The Last Deception

by DV Berkom, D. V. Berkom

  Satisfied that Leine had no additional weapons, she told the two men to step aside and allow their boss’s guest to enter, which they did. Leine walked through the door into a well-appointed conference room adorned with framed Greco-Roman sketches illuminated by track lighting. The two security guards followed her inside and took up their same positions on either side of the door.

  Arms folded, Katarina Sakharov stood near one of the floor-to-ceiling windows, staring outside at the spot-lit landscape. She wore her dark hair swept up in a chic coif, and a sapphire blue, off-the-shoulder gown with long white gloves á la Audrey Hepburn. Seated behind a massive table was her husband, the commanding figure from the photograph with broad shoulders and black, naturally wavy hair shot through with gray. The photograph hadn’t done him justice—his tanned face and prominent cheekbones, nose, and chin practically shouted Slavic ancestry, further emphasized by a salt-and-pepper goatee. A widow’s peak dipped onto his high forehead like an exclamation point, accentuating the raptor-like gaze.

  “Sit, please,” he said, nodding at a chair across from him. Katarina turned to face Leine. At first glance she appeared calm, but a pinched expression betrayed her distress.

  Leine glanced at his men and gave Sakharov a pointed look. “I said alone.”

  Anatoly Sakharov shrugged and waved at his men. “Leave us.” Without a word they exited the room, closing the door behind them.

  “This is about my son,” Katarina said unnecessarily. “I will stay.”

  Leine wondered if the words were for her benefit or her husband’s. She walked over and set her champagne on the table.

  Sakharov studied her with cold indifference. “I am here as you requested. What information do you have of my son?”

  She glanced around the space. “May I ask if you’ve swept the room?”

  Sakharov scowled. “Of course.” He waved impatiently at her to continue.

  “Then you won’t mind if I do?” At his shrug, she reached into her clutch and brought out the lighter. She flipped the cap up and pressed a small button on the bottom. A tiny green indicator light blinked on. Leine walked the perimeter of the room, watching the light. At no point did the green glow change, which told her the room was clear. She returned the tool to her handbag, removed the pack of cigarettes, and sat down in the chair across from Anatoly Sakharov.

  “I would prefer that you don’t smoke,” he said, eyeing the pack in her hand.

  Leine opened the box and removed the decoy cigarette filters, revealing three folded pieces of paper.

  “Who do you work for?” he asked.

  “If you’re asking whether I’m a spy, the answer is no. I’m here on behalf of a friend.” And for my piece of mind, she thought. She unfolded the first paper and handed it to him. She’d decided earlier that it would be best to get things out in the open quickly. To do otherwise seemed cruel. “There’s no good way to say this. Your son is dead.”

  Katarina Sakharov made a sound like air escaping from a tire and gripped the back of her husband’s chair. Anatoly’s hand froze, but his mask of impassivity never slipped. A second later he accepted the paper from Leine.

  “This is a copy of a letter written to you from your son. One of many files he saved to a flash drive.”

  Anatoly Sakharov scanned the letter once and then slid it toward his wife to read.

  “How do I know you are telling the truth?”

  “You don’t. But I have a feeling that you didn’t know your son had been embedded in a terrorist cell in Libya.”

  Katarina gasped and looked at her husband. “Is this true?”

  Anatoly narrowed his eyes. “I didn’t know that my government had infiltrated the enemy, but the information isn’t surprising.”

  “Did you know that your son was tasked with passing along US-allied movement to Izz Al-Din?”

  Sakharov shrugged. “I’m sure if this is true, it was meant to mislead.”

  “At first, maybe, but not now. The last intel contained actual allied positions. In effect, your government is working with the terrorists. Your son believed it was so that the US would have no choice but to become involved in the conflict.”

  Anatoly snorted. “You don’t know what you are talking about.”

  Leine pulled out a second paper from the pack of cigarettes, unfolded it, and slid it across the desk. “Does this look familiar?”

  He glanced at the copy of the end-user certificate. Again, he showed no reaction.

  “Of course,” he replied. “This is paperwork generated for a shipment of weapons to the Libyan government. May I ask where you obtained this?”

  “From your son’s flash drive. He also had several videos of atrocities committed by Izz Al-Din. I believe Mikhail was gathering evidence to prove that he’d been ordered to infiltrate the group and pass along information to sabotage US-Egyptian efforts.”

  His eyes steady on Leine, Anatoly said to his wife, “Leave, Katya.”

  She gave him a sharp look. “But—”

  “Now.”

  At her husband’s commanding tone, she clamped her lips closed. Head held high, her spine ramrod straight and anger oozing from every pore, she marched out of the room.

  The door closed behind her and Leine handed him the last document—the photo showing the crate filled with missiles surrounded by triumphant jihadists. “You can see by the date stamp on the two photos that this took place on the same day that the Libyan government supposedly accepted delivery of your shipment. I can only surmise that your son saved these images to prove to you that the weapons were diverted.” Leine leaned forward. “What I need to know before we go any further is if that was your intention.”

  Sakharov’s eyes flashed with anger. “Of course not. Those butchers are a threat to my country. I would not help them if they were drowning in a pile of steaming shit.”

  “Not knowingly,” Leine said. She studied the Russian. The momentary blip of anger had disappeared, replaced by an implacable expression. He would have made a formidable poker player. “I’m sorry to have brought such bad news,” Leine continued, softening her voice. “If it helps to know, you were the last person your son spoke of before he died.”

  Anatoly Sakharov blinked. “How did it happen?”

  “A direct hit from an enemy shell. He died quickly. Prior to the bombing he sustained a gunshot wound to the abdomen before he made his way to a refugee camp with a hospital on the Libyan-Egyptian border. The camp had been shelled earlier that morning. The official version is that both attacks were instigated by Izz Al-Din.”

  “But you believe differently.” His question was more of a statement.

  Leine nodded. “Yes, I do. I think Mikhail was the sole target of the second shelling. Although one other person died in the blast, I believe she was collateral damage. The first bomb took out the camp’s operating facilities, which everyone assumed to be the original target. Your son was recuperating in an unmarked area far from the temporary surgical unit, but ended up being at the epicenter of the second blast. If the group that ordered the first bomb were surveilling the camp, they would have known this.”

  “Then how do you think they pinpointed his location? A transmitter?” Sakharov shook his head. “This is not possible unless this transmitter had somehow been secured to his body. You yourself said he was recovering from surgery.”

  “I think his cell phone had a locator. The person who died with him in the second bombing brought his personal effects to him right before the attack, most likely including his cell phone.”

  “Did you speak with my son before he died?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Did you see him while visiting this refugee camp?”

  “No.”

  “I see.” The temperature in the room dropped several degrees. Anatoly Sakharov stared at Leine, his jaw and shoulders rigid. “Then you have no proof of his death.”

  “The surgeon and attending medical personnel
would be able to corroborate the story.”

  “How would they know if their patient was my son? This letter states he was on a clandestine operation. If true, he would not have carried identification. If he had, then the bombing would have wiped out any credentials.”

  “I will tell you that I trust the person who gave me this information. I should also tell you,” Leine continued easily, “that if I don’t call a specific number at regular intervals, the contents of your son’s flash drive will be made public. The people who release the information will make sure it is viewed as your company’s intentional diversion of arms to the terrorist group that Russia is supposed to be fighting. I assume that wouldn’t sit too well with your government. Or the world, for that matter.”

  “Understood.” Anatoly Sakharov held her gaze for a moment before continuing. “Now we have come to the part of the meeting where you tell me what it is you want.”

  “I want you to back me up when I go to my government with this information. You need to go on record that you had nothing to do with diverting the shipment to Izz Al-Din and that you believe someone with ties to the Russian government is trying to lure the US into a ground war. As it is, there’s not enough actionable intelligence. With information this potentially explosive, I need corroboration from one of the principal players or it won’t be taken seriously. Although damaging to you and your company, releasing the information without your verification will likely do nothing to stop the deception from going forward. At best, my government will look at the leak as an interesting possibility to be followed up at some point. At worst, they’ll chalk it up to some sort of conspiracy theory.”

  “And my country will collectively roll its eyes and assume the information is more of your fake news.” Anatoly Sakharov stared at Leine. “If what you have told me is true, then it places my company in a very dangerous position. Whoever is behind this will not be happy if they find out I have helped put an end to their ruse.”

  “That’s certainly something to consider.”

  Sakharov stretched his neck first one way and then the other. “Is there anything else you wish to tell me?”

  “There is a cell phone video ostensibly taken by your son of two Russian soldiers who speak of not wanting to be part of their unit’s campaign aiding Izz Al-Din. There’s a date stamp but no way of knowing where it took place or who the soldiers are. I can’t stress strongly enough that your son’s files alone aren’t sufficient proof for me to go to my government.” Leine closed the cigarette pack and put it back in her purse. “The détente between our countries has been good for both sides, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Of course.”

  “The details on the flash drive tell a vastly different story than Russia’s official line. I’d hate to think that your president is trying to deceive the US. I’m also sure you would agree that releasing this information could seriously damage relations between our two countries. Where that might lead one can only guess.”

  He nodded. “I will check out the veracity of your story.”

  “Be discreet. I’m not certain who we’re dealing with.”

  “Of course.” Anatoly Sakharov stood and came around the side of the table. “I believe our business has concluded.”

  “Here’s my mobile number.” Leine wrote it on a notepad on the table and slid it toward him. “I need to hear from you by this time tomorrow. If I don’t, then I will assume you’re part of the deception and I’ll release your son’s files to the major news agencies, whatever the cost.” She picked up her clutch and rose from her chair. “May I have my gun?”

  If he was surprised she had a weapon, he didn’t show it. He clapped his hands and the door opened. The taller of the two bodyguards looked into the room.

  “Return Ms. Mason’s weapon to her.”

  The man reached in his jacket for the gun and handed it to Leine. She slipped it inside her handbag and walked to the door.

  “Enjoy the party,” Anatoly said.

  ***

  After Eve Mason left, Anatoly Sakharov motioned to his two guards to come into the room.

  “Follow her and report back,” he said to the taller one, pinning him with a hard stare. “Don’t lose her, Yevgeny.”

  “Do you want me to detain her?”

  “Only if she attempts to leave the country.”

  Yevgeny nodded and left. Sakharov turned to the other man. “Remain outside the door. Let no one inside.”

  “Your wife is waiting—”

  “Yes, I know,” he snapped, cutting him off. “She will have to wait.”

  The guard did as he was told. Sakharov reached into his pocket for his phone, hit speed dial, and waited for the other party to answer.

  “Hello?” The deep voice of Anatoly’s childhood friend, General Roman Tsarev, rumbled across the line.

  “We need to talk.”

  “I do not hear from my old friend Anatoly for weeks and this is how he greets me?” Roman Tsarev sighed. “What have you done now?”

  Bristling, Sakharov bit back a sharp retort. Roman had a way of getting under his skin—had done so since they were children. “Where is my son?”

  “You know I can’t tell you that. He’s on special assignment.”

  “Just tell me one thing. Is Mikhail still alive?”

  “Yes, of course he is. Why would you ask such a thing?”

  Sakharov closed his eyes as relief washed over him. “Never mind. It’s important that I contact him.”

  “I’m afraid that’s impossible. As I said, he’s on special assignment. Tell me what’s wrong. What has happened that you are so desperate to speak with him?”

  “It’s nothing. Would you get a message to him for me?”

  “Of course.”

  “Tell him to contact me as soon as he can. Tomorrow, if possible. Something has come up that I need to discuss with him.”

  “I will be sure to have the request forwarded. Is there anything else I can do?”

  “No.”

  “Well, something has gotten you excited. If there’s anything I can do to help, you know all you need do is ask.”

  “Of course. Thank you, my friend.”

  Roman Tsarev chuckled. “Anytime. And Anatoly?”

  “Yes?”

  “Please don’t worry. Whatever the problem, I’m sure everything will be fine.”

  Chapter 10

  Leine wound her way back through the crowded party to the entrance and stopped at the coat check to retrieve her wrap. As she put it on, she felt a light tap on her shoulder. She turned to see Katarina Sakharov, her ever present security detail hovering nearby.

  “Leaving so soon?” Katarina asked.

  “I’m not really one for parties,” Leine answered.

  “I wanted to speak with you before you left.” She nodded toward the entrance where attendees still streamed in. “Walk with me?”

  Leine finished putting on her wrap and picked up her purse. “Of course.”

  With her security guards trailing them, Katarina Sakharov led her outside and down the steps. At the bottom they turned right and continued walking. After they’d gone a short distance, Katarina stopped and said something to the two guards before indicating that she wanted Leine to walk with her. The guards stayed where they were. Conversation and the occasional peal of laughter from people arriving at the gala faded to the low murmur of background noise. There was no one else within hearing distance.

  “Why did you come here?” Katarina asked.

  “I told you and your husband. Because of your son.”

  Katarina shook her head. “No. You misunderstand. Why are you here? What do you want?” She glanced at the moon, still low on the horizon, its beams illuminating the museum’s grounds. “If it’s money, I will tell you right now that my husband will not pay.”

  Leine sighed. “Mrs. Sakharov, I am not here to extort your husband. I’m here to gain his cooperation.”

 
“I don’t understand.”

  “Your husband sells weapons to the Libyan government.”

  “Yes,” she replied, nodding her head. “But what he does is legal.”

  “That may be. But some of the files on your son’s flash drive tell a different story.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying it appears that one of your husband’s shipments headed for Libya was diverted to Izz Al-Din. I think your son was trying to gather information to give to his father as proof.” She turned to face Katarina. “It appears Mikhail did not believe that your husband knew what had happened. I’d like to think that’s the case. That’s why I made the effort to contact him. Otherwise I wouldn’t have risked my life coming here.” She glanced behind them, gauging the time that had elapsed since she’d left her meeting with Anatoly Sakharov.

  Katarina stared at Leine. “So he is dead, then.”

  Leine nodded. “I’m sorry.”

  Tears welled in her eyes and she angrily wiped at them with the back of her hand. “My husband assured me that Mikhail would not be in any danger when he was assigned to Roman’s unit. In fact, it was supposed to be the other way around. Roman promised to look after our son.” The tears fell freely now. Katarina pulled a tissue from her bag and blotted beneath her eyes.

  “Roman is the name of your son’s superior?”

  “Yes. General Roman Tsarev.” The sarcasm in her voice was hard to miss. “He’s Anatoly’s childhood friend. I never liked the man.”

  “Do you believe your husband had anything to do with diverting the shipment?”

  Katarina shook her head vigorously. “Never. He hates Izz Al-Din with a passion. This is why he agreed to provide weapons to Libya.”

  “That’s what I thought. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that if this information gets out and your husband is implicated, he could be facing international condemnation, possibly prison.”