The Last Deception

by DV Berkom, D. V. Berkom

  “I sent you another message as soon as I heard, but it must have gotten lost. The bombing’s all over the news. They’re saying it was Izz Al-Din.”

  Janice grimaced. “We’ve been trying to get the news outlets to cover this conflict for months. Months. I guess all it takes is a terrorist bombing in the middle of the desert, eh?”

  “You know what they say, ‘If it bleeds, it leads.’”

  “Yeah. Too true.” She frowned and shook her head. “I’m not convinced it was Izz Al-Din.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Early this morning, after the bombing, I came across a man dressed like a jihadi in the mess tent. He’d been shot and had lost a lot of blood.”

  “And you called security, right?” Leine said.

  “Well, here’s the thing. He had a Russian accent and said he’d been given orders to join Izz Al-Din.”

  “Russian soldiers infiltrating a terrorist cell? Not much of a stretch.”

  “Yes, but he insisted his mission changed from passing along bogus intelligence to actually passing along the right information to help them.”

  “Really.” That was interesting. Relations between Russia and the US had warmed recently. The newly elected Russian administration had reached out to the US with offers of friendship and cooperation. Both countries were cautiously optimistic. “Where is he now? Did he survive?”

  Janice nodded. “He’s recovering from surgery on the other side of camp.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a medallion on a chain, which she handed to Leine. “He gave me this. It’s a flash drive.”

  Leine pulled the two sections apart. “What’s on it?”

  “A letter and a bunch of photographs. He asked me to contact his father to let him know he was all right.” She nodded at the medallion. “I checked the files. The letter’s written in Russian and is addressed to Anatoly Sakharov. The jpegs look like vacation photos. I sent a message to the email address listed on the letter a little while ago, but no one’s replied yet.”

  “Did you attach the letter?”

  Janice shook her head. “I wanted to make sure it was a valid address before I did, in case the document contained sensitive information. My Russian is pretty dismal.”

  “Would you like me to translate for you?”

  “That would be a big help.” Janice opened the front compartment of her bag, pulled out her laptop, and turned it on. She inserted the flash drive, clicked on the document, and handed Leine the computer.

  Leine read aloud, interpreting as she went.

  To: Anatoly@Sakharov.com

  Dear Father,

  Sincere apologies for not contacting you sooner, but I was expecting to secure a transfer from my unit. Uncle Roman assigned me to a clandestine operation and for security purposes I could not contact anyone. I hope to take leave next month and will try to visit then.

  Please give my love to Grandmother—I know she is in ill health and not expected to last the winter. I think it would be a good idea to transfer her to the medical providers in the US that you and I discussed last summer. It is my belief that the current doctors are not to be trusted and do not have her best interests at heart. It would not surprise me if your generous donations to the medical center had been diverted in some way to line their pockets. You must insist upon a report from their accountants.

  Give also my love to my beautiful mother and sister. I am looking forward to seeing you all again soon.

  With love,

  Your son, Mikhail

  Leine glanced up from the screen. “It sounds innocuous enough. He doesn’t say anything about fighting on the front lines with Izz Al-Din, although I’m sure he wouldn’t in the event that he was captured or killed.” She clicked on a couple of the photographs. One showed an image of an oasis surrounded by date palms, and another a lush courtyard with intricately designed tile work. “I don’t think you have to worry about sending these. The letter might be some kind of code between them, but unless the person intercepting the files knows that, I doubt they’d think anything of it.”

  “Good to know.” She closed the files and shut down her computer. “How long are you here?”

  “However long I need to be. My main concern was making sure you were okay.”

  She smiled. “That means the world to me, Leine. Thank you.”

  “Any time.”

  “So that means you don’t have transportation out of here yet?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll add your name to the list. The refugees and our patients are priority one, but as soon as they’ve been evacuated we can catch the next flight to Cairo. Probably later tonight.”

  “Your doctor doesn’t waste time, does he?”

  “We’ve been through this before. It’s assumed whoever did the shelling wanted to take out our surgical unit, which they did, so the chance of another attack is slim. All the same, we’re packing it in. There’s not enough money left to operate until Dr. Evans does his thing with the donors, and no one wants to hang here while he sorts that out.” Janice’s expression brightened. “Which means we’ll have time to catch up.”

  “Sounds like a plan.” Leine couldn’t help but smile. Janice always had the capacity to bounce back in spite of obstacles. It was one of the many things she admired about her.

  Janice gave her a sly look. “A little bird told me where to find two lukewarm bottles of beer,” she said in a conspiratorial whisper. “But first, I need to look in on Mikhail. He asked me to bring him his phone, which is in the supply tent with the rest of his things. Then I’ll be back.” She rose from the cot. “I shouldn’t be too long. I doubt he’ll be in the mood to chat. Feel free to walk around the camp. These people are dedicated, hardworking individuals. I think you’ll find some like-minded souls here.” With that, she left.

  Leine walked outside, squinting in the bright sunlight. She pulled a pair of sunglasses from her pocket and slid them on before she set off to explore the rest of the camp. With the evacuation underway, there wasn’t much to see. She stopped and helped a couple of camp personnel pack up their equipment before moving on to another area.

  A while later, she followed the perimeter back to Janice’s tent. She hadn’t returned from visiting Mikhail yet. Leine scanned the rest of the camp, searching for her. She turned to go inside when a shockwave of heat and sound and percussion slammed her to the ground. Bits of metal, glass, and dirt rained down like a sadistic storm.

  Ears ringing and unable to breathe, Leine lay immobile on her back, staring at a bright blue sky. A creeping darkness clouded her periphery. She blinked, eyes watering as her confusion and vision slowly cleared.

  What the hell?

  Then, breathe, Leine. Breathe.

  A split-second later, her lungs caught up with the rest of her and her mouth yawned open. She heaved in a lungful of dusty air as her abdominal muscles contracted and she jackknifed to a sitting position.

  Hands, check. Legs, check. Arms, check. Eyes, torso, and anything else she could think of—check, check, check.

  Ears still ringing, she climbed to her feet, only then registering the other people who had gathered nearby, alarm and confusion obvious on their faces. She pivoted, searching for the recovery unit where Mikhail had been, but it no longer existed. Instead, a debris field stretched for yards in every direction, the center a deep, jagged depression in the earth where the tent should have been.

  Janice. Heart in her throat, she stumbled toward the blast site. Stunned and frightened people mobbed the transport helicopter as camp personnel struggled valiantly to push them back. It was an exercise in futility. Unable to handle the incoming mass of humanity, the ramp began to close. Desperation seized first one and then another refugee and people began to climb on, hoping to be let on board.

  “You’re hurt.” Marcy, the blond woman who’d called for the doctor earlier, hurried up to Leine.

  For the first time the pain registered and Leine touched the
back of her head. Blood covered her fingers. Marcy produced a small flashlight and shined it into Leine’s eyes. She squinted at the bright light for a second and then looked away.

  “I’ve got to find Janice.”

  “How many fingers am I holding up?” Marcy asked.

  “Seventeen,” Leine answered and started for the blast zone.

  Marcy followed. “Where did you see her last?”

  “She was going to check on the Russian.”

  Marcy stopped, her face white. “The recovery unit,” she said, more to herself than to Leine.

  Leine nodded and continued to walk, the certainty of her friend’s death growing with each step. She ignored the chaos erupting around her and barely noticed when Marcy handed her a wad of gauze for her wound.

  Why would terrorists bomb a recovery unit and not the doctor’s makeshift operating tent? Surely they’d made their point. If they had eyes on the camp, they knew personnel were packing to leave.

  Dr. Evans stood next to the bombsite, staring into space. Leine walked over to join him. He barely acknowledged her.

  “Janice was inside.” His voice caught.

  Leine ignored the impulse to grieve for her friend. Out of necessity, as an assassin she’d learned to compartmentalize her emotions. She’d have plenty of time to process Janice’s death once she got back to the States. Right now she needed to act.

  “Were there many other casualties?” Leine asked.

  Evans shook his head. “Everyone else had already moved to the staging area. We were waiting to transport Mikhail to a hospital in Cairo.” He turned to Leine. The expression in his eyes conveyed defeat. “I’m sorry. I know she was a friend.”

  “I’m sorry for the world. It lost a caring soul.”

  Leine returned to Janice’s tent, her thoughts racing as she tried to work out the reasoning behind the attack. How can you assign reason to an unreasonable enemy, Leine? Seething with anger at the senseless waste of life, she closed her eyes, allowing her rage free rein. Anger she could work with, much more so than grief.

  She picked up Janice’s rucksack and hoisted it over her shoulder. She’d personally deliver Janice’s things to her mother in Vancouver. Janice would want that.

  Leine turned to leave when she noticed Janice’s computer where she’d left it on the cot. The medallion containing the files was still plugged into the USB port. She pulled the drive free and started to put both the computer and the drive back in the bag but hesitated. If the Russian had told the truth about fighting with Izz Al-Din rather than against them, there had to be more to the story. Leine slid the medallion into her front pocket and put the computer into the bag.

  Perhaps Mikhail’s father could shed more light on things. At the very least, he deserved to know what happened to his son.

  Chapter 5

  Cairo, Egypt

  Two days later, Leine still hadn’t been able to contact Anatoly Sakharov. The man had heavier security than most presidents, which spoke of powerful enemies.

  The kind you didn’t want as your own.

  Leine leaned back in her chair and took in the view of downtown Cairo from the balcony of her hotel room. The smog-filled haze lent the city a sepia-toned, nostalgic air. With a little imagination she could picture herself as a spy during World War II, awaiting a message from Allied command…

  What was it like when the entire world hung in the balance between good and evil—when one person alone could mean the difference between success and annihilation? She shook her head, allowing the fantasy to recede. Back to reality, Leine.

  The idea of spies operating during World War II brought to mind microdots, dead drops, and other means of moving information clandestinely. What if Mikhail had intended to tell his father what his superiors had ordered him to do? Wouldn’t he have used some kind of code that only his father would understand? Maybe she could glean additional information from the letter that hadn’t jumped out at her before. She retrieved her laptop from the table next to her and turned it on to have another look at the files.

  The photographs were innocuous landscapes and still-lifes. Why would a Russian operative who had infiltrated a terrorist network carry vacation photos on a hidden thumb drive?

  Unless he’d hidden another file within the photograph itself.

  Curious, Leine went to a secure website SHEN often used in sex-trafficking cases and downloaded a program designed to detect invisible files within a digital photograph. She then ran each picture through the cutting-edge software. In a matter of seconds, the program extracted several images embedded within the pictures. Three of the photographs didn’t appear to have files embedded in them. Perhaps Mikhail had intended to use them later.

  Her heart beat faster at her discovery, and she leaned forward in her chair. The first scene revealed a group of black-clad jihadists gathered around a stack of rectangular containers. The lid of the uppermost container had been thrown open to display several Stinger missiles. One of the terrorists held a missile aloft, a jubilant expression on his face. Leine enlarged the photo to read the logo stamped on the side of the container.

  Sakharov Industries. Anatoly Sakharov’s company.

  The next few images were a brutal chronicle of the slaughter of men, women, and children, and showed a number of jihadists, all wearing black headscarves, aiming weapons at the victims as though having just mowed them all down. Her left eye twitched as she closed the files.

  She moved to the last file and paused as she read. The image appeared to be a cell phone picture of an end-user agreement to import munitions into Libya.

  The Libyan government had been listed as the end-user, with Sakharov Industries as the supplier. Leine was pretty sure Mikhail hadn’t been fighting alongside the Libyans when he took the picture. The date stamp said it had been taken just two weeks before.

  Why would Sakharov supply munitions to Izz Al-Din? Leine got to her feet and paced the balcony, sorting through what she knew. A shipment from Mikhail’s father had been diverted from the Libyan army to the terrorists, unless someone staged the picture. She discarded that possibility. With what she knew, it served no purpose. What she didn’t know was where the photographs had been taken, or if Sakharov intended for those weapons to fall into terrorist hands.

  The discovery of the hidden photographs made contact with Anatoly Sakharov crucial. Was he aware that his shipment had been diverted? If so, then Leine would have to tread carefully. Alternatively, did Mikhail intend to warn his father about the diverted shipment by showing him the photographs on his next trip home? No legitimate arms dealer wanted to be identified as supplying weapons to terrorists—sanctions against such illegal activities were too great. The contents of Mikhail’s letter to his father made more sense when read with the veiled attempt to alert Sakharov to the possible theft. She’d bet Mikhail’s grandmother wasn’t dying.

  Leine studied the three other photographs. Apparently the program she’d used to ferret out the hidden photographs had been unable to detect additional information within the files. She sent them to Lou through an encrypted app, asking him to see if he could find anything. She also asked him to locate the elusive billionaire.

  ***

  Less than twelve hours later, Lou delivered a fount of information on Sakharov and his wife, gleaned from reports given to him by an old contact in the CIA. Apparently, Anatoly and Katarina Sakharov left their home in Odessa three years prior to sail the Greek Isles on their magnificent yacht, the Black Swan. By the time Leine finished reading Lou’s report, she knew where Katarina Sakharov shopped (Gucci, Prada), her favorite brand of shoes (Christian Louboutin), where she and her two children went on vacation (the French Riviera and New York City—Anatoly rarely took a holiday), and her favorite restaurant for brunch (the exclusive Black Pearl Café near the Acropolis in Athens). He’d also sent Leine a recent photograph of the couple.

  Somewhere in her late thirties, Katarina Sakharov had a smooth, olive complexi
on and delicate features, with long, brownish-black hair and dark, intelligent eyes. She was quite a bit shorter than her husband, coming to just above his elbow. She’d look positively tiny standing next to Leine’s five-foot-ten-inch frame. Her makeup and clothing were flawless, as if orchestrated by the head of Vogue herself. A gold chain with a cross and several other expensive-looking charms adorned her perfectly tanned décolletage.

  Anatoly cut an imposing figure in a crisp white shirt, blood-red tie, and charcoal-gray tailored suit. Dark, wavy hair framed Slavic cheekbones and a prominent nose; his intense, raptor-like gaze suggested predatory instincts.

  A yacht on the Aegean Sea would be a great place to conduct business, especially if that business included shipping arms to Libya. There was the added benefit of being able to disappear among one of the many tiny islands in the Cyclades when the wrong people got too curious about those business dealings. Locating a moving target would make things interesting. Lou had identified the general location, although the Aegean Sea was a vast area in which to search.

  After she finished reading the report, she messaged Lou and asked him to locate the last port of call for Sakharov’s yacht. As usual, he hadn’t asked why she needed the information. From the beginning as they resumed their former business relationship from their agency days, she’d been able to come and go when and wherever she wanted with the added plus of being able to pick Lou’s prodigious brain about the latest and greatest spy gadgets and protocols.

  Good to his word, the next day Lou called back with the last known port for the super yacht. The Black Swan had taken on fuel in the small port of Milos in the Cyclades two days before and had returned to Athens that morning. He then gave her the contact information for an old acquaintance of his who worked as a security contractor in Greece.

  “Art’s not the easiest guy on the planet. He’s old school, and doesn’t think women should be in the field. But he’s got a boat in case this becomes a seagoing venture. He’s also well connected to the security community. Be gentle with him, Leine.”