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LAYNIE DIDN’T SLEEP well Sunday night. The wind had risen while she slept and had pushed and howled at her room’s windows. She woke tired and fretful. She ordered coffee and breakfast and, as she had Saturday, continued to chew on the conversation Christor had played for her yesterday. While she knew and had once trusted Alvarsson, she hardly knew what to think of the stranger who had identified himself as Director Wolfe.
Could it be true? Was my “retirement” entirely the brainchild of Deputy Director Saunders and did his Marstead superiors remove him for ordering the hit on me? Do his superiors consider me the valuable asset this man Wolfe said I was? Are they ready to let me come in? Or is it a trap?
All her deliberations came down to one question. Can I take such a risk? Each time, her gut gave her the same answer. No. I cannot.
She wanted—needed—to get out of her room, to leave the city as soon as possible, but since her bank wouldn’t open until 9:00 a.m. this morning, she forced herself to slow down. As much as she wanted to leave Montreal behind, she also didn’t want the bank manager to remember a woman so hurried that she had been waiting for him to unlock the doors.
Laynie showered and dressed, putting on one of the nice pants outfits and the light jacket, donning both the look and persona of the affluent woman she wished to project to the world. When she’d finished, she headed downstairs, taking the elevator to the second floor as she had become accustomed to, using the back stairs to reach the ground floor and the parking garage.
The fewer people who see me, the better.
She drove to her bank. The lobby was moderately busy as she walked to the teller window—intentionally using a different teller than the one who had opened her account.
Laynie presented her passport. “Good morning. I had money wired from my Singapore account last week. I’d like to know if it has arrived?”
“One moment while I check. Yes. I see that your account is showing a balance of thirty-nine thousand five hundred dollars. Is that correct?”
Laynie had taken the allowed five-hundred-dollar withdrawal Thursday.
“Yes, it is.”
“What can I help you with today?”
“Two things. I would like to purchase a cashier’s check in the amount of twelve thousand dollars and make a cash withdrawal of two thousand dollars.”
“I can help you with both of those requests.”
When Laynie left the bank, she returned directly to her hotel, asking the valet to keep her car handy. She went up to her room, changed clothes, repacked her suitcase, then wiped down the fixtures she’d touched.
She had, again, altered her appearance by putting on a long-sleeved T-shirt, jogging pants, running shoes, and hoodie, tying a kerchief around her neck. She tucked a few items she’d need later into her purse.
“Thank you,” she told the valet, tipping him for keeping her car at the ready. He put her suitcase into the trunk, and Laynie drove away.
She found her way back to the rental agency. She parked, pulled her bag from the trunk, and returned the keys.
“You have a ride, lady?” the owner asked.
“Oh, yes. I’ve ordered a taxi,” Laynie lied.
She rolled her bag out of the yard and to the curb and glanced down the street as though she was expecting the cab any moment. A minute later, she waved to an imaginary driver and wheeled her suitcase beyond the junkyard’s fencing where the owner, had he been watching her, would have lost sight of her. Beyond his view, Laynie picked up her steps. She was constrained by the suitcase, but she made it to the next intersection in good time, turned the corner, and kept going.
Well away from the rental agency’s prying eyes, Laynie stopped. She fished in her handbag, brushed out her hair, tied it in a low ponytail, then wound and pinned it at the back of her neck. She pulled the kerchief from around her neck. She folded it into a triangle, placed it over her hair, and tied it behind her head at the hairline, below the knot of hair.
She set off, dragging her case behind her. The wheeled bag definitely slowed her down. Jogging, she could have made it to Bessie and Shaw’s in half the time. Walking would take her longer—but she didn’t want a cabbie recounting where he’d dropped her off.
Besides, she told herself, stretching out her legs, the exercise will do me good.
Forty minutes later, warmed and lightly perspiring from the brisk pace she’d set, Laynie arrived at the Bradshaws’. She wheeled her case up the driveway and left it in front of the motor home, out of sight. She climbed the steps to the Bradshaws’ house and rang the bell.
Shaw answered immediately.
“Come in, come in,” he urged her. “Wind’s got a bite to it, it does.”
He was, she observed, somewhat flustered.
“Is something wrong, Shaw?”
He looked her up and down. “How did you get here, Elaine? I didn’t see a car and your cheeks are all pink.”
“I, uh, walked from the rental place.”
He searched her face, looking for something. “Well, come to the kitchen. We need to talk.”
Alarm bells jangled in Laynie’s head. The last time someone had insisted, “We need to talk,” she’d been shoved backward into a lavatory at thirty thousand feet and deputized to help take down a clutch of hijackers.
She followed Shaw into the kitchen. Bessie was waiting, already sitting down.
“Take a seat, Elaine—if that is your name,” Shaw said.
She sat and glanced from him to Bessie and back. “What’s going on?”
Bessie flipped over an old newspaper. Put her finger on the photo Laynie was already quite familiar with.
“Is this you? This Marta Forestier woman?”
Laynie expected fear and accusation in their eyes. Condemnation. Instead she saw a searching, wary concern.
She didn’t flinch from the examination.
It’s not my intention to hurt you, either of you—and I won’t. Please believe me.
Believe you? Isn’t your entire life a lie?
I don’t want that life anymore.
Clearing her throat, Laynie whispered, “And if it is?”
Shaw answered her. “Then I would ask you just one question. Are you on the run from the law?”
Laynie thought for a moment. “Do you mean am I a criminal?”
“Is there a difference?”
She nodded. Slowly. “There is. I am running, but not because I’m a criminal. I-I’m running from a man and . . . from my former employers.”
“Running from a man?” Shaw looked to Bessie, then back. “Like an abusive husband?”
“Yes, abusive. Just not my husband . . . legally.” She looked at her hands. “He is also very powerful—and he is hunting me. But . . . but because of my former employer, the situation is more complex than that.”
“The paper says you helped save that plane,” Bessie said.
“I did. The sky marshal asked me to help him.”
“Then you . . . you shot people. Shot the hijackers.” Her eyes were round. Worried.
“And why would your employer complicate things?” Shaw demanded.
Laynie sighed. “Bessie, Shaw, I cannot tell you where I’ve been, what I’ve done, or for whom I’ve worked for the past twenty-some years. It would be a breach of my . . . security clearance. Do you follow?”
They stilled, absorbing her meaning. Bessie’s mouth pursed. Shaw’s face drew down into deep creases.
Then Shaw sighed and nodded at Bessie. “We should tell her, love.”
Laynie slid her eyes from Bessie to Shaw and back.
Bessie got up. “I’ll make us some tea first.” She measured tea into a tea ball, dropped the ball into the teapot on the table, then fetched the steaming kettle from the stove and filled the pot. “We’ll let that steep a bit.”
She sat down—and reached for Laynie’s hand. Laynie had not expected the gesture and jerked away. She was tensed on the edge of her chair, ready to spring.
“Give me your hand, Elaine. I’m not going to bite you, but I need to tell you something.”
Laynie reluctantly gave her hand to Bessie. The older woman held Laynie’s fingers between her two stout, work-worn palms and sighed, searching for a place to begin.
“Don’t know if you believe in the God of the Bible, Elaine Granger, or if you understand that sometimes he sends us dreams. I’m not talkin’ ’bout regular dreams, but dreams with specific meaning. Well, I believe God sometimes sends us dreams with a message from him, and last night I had me a doozy.”
Laynie frowned. “You had a dream.”
“A dream from God, mind you. In that dream, I saw you—clear as crystal, it was you—and you were a-runnin’ from a dark man, a bad man. I couldn’t see much o’ his face, except that it had a reddish stain on one side that ran up one cheek, like a birthmark. He was a-chasin’ you, that’s for certain, and you were trying to get away.”
Laynie swallowed. Her heart thundered in her chest. Zakhar! But surely, Petroff would have spoken to Zakhar by now and called him off. He will have received my package, the proof Christor sent days ago—and he would not have disregarded my threat.
The contents of the CD proved that she’d stolen Russian Security Council secrets from him. More importantly, the data implicated Petroff' in the thefts due to his own negligence. She had included more than enough evidence to convict him of treason and ensure a very bad end to his life.
Laynie clenched her hands. But only four days have passed since I threatened Petroff. Perhaps he has not spoken to Zakhar yet . . . or maybe Zakhar hasn’t checked in lately?
Bessie interrupted Laynie’s reflections. “That man, he kept a-shouting at you, a name, I think, but I couldn’t quite get it. Sounded like Lynn or Lynette, but a mite different than that. And you were frightened of him, child. Just like you’re a-frightened right now.”
Laynie couldn’t speak. She could only nod. If, for whatever reason, Zakhar is still tracking me, I have to take Bessie’s warning seriously.
“Well, all that fear and runnin’ woke me up. I sat straight up in bed, it disturbed me that much. After a minute, though, I told myself, ‘Bessie, ’twas just a dream.’ I laid my head down and went back to sleep—but, soon as I was asleep again, the same dream just started over. You a-runnin’ and the man with the stain on his face chasing you.”
Bessie paused and poured tea into three mugs, handing one to Laynie. Laynie stirred honey into the tea, wondering where Shaw and Bessie’s conversation would take them, worrying that they had changed their mind about selling her their motor home.
I’ll have to start over, find another vehicle or catch a bus to another town.
Bessie blew on her tea and took a sip. “Lot’s o’ things in the Bible happen in threes, Elaine—did you know that?”
Laynie shook her head.
“It’s another God thing, a confirmation. Like, when the Apostle Peter had him a dream in the middle of the day. T’was more like a vision than a dream, but he saw it three times—and then a Voice from heaven told him what the vision meant and what to do. Three times he saw the vision, then came the confirmation.”
Laynie glanced up. “Did you . . .”
“Yup. I woke up a second time, went back t’ sleep, and had the same dream a third time—only this time, a Voice—the powerful but sweet Voice of the Savior, it was! He said to me, ‘Bessie, you help her.’”
“Help her?”
“Yep. He said to me, ‘Bessie, you help her. The dark man is coming. Get up and go.’ Well, I got up all right. Scared spitless, I got up. Got up and walked about in the sitting room, a’prayin’ up a storm and wondering what it all meant. And the stack of newspapers on the hearth—we keep ’em to start the fire, see—that stack kept catching my attention. I couldn’t get shook of that stack of papers! Finally, I stopped walking and, random-like, just picked up part of the stack. I looked down, and right there, on top, in front of my face, was this photograph.”
Bessie patted the newspaper in front of Laynie. “Your photograph. Recognized you all right, even though it’s not a good likeness and your hair’s a different color. And then that Voice spoke one time more, real insistent, ‘Bessie, help her. The dark man is coming. Get up and go.’”
Shaw leaned toward Laynie. “This dark man—who is he? Is he the man you’re running from?”
“Yes. No. That is, I told you that I’m running from a very powerful man. This dark man? He is the powerful man’s . . .”
“His what?” Shaw demanded.
“His hit man, Shaw. His assassin. This man, his name is Zakhar. I believe he’s been sent to kill me.”
Shaw and Bessie drew back, mouths slack.
“Lord have mercy,” Bessie muttered. “And he’s a-comin’? Here? Why, how would he know to come here, to our house? Did he follow you?”
Those were the questions troubling Laynie. She shook her head. “I wasn’t followed. That’s why I drove my rental car back to the agency and walked from there to here rather than take a cab—so I wouldn’t leave a trail.”
And then it struck her.
“Oh, no! This morning I bought a cashier’s check to pay for Daisy. The check has your names on it.” She opened her purse, pulled out the check, handed it to Shaw. “Here.”
Shaw took it and read it over. “This says twelve thousand dollars. We only asked for eleven.”
“I wanted to . . . you know . . . because you’ve been so kind to me. But if this man has somehow found my bank? He may have convinced them to give him your names, and—”
Laynie stopped mid-sentence. And if he has found my bank, then he knows my American alias!
“Tell me, are your names listed in the phone book? With your address?”
Shaw and Bessie exchanged glances. Bessie muttered, “Yes.”
Laynie jumped up. “We have to go. Not only me. All of us. If Zakhar comes here after I leave? He will kill you. First, he will torture and interrogate you. When he’s done, he will kill you. He will show you no mercy. You have to come away from here. Now!”
Shaw climbed to his feet, nodding. “Bessie insisted that the Voice’s order, ‘Get up and go,’ was for us. She’s been a-packin’ and fussin’ all morning.”
Laynie closed her hand around the check Shaw held in his hand. “Which of your children lives the farthest away?”
“Our son. Lives in Penticton, B.C.”
“Go there. Give me his phone number so I can reach you later.”
Bessie jotted names and numbers on a pad and tore off the sheet. “Here. Our mobile number and the numbers of our three kids.”
“Do you have their names and addresses anywhere in the house? We can’t leave that information for Zakhar to find.”
Bessie held up a small, spiral-bound address book. “Only in our diary. We’ll take it with us.”
Shaw stared Laynie in the face. “Give me your attention for a moment, Elaine. I already changed the oil in Daisy and filled her water tanks. Did that Friday after you said you planned t’ buy her. Gassed up both her and our car this morning, too. I put Daisy’s title in the glovebox, and Bessie’s stocked a bit o’ food in the cupboards and refrigerator. You follow us out of town. We’ll take the highway over t’ Ottawa. Lots of roads from there for you t’ choose from.”
“I don’t know how to thank you.”
“Seems t’ me, you just gave us a thousand dollars outta the goodness of your heart. More than enough t’ pay our kids a long-overdue visit.”
“But your dialysis?”
“We’ll figure that out. Don’t you fret none.”
“Thank you. Thank you for everything. I—” Laynie fidgeted. “Just one thing. I know how much you love Daisy, Shaw, but . . . I need to be honest with you about her.”
He cocked one brow. “Okay. Say on.”
“I’ll drive Daisy as long as she can hide me from Zakhar. However, you know I can’t take her across the border. Too much time, cost, and red tape to do that. Before I cross over into the States, I’ll need to . . . let Daisy go. Sell her or leave her.”
Shaw sighed and looked upset, but Bessie put her hand on his and reminded him, “Shaw, Daisy belongs to Elaine now, not us.”
She turned her attention to Laynie. “You do what you must to be safe, Elaine. We’ve been praying this morning that the Lord will lead you and keep you safe, and we will keep on praying for you. Now, I’m not saying God is a giant vending machine, that you simply ask him for what you want, and he gives it to you. God isn’t a machine, and his blessings belong to those who belong to him.
“So, we’re praying, too, that you will come to a point of repentance in your life. No one can be saved without repentance. Repentance is where we—every one of us—acknowledge and confess our sinful, needy state before God and ask for forgiveness through the blood of Jesus. A place where we surrender fully to the Lordship of Christ, where he becomes our king, and we become his children—where we become the family of God. But while he works in your heart to bring you to that place? We’re asking him to keep you safe.”
Bessie commanded Laynie’s attention a last time. “Is anything too hard for God, Elaine?”
“I-I don’t know.” She was preoccupied with Bessie’s words about repentance.
“Then let me help you out. No, nothing is too hard for the God of the Bible. I want you to go on your way carryin’ his word in your heart, in your thoughts, and on your lips. With men it is impossible, but not with God. For with God all things are possible. That’s Mark 10:27, and those are Jesus’ very words. When the fear starts a-creepin’ in, you keep those words close, do you hear me? With God all things are possible—even when they look impossible.”
She held out her arms. “Now, then, give this old woman a hug, Elaine. God willing, we’ll see you on your way once we reach Ottawa.”
She enfolded Laynie in her soft, plump arms, and Laynie bent down to lay her cheek on Bessie’s shoulder, a shoulder much lower than Laynie’s chin. Laynie melted into Bessie’s warm embrace . . . and memories flooded her heart.
Mama! Oh, Mama, will I ever see you or lay my cheek on your head again?
“Come on now,” Shaw insisted. “We got to go.”
Five minutes later, the Bradshaws’ house was vacant and locked, their driveway empty.
ZAKHAR ARRIVED AT THE bank nearest the Westmount Hotel and paced while he waited for its doors to open. As soon as the key turned in the door, he pushed his way in and strode to the nearest teller.
He flipped open Paul Moreau’s credentials and said in French, “I need to see the manager on an urgent issue of national security.”
Within moments, the manager’s footsteps clicked across the tile floor toward him.
“I am the bank’s manager, monsieur,” the woman said.
“And I am Lieutenant Paul Moreau, Canada Customs and Revenue Agency, looking for this woman.” He held up one photograph of Linnéa Olander. “I must ask each of your tellers if they recognize her.”
“Oui. Mais bien sûr. But of course. Come with me, sir.”
The manager led Zakhar to a door secured by a keypad. She keyed in the code and took him through the door, then behind the counter where the tellers waited on the bank’s customers.
One by one, moving down the line of five working tellers, Zakhar showed the photograph to them. Every answer was the same. “Sorry, sir. I do not remember waiting on this woman.”
He turned on his heel and demanded of the manager, “You must know your competitors. Which banks are closest to both this branch and the Westmount Hotel?”
“There is a branch of HSBC Canada not far from here.”
Zakhar ran from the building, jumped in Moreau’s car, and followed the directions the woman had given him. Minutes later, he reached the bank’s entrance.
He presented himself to the manager. “I am Lieutenant Paul Moreau, Canada Customs and Revenue Agency, looking for this woman.” He lifted the photograph of Linnéa Olander. “I must ask your tellers if they recognize her.”
Like the manager of the previous bank, the man escorted Zakhar behind the teller gates and instructed his employees to look at the photograph. The third teller nodded.
“Oh, yes. I remember her. One moment.” She keyed in “accounts by date opened” and scrolled through the list. “Here she is. Elaine Granger.”
“Elaine Granger? What identification did she provide to open the account?”
The teller continued to look. “American passport and driver’s license. She has an account with HSBC in Singapore and transferred forty thousand dollars from her Singapore account to open this account.”
“Residence?”
“An American address in Washington, D.C.”
“Print it out—all of it. Everything having to do with her.”
The teller slanted her eyes at her manager, who murmured, “Lieutenant, this must require a warrant, non?”
Zakhar rounded on the man. “You are aware of the terrorist attacks, not even a week ago? This woman’s flight was detoured from New York to New Brunswick after which she disappeared. We have reason to believe she is part of yet another terrorist plot. This is a matter of national security, and you will print the information for me as I request.”
The manager blanched. “Oui, monsieur. Right away. The machine is in back. My teller will fetch the printout for you, sir.”
The teller returned with several sheets of paper. “Here you are, sir.”
Zakhar tore through the printout, looking for something—anything—to lead him onward. He saw that the woman had made a cash withdrawal only an hour earlier, and he ground his teeth.
While I was waiting on the wrong bank to open, she was right here doing the same!
His finger ran down the page and stopped. “What is this?” he demanded.
The teller leaned over. “It is the purchase of a cashier’s check, sir.”
“A cashier’s check? For what?”
The teller shrugged. “I cannot say, sir.”
“Well, do you retain the payee’s name and address?”
“Only the name, sir. See? It is here.” She pointed to the printout.
His eyes followed her finger to the words “George and Elizabeth Bradshaw”.
“The address! I must have the address for these people!” Zakhar roared.
The teller quailed before him. “But, sir, we do not have that information.”
“Lieutenant Moreau, I may be able to help you. Please come with me.” The manager was eager to remove the volatile official from his lobby.
Zakhar followed the manager to his office. The man sat behind his desk and motioned for Zakhar to sit. He withdrew a weighty telephone book from a drawer. He opened the phone book on his desk and began to scan through the listings.
“Braden, Bradford, Bradley, Bradmore, Bradshaw! Bradshaw, Andrew. Bradshaw, Denton. Bradshaw—here it is. Bradshaw, George W. Come see.” He placed the book where Zakhar could read the line where his finger rested.
Without a word of thanks, Zakhar ripped the page from the book and ran from the room.
