport, and border crossing out of Russia would receive Linnéa’s description and photograph, courtesy of Petroff’s cronies within the FSB.
Zakhar was not allowed to oversee the small army of FSB agents authorized to hunt Linnéa. Instead, Petroff ordered him to return to Moscow and hand deliver the sealed envelope Linnéa had left for Petroff. Late that evening, he stood stone-faced and immobile before Petroff while the man read, reread, and read again the woman’s letter . . .
VASSILI ALEKSANDROVICH, moy lyubimyy—my love,
I sorrow that with this letter I must break both our hearts. Oh, my darling, the fishbowl you must occupy because of your important position—without privacy and forever fraught with political intrigue and danger—is too much for my nerves to bear any longer. I find that the prospect of yet another winter filled with diplomatic cocktail parties and weekends in the country with your partisan friends—where I must guard my every word and even the countenance of my face for your sake—has mired my soul in despair. And so, my dearest one, I am returning to Sweden to live a simpler life.
Vassi, I beg of you not to reproach or hate me. Perhaps I should have told you how despondent of heart I have grown, but these last weeks, roaming the peaceful forests surrounding Lake Komsomolskoye, have made me long for the mountains of my native home. I have come to crave serenity and a private, uncomplicated life, my darling, and—I beg your forbearance and understanding, my love!—I confess that I also crave what I cannot have with you . . . a family.
I do not place blame, Vassi. How can I? You were forthright when we began. No marriage, no children. I accepted your conditions because my love for you overcame every obstacle . . . even when you asked that I destroy our unborn child. I understood. I do not fault you.
But now, after seven years bathed in your love, I look in the mirror, and I think, “I am forty-six years old. Will my hero, my Adonis, still love me when I turn fifty? When these first hints of crow’s feet about my eyes settle into the deeper wrinkles of encroaching age? Will my darling not look elsewhere for companionship? Will he not pursue love and solace elsewhere?”
Yes, I am forty-six, and while I will not seek to bear a child, nevertheless, I hear the ticking of a clock that grows louder day by day, that will not be ignored. I do not desire another man, Vassi—how could I? But a child? Yes, I desire a child. A child would love and cling to me even as I age—and I would love him or her back. We could be a family, living a simple, uncomplicated life. And so, Vassili Aleksandrovich, I will try to adopt a child before I am much older, before it is too late.
Please allow me to go! I beg of you. Permit me to live out my life in peace with my memories of you to comfort me. I ask this with all the love we have shared, with the many happy memories we made together. Pozhaluysta—please—my love, do not seek for me after you read this, but allow me to fade away as a fond memory in your heart.
I do not say do svidaniya to you, but rather, in the tongue of my homeland, farväl, tills vi ses igen. Farewell, until we meet again, for some day I hope for us to meet again.
I will send word to you when I have found a place to settle in Sweden so that you will not worry for me. Until then, I beg you to remember me with the passion and affection I will always have for you.
Forever yours,
Linnéa
WHEN PETROFF FOLDED the letter and returned it to its envelope, he was calmer. Perhaps even bemused.
“Vassili Aleksandrovich?”
Petroff shook his head. “I must think on this.”
Anger made Zakhar daring. “What does she say?”
Petroff looked out the window of his apartment’s library. “She longs for a child and wishes to adopt one. She begs me to allow her to retire from the stressful public life I live.”
Zakhar’s eyes narrowed. “And you believe her?”
Petroff seemed not to hear him. “She is in pain, Zakhar. Why did I not see it?”
The hatred Zakhar held toward the woman roiled within him, but Zakhar had not achieved Petroff’s trust without the self-effacing mastery of his own inclinations. He knew Petroff’s pride. He understood Petroff better than the man understood himself.
Affecting a sympathetic expression, he asked, “I admit to my impertinence, but would you allow me the great honor of reading her letter?”
Petroff blinked, then extended the envelope to Zakhar. “You will see. You will see how grieved she is to wound me.”
Yes, it is all about you, Vassili Aleksandrovich, all about you—and you are blind!
Zakhar read the letter to himself, ignoring the gushing sentiments that pandered to Petroff’s narcissism. He dissected it objectively, looking for deception—for he was still smarting from the woman’s perfidy which he now saw clearly. From the moment they had departed the dacha until she escaped, she had deceived and manipulated him again and again.
What Zakhar read between the lines of her flowery prose was distraction and deflection. The woman comprehended that Petroff loved her—as much as a man such as he was capable of loving—and her words exploited his egocentric affection. She appreciated that Petroff would be simultaneously aggrieved and furious at her defection, wounded in heart and injured in pride, so she had composed the letter to flatter and mollify him, to take the blame and play upon his benevolence.
And if her letter soothed even a fraction of Petroff’s injured pride, if her words managed to extract the stinger from his heart? She would have accomplished her goal—time enough to disappear.
His hackles rose. The woman knows Petroff as I do. She is playing an admirable game, capitalizing on Petroff’s inflated ego.
He fingered the sheet of paper. “She is distressed, indeed, Vassili Aleksandrovich. How will you respond to her request? What are your orders?”
Zakhar observed Petroff’s internal struggle, watched as he came to a decision.
“Call off the search for now, Zakhar. We know she is going home to Sweden to heal. When the crisis within the Security Council is resolved, I will go myself to find and visit her. Perhaps then I can comfort her.”
Zakhar knew Petroff. He knew how contrary and volatile the man’s disposition was. Whether it took an hour, a day, or a week, Petroff would reverse course as surely as the winds shifted direction. Until then, Zakhar had to tread carefully. For the present, he bowed his chin to his chest in acquiescence. “Da, Vassili Aleksandrovich. I will issue your instructions.”
But Zakhar was no fool. He would continue his hunt for the woman, using the discreet resources at his disposal and make no mention of his findings to Petroff—until the man asked for them.
As he left Petroff, Zakhar added to himself, You are wily, Linnéa Olander, I give you that. You are not the woman you have played so convincingly these past years, but you will not fool me again. I will find out who you truly are—and what you have really been doing all this time.
THE MAIL ROOM HAD DELIVERED Alvarsson’s mail to Ingrid, Marstead’s Stockholm receptionist, at the usual time. She sorted through it, relegating junk mail to the shredder, piling what might be actual mail to the side. Rarely did anything of import come through Posten. Most of Alvarsson’s Marstead communications were handled through secure phone calls while classified documents arrived via armed Marstead couriers.
She picked up a padded mailer. Saw the scrawled name in the corner where the return address belonged. Noted the postmark. St. Petersburg, Russia. She flipped the package over. Personal and Confidential.
Ingrid picked up her phone and called the Marstead Alpha employee who spelled her at regular times throughout the day.
“Hej, Gunnar. Something important has come up. I need you. Yes, immediately.”
Ingrid slid the mailer into an interoffice sleeve. When Gunnar arrived, Ingrid was waiting, sleeve in hand.
“Put me through to Alvarsson, if you please.”
Gunnar sat down at Ingrid’s desk, reached beneath it, and pressed three buttons in succession. One locked down the elevator. The second secured the double doors to the right of the elevator at the end of the hall. Those doors led to the wide floor of cubicles where Marstead International worker bees labored—Marstead workers busy at actual technical research, acquisition, and marketing, employees ignorant of their company’s covert intelligence gathering activities.
When Gunnar pressed the third button, the unadorned paneled wall to her right separated, providing access to the wing housing Marstead’s management suite.
The third button beneath the desk functioned only if the elevator and hall door locks were engaged. The elevator could not open while locked down. Employees could not exit the floor of cubicles when access to the management suite was open. In other words, no one ever saw—or crossed—the threshold to the management wing without appropriate clearance.
If an intruder—a threat—were to exit the elevator on the fourth floor, two taps of Ingrid or Gunnar’s toe against the back panel of their desk would lock down the lobby and send an alarm to building security and all Alpha employees. In fact, the lobby was constructed in such a way that, while the intruders might threaten or kill the receptionist, they would be trapped where they stood—within the lobby’s secure and reinforced confines—and only the highest Alpha employee in the building could end the lockdown.
It wasn’t as though Marstead’s “regular” employees were ignorant of the management wing. It only meant that they were not allowed access for security reasons. Theft of intellectual property being a tech company’s greatest vulnerability, Marstead’s robust security protocols were acknowledged and not to be trifled with.
Employees who failed to demonstrate appropriate respect for Marstead’s security measures were stripped of their access badge and escorted from the building by armed guards.
Ingrid stepped into the management wing, jogged to the office at the end of the hall, and knocked.
“Come.”
“I felt you should see this immediately, sir. It arrived just now in the post.” Ingrid removed the padded mailer from the sleeve and handed it to Alvarsson.
The man scanned the mailer—then stared at the name in the upper left corner. Linnéa Olander.
“I’m sorry. Say again where you got this?”
“Mail room sent it up with the normal post.”
“Thank you, Ingrid. Please close the door on your way out.”
He waited until she left before slicing into the mailer and removing its contents, a tri-folded sheet of paper and a CD-ROM. He unfolded the paper and read it,
ALVARSSON,
This letter serves as notice of my resignation from Marstead, effective immediately. I have been a loyal employee, serving as ordered for going on twenty-five years, but I have come to the end of usefulness in my present assignment. Indeed, had I continued as mistress to Vassili Aleksandrovich Petroff, I would have become a liability. Not wanting to endanger the company’s network, I elected to remove myself from my assignment and, with this letter, resign from the company’s employ.
If I am allowed to go my way, unharmed and unmolested, Marstead has nothing to fear from me. My wish is to live a simple life, free of the unrelenting stress under which I have lived these past seven years. You also need not fear that I have compromised Marstead’s cover by leaving Petroff. I have taken steps to lead him astray so that he should not suspect me of spying on Russia.
Again, it is not my wish to expose Marstead’s activities. I love my country and do not want to cause her or her allies harm. If the company allows me to live out my life in peace, you have my word that you need never fear me.
Alvarsson, I am aware that you have received orders to retire me. Please advise your superiors that acting on those orders would be unwise. Enclosed you will find a CD. Please insert it into your computer and peruse it. The files on the disc contain unequivocal evidence that I spied upon and stole many classified secrets from Vassili Aleksandrovich and the Russian Federation, proof that Marstead International is a cover for a joint US–NATO intelligence agency—enough documentation to cause an international incident of catastrophic proportions.
Let this letter, then, be a warning. Should Marstead continue its hunt for me or should I disappear or die under suspicious circumstances, I have arranged for copies of the disc to be sent to members of the Russian Security Council and to multiple news outlets.
As I have never given you cause to doubt my integrity, loyalty, or determination to do what had to be done, do not doubt me now. Please heed both my promise and warning. You have nothing to fear if I am left alone. Conversely, my disappearance or death will result in Marstead’s ruin and great upheaval in relations between the US and Russia.
Sincerely,
Linnéa Olander
ALVARSSON STARED AT the wall opposite his desk for a long time before he did as the letter suggested. He inserted the disc into his computer, ran a virus scan on it, then opened a window and clicked on the single folder labeled “Marstead.”
The folder was heavily protected using Marstead’s proprietary software in case her letter was lost or intercepted in the mail. Alvarsson unlocked and opened the folder.
Within the folder, he found hundreds of files spanning Linnéa’s seven years with Petroff—proof that she had been spying on him . . . proof she had been spying for Marstead. The files included copies of her Marstead quarterly reports containing covert communications between Linnéa and Marstead, hundreds of digital photos she had taken of documents Petroff had carried home in his briefcase, and many of his classified emails. Most incriminating were the audio files. She had recorded Petroff’s private phone conversations with members of the Russian Security Council, even private conversations between himself and Secretary Rushailo.
If the material contained in the CD-ROM were released to the public, Marstead would not survive the scrutiny. Management would have to scramble to preserve its priceless network of operatives, but the company itself would be finished—and not merely Marstead. Public release of the recorded conversations would spell disaster for those parties whose voices Linnéa had identified in the calls. The Russian Federation would “disappear” the persons to mitigate internal damage and go after any and all Marstead personnel within Russian territory.
The international damage to Marstead would be extensive—but, as Linnéa had predicted, catastrophic to Marstead’s network of agents.
The company could reorganize, change its name, reinvent itself. It would take time, and we would take huge hits financially, but our network of Alpha employees in the field would be blown. Many would have to flee for their lives and would take decades to replace.
Alvarsson removed the disc from his computer, put it back in its case, then locked it in his safe. He put the letter in his suit’s breast pocket, left his office, and headed downstairs to use the STU yet again.
When Saunders came on the line and the transmission had been encrypted, Alvarsson spoke. “Our problem has gotten worse.”
“Our deep-cover asset?”
“Yes.”
“You haven’t found her yet?”
“No, but I received a letter from her.”
Alvarsson read the letter to Saunders in a measured, even voice.
“And you’ve looked at the disc?”
“Yes.”
“Assessment?”
“The material is incontrovertible. If it were released to the public, the blowback would put us behind for years, perhaps a decade.”
Saunders swore aloud. Then he became silent as he considered options.
“But you say you trust this woman?”
“I told you I trusted her before you ordered me to retire her. If you’d heeded my advice to simply bring her in and provide a suitable cover for her ‘death,’ we wouldn’t be in this mess.”
“Don’t go all righteous and insubordinate on me, Alvarsson. We are where we are, and now we need to fix it. What are your recommendations?”
“Recommendations? We call off the hit and leave her alone just as she asked.”
“Leave her alone? After she’s threatened us?”
“It’s called self-preservation, Saunders.”
“Is it? And what is it called if she’s hit by a bus next week and her little ‘fail-safe’ plan launches? What do we call it then, eh? And what of Petroff? We don’t know what Olander meant by, ‘I have taken steps to lead him astray. He should not suspect me of spying on him,’ or whether those so-called ‘steps’ she claims to have taken will deter such a man as Petroff—a sociopath whose pride and control issues may well override his logic and survival instincts. What we need, Alvarsson, is our own leverage against this woman. She has parents, yes?”
Alvarsson stood and paced. “Sir, I strongly advise against threatening her family.”
“We need to bring her to heel. Her parents are fair game.”
“Again, I would not use her family as so-called leverage—not unless you want to wake up in the night with Linnéa Olander standing over your bed as the last thing you ever see.”
“Huh. I would hardly categorize her as a killer. She’s not known for wet work. Do you really think she’s that good? Hasn’t she been a passive asset most of her career?”
“Don’t let her looks fool you. Linnéa Olander has a backbone of steel. She aced her training—tactics, weapons, hand-to-hand, and urban tradecraft. Besides all that, she has a near-eidetic memory and can solve complex logistical problems on the fly, making her a formidable opponent in the field. I have never known her to be squeamish about any task the job required of her, even the taking a life when necessary—and she has killed.”
Alvarsson’s tone hardened. “In my opinion, the more important questions are, why did we risk making an enemy of her in the first place? What did we gain by alienating her? Was it only to preserve the prestige her valuable contributions garnered?”
“Enough! I won’t have you questioning my decisions or my motives, Alvarsson. We can’t undo what’s done. More to the point, we can’t leave the threat of exposing us unanswered. That is not an option.”
Alvarsson tamped down his anger. “Then what would you have us do? Her trail has gone cold—or, rather, we never had a trail, not a single bread crumb. Our people brought Krupina in and put her through an exhaustive interrogation. All we got out of her was that Olander had bruises to her head from Petroff’s latest tantrum and that Olander was getting out. Leaving him. Krupina admitted that Olander went out the alley door, but neither we nor the Russians have caught sight or scent of her since.”
Alvarsson sighed. “She’s smart, as smart as they come, and she’s not in a hurry. She won’t be easily found.”
Saunders grumbled to himself, then asked, “So, she’s lying low, waiting for the furor to die down. What’s her endgame? Where will she go when she makes her move?”
“My guess is back to America. It’s a big and open country. With her skills, she can melt into any town or city she chooses.”
Alvarsson heard Saunders tapping his fingers across the miles. He waited.
Finally, Saunders said, “I need to bump this up the chain. For now, though, the retirement order stands.”
“Understood,” Alvarsson answered. He hung up, frustrated and still angry.
THE INDIGENT OLD PEASANT woman left the train in Moscow and wandered the streets by day, picking through litter, filling her pram with choice bits of rubbish, meandering from the train depot to a metro station. She did not stray far from the metro, because food vendors gathered daily around the station to sell to the passengers—and from the vendors she could buy small hot meals.
She gestured for what she wanted and, with shaking fingers, counted out kopecks from a worn coin purse. In this manner, she purchased a shawarma from this vendor, a cheburek from that one, pirozhki from another.
She squatted against a building to eat her food, muttering to herself, sometimes moving her hands as she talked. When she finished eating, she wiped her greasy hands on the coat that covered her from neck to calf, then continued her hunched, aimless ramble.
The weather was warm and mild, so when darkness fell, she slept under a nearby bridge, her thick scarf pillowing her head, her stained coat a blanket. She was not alone under the bridge. Her companions in the night were roughened men, mostly alcoholics, addicts, and petty thieves who dared not ask the Russian State for shelter. These men supported their habits and their meager lifestyle through small-time criminal endeavors—mugging unsuspecting passengers leaving the metro, targeting the weak and defenseless, taking anything of value their victims might have on them.
During the indigent old woman’s first night under the bridge, three drug users decided to rob her. One of them had seen her counting out coins to a vendor for her dinner and supposed her an easy mark. They were desperate men, in need of a fix to see them through the long, dark hours until morning.
She assumed they would come and had prepared for their attack. When they made their move, she was ready, a broken bottle held in each hand—jagged edges toward them. She called down angry, garbled curses on them and showed no fear. On the contrary, she rushed forward and assailed them! Before they knew what was happening, she had nicked one on the arm and jabbed another in the shoulder. Their injuries were not serious, but they withdrew to bind up their wounds and reconsider their approach.
The babushka, however, did not withdraw.
Awakened by her shrieks and shouted curses, other vagabonds stole out of the dark. She put on quite the show for them, brandishing her weapons, dancing awkwardly about, babbling threats and nonsense, feinting, then attacking invisible foes. Fearing the commotion would attract the militsiya, the Moscow police, her audience shied away into the shadows.
The police did not come that night. However, having witnessed the old woman’s fierce, unpredictable madness and after talking of it among themselves, those who regularly took shelter under the bridge chose to bother her no further.
She spent five nights and four days near the metro station. Unmolested.
