The Last Deception

by DV Berkom, D. V. Berkom

  “Oh, get out the violin. Listen to you. You’ve got a gorgeous flat and two beautiful children, yet here you are complaining about having to go back to live in London, for God’s sake.” The redhead clucked at her in mock sympathy.

  Chagrined, the other woman smiled. “Oh, I know, I know. An embarrassment of riches.”

  “Does this mean you won’t be attending the party at the museum Saturday?” The redhead stopped sorting through the clothes and looked at her friend.

  Katarina Sakharov glanced at the two women.

  “No,” the one named Livia lamented. “Barry says we must leave Friday.”

  “You mean to say you’re going to miss the biggest bash of the season?” The redhead’s expression held a mixture of disbelief and sympathy for her friend. “I’m so sorry.” She resumed looking through the clothes on the rack in front of her. “From what I hear, it’s going to be absolutely smashing.”

  The other woman looked crestfallen. The redhead gave her a quick smile and said, “Don’t you worry, sweetie. There’ll be other parties.”

  Katarina Sakharov put back the dress she’d been looking at and moved on to the next rack.

  The redhead glanced at her and raised an eyebrow as she discreetly elbowed her friend. “I couldn’t help noticing, but aren’t you Katarina Sakharov?”

  “Yes,” Katarina replied in English, her tone frosty. “I’m sorry, do I know you?”

  “Oh, no. But I know you. This benefit we’ve been on about wouldn’t be happening without the generous donation from you and your husband,” she gushed. “Will you be at the benefit?”

  “I believe so.” Katarina’s tone was cool and noncommittal.

  The redhead’s smile grew wider. “Oh, fantastic. You must come and say hello. I’m Barbara, and this poor, unfortunate woman is Livia.” She nodded at her friend, who gave her a mock scowl. “Are those your men out there?” she asked, indicating the two bodyguards outside.

  Katarina nodded, her interest squarely back to the clothes in front of her. “Yes.”

  “I see.” Barbara gave her another warm smile. “Well, then, Katarina, until tomorrow night.”

  “Yes. Until then.”

  Barbara picked out a saucy little number and brought it to the clerk.

  “This should work perfectly.” She turned to Livia. “Oh, go ahead and buy something, why don’t you? It’s not like Barry can’t afford it. Call it a consolation prize for making you leave Athens.”

  “You know what? I think I will.” Livia took a turn down the aisles and pulled something off of each rack, then brought the items up to the counter.

  “Would you like to try them on?” the clerk asked.

  “No,” Livia replied. “If they don’t fit, I’ll give them away.”

  Katarina smirked as she caught Leine’s eye. Leine raised an eyebrow and returned her attention to the dress in front of her.

  A few minutes later, Katarina appeared to lose interest in the offerings and headed for the door.

  “Goodbye, Katarina,” Barbara called out. “Hope to see you Saturday!”

  Katarina gave her a wan smile and walked out of the shop. Barbara turned to Livia and gushed, “Do you know who that was? That was the wife of Anatoly Sakharov—one of the richest men in Russia.”

  Livia glanced out the door as the two bodyguards left their posts to follow Katarina. “She seems a bit of a cold fish, if you ask me. And what’s with the two big thugs?”

  Barbara rolled her eyes and started in about judging a book by its cover. Not waiting to hear the rest, Leine slipped out the door to follow Katarina and the bookends.

  “Excuse me,” she called.

  Katarina turned around. Flanking her, the bookends clasped their hands and stilled. The third bodyguard had taken a position several feet behind Leine.

  “Yes?”

  “You are Katarina Sakharov?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “I am.”

  “I have information for your husband. It’s about your son, Mikhail.”

  Uncertainty mixed with a hint of worry replaced the wariness on her face and she stepped forward. The bodyguards stiffened and closed ranks. Leine kept her hands relaxed at her sides. No point in making anyone nervous.

  “What kind of information? Is Mikhail all right?”

  Leine switched to Russian. “It’s important.”

  Her eyebrows rose upon hearing her native tongue and she considered her for a moment. Then she said, “You must tell me. I am his mother.”

  “It’s more complicated than that. I need to speak with your husband. In person, preferably.”

  Katarina shook her head. “That is impossible.”

  “Then I will try another avenue.” Leine turned to leave. The third bodyguard stepped in her way.

  “Wait.”

  Leine stopped but didn’t say anything.

  “I will call him and you can speak with each other. This way, we will let my husband decide if the information is important.”

  “Thank you.” It was better than nothing. She couldn’t tell Sakharov much over the phone. The Russians had been known to keep tabs on their own people, especially the rich, powerful ones. Leine studied the third bodyguard. She’d have to make the conversation count without giving anything sensitive away.

  Katarina rummaged in her Gucci bag for her phone. She turned away, making it difficult to hear what she said. A moment later, she faced Leine and held out the phone.

  “He says he will speak to you. But you must be brief.” She waited as the third bodyguard stepped forward and took the phone from her. He then handed it to Leine.

  “Anatoly Sakharov?”

  “Yes.” The annoyed tone told Leine he was indulging his wife and to make the conversation quick.

  “I have news about your son, Mikhail.”

  “What news? And why didn’t you tell my wife?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t tell you over the phone. We need to meet.”

  There was silence on the other end. Then, “Is my son all right?”

  “When can we meet?”

  “Who are you?”

  “My name is Eve Mason, and I’ve been asked to contact you.” Eve Mason had been one of the aliases she’d used when she worked for Eric. When she started contracting for SHEN, Lou obtained a passport, driver’s license, and credit cards with the same name, and created an uncomplicated legend of sorts for her undercover work with the anti-trafficking agency.

  “By whom?”

  “I really can’t say.”

  Anatoly Sakharov sighed. “This is ridiculous. What news do you have of my son?”

  “I can tell you that you have not heard from Mikhail in at least two weeks, and that he promised to visit you and your wife next month.”

  “And?”

  “And that you have a mutual friend he calls Uncle Roman.”

  Anatoly Sakharov paused before he said, “You are American?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your Russian is very good.”

  “I’ll tell you why when we meet.”

  A second sigh came from the other end. “Have my wife take a picture of your passport information. If you pass a security check, I will obtain a ticket for you to a gala my wife and I are attending tomorrow night. We will meet there.” Leine was about to hand the phone to the bodyguard when he added, “And you had better have something worthwhile.” The implied threat was obviously meant to intimidate.

  Leine ended the call and handed the phone to thug number three.

  “Looks like I need to find something to wear.”

  Chapter 8

  Moscow, Russia

  General Roman Tsarev scowled as he set the phone down on his impeccable desk. The caller, a carefully placed informant the general trusted implicitly, had just advised him of a troubling development with one of his clandestine operations.

  It seemed a woman had contacted the wife of his childhood friend, Anatoly Sakhar
ov, claiming to have information regarding Anatoly’s son, Mikhail. Anatoly had tasked a member of his security detail to run an extensive background check on her. Apparently, whatever she said had sparked Anatoly’s interest enough that he was considering meeting with her.

  Up to that point the operation had been working better than expected. The soldiers embedded within Izz Al-Din had been passing along intelligence alerting the terrorist organization to US-allied positions in the region. As a result, the allies had suffered heavy casualties.

  All according to plan. He could almost taste victory. It wouldn’t take much, not in that incendiary part of the world. Tsarev would be more than happy to strike the match that sent everything up in flames.

  Let the Zionists and Islam fight it out on a dusty, barren battlefield in Libya. Extremists from both sides seemed to think it was God’s plan that one destroyed the other. He would just direct their hatred to a different setting.

  Idiots.

  The so-called edicts from God himself were taken from two antiquated tomes written by ignorant men from another time, for another conflict. It would take very little to stage the last, great war between the zealots of the two religions somewhere other than Dabiq, the so-called battlefield of Armageddon. Tsarev had only to push them toward each group’s belief in their sovereignty, their God-given right to wipe out an entire religion.

  Brilliant.

  His plan was much like what earlier political operatives had accomplished in America on a smaller scale decades before; by introducing cheap, addictive drugs to the streets and fueling the fire of segregation with turf wars that spilled over into fringe groups, the American ruling class was able to stoke unrest between minority factions. This ruling class kept them manageable by creating deep rifts between agitators and groups within the minorities, turning their attention away from what was really happening. He laughed at the prevailing belief that America was a classless society.

  Social manipulation and experimentation. Sleight of hand and obfuscation. Look over here—it’s so much more interesting than what’s really going on. Ancient Romans used it. So did Hitler, as did most governments operating today. Pure genius.

  People were so malleable.

  Tsarev had learned well from his study of history. Lesser men refused to make the connections. This is what differentiated him from the others, the ones who would ultimately fail. The study of the past was humbling, yes, but also an amazing trove of what to do and not do when it came to building his masterpiece.

  Most people were intellectually inferior. They had no idea of what went on beneath their noses. They didn’t want to know.

  So it was with surprise and an increasing sense of dismay that Tsarev had listened to his informant. Finely honed instincts from years of working in Russian intelligence were pricking at him, telling him he needed to pay attention to what his source had told him. At best, the woman represented a slight wrinkle in the carefully constructed tapestry Tsarev had woven. Even so, the wrinkle set ugly red flags fluttering in his mind.

  The woman could be nothing, merely a loose sheaf in the pages of his magnum opus. One easily plucked out and disposed of. But she could also signify an unraveling, something for which he hadn’t planned.

  Of course, he was tempted to ignore the possibility. Was he not General Tsarev, one of the most decorated Russian soldiers in modern times? A master counterintelligence officer and brilliant strategist? His complexity and cunning unrivaled, he’d gone over his plans with painstaking attention to detail, following each thread to its most likely conclusion until he’d exhausted all probable scenarios. Then, he’d done it again, this time substituting improbabilities. Later, when the operation concluded, he’d be remembered as the genius who brought Russia back to her former glory. They’d hail him as a humble student of history, a man of unmitigated bravery and intelligence. They’d write about him in books, hold parades, name a holiday after him.

  He allowed himself a tiny smile. If only his beloved mother could see him. He looked at the ceiling and crossed himself. She’d have been so proud of her only son.

  Roman Tsarev shook his head, shoving the memory away. Now was not the time to lose himself in daydreams. Now was the time to bring to bear his iron hand on this insignificant problem before it became significant.

  Had he missed something crucial? If so, then this woman might represent an opportunity to fine-tune the operation, possibly bringing even greater success. As Tsarev had learned, what might first look like a problem could be viewed as an opportunity to strengthen the structure of a plan. That’s how he’d survived. How he’d gained the trust of the president and upper echelons of Russian leadership.

  Although, having been childhood friends with the acting prime minister certainly helped.

  The image of the current leaders of the Russian Federation brought a sneer. Weak men, all of them, and too conciliatory to the West. How they’d come to power was beyond his understanding. He hadn’t been part of the election process then, but he’d soon remedied that. Apparently, he needed to control everything or it would all come crumbling down.

  The proof of the leaders’ intent to bring Russia to her knees was evidenced by what they were now doing with their old enemy, the United States. Tsarev grimaced as he swallowed, trying to eliminate the bad taste that had formed in his mouth. How had such a young, spoiled country so filled with opposition remained a super power—actually gained in power? Yet another question for the ages.

  Tsarev shook his head to clear it as he picked up his phone and punched in a familiar number. He would soon know if this woman represented a problem.

  Chapter 9

  Athens, Greece

  Leine ascended the steps to the entrance of the National Archeological Museum, careful to keep the shimmery floor-length gown out of the way of her stylish heels. No sense ruining the hem—she was just going to return the dress after the gala. The day before, she’d located a small boutique that provided haute-couture eveningwear for short-term use, with a steep deposit via her credit card. The gold jewelry she wore was also on loan from the same place. She fit right in with the other arrivals. Most were elegantly attired—the women in floor-length evening gowns and shimmery wraps, the men in crisp black tuxedos.

  She stepped across the threshold of the sprawling neoclassical building and came face-to-face with the brilliant gold “Mask of Agamemnon.” Its empty eyes had a haunting, slightly unnerving quality.

  An attendant took her wrap and offered her a glass of champagne, which she accepted with no intention of drinking. The bag she carried had been exactly the right size for the 9mm semiauto. She’d swung by the shop on her way to the gala to pick up the weapon and ammunition. It was a fine leather goods store in the heart of Athens that she’d used previously in her work as an assassin, and the original owner had handed the business down to his son, Other than the change of ownership, everything remained much the same. While there, she’d picked up some additional tools she thought would come in handy. One was an ornamental hair comb that sported two wicked three-inch blades. She wore it now, as part of an elegant updo. No one would know it could double as a lethal weapon.

  She moved with the rest of the attendees toward the main event, held in one of the larger halls. Twenty-five-hundred-year-old marble statues depicting Greek gods and goddesses shared the tasteful, high-ceilinged, well-lit space with the affluent guests. The drone of conversation and the occasional clink of glasses undercut a calming soundtrack of soft violin music.

  Leine stood next to an image of Zeus and surveyed the crowd. Anatoly Sakharov had told her to wait in the main room with the other guests, and would send for her as soon as he arrived.

  Everyone appeared to be having a good time. Efficient, white-coated waitstaff wove their way through the various groups of patrons, offering hors d’oeuvres and champagne. Animated conversation and laughter from attendees filled the air. For the most part, the women were perfectly tanned, fit, and surgically s
culpted, while the majority of men showed telltale signs of rich food, too much wine, and years of inactivity: thick waists, pallid complexions, and sagging skin. Barbara, the redhead from the boutique, was there in a brilliant red gown with a plunging neckline.

  A man dressed in non-tuxedo designer wear who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else stood on the fringes surveying the crowd. His gaze flickered past Leine and then returned for a moment before continuing on to the rest of the room. She scanned the space for more security and was rewarded with a taller, similarly dressed gentleman who appeared more relaxed than his partner.

  Sakharov’s advance team?

  Leine glanced at her watch. Five minutes past the time Sakharov had said he would arrive. Absentmindedly, she took a shallow sip of her champagne, wondering when and how he’d make contact. The Russian had been adamant that he not be seen speaking with her, citing vague security reasons. Leine assumed there was more to it than that but agreed to a private audience prior to his and Katarina’s entrance.

  Just then, a young woman walked up to Leine. Smiling, she placed her hand gently on Leine’s elbow and steered her toward the back of the room.

  “Come with me, please,” she murmured. “Mr. Sakharov would like to see you.”

  Leine allowed herself to be led through a doorway and into the next room, filled with smaller figurines from another era in Greece’s long and storied history. They veered off from the main exhibits and walked through several more rooms and down hallways until they came upon what looked like a conference room.

  The two men she’d seen scoping out the party flanked the door. The woman asked Leine to stand still and hold her arms out to the side.

  “I have a gun in my purse,” Leine said and opened the clutch to show her. The woman removed the 9mm and handed it to one of the men, who slid it under his jacket.

  “It will be returned once the meeting is concluded,” she said. “Do you have anything else?”

  “A lighter and some cigarettes.” She showed her those, too. The woman flicked the cover off the old-fashioned lighter, lit it, and then opened the pack of cigarettes. Seeing nothing of concern, she replaced the items and continued to pat her down.