The Last Deception

by DV Berkom, D. V. Berkom

  But if Russia was aiding the terrorists by providing weapons and soldiers, and using his company to do it, then his country had gone too far.

  Sakharov checked his watch. It was almost time to meet Sergei for dinner. Besides Katarina, Olga, and Mikhail, Sergei and his wife, Nataly, were two of the only people with whom he could be himself. He pushed the thought of Mikhail aside. Tonight he would eat too much rich food, laugh, and drink too much wine. Tomorrow he would deal with the pain of losing his son.

  And his childhood friend.

  ***

  Khaled Ali hung up the phone and stared at his computer screen. This wasn’t supposed to happen. The general had assured him there would be no chance of anyone finding out about the diverted shipment. Cold sweat rolled down his face. His hand shaking, he wiped his forehead with his shirt sleeve. His superiors would never understand.

  And why should they? Tsarev’s vision for Russia’s future aside, the money Khaled earned as a procurement specialist barely paid the bills, and his were mounting. His boyfriend was pushing for him to leave Libya and join him in Paris, but had been happy to take the money Khaled sent to pay for the apartment and groceries while he looked for a job. Khaled had been like a drowning man, desperately hoping for a miracle to keep his lover happy, when the general approached him and offered a lifeline in the form of a one-time payment with the alluring promise of more to come. All he had to do was sign his name to the end-user certificate, alleging that the full shipment had reached its intended destination.

  Simple.

  Khaled squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block the thoughts that crowded his mind. What should he do? Obviously, he needed to call the general to let him know that Sakharov was nosing around, but should he then disappear? Tsarev wouldn’t like that. He’d said repeatedly that this special arrangement between them was exclusive and long-running—that he expected him to remain in his current position for the foreseeable future or he’d let his superiors know about his secret life. But what if his superiors launched an official inquiry? He’d be in deep trouble if his relationship to the Russian general was exposed, not to mention the relationship with his lover in Paris.

  If he left for France, what would stop Tsarev from tracking him down to take the fall if the ruse was discovered? He’d have to change his name and obtain forged documents so he could travel. That could get expensive. Once he’d managed that, if he could, he’d be looking over his shoulder the rest of his life wondering what Tsarev would do when or if he found him.

  The cold sweat spread to his armpits and down his back. No, the prudent thing to do was call Tsarev, tell him about the phone call from Sakharov, and let him handle things. The man was Russian intelligence. He’d know what to do. He eyed the jacket he kept on a hook near the door to his office. He kept the burner phone the general supplied in the right front pocket. You must wait until the end of the day, to keep the conversation from being intercepted.

  Then he’d call Paris.

  Chapter 18

  Moscow, Russia

  Sakharov checked his watch. Sergei was thirty minutes late. He sipped his wine and glanced at the front of the restaurant, expecting to see his friend walk through the door, an apologetic smile on his face. The hushed conversations of the four-star eatery only added to his somber mood. Two of his security guards stood near the entrance, with no attempt to blend in with the well-heeled crowd.

  Fifteen minutes later when Sergei still hadn’t materialized, Sakharov pulled out his phone and dialed his number. The call went to voicemail. The waiter walked by and asked if he needed anything. Irritated at the intrusion, Sakharov waved the man off.

  Where was he? It wasn’t like Sergei to be late and not call. He heaved a long sigh and nibbled at a caviar-slathered toast point and sipped his drink. The wine tasted bland, even though it was vintage Petrus, and the caviar smelled fishy. He dropped the toast back onto the side plate and checked his watch again. A faint keening could be heard outside, ramping up in decibels until it was hard to ignore. Sakharov stood along with several other patrons and craned his neck to look out the glass doors onto the street. Several diners gawked out the windows, straining to see.

  Gripped by a sudden realization, Sakharov dropped his linen napkin onto the table and rose from his chair. His security guards fell into formation—one in front and one at the rear—as he exited the restaurant. Multi-colored lights from an ambulance and two police cars lit the street in a garish display halfway down the block.

  “Go. Find out what happened,” he ordered one of his men, nodding toward the chaotic scene. As the guard raced away, Sakharov hastily retreated to his Mercedes S-600, with the other bodyguard close behind. Several minutes later, the first bodyguard returned and slid into the front seat.

  “It’s General Gorev,” he said. “He and his wife are dead.” He slid his finger across his throat, indicating the method used.

  “Are you sure?” Sakharov demanded.

  “I’m sure. He wore the same overcoat when you met with him this afternoon.”

  “Take me back to the hotel,” Sakharov snapped at the driver. The Mercedes pulled away from the curb and merged into traffic.

  Anger boiled in his chest replacing the initial shock of his friend’s death. Roman. It had to be. Somehow, the general had learned of their meeting. Sakharov hit speed dial and attempted to tamp down his rage as he listened to the phone ring, barely registering the urban landscape through which they drove. Finally, the person on the other end picked up.

  “What can I do for you, my friend?” Roman sounded as if he were mentioning the weather. Sakharov wanted nothing more than to reach through the phone and strangle the bastard. He’d enjoy watching him claw at his hands, begging him to let go.

  “What game are you playing, Roman?”

  “I’m not sure I know what you mean,” he replied, wariness replacing the friendly tone.

  “You know exactly what I mean. You diverted my missiles to the terrorists. To what end, I don’t know but I assure you, I will find out.” Sakharov squeezed the phone, glad for the feel of the hard plastic pressing into his hand. “And now, because of this…this whatever it is that you have set in motion, Sergei is dead. Nataly is dead. Mikhail is dead. Where will you draw the line? Will you not stop this madness until I am dead, too?”

  “Calm down. Have you been drinking? Where do you come up with this nonsense? What do you mean Sergei and Nataly are dead? What happened?” Concern laced Roman’s voice, but Sakharov knew it for what it was—subterfuge, lies, maskirovka.

  “When I find out what you’re planning, I will stop you.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Stop this foolish talk and meet with me. We can work out whatever it is you think I’ve done.”

  Sakharov’s chuckle held a bitter edge. “No, Roman. I will not make it easy for you. You may think you know me, but you don’t. You have no idea what I’m capable of. As of this morning, I have halted shipments to the Libyan army. There will be nothing more from my company to prop up your ambitions in that region.”

  “Be careful, Anatoly.” Roman’s voice dripped menace. “I have a contract with your signature at the bottom. A contract to supply the Libyan army with a specific number of weapons. To break this agreement could have…unfortunate consequences.”

  “Is that a threat? How things have changed. Only a few days ago you offered your help in finding my son. But you can’t help me with that, can you? Because my son is dead.” He took a deep breath, attempting to calm his thudding heart. When he next spoke, his voice shook with fury. “I will tell you this—if anything happens to me, there are people who will know it was your doing. And believe me, Roman, you don’t want these people to know who you are.”

  Before he said anything further, Sakharov ended the call. With the utmost control he placed the phone in his coat pocket.

  He had just declared war on his oldest friend. Strangely, the thought calmed him. He would need to h
ire even more security, especially for his wife and daughter. Thankfully, she and Olga were staying at a leased apartment in Athens with no ties to him or Sakharov Industries, which Roman knew nothing about. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to ramp things up for the foreseeable future.

  He didn’t know yet how he was going to do it, but General Roman Tsarev was going to fall.

  ***

  The general wiped his forehead with an already damp handkerchief from his pocket. His blood pulsed heavily in his ears and sweat rolled down the sides of his face. He caught his reflection in the mirror on the wall across from him. His eyes were wide and wild, and his cheeks flushed a deep shade of purple. His respiration came in uneven and rapid bursts. Alarmed, he fumbled in his top desk drawer to pull out a small vial, popped the top, and drank its contents. Then he sat back and closed his eyes, waiting for the drug to work its magic.

  Anatoly Sakharov had threatened him, a highly decorated general and member of the GRU. Not only that, but his old friend had tipped his hand when he told him that he knew his last shipment of missiles to Izz Al-Din had been diverted. Obviously, the Basso woman was more of a threat than he first realized. How did she come by this information? She must have been in contact with Anatoly’s son, Mikhail. It was the only explanation.

  That complicated things.

  His heart slowing to a more manageable level, Tsarev checked his watch. Dmitry was fully engaged in neutralizing Basso, if he hadn’t already done so. He would have to give this new task to one of his other operatives—one who called Moscow home.

  Messy. Things were getting messy and that was something Tsarev always tried to mitigate. Hence the meticulous planning before he executed even one step to his grand plan. He sighed and opened a lower desk drawer where he pulled out a large legal pad and pencil.

  He would have to rework his masterpiece.

  Chapter 19

  Hydra, Greece

  The sun had barely poked over the horizon when Leine woke the next morning. She’d put on a pot of coffee and was just finishing her 500th sit-up when Art made his appearance, squinting against the brilliant sunshine.

  “Huh. I wouldn’t’ve pegged you for an early riser.” He shrugged and scratched his chin as he walked back inside the pilot house to pour himself a cup of coffee. A minute later he returned, sipping from a cracked mug with a cluster of penguins depicted in suggestive poses on the side.

  “Looks like you slept well.”

  Leine climbed to her feet and nodded. “Best in a long time.”

  “Yeah, the boat rocks you to sleep like your mama. Can’t hardly live on land anymore.”

  Leine poured her own cup of coffee and joined him on deck. There wasn’t much activity in the small harbor. Even though it was the end of the season, a few yachts anchored nearby. Orange-tile roofs, perched atop whitewashed buildings, crowded the harbor and climbed up the dun-colored hillside, with little space between. Leafy green trees grew next to the buildings here and there, giving the dry locale some verdant relief. A couple of fishermen cruised by in a low skiff headed out to sea, their boat filled with nets.

  “Half the fish in the Aegean are threatened.” Art scowled as he watched the fishermen grow smaller in the distance. “Pollution and overfishing. It’s a shame. I remember when fish were plentiful in this part of the world. Didn’t take long to fuck that up.”

  “I’d like to come back here sometime.” Leine took in the calm scene before her and sipped her coffee. “I’ve given some serious thought to the possibility that Anatoly Sakharov isn’t going to want to play,” she said. “Even though his reputation is on the line, it’s not like he can’t rebuild. There’s no proof of his wrongdoing or that something’s going on. If I release the information, no one will believe me. Or should I say, the people who matter won’t believe me because they have more to lose if it’s true than if it’s not.”

  Art snorted. “Sounds like government types, all right. Got their heads up their asses as far as they can go, just so they don’t have to see the truth.”

  “I’m still going to try. My old boss at the agency will probably shunt the information off to some low-level administrative grunt to research for due diligence, but if I don’t have corroboration of some kind he won’t be able to act. That’s if he even takes a meeting with me.”

  Art drained his coffee and set the cup down. “Well, then. That calls for a hearty breakfast.”

  Leine looked at him sideways. “I’m sorry, what?”

  “Whenever I’m stuck between a rock and a hard place, I like to eat a big meal. For some reason, the act of eating a shitload of food helps me make decisions when I’m stumped. Whadya say?” He nodded toward a taverna with a green canvas shade next to the harbor. Two of the outdoor tables had early risers at them. “Best food in town.”

  Leine shrugged. “I could eat. Hell, if it works, I’ll buy.”

  ***

  As promised, the traditional Greek breakfast was filling and tasty, but the huge omelet with graviera cheese didn’t shake any decisions loose for Leine. Perhaps the pancakes with tahini and pork sausage Art ordered would have done the trick. She still wasn’t any closer to figuring out what to do with the files if Sakharov wasn’t willing to back up her claims.

  The two of them hopped into Art’s Zodiac and headed back to the Cyclops. Leine climbed aboard as Art tied the tender to the stern. As she moved toward the pilot house, she noticed the spear gun that usually hung on the outside wall was missing.

  She turned to ask Art where it was when she caught movement in her periphery. Leine pivoted as a dark figure emerged from her left. There was a flash in the sunlight and she dove behind a metal stanchion. Something thudded against the side of the stanchion and clattered to the deck. She came up in a crouch, reaching for the pistol tucked in the back of her waistband.

  Gun in hand, Leine shifted to peer around the metal support and get a look at the assailant. She caught a glimpse of a man in a black hooded wetsuit, still dripping with water.

  “We’ve got company, Art.”

  “Stay where you are, old man,” the man warned. Definitely Russian. “This isn’t your concern.”

  Leine moved left, trying to get a bead on the intruder while keeping the stanchion between them, but he was partially hidden behind the corner of the pilot house. He held the missing spear gun, another spear loaded and aimed in her direction. Dark eyes narrowed to slits above a strong chin and nose. A jagged scar dimpled his jawline.

  Before she could get off a shot, he disappeared up the steps to the side deck. She dropped to a crouch and took the opposite side, slowly moving forward and focusing on the area ahead of her.

  As she approached the bow, the side deck access door exploded open and the man barreled into her. She squeezed off a shot but it went wide as he slammed her onto her back on the deck. Her hand smashed into the side of the pilot house. The gun flew from her grasp and down the companionway.

  He reached behind him and brandished a wicked-sharp divers knife. She latched onto his wrist and squeezed, but his grip didn’t loosen. Gaze riveted on the knife, Leine doubled her efforts attempting to hit the radial nerve, but he was in the better position and had at least thirty pounds on her. The tight space didn’t help.

  Finally, her thumb found the nerve and his grip weakened. The knife clattered to the deck. Leine bucked and twisted, throwing him off balance. He captured her right arm and forced her hand backward, trying to break her wrist. Pain shot through her as she raised her free hand and jabbed his throat.

  Eyes wide with shock he struggled to breathe, but didn’t let go. Leine pressed her advantage and slammed the heel of her hand into his face. He dodged and she missed his nose, hitting his cheekbone. His head snapped sideways. She was ready for the recoil and tried for another throat punch, but at the last minute he pulled back, taking the force out of the hit.

  Behind him, something rolled across the deck. Art materialized near the bow, Leine’s gun in his hand
. He fired at the same time the man threw himself backward and jackknifed over the side. There was a splash as Leine and Art ran to the side and looked over.

  A few scattered ripples remained on the surface. He was gone.

  “Did you hit him?” Leine asked.

  Art shook his head. “Couldn’t tell.”

  She sprinted to the other side and scanned the waterline. “Nothing over here.” They kept watch for several more minutes, but nothing moved. Leine joined Art at the stern.

  “Probably left his gear on the seabed. He’s gone unless he bleeds out.” Leine wondered if he had a propulsion system secured to the bottom. That’s what she would have done.

  “That either took someone supremely arrogant or really stupid to board this boat looking for you. I can’t figure which.” Art shook his head, still looking for a telltale ripple.

  “He wasn’t stupid,” Leine replied testily. “He got the drop on me. It never should have happened.”

  “You got a problem with how I handled things? I got there as fast as I could.”

  “Yeah, well, a second later and you might have had to perform a burial at sea.” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath to calm herself. Adrenaline pulsed through her. She crossed her arms and looked at Art. “So the question is, who sent him and why? Clearly he was Russian, but who hired him? Sakharov or Tsarev?”