The Last Deception

by DV Berkom, D. V. Berkom

“Apparently it was a matter of mistaken identity,” Sakharov added.

  “I see. Well, I’m glad to hear that.” Tsarev would have to pursue another option. Then he added, “In your business, one can’t be too careful.” There was nothing like a veiled threat to put a subject on edge.

  “You’re so right.”

  Did he detect yet more sarcasm? He would have to step up surveillance of Sakharov and his wife and daughter. One never knew when compromising information would come in handy. Now, though, he needed to repair the small rift he sensed had formed between them.

  “Please accept my apologies for taking action where none was called for. I had only you and your wife’s welfare in mind.”

  “No apology necessary.”

  The clipped assurance didn’t sound like Sakharov had accepted his apology, but Tsarev decided to let it go for now. He’d get to the bottom of this woman’s role in Anatoly Sakharov’s life. He was sure she’d raised doubts about his son’s welfare, but how did she come by the information?

  And what else had she told him?

  Chapter 15

  Athens, Greece

  It didn’t take Leine long to find the boat. The Cyclops was one of the least conspicuous vessels in the harbor. Nestled among a parade of gleaming white pleasure yachts, the rugged fishing boat looked like a child’s toy in a sea of grownup ships. As Leine drew closer, she corrected her first impression. It wasn’t that the Cyclops was small, just that the other boats were immense.

  She paused near the stern of the Cyclops as a barefoot man wearing faded jeans and a blue plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up finished spraying the side decks with a hose. A triangle of white T-shirt peeked out above the plaid.

  “You must be Art.”

  The man pivoted at her question and looked her up and down, his impassive expression giving no clue to his thoughts. Leine returned the stare. Powerfully built, he looked to be in his mid-sixties with long, ropey veins popping out along his forearms and large, calloused hands. His steel-gray hair was closely cropped and the muscles of his neck strained against his collar. Startling blue eyes gazed out from a weathered face bearing a five o’clock shadow that looked like four in the morning.

  After a moment, he nodded and went back to his work. “And you must be Leine.” He finished spraying and made his way toward her, coiling the hose as he did, then sprang with an agile grace onto the dock, where he deposited the hose.

  He was a good three inches shorter than Leine but carried himself as though he was the tallest man in the marina. Ex-Special Forces, she thought. In her experience, the men who’d worn the Green Beret walked with a purposeful stride and an alert, quiet watchfulness that came with their specialized training and experience. Especially the older ones, who never lost the look even when they retired. The younger types tended to have more swagger that would inevitably be “experienced” out of them, once they’d put in their time. Lou had been sketchy on his friend’s past history, saying only that Art had helped him out on occasion and that his word, like his abilities, was rock solid. Art currently worked as a part-time security contractor, and when he wasn’t working he was fishing.

  Leine pulled an envelope that contained their agreed-upon fee from her pack and held it out. Art took it from her, glanced inside, and then slid it into the back pocket of his jeans. He untied the mooring lines before climbing back on board.

  “You coming?” he asked over his shoulder.

  She followed him onto the boat and stowed her pack in a locker in the pilot house. The trawler was Spartan in its accommodations. Everything had its place. The bright work gleamed, and the space was so clean, a speck of dirt wouldn’t dare show itself. A small galley with a kerosene stove stood to Leine’s left, with a couch and a pair of captain’s chairs to starboard. A table sandwiched between two bench seats covered in dark blue canvas was next to the stove. Several built-ins lined the walls, with the steering console at center stage, beneath the windscreen. Two steps below led to a short companionway and to what Leine assumed were forward berths. Outside, a stainless steel ladder offered access from the deck to the flying bridge.

  “Head’s down there, to the right.” Art motioned toward the bow. “Beer and ouzo are in a cooler on deck. Water’s over there.” He pointed to a pallet of plastic bottles next to the gimbaled stove. “Help yourself, but keep your paws off the Jack.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate you taking me on such short notice.”

  Art shrugged. “Long as your money’s good, you can do just about anything you want short of taking a shit on my deck.”

  Charming. Leine had contacted Art the evening before and asked him if she could rent his boat for a few days, with him staying on as captain. She figured if she was a moving target she’d be safer when she started digging into Mikhail Sakharov’s death and the diverted shipment of Stinger missiles. Art quoted her a reasonable price and told her to come by the next morning. She’d spent part of a restless evening at a small, all-night diner near the marina, concerned that whoever had her under surveillance the night of the party was still tracking her.

  Another reason why I quit that life. She wasn’t in the mood for rekindling the stress of her time as an assassin. Constantly being on edge and looking over her shoulder made her downright cranky. Back then Carlos had given her a hard time, telling her she wasn’t cut out for the life. She’d practically bitten his head off before she realized he was kidding. Sort of. She’d always needed some way to burn off the stress and tension. Running or swimming or kickboxing or sex would usually do the trick.

  The weather at this time of year wasn’t exactly swim-friendly, but if her tenure on the Cyclops ran long she’d have Art take her somewhere with a deserted beach where she could get in a punishing workout. The short run she’d managed that morning wasn’t nearly enough. And she was tired from lack of sleep.

  “Where to, boss?” Art called down from the flying bridge.

  “Wherever you want. What’s the Wi-Fi password?”

  “It’s on the list next to the console.”

  Leine took her tablet over to the console and typed in the password. Cyclops had a dedicated satellite connection, something Art said he made sure to have before deciding to live on board the sturdy fishing boat. “Certain people need to be able to find me,” he’d said.

  She logged into an online database Lou had “borrowed” when he retired from the agency. He’d given Leine access on one of her jobs for SHEN that had the earmarks of a state-sponsored kidnapping. The database was a list of all known intelligence operatives, domestic and foreign, and was a joint effort to share intel between the FBI, the CIA, the DIA, and the ever-secretive NSA. Although the other alphabet agencies grumbled over whether the NSA was at all forthcoming with regard to its own intel, the list had proven to be most effective in identifying operatives friendly—and not—to the mission of the United States.

  Leine quickly scanned the list for General Roman Tsarev, finding mention of his rise in the GRU several pages down. She clicked on the link attached to his name, and it took her to a page with everything that had been acquired on his background. Tsarev was the poster boy for Russian intelligence. He’d started his career with the army, attaining the rank of general, then moved to intelligence analysis for the GRU. He was eventually promoted to his current position, and it was well known that he had designs on moving higher.

  The liner notes mentioned he was a hardline hawk who didn’t agree with current Russian policy regarding foreign relations. On more than one occasion, he’d tried to convince the Russian president to take back the Balkans by force, citing Russia’s need for sovereignty over the region. The president had refused, believing correctly that the US would not pursue détente with a country bent on turning back the clock to the glory days of the Soviet Union.

  That would explain his diversion of Sakharov’s arms shipment and of passing along intel detailing allied positions to embedded soldiers. The American people strongly oppos
ed committing ground forces to the war against the terrorists, a position that Blackwell, the current US president, had echoed in a State of the Union address several weeks before. Air strikes and advisers were fine, but no one wanted to risk an American life to fight what was seen as someone else’s war.

  It looked like Tsarev aimed to take the fight to the next level and engage the US by making it impossible to say no to troops on the ground. Leine didn’t think that President Blackwell would fall for the ruse, but just the fact that Tsarev risked his men and his reputation to lure the US into a ground war with Islamic terrorists was enough to give her pause.

  The gentle rocking of the Cyclops’s path through the calm, blue waters of the Aegean Sea worked its magic and Leine’s shoulders inched down as her body relaxed. Putting the tablet aside, she leaned her head back and closed her eyes. Sometime later, she woke to a dark cabin. Shaking off the vestiges of sleep, she got up and walked out to the stern where Art sat smoking a cigar in a deck chair, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. Seeing her, he raised his drink in a toast and took a sip.

  “Sleeping Beauty awakens.”

  “How long have I been out?” Lights from shore winked against a backdrop of shadows, and a smattering of stars had made an appearance against the deep indigo sky. A slight breeze ruffled her hair. She took a deep breath in, tasting the briny sea on her tongue.

  “Couple of hours. Figured I’d let you sleep. Looked like you could use some shut eye.”

  Leine smiled and sat down in the deck chair next to him. “Got any more of that?” she asked, nodding at the drink in his hand.

  “Yes, ma’am.” He reached beside him and brought out a bottle of Jack Daniel’s.

  “I thought you told me to keep my paws off the Jack.”

  Art studied the bourbon and then fixed her with a wry gaze. “You see anyone else’s hand on this bottle?”

  “Point taken.”

  “Glasses are in the cupboard above the stove.”

  A minute later she was in the other deck chair and sipping her drink. She leaned her head back to look at the stars. “So where are we?”

  “Near the island of Hydra. Thought since you were looking for a place to hide out we’d come here.”

  “It’s quiet.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  They let the silence rest between them for a while, enjoying the stillness of the evening. The temperature had barely cooled off from the heat of the day, so there was no need to get her jacket.

  “How did you meet Lou, if you don’t mind my asking?” Leine took another sip of the bourbon and rolled it around her tongue, savoring the warmth.

  Art shrugged. “Oh, you know. It was one of those things. He needed someone like me for something off-book, and I needed the cash.”

  “Someone like you. I’m afraid Lou didn’t tell me very much about you.”

  Art nodded. “That’s Lou. He’s one of the good guys.” He set his drink down on the cooler between them and gave her a hard look. “As a matter of fact, he didn’t tell me much about you, either.”

  She stared out at the twinkling shore lights. Music from a taverna onshore drifted toward them. “No, he wouldn’t. Like you said, he’s one of the good guys.” She thought about what she could tell him. “We worked together for a few years at a place you’ve never heard of. He was my support system when I was on the road.”

  Art nodded again, but didn’t say anything, giving her the space to talk.

  “Then something happened and I left. He retired soon after.”

  “Sounds ominous. You work for SHEN now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you trying to locate someone?”

  “No.”

  “Then who’s after you?”

  Leine glanced at him. “Why do you think someone’s looking for me?”

  He swept his hand in an arc, indicating their remote location. “This ain’t your average resort.” He cocked his head at her. “And I’d guess you ain’t your average female.”

  “I’m not sure, exactly. Maybe no one.”

  Art snorted as he picked up his drink and took another sip. “You’re gonna have to do better than that. Boat rules. I don’t take on anyone or anything that could get me killed.”

  It was Leine’s turn to set her drink down. “Fair enough.” She stared at a spot on deck as she worked out what to say. “How familiar are you with Sakharov Industries?”

  “Anatoly Sakharov was the client of a company I worked for back in the day. In fact, he tried to hire me for his personal security contingent.”

  “And?”

  “And I declined. Politely, of course. Not many people say no to Anatoly. He ended up grabbing two of Global Secure’s finest. A Russian and an Albanian. They thought they’d won the lottery.” He shook his head. “I didn’t have the heart to tell ’em they’d bought a ticket to their own funeral. That guy has more enemies than there are ducks on a Minnesota pond.”

  “Apparently so,” Leine agreed. “One in particular.”

  “Which one are you talking about?”

  “General Tsarev.”

  “Shit.” Art leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. “That’s one crazy-ass Russian there.”

  “Oh? Why do you say that?”

  “He’s ambitious as hell, for starters.”

  “That much is evident. Go on.”

  “He’s also shrewd and ruthless. Not a good combination for an enemy. He’d as soon drop his own granny where she stands than give up an iota of power.” Art shook his head. “If Sakharov’s made an enemy of Tsarev, then he’s not long for this world.”

  “They were childhood friends. Sakharov’s son referred to him as Uncle Roman.”

  “Huh. Well.” Art leaned forward. “From what I understand, the general’s not real family-oriented. How’d they fall out?”

  “I don’t know if they have, exactly. But logic points toward Tsarev meddling in Sakharov’s affairs in order to push his own political agenda.”

  “Oh?” Art lifted a brow.

  “Lou said you could be trusted. That your word’s solid, and you’re a good man. I’m going to assume that I can trust you with sensitive information.” Leine was going against everything she’d been trained to do, but she figured Art deserved to know the potential shit storm he might be walking into. And, he was a friend of Lou’s.

  “What do you think?” His penetrating gaze told her all she needed to know.

  “One of Sakharov’s arms shipments was diverted to Izz Al-Din.”

  Art whistled. “You mean to say that Tsarev had a hand in that? What the hell for?”

  “That’s not all. Sakharov’s son was serving in the military under Tsarev and embedded with the terrorists. He was gathering information that proved he and his fellow soldiers were ordered to pass along US-backed allied positions to the terrorists to draw the US into a ground war in Libya.”

  “You refer to the son in the past tense. Am I to understand he’s no longer with us?”

  Leine nodded. “Somebody dropped a bomb on him at a refugee camp. There was nothing left to identify.”

  “Jesus.” Art scrubbed his face and grimaced. “Then how did you come by the information?”

  “He gave his flash drive to a friend of mine before he was killed and she showed me the files. That friend died in the bombing with Mikhail.”

  “Have you contacted Sakharov?” He leaned back, studying her. “I see that you have.”

  “I met him and his wife at the National Archaeological Museum last night at a charity event. I told them what I knew. He didn’t believe me, of course. Even after I showed him the documents from his son’s flash drive.”

  “And Sakharov contacted his friend the general to find out if you were telling the truth.” He crossed his arms. “Tsarev’s after you, isn’t he?”

  “I think so, yes. Sakharov had one of his men follow me, but I lost him. Then I picked up anothe
r tail. He jumped me on the street near my car, but I neutralized him. He wasn’t interested in killing me, or I wouldn’t be here.”

  “It wasn’t one of Sakharov’s bodyguards?”

  “He insists he only sent one guy and he didn’t order him to physically restrain me. The man who attacked me wasn’t at the benefit. At least, I didn’t see him there. Someone replaced one of the rounds in my gun with a tracking device, so it looks like there might be a mole inside Sakharov’s security.”

  “Christ. You’re in it up to your eyeballs, aren’t you?” He rose from the chair and began to pace. “You say you were able to neutralize him. Did you kill him?”

  “He was still breathing when I left him.”

  He turned to look at her. “You worked for Eric at the agency?”

  Leine was stunned at his knowledge. Not many people knew about Eric or the agency. Did Lou mention something? “Why do you ask?”

  “Because one, you’re in the middle of a shit sandwich. Two, you have certain, shall we say, qualities, that contract employees there have, and three, you know Lou. It doesn’t take much to connect the dots.” Art’s tone had turned from curious to pissed off in a matter of seconds.

  “I’m not sure why you’re getting angry. I no longer work for them. And you may not have heard, but Eric’s dead.”

  Art slammed his fist on the gunwales and glared at the water. “Doesn’t matter where I go or what I do, that shit follows me.”

  Leine stood and walked to where Art leaned against the port side of the Cyclops. “What are you talking about? I told you, I’m no longer part of the organization. This isn’t agency business.”

  He narrowed his eyes. Anger radiated off him. “Tell me you’ve been able to avoid getting sucked back into that cesspool they call government work.” He folded his arms. “Go on. Tell me.”

  Leine started to insist that he was wrong, that she’d been successful in staying out of the trap that so many operatives had fallen into. But had she really? She’d been working for SHEN, looking for missing women and girls who’d been trafficked, and eliminating the people responsible in an attempt to atone for her past sins. But here she was with a powerful Russian operative after her who would more than likely torture her to gain whatever knowledge she had, and then kill her once she’d outlived her usefulness. Not only that, but over the years she’d had several run-ins with old “friends” who would’ve sold her out for the price of a cup of coffee.