She needed to set the hook for the general before Art and his guys showed up. If they ever showed up.
Leine took a deep breath and closed her eyes to give him the impression she was reluctant to speak. “Okay. You got me.” She opened her eyes and gave him a resigned look. “I work for an organization that tracks arms dealers under the auspices of the CIA. I’ve been surveilling Anatoly Sakharov for months.”
Johnny’s eyes widened with interest, and he pushed off the table. “I knew it. How did you come by the information of his son’s death?”
“Intercepted from one of dozens of wiretaps we set up to monitor Sakharov’s known associates.”
Johnny lifted his chin in acknowledgement. “So General Tsarev is part of this surveillance?”
“He has been, yes. But not specifically.” Leine paused for emphasis. “Don’t get me wrong. Tsarev isn’t the subject here. Sakharov is the one we’re interested in. The general is only a byproduct of the original investigation.”
“I’m sure he will be very interested to hear that.” He narrowed his eyes. “He would also like to know how you came by the information on the son’s flash drive.”
“What flash drive?” Leine asked, feigning surprise.
Johnny gave her a hard stare. “Don’t play coy. You know what I’m talking about.”
She sighed. “He gave the drive to someone that was with him before he died. She gave it to me.”
“How much did you share with the Sakharovs?”
“Enough that he made it worth my while. There’s more on the drive that he’s not aware of. Much more.”
A knowing smile curved his lips. “Ah, so you aren’t above a little blackmail, eh?”
“I like to think of it as a sales opportunity. I have a product for which certain people will pay money. I prefer to give the right of first refusal to the person who would be the most adversely affected. Seems fairer that way.”
“And you’d be willing to part with this information if there was some kind of… incentive involved?”
“That’s always a possibility.”
“I’m sure the general would be quite interested.”
“I also have information regarding US covert ops that may be of interest to the general. He can have it all, for a price. Tell him the future of his little plan depends on it. He’ll understand.”
Johnny scoffed. “You call this war of his a ‘little plan’?”
Leine shrugged. “In a manner of speaking, yes. You can also tell the general I won’t speak to anyone but him.”
“That’s not possible.” He picked up the screwdriver and held it so the blade caught the light. “It is my job to find out if this information is worth paying for. I’m afraid you must tell me exactly what you know.”
Chapter 35
She had to hand it to him. The man had focus. Leine braced herself for what would come next. Art and his guys should have been there by now. What the hell was holding them up? She’d have to stall for time or things would start to get unpleasant.
“Before we go any further, do you have a name? I’ve been calling you Johnny in my head, but I’m sure that’s not right.”
“It’s Dmitry. A much better name than Johnny, don’t you think?”
“Your accent. Have you spent time in Chechnya?”
A cloud passed over Dmitry’s face. “Enough of this distraction. Tell me the information.” When she didn’t respond, he held up the screwdriver like it was a sacred relic. “I know what you’re thinking. Where’s the dremel? The pipe cutters? The bone saw?” A look of distaste crossed his features. “The simple screwdriver makes a much bolder statement, don’t you think?” He walked behind her and ran the blade down her arm, hesitating above her right hand.
“Such fine bones. Did you know there are twenty-seven in the hand alone?”
Leine took a deep breath to prepare for the pain that would come when he thrust the tip of the screwdriver through her hand. She’d have to learn how to write again.
Good thing she could shoot with her left.
He moved to the front and held the screwdriver below her left nostril. “You know I must make you pay for this.” He nodded at the sling he wore.
“Consider it a gift.”
“It doesn’t take much to kill a person,” he said, ignoring her comment. “All I need to do is push the blade up your nose and into your brain.” He jerked his hand toward her as though he was going to do what he’d just described, but stopped at the last moment. Leine continued to stare at him, unblinking. A slow smile creased Dmitry’s face, and he took a step back.
“Your training is quite effective.”
“I’m not sure what training you’re talking about. I’m not a field agent.” She caught movement on the phone in her periphery but kept her gaze level with his. “I will only speak with General Tsarev.”
He sighed. “You do know, don’t you, that if you don’t tell me what I want to hear I will kill your daughter?” He shrugged as he walked back to the table and picked up the curved knife. “An added inducement to give me the information.”
Returning to the chair, he brought the rounded section of the blade to her throat and guided it gently under her chin. The blade was so sharp, she hadn’t realized he cut her until warm blood trickled down her throat.
He looked at her, mock concern in his eyes. “Pity about your shirt.”
“Look. If I’m dead, damaged, or disappear, the information I have will go straight to the CIA.”
“I’m not going to kill you, just make some modifications. Besides, by the time they find you, I doubt it will matter. The general has already put his grand plan into motion. There’s no way to stop it now.”
At that moment, a muted pop-pop-pop! erupted from the phone with an answering echo somewhere in the warehouse. Dmitry spun, eyes riveted to the screen. The hallway was empty.
Seconds later, one of Dmitry’s men ran past, headed toward the gunfire. There was another pop! and three men appeared on screen, moving single file along the hallway, weapons raised to eye level.
Dmitry raced to the duffel bag behind the table and dug out a semiauto. He checked the magazine and sprang to his feet. Had he been ordered to kill her no matter what she told him? Anticipating the possibility, Leine threw herself to the right, expecting to feel the hot bite of a round as it entered her body. The chair tipped up on two legs, hesitated for an excruciating split second, and fell sideways onto the floor, taking Leine with it.
She landed hard, heard a crack. The chair? Or her ribs? The wind knocked out of her, she strained for breath. She hadn’t been shot. Did he intentionally miss?
The sound of boots slapping hard against the concrete told her he’d decided to cut his losses. The metal doors at the far end of the warehouse screeched open and closed.
Dmitry was gone.
Her lungs finally cooperated and she sucked in a shallow breath. At the sound of approaching footsteps, Leine stopped struggling and closed her eyes. If the assault team turned out to be someone other than Art and his men, she hoped the blood on her neck and shirt would be enough to fool them into thinking she was dead and they’d move on.
“Oh, shit. We’re too late,” someone hissed. Footsteps pounded the concrete toward her.
“Leine?” It was Art.
At the sound of his voice she opened her eyes. “About time you got here.”
“Fucking traffic.” Art unsheathed his knife and bent to cut her hands and legs free. Leine climbed to her feet, pulling the vestiges of the tape from her arms. Zarko and Ben stood nearby.
“Well?” Art asked.
“It’s the guy from the Cyclops. Name’s Dmitry. Works for the general. He had his left arm in a sling.” She nodded at the back of the warehouse. “He escaped through those doors.”
“So I did hit him,” Art said. The echo of gunfire could be heard from the other end of the warehouse. “Jorge. Daniel. Report,” he said over his radio.
“He just left,” Jorge replied. “We fired a couple of shots to make things real.”
“Copy that.” Art turned to Leine. “Did he take the bait?”
“Yeah, I think so. Time will tell.” Leine checked her watch. “I’ve got some loose ends to tie up before I meet Sakharov in the morning.” She gave Art a tired smile. “Thanks for your help. Let’s hope things go the way we planned.”
“Any time, Leine. Keep me posted.” He stuck out his hand and they shook. “If you ever find yourself in Athens again, let me know. You’ve always got a place to stay.”
“Thanks, Art. I’ll do that.” She let go of his hand and asked, “Feel like heading for New York tonight?”
He cocked his head. “Maybe. What have you got in mind?”
“I’d like to hire you and your guys for a few days. Dmitry just threatened to kill my daughter. Although she’s already got twenty-four-seven security, I’d feel better knowing that you and your men were there. You know the threat Tsarev and his henchmen pose. You’d be able to anticipate what the other bodyguards might not. And, you can ID Dmitry.”
“Which flight do you want us on?”
Chapter 36
Las Vegas, Nevada
Salome checked the sprayer mechanism attached to the underside of the drone and stepped back to gauge its effectiveness. The nozzles broadcast a wide, even spray across the concrete floor of the empty room. Perfect. She glanced through the open floor-to-ceiling rectangle meant to one day be a plate glass window with an expansive seventeenth-floor view of the city. Less than a quarter mile away, thousands of tiny tourists marched like ants along the Las Vegas Strip.
Donning heavy rubber gloves and a gas mask over a hazmat suit, she lifted the small metal canister sitting on the table before her and attached it to the drone’s undercarriage. She then connected the plastic tube running from the sprayer to the canister and secured the end with a small clamp.
One drop of the canister’s contents on her exposed skin would cause sweating and muscle spasms as the central nervous system went into overdrive. A small trickle and she’d need the slender cylinder lying on the table next to her. The prefilled syringe contained atropine—an antidote to the deadly chemical inside the metal canister.
Initially in liquid form, once released the lethal substance would vaporize, allowing for easy inhalation. Even low doses could cripple the respiratory system and paralyze the lungs.
Not an easy way to die.
But Salome wasn’t interested in easy. She was interested in agony.
Not that the antidote would render the colorless, tasteless nerve agent completely harmless; even with atropine the victim’s central nervous system would be tricked into causing involuntary drooling, respiratory distress, and muscle convulsions. The people who experienced a full-on sarin gas attack like the one she planned would have those symptoms ratcheted up to unbelievable extremes—excessive foaming at the mouth, uncontrollable convulsions, vomiting, release of the bladder and bowels—all leading to death by asphyxiation.
Sarin gas was eighty times stronger than cyanide—very little was required to carry out her assignment. The amount in the canister was a thousandfold more than she needed but she was curious to see what would happen when she used that much in such a confined space.
She tightened the last screw on the drone and checked the instructions. Much more robust than an average civilian drone, the machine’s carrying capacity was several times that of one purchased in a hobby shop. The general had ordered several made to his specifications. All were capable of carrying an impressive payload.
Finished, Salome removed the gloves and mask and set them aside before opening an app on her mobile phone. The screen blipped to life, showing an infinite number of commands. She tapped an icon, and the motor whirred to life. She tapped another and all four propellers began to spin. The drone rose off its stand and hovered above the table, awaiting its next command. Salome tested the controls, flying it from one side of the empty space to another and back again.
Satisfied the drone was performing properly, she landed the UAV near the rectangular opening and programmed the integrated GPS. She could remain in the unfinished Russian-funded hotel until the drone had accomplished its objective—the app would show her exactly where the machine was in real-time—but Salome preferred to be on the ground to determine firsthand the effectiveness of the delivery mechanism. In her line of work, one could never have enough data; the general’s mission was a sterling opportunity to gain experience using a drone as a weapon of mass destruction.
She took off the hazmat suit and booties and stuffed them into a garbage bag before sliding the syringe filled with atropine in her front pocket. She checked the area to make sure she hadn’t left anything, and dropped the garbage bag into a large waste bin on her way to the elevator.
As soon as she made her way to the popular casino, she would text the prearranged signal to her accomplice at the entrance to open the doors. If all went as planned, the mission would be seen as a brazen attack by Izz Al-Din, whipping up even more support for the Islamic State from jihadis the world over. What better place than the City of Sin for Islamic terrorists to make their stand against the infidels? Once the Americans received intelligence regarding who had supported the attack, then everything would change.
There could be only one superpower. Salome’s part in the general’s plan would help bring America to its knees.
Chapter 37
Washington, DC
The jet touched down at a private airfield near Washington, DC, three hours before Leine and Sakharov’s meeting with Henderson. Due to the prior evening’s events, Sakharov had delayed takeoff to allow Leine time to tie up loose ends. During the flight, she briefed the Russian billionaire on the incident at the warehouse and Dmitry’s ominous threat that the general’s plan had already been set in motion. Then they discussed their strategy for the meeting with the director of Leine’s former agency. Leine was surprised that Tsarev hadn’t attempted to impede Sakharov’s flight to DC, and mentioned as much.
Sakharov had shrugged. “As far as anyone knows, I am still at the villa with my family.”
“Which explains why we’re on a chartered flight and not the corporate jet.” She assumed that Sakharov had chartered the flight under another name, and had either bribed customs officials or used a fake passport to leave the country undetected. Old habits died hard—Leine used a second passport with a different identity that she’d brought along as backup in case Eve Mason was compromised. She also carried one identifying her as Madeleine Basso but couldn’t use it, since the general had identified her.
Art had made contact with April earlier that morning, and he and his men had taken her and her security contingent to an out-of-the-way, well-fortified cabin by a lake in Upstate New York. They would remain there until Leine contacted them that it was safe to return. Part of her was relieved that her daughter was safe, and part of her yearned to be with her in case anything happened.
An hour before the meeting with Henderson, Leine, Sakharov, and three members of Sakharov’s security detail left from the airfield in a rented SUV. It was the height of the evening rush hour. Gridlocked drivers honked with futility, urging the massive backup to flow freely for once so they might actually make it home for pre-dinner drinks.
She checked the time. 6:10. Twenty minutes until the meeting. Henderson had given her an address belonging to an office building on the outskirts of Georgetown. Sakharov sat across from her, scanning documents in a file folder marked with the Sakharov Industries logo. She stared out the window at the light drizzle that had begun to fall. Neither spoke.
They arrived at the office building at 6:32. Highly reflective glass panels mirrored the shaded windows of the GMC Yukon as they pulled to the curb. The cold drizzle had turned to a cool mist, shrouding the upper floors of the building in a vaporous haze. With Sakharov’s security hovering nearby, they exited the vehicle and walked
to the front door. Two CCTV cameras noted their approach.
The lock made a snicking sound and the door opened, revealing a tall, heavyset man dressed in the dark-suited uniform of Henderson’s security detail. He stepped aside as Leine and Sakharov walked past him into the foyer but raised his arm, barring Sakharov’s men from entering. “Just you and Mr. Sakharov,” he added, nodding at the bodyguards. “They stay outside.”
“Go,” Sakharov said, waving off his security. After a brief pause, the two men stepped back and the door closed.
Gleaming marble floors and glossy stone walls with no identifying characteristics marked the unexceptional entrance. A bank of elevators could be seen down a hallway to the right. Two more identically dressed, expressionless security agents—a woman with her hair swept back in a bun, the other a wiry, dark-haired man—stood to one side, hands clasped in front of them.
“Identification,” said the first agent, his voice a monotone.
They both handed over their authentic passports. Henderson’s man glanced at them and said something into his wrist mic before handing Leine’s back.
“May I have my passport?” Sakharov asked.
“In a moment,” the man replied. He motioned to the other agents, who stepped forward and verified that Leine and Sakharov weren’t armed. Leine allowed the female agent to search her bag. Finding nothing but her phone, wallet, and a few other items, she returned it to her and then stepped back. The first agent muttered into his mic.
Moments later, Scott Henderson walked out to greet them. A tall, athletic man in his early fifties, Henderson’s once sandy blond hair was now streaked with gray, and crow’s feet etched the skin around his piercing blue eyes. A deep crease between his brows gave him a perpetually fierce expression. The longtime director of the secretive agency looked as though life had dealt him a winning hand, but that it was a hell of a lot of work to keep on winning.
He lifted his chin in acknowledgement. “Leine.”
The Last Deception Page 20