The Last Deception

by DV Berkom, D. V. Berkom

  “Then why should I let you go? A word to my men…”

  “Do you really think I would go into a meeting with your husband without some kind of fail-safe?” Leine frowned. “I’m not stupid. Look. I don’t want to see your husband go to prison, but if he doesn’t agree to officially confirm my reports then I’ll have no choice but to release the information. It’s that simple.”

  Leine glanced back at the museum’s entrance. The taller of Anatoly Sakharov’s bodyguards was standing on the top step, scanning the parking lot.

  “I need to go. Do you have your phone with you?”

  “Yes.” Katarina reached into her handbag and pulled out her mobile.

  “Put my number in your contacts. In case you remember anything you think might help. I need to hear from you or your husband by this time tomorrow.”

  ***

  Leine noticed the tail after the third maneuver. She lost the SUV a few minutes later, but continued to watch in case more than one team tracked her. Soon, a suspicious looking sedan took the place of the first vehicle. This one stuck and she found herself relying on a series of counter surveillance moves that she hadn’t used since she worked for the agency. She’d checked the undercarriage of her car for a tracking device before she left the gala, but found nothing suspicious.

  Twenty-five minutes later, she deemed herself surveillance-free and continued toward Athens International Airport. Her carry-on bag was in the trunk with a change of clothes easily accessible in the top zipper compartment. On the way, she stopped at a restaurant and changed in the restroom, putting the gold dress, shoes, clutch, wrap, and jewelry together in one box. She took out the silver comb and shook her hair loose, then placed the weapon inside her bag. A quick detour brought her to the small boutique where she’d rented her outfit. The shop was closed for the evening, so she dropped the sealed box into a depository located next to the door and walked back to her rental car.

  As she reached for the car door handle a thick arm snaked around her neck. Instinctively, Leine grabbed her attacker’s forearm with both hands and shifted her body to the right. The larger assailant leaned back, tightening his hold, and her feet came off the ground. She brought her knees up, and using as much momentum as she could, straightened her legs, arched her back, and swung her feet down, landing hard on the sidewalk, forcing him to jackknife forward.

  Still holding on, the man tightened his grip, nearly strangling her. She dropped to one knee and forced him to lean farther, pulling him off his center but worsening the chokehold. Black spots appeared in her periphery and she battled for breath. With one last surge of energy she twisted and managed to slip her left leg behind his right. This created a narrow opening near the crook of his elbow and she wrenched her head through. At the same time she grabbed his right hand and bent it at a painful angle before she straightened, jerking his arm up between his shoulder blades.

  Before he could counter, she kneed him in the groin multiple times. He gripped his crotch and collapsed to the ground with a groan. She brought the heel of her hand down fast and hard, smashing him in the sensitive area near the back of his head. He pitched forward and sprawled facedown across the sidewalk. Gasping for air, Leine staggered back and scanned the street for more attackers.

  Hers was the only car visible in the deserted neighborhood. She moved to the fallen assailant and shoved him onto his back so she could see his face.

  She didn’t recognize him. She felt for a pulse. He was still alive. Keeping an eye on him for signs of recovery, she rifled through his clothing and found a .45 snugged in a shoulder holster. She pocketed the gun and looked through the rest of his pockets. He carried nothing else except for a cheap mobile phone. Leine checked the screen, but it was locked. She pocketed the phone without removing the battery in case a tracking device had been installed. No sense letting whoever was after her know their guy had been compromised.

  Yet.

  Why didn’t he use the gun? If he was one of Sakharov’s men, he didn’t send him to kill her or she’d be dead. Was he going to take her somewhere? If so, why and where? She’d thought her warning to Sakharov not to harm her would have been sufficient. He didn’t need the weight of the international community coming down on him for supplying arms to known terrorists. Especially when they were enemies of Russia. Even though well-connected, the intense scrutiny would at the very least put a damper on his business dealings.

  She hadn’t noticed the tail. Then it hit her. She opened the passenger door and reached under the drivers’ seat for the 9mm. She jacked the slide, ejecting the chambered cartridge. The brass pinged as it struck the sidewalk and skittered away, and she leaned over to pick it up. It looked and felt like the same ammunition she normally used. Then she removed the magazine and inspected each round. When she got to the third one, she stopped. The weight was wrong. She moved under a streetlamp to take a closer look. In comparison to the other rounds, the metal jacket had a slightly different color and the whole thing felt too light.

  Holding the brass between her thumb and forefinger, she twisted the lower section of the casing with her free hand. The bottom screwed off easily, revealing a miniature circuit board connected to tiny wires.

  Sakharov’s people had substituted a tracking device for one of the rounds in her gun. Anger boiled inside of her—anger at Sakharov, but also anger at herself for not being more astute.

  You’re getting soft, Basso. Whether the result of her tamer, domestic life in California, she wasn’t sure. All she knew was she’d lost her edge and made what could have been a deadly mistake. In the old days she would never have missed something like that.

  She dropped the device into her pocket before pulling out her phone to take a picture of the man’s face. Then she slid underneath her rental car and checked once more for signs of tampering she might have missed.

  Satisfied her vehicle was clean, Leine climbed to her feet and gave the neighborhood one last scan. Then she slid in the driver’s seat, started the car, and headed for the airport. Once she was there, she’d flushed the tracking device down the toilet.

  She’d deal with Sakharov later.

  Chapter 11

  Moscow, Russia

  “She’s what?” General Tsarev gritted his teeth. He had to consciously release his fingers one by one from the phone before he damaged the plastic cover.

  “She’s gone.”

  Georg, his top security man, had lost Eve Mason. Anatoly Sakharov had provided the perfect cover for her abduction by having his bodyguard Yevgeny follow her, although he’d been ordered not to approach the woman. The general’s mole in the billionaire’s security detail had reported Yevgeny’s actions, and hidden a tracking device in the woman’s gun. Tsarev had instructed Georg to pick her up and take her to a safe house for questioning.

  Somehow she’d been able to escape—no, escape wasn’t the correct word—somehow she’d been able to outmaneuver Georg in the field before she disappeared. Not only that, but he’d found no record of her leaving Greece, either by plane, train, or boat, even though she’d checked out of her apartment and returned her rental car at the airport that same evening. According to his sources she hadn’t rented another.

  “Remain close to your phone. I will need your services once I locate this woman.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The general ended the call and sat for a moment, staring into space. He had to admit his confidence in Georg had been badly shaken. Such a shame. All of the preparation and training for nothing. Tsarev heaved an internal sigh.

  Time for a fallback plan.

  Once the pounding in his temples eased, he mulled over his options.

  Obviously, there was more to this woman than her background suggested. What information he had been able to glean in a brief background check held no clues as to how she could have done what she did to Georg. She had no record of military service—her life was as blasé as they come. She might have learned self-defense by attending
classes, but that didn’t explain the evasive maneuvers she employed as Georg tracked her. That suggested she knew she was being followed.

  Initial inquiries had returned information giving only her age, her birthdate, and her occupation as an adjuster for a large insurance company in Los Angeles. She had no prior arrests, no online social media accounts, a single email address on one of the free email providers that she rarely used, and few friends. If the report was to be believed, she lived alone in a small rental in Pasadena and had no known relatives.

  It was too vague. The dossier read like a legend for an agent. And not a very convincing one, at that. Tsarev ordered an expedited and extensive security check on the woman. He’d get to the bottom of who she was, and who she really worked for.

  There was also the question of what she told Anatoly about his son. Tsarev had been able to put his old friend off for a time but sooner or later he would have to come up with a workable story for Mikhail’s death. The general experienced some remorse for putting Mikhail in such a dangerous position—he wasn’t a monster—but when the young Russian began collecting information that put Tsarev’s plans in jeopardy, his friend’s son had sealed his fate. The noble cause the general sought to strengthen was much too important to allow one individual to bring it all down.

  The homing device in Mikhail’s phone had been a good safeguard. In actuality, the general used the same locator program for all his troops. None of the soldiers knew they were being tracked. They were glad to get the government-issued device, no questions asked. The general had installed software that could transmit conversations even while powered off, which was how Tsarev first learned of Mikhail’s information-gathering exercise. The software also gave him the information that Mikhail survived the first attempt on his life and sought help at the refugee camp.

  He’d checked to ensure all of the young Russian’s files saved on the flash drive that hung around his neck had been obliterated in the bombing. The investigator had told Tsarev’s contact that there wasn’t sufficient material left for a DNA sample.

  Perfect.

  How much did the woman know? And what had she told Anatoly? It was imperative that he locate and question this Eve Mason to find out the extent of her knowledge. Had she spoken to Mikhail before he died? Possible. If so, then what had she been doing on the Libyan-Egyptian border?

  From his conversation with Anatoly Sakharov it was obvious her argument hadn’t convinced him of her veracity—but that didn’t make her any less dangerous. Tsarev understood well a father’s reasoning. If the news of your offspring is unpleasant, why not put off the inevitable? Live in that gauzy world between lying to yourself and the truth. Only when the facts become too obvious to ignore would decisive action be taken.

  The general picked up the phone and dialed a number he’d memorized from an earlier life. A life where he’d had to use dramatic solutions.

  Chapter 12

  The Black Swan, Athens, Greece

  Anatoly Sakharov closed the file he was reading and rubbed his temples. The low-grade headache had made its appearance shortly after the woman delivered the news about Mikhail and the possible shipment diversion to Izz Al-Din. Was his son really dead? He pushed aside the horrific thought. It couldn’t be true. The army would have notified him. Roman wouldn’t lie about that.

  Would he?

  If he had, and the woman was telling the truth, then Sakharov would need proof. If his son had been the victim of a bombing, evidence of his death would be hard to come by unless his DNA had been recovered from the bombsite. And since his son’s superior was denying his death, Anatoly assumed this evidence would not be forthcoming.

  He gazed out the window at the brilliant sun reflecting off the calm waters of the harbor. Seabirds wheeled in the sky, vying for scraps tossed from the yacht tied up next to the Black Swan. He didn’t want to go back to Moscow, would much rather winter in Greece, but if he wanted to find out more he had no choice. He would have to be careful when he spoke to his contact.

  And he needed to see all of the files on his son’s flash drive. Perhaps there was something Eve Mason had missed.

  The night before, Yevgeny had lost her. Sakharov checked his Rolex. Over twelve hours had passed since she disappeared. He would call her soon enough.

  His frustration at Yevgeny’s incompetence had boiled over and he’d almost let him go. But when the bodyguard expressed his surprise at the woman’s ability to evade his surveillance, Sakharov held back. Yevgeny was no slouch when it came to surveilling a target. He’d learned it well during his employment with Global Secure, one of the largest and most highly rated security companies in the world. Indeed, Sakharov had hired him away from them, promising to double his salary. The information helped explain the woman’s fearlessness, as well as her nonchalance at possessing a firearm.

  She was a spy, certainly. Or she had been, which meant she lied when she told him she wasn’t, putting the veracity of her story in question. Who did she answer to? The US? A mercenary group? A competing arms dealer?

  And where was she now? The evening before, Yevgeny paid a visit to the apartment she’d been renting. He learned from a neighbor that she checked out that afternoon, before the gala.

  Sakharov’s mind raced with the possible implications of what he’d learned. He needed to take a step back and look at things methodically.

  Had Roman set him up? He couldn’t think of another reason for his old friend to betray him by linking Sakharov Industries to a diverted arms deal. But why?

  Shipments seized by the enemy were always a risk. Up until now, Sakharov’s successful deliveries topped out at well over ninety percent. Except this time he’d left security measures to Roman.

  If Roman had diverted the shipment to Izz Al-Din, then Sakharov would need to tread carefully. The general brokered the deal with the Libyan government, orchestrated the deliveries, and provided proof that the Libyans took possession of the shipment. But as Sakharov well knew, the paperwork could have been forged. He opened his desk drawer and stared at the documents Eve Mason delivered the night before.

  He reread the letter from his son and again tried to parse his words. Mikhail’s grandmother, though elderly, was not in any immediate danger of dying. His words didn’t fit the truth, and Sakharov assumed his son had intended an underlying meaning to the letter. He closed his eyes as the possibility of his son’s death loomed in his mind. Why would this woman, a complete stranger, risk her life to tell him his son had died if it weren’t true? Mikhail’s survival meant nothing to her.

  For her, the news of his son’s death would be secondary, merely a reason to meet face-to-face with him, to find out for herself whether he was involved. The diverted shipment was what concerned Eve Mason. This gave more credence to his belief that she was indeed a spy.

  Be that as it may, it still left the likelihood that his old friend Roman Tsarev had deceived him, was deceiving him still. The possibility wasn’t a stretch. Roman had clawed his way up the ranks of the GRU, Russia’s powerful intelligence agency, by being the best at subterfuge and deception, and had taken over more and more operational duties. He was now considered one of the most influential and powerful men in Russia’s intelligence apparatus, second only to the director. Along with that power and influence came an inordinate amount of money as well as unprecedented access.

  Anatoly Sakharov was as well connected as the general, albeit through different channels. Plus, they were both on a first-name basis with the new Russian prime minister, Ian Fedorov, had been since the three met in school. Sakharov still kept in touch with another friend from university, Sergei Gorev, now a general in the SVR.

  Was his government actively trying to engage the Americans in a proxy war? Again, not a stretch. Proxy wars had occurred many times before: Vietnam, the Arab-Israeli conflict, Afghanistan. But were they truly backing Izz Al-Din? If so, his country had gone too far.

  Sakharov glanced again at the photocopy of the crate
filled with Stinger missiles surrounded by black-clad terrorists. He squinted at the grainy picture to bring the details into focus. The bold Cyrillic lettering on the wooden box was unmistakable: Sakharov Industries.

  A slow burn began in Sakharov’s belly and traveled to his chest. Either the shipment had been purposely diverted to the terrorists by someone within the Libyan government, or Roman was responsible. Either way, if the information got out, the scrutiny of the Russian government and the international community would be trained on Sakharov Industries—a precarious position for an arms dealer—even one who worked within the law. Was his son’s letter warning him not to trust Roman? If that was the case, then the truth was inescapable. The general had lied and was covering up his son’s death.

  Sakharov would get to the bottom of this deception, this maskirovka, and find the truth if it was the last thing he did.

  A knock sounded, breaking into his thoughts. Scowling, Sakharov hit the hidden button under his desk, unlocking the door. Katarina and their daughter, Olga, walked in, followed by Yevgeny and another bodyguard. His second wife was beautiful but his daughter could have been Aphrodite herself. Perfectly proportioned, Olga wore a short, metallic dress that showed off her long, shapely legs. Her glossy black hair fell straight past her shoulders to the middle of her back and curled gently at the ends. Both women wore oversized sunglasses and carried matching purses, making it obvious that a shopping trip was imminent.

  “To what do I owe this welcome visit?”

  Katarina set her purse on his desk and turned to Olga. “Our daughter has something to ask of you.”

  Their daughter smiled, revealing two perfectly placed dimples and a set of dazzlingly white teeth. The dental work had cost him a fortune but had been well worth it. Sakharov couldn’t help but smile back. How could she be eighteen years old? To him she would always be the adorable toddler clinging to his leg, demanding that he walk with her.