The Last Deception

  Art was right. She’d never be completely free.

  “I see by the look on your face that you get my point.” Art had calmed enough that he stopped pacing and sat back in his chair where he poured himself another three fingers of Jack. He waved the bottle near her glass, but she shook her head. She needed to be clear. Art’s little outburst reminded her of something she’d tried to forget. If she was going to talk Sakharov into backing her story when she went to Scott Henderson, then she had to be ready for anything. Just like the old days.

  This is it, Leine. If you go forward from here, you’re not in Kansas anymore.

  Leine returned to her deck chair. “I can see you’re not interested in being a part of this. I don’t blame you.” She looked at the twinkling lights in the bay. The dark sky had deepened to a midnight blue and the stars were coming out in force. “If you could let me off somewhere on the mainland so I can get back to Athens, I’d be much obliged.”

  Art snorted. “I’m not leaving you off anywhere. You obviously need my help. One woman can’t take on Tsarev and his wannabe KGB thugs.”

  “But what about the cesspool and the shit sandwich and all that? Was that just a performance?”

  Art’s lopsided grin gave Leine the feeling he was further into the bottle of Jack than she first thought.

  “Lady, I was born for this kind of work.” He rubbed his hands together, clearly ready to bust some heads. “Especially since it involves General Tsarev.”

  “Don’t tell me you miss the Cold War?”

  “Hell, yes I do. At least then you knew who your friends were. And your enemies. Now days, shit, you’re lucky if you can tell right from wrong.”

  He had a point.

  “Well, if you’re serious, then I’m glad to have your help. My contacts in this part of the world have either died or disappeared.”

  “Tends to happen in your line of work. We’ve got a loose conglomeration of folks in the private security sector that I can contact, so I’ll be able to find out some specifics. We’ll have to be careful whose chain we yank.”

  “That’s an understatement. What do you suggest?”

  “Not sure yet. I’ve got some ideas, though.” Art lifted his glass in a toast, and then took a sip. “Let’s give this little problem a think. I’ll bet we come up with something.”

  They stayed up late into the evening, talking strategy. Art had the mind of someone who’d planned hundreds of covert operations. Leine appreciated his ability to see all sides of a problem, and welcomed his input. By the time the bottle of Jack was gone they’d covered several scenarios and had a plan of action for each—even though the odds were low of any plan working flawlessly, especially since there were so many unknowns.

  “I think I’m going to call it a night.” Leine stood and stretched.

  Art waved toward the bow of the boat. “Sure, sure. You take the port side bunk. I think I’ll sit up a while longer.”

  “See you in the morning.”

  Leine rinsed her glass at the galley sink and left it to dry in the rack before grabbing her pack and making her way forward. She opened the door to her berth and stepped over the threshold. The small room was serviceable enough, not luxurious by any means, but Leine had slept in worse. A single bunk lined the far wall, with a built-in desk and heavy metal chair to one side. A white porcelain sink stood in the corner, with a mirrored medicine cabinet above it. She leaned closer to get a better look at herself. Her eyes were roadmap red from lack of sleep, and small dark bags had formed under them. She sighed and shook her head.

  Such a glamorous life.

  Chapter 16

  Moscow, Russia

  Anatoly Sakharov buttoned his overcoat and braced himself against the icy wind. Moscow was unseasonably cold for late October, although the last two winters had been long and bone-chillingly arctic, so he shouldn’t have been surprised. It was one of the main reasons he preferred to do business from his yacht in the Aegean, and why he’d given the green light to Katarina and his daughter to find an apartment in Athens. Maybe this way they would stop hounding him to work less. Working less meant less money, which meant fewer shopping trips for them.

  How did they not see this?

  With a sigh, he continued to the main gate of Gorky Park to meet his contact, Sergei Gorev. Roommates at university, they had shared a passion for jazz and Paris’s Latin Quarter, although with perestroika they’d each gone their separate ways. Like Roman, Sergei saw opportunity in climbing the ranks of the military, while Sakharov took advantage of the lucrative black market that sprang up in Moscow, earning a small fortune in a short span of time.

  Sakharov glanced at his Rolex. His friend wasn’t usually late. He attempted to check his email on his phone, but Eve Mason’s warning regarding a mole within his security detail played like a loop in his head and he couldn’t concentrate. If her suspicions were correct then he had a far larger problem than he’d first thought.

  As a precaution, he’d let the majority of his security contingent go and hired fresh blood. He didn’t have the time or patience to find a mole. Yevgeny and Farid had both retained their positions—the two men had been with him the longest and were the only people he trusted with his family. He’d vetted several new bodyguards for the trip to Moscow and added additional security to watch over Katarina and Olga. Two of the new hires followed him now, at a discreet distance. The unexpected turnover would alert the person running the informant. What would stop them from trying again?

  Moments later a red-faced Sergei huffed his way toward him through the small crowd of people who had gathered nearby. Sakharov pushed his worries to the back of his mind and turned to watch his old friend approach.

  “Anatoly! It’s been far too long. How are you? And how’s Katarina?”

  The two men embraced warmly. Sergei’s dark brown hair had grown thin and was sprinkled with more gray than the last time they’d seen each other. The lines around his eyes and between his brows spoke of the stressors experienced by many in the employ of the SVR.

  “I’m well. Thank you for taking time out of your busy day to meet with me.” Sakharov broke contact first and gestured for Sergei to walk with him.

  “It was no hardship, believe me. I don’t get into the fresh air often enough,” Sergei said.

  Sakharov eyed the other man’s ample midsection and raised an eyebrow. Sergei laughed and patted his stomach.

  “You know how much I love French food. So many sauces.”

  “We’ve come a long way since our days at university,” Sakharov said.

  Sergei smiled at the memory. “What was the name of that club we used to go to in Paris? The one in the Latin Quarter on the Rue des Lombards?”

  Sakharov closed his eyes as he thought. “The Duc.”

  Sergei snapped his fingers. “That’s right. Le Duc des Lombards. How I miss those days. Everything was a discovery.”

  “Especially discovering girls who liked jazz.”

  “Especially that,” Sergei agreed. He rubbed his hands together and blew on his fingers to warm them. “The weather has turned early this year. I fear Muscovites will be in for a long winter.” He stopped rubbing and shoved his hands inside his coat pockets before giving Sakharov a sidelong glance. “So, to what do I owe this happy occasion?

  Sakharov frowned. “I have a favor to ask.”

  “Yes?”

  “I’ve received news that my son has been killed.”

  Sergei stopped and narrowed his eyes at Sakharov. “I’m deeply sorry. How did this happen?”

  “That’s not important. What is important is that our mutual friend Roman Tsarev has told me that Mikhail is still alive. I need proof of the circumstances of his death. Or, if what Roman says is true and Mikhail is still alive, then proof of his continued good health. Can you do this?”

  “Of course. But there is a larger problem here.”

  “You mean my distrust of Roman.” Sakharov nodded. “Wh
at little research I’ve done points to his deception and I need to know why.”

  “I see.” Sergei frowned as they resumed walking. “Finding this information should not be difficult. As it involves our friend Roman, I will go through less obvious channels.”

  “Thank you.”

  Sergei waved his thanks away. “What are you doing for dinner this evening? I know a place that serves the most exquisite bouillabaisse. I’ll bring Nataly. She’d love to see you.”

  “I’d like that,” Sakharov replied. Good food, good wine, and old friends would take his mind off of Mikhail and the Basso woman.

  And Roman’s lies.

  ***

  Athens, Greece

  Dmitry Romanov checked his bank account balance with his phone. It was all there. He enjoyed seeing the long string of zeroes. Money gave him a surge of power, greater even than sex. And that was saying something—he had a voracious appetite for women, although they had to be small and demure or he wouldn’t bother. No brash career girls for him, which left out most of the women living and working in and around Moscow—and Athens, for that matter. Besides, the smaller ones were easier to control and easily discarded. He’d had his fill of demanding princesses who expected to be treated like Catherine the Great.

  The money was all well and good, except for one tiny detail: Dmitry was unable to locate his target. With help from the general, he monitored the ports and border crossings in Greece, as well as various online venues. She’d surface eventually. He just had to be patient.

  After what the general’s security man had revealed about her evasion techniques and fighting abilities, as well as the lack of personal information prior to 2006, Dmitry was convinced he was dealing with a member of a clandestine American organization. He relished the opportunity to pit himself against an intelligence operative from the United States. Although he shared the general’s contempt for the American intelligence community, when confronting one of their operatives he would need to be at his best.

  He made his way along the busy boulevard, smiling at the women who gave him the once-over. With his dark good looks and the rakish scar along his jaw, Dmitry prided himself on being every woman’s bad boy. He stayed in exquisite shape and had perfected a confident, lazy smile whenever a woman gave him the eye. One of his many lovers had complained that he had the look of one who recently left the warm bed of one woman while contemplating the next.

  He couldn’t argue with that.

  His thoughts turned to his target. Was she a member of Special Operations? He didn’t think the US Army allowed women to serve in that capacity, although it probably wouldn’t be long before they demanded equality. Dmitry rolled his eyes at the thought of a woman operative doing what he did. Yes, they often made good snipers as long as they could hold their emotions in check, like Pavlichenko and Shanina, but war was an unusual circumstance. He doubted many could last through the rigorous physical training.

  You can’t take this one for granted, Dmitry. He was an expert at determining what kind of adversary his quarry would be. His own training had been as an elite killer for a group in Chechnya. A secret arm of the Chechen Republic’s government designed to carry out assassinations, kidnappings, and torture, as well as fomenting unrest and revolution in countries on the brink, the group’s exploits were never alluded to in reports. No one knew they existed, except for the head of the Chechen Republic and General Tsarev, who worked closely with the group against the wishes of the new Russian Federation leaders. As he explained to Dmitry, “Ask for forgiveness, never permission.”

  In a stroke of brilliance, Tsarev had been able to redirect funds to the secret agency, veiling the expenditure as “Community Outreach” and “Infrastructure Repair.” No one had been the wiser. Unfortunately, a few years into the program, some peon in accounting discovered the redirect and mentioned it to an auditor in the accounting chamber who mentioned it to the head of the budget committee. Fearful of the fallout should the world discover the sordid link between Russia and Chechen “Death Squads,” the president cut off funding for the secret organization before anyone found out the true reason for the redirect, although he’d given a wink and a nod to the general, suggesting Tsarev create his own operation and the funds would follow.

  Once the dust settled, Tsarev had personally asked Dmitry to leave Chechnya and work for him on a contractual basis, which he was happy to do. Being a lone wolf appealed to Dmitry much more than taking orders from an organization. It was quite a bit more lucrative, too. Dmitry now had a home on the shores of the Black Sea thanks to his expertise and the largesse of the general.

  He stopped next to a low, sleek McLaren coupe parked next to the curb, admiring its lean lines and how the sports car appeared to be in motion while still. That would look good in my garage. He’d have to order the newest model and have it delivered as soon as this job was finished. He dragged his gaze away from the piece of automotive artwork and brought out the keys for his rental from his pocket. Although still a high performance vehicle, the black Mercedes wouldn’t draw attention like the McLaren.

  Inside the car, he retrieved his phone and ran a search to see if Eve Mason, aka Leine Basso, had made an appearance anywhere. Her name or passport hadn’t pinged any of the general’s bots, which meant that either she slipped across the border undetected or she was still in country and hiding. Anatoly Sakharov was in Moscow on business, and according to recently accessed aviation records was due back in two days. Basso/Mason had been in contact with him and his wife, so the best bet was to keep an eye on Mrs. Sakharov and the daughter while waiting for the Basso woman to surface.

  Not that watching the daughter would be a hardship. Dmitry was willing to suspend his “no princess” rule, at least for one night with Sakharov’s daughter. Such a sweet young thing.

  He sighed and shifted in his seat, the growing evidence of his fantasy becoming obvious. There’d be plenty of time for that. Perhaps Tsarev would have him apply for a position in her security detail. He’d heard that she and Sakharov’s wife were looking at a luxury villa near the water. Apparently the youngest wanted to spread her wings in Athens. He’d certainly be happy to help her spread something.

  Shaking off his carnal thoughts, Dmitry accessed the encrypted email account he used with the general in case there were any new developments. There was an automated message from one of the intelligence sites where the general had a virus embedded in his dossier in case someone accessed the information. He clicked on the message.

  Someone bearing the username SHEN1 had accessed the general’s page the evening before on a secret database used to track foreign intelligence operatives. The automated message included SHEN1’s longitude and latitude at the time of access. Dmitry entered the coordinates into an app on his phone and was rewarded with a little flag in the Saronic Gulf near the island of Hydra.

  It has to be her. Who else would be in Greece and use the name of the anti-trafficking agency to access intelligence files? Obviously, she was in the gulf which meant she was on a boat of some kind. That made things interesting. He took out his phone and called a nearby marina to rent a skiff.

  Smiling to himself, Dmitry put the keys in the ignition and started the car. How can one man be so lucky? Money, cars, luxury villas, fast boats, and interesting sexual conquests, along with a job he enjoyed. In an article he’d run across online, he read about how successful CEOs often exhibited psychopathic tendencies—no conscience, no empathy, hard to read, sexually insatiable. Dmitry mused that those qualities, although not held in high regard in most occupations, were exactly what an assassin needed to be good.

  And Dmitry was good.

  Chapter 17

  Anatoly Sakharov unfolded the copy of the end-user agreement and laid it on the desk in front of him. The name of the person who received the shipment was illegible. Sakharov called his assistant, Felix.

  “Get me the supply depot in Benghazi. I want to speak with whoever signed for this shipm
ent.” He read off the invoice number and ended the call.

  After a protracted wait, Felix called him back. “I’ve got Khaled Ali in procurement on the line.”

  Sakharov waited as Felix connected him. “This is Anatoly Sakharov of Sakharov Industries.”

  There was silence on the other end followed by a muffled cough.

  “You know my name?” Anatoly asked.

  “Yes, yes. Of course, Mr. Sakharov. What can I do for you?” The man had finally found his voice.

  Sakharov continued. “I need to check on a specific shipment. I heard there were some complications.” He rattled off the certificate number and waited while Khaled looked it up on his computer.

  “I have no record of any complications, sir. From what I can see, the shipment arrived several weeks ago and has been disbursed to our ground forces through the proper channels. If you could be more specific, perhaps I might be of better service?”

  “So each of the components has been accounted for?”

  The sound of tapping on a keyboard could be heard. “Yes, sir. All components have been received. I remember signing for the shipment myself. Has there been report of a problem?”

  Sakharov reined in his anger. Yes, there damn well is a problem, he thought. Instead he replied, “I was only confirming delivery. Thank you.” He ended the call and stared at the picture of jubilant terrorists surrounding the cases bearing his name.

  Mikhail, why are you not here to tell me yourself what you found? The pain of losing his only son lay like an anvil upon his chest. How could it be that he would never see Mikhail’s mischievous smile, or hear his voice as he tried to convince him of some theory or another? He didn’t want to believe that Roman had a hand in Mikhail’s death. He also didn’t want to believe that his country had resorted to working with the terrorist butchers. Sakharov considered himself a patriot, comfortable looking the other way when the Libyans sent bombs raining down upon its people—men, women and children alike—all in a bid to rout the enemy. Such was the cost of war. Innocents were collateral damage. If civilians wouldn’t leave their war-torn neighborhoods, nothing could be done to save them.