“How did you convince the prime minister and the president to sever communication with Washington? The two countries had been working well together.”
Tsarev shrugged. “It took very little on my part. Do you really think decades of mistrust and betrayal is easy to forget? A whisper in the right ear was all that was needed.”
Almost there. She nodded, a smile forming on her lips. “Shall we talk money, then?”
“Of course. Tell me what else you know and I will determine its worth.”
“Earlier today the CIA initiated a covert operation that will undermine your plans unless it’s stopped.”
“To which plan are you referring?”
Leine gave him a thin smile. “The one you’ve orchestrated to destroy the US, placing Russia as the world’s only super power.”
Tsarev narrowed his eyes. “Tell me about this covert operation.”
“Not until we agree to terms.”
The general sighed impatiently. “Fine. If what you say is true, then it is worth a considerable amount to me. At least several hundred thousand.”
Bingo. Leine shook her head and shifted in her chair, at the same time surreptitiously activating the homing beacon in the buckle. Henderson’s team would be there in minutes.
“More like several million,” she answered.
Tsarev’s face flushed dark red. “Several million? I don’t think—” The general was interrupted by a knock at the door. “Yes?” he answered irritably.
The door opened and the man from the bar strode into the room and over to where Tsarev was sitting. He leaned down and whispered in his ear. Tsarev’s gaze snapped to Leine’s.
Shit. He knew. Leine’s mind raced to understand what had just happened. There was no way Tsarev’s security guards had detected Henderson’s team so soon. Unless…
The homing beacon. The device emitted a strong signal, one that could be picked up not only by Henderson’s crew, but by sensitive Russian surveillance equipment.
Leine pulled out the comb in her hair and leaped forward, aiming for the security guard’s throat. The knife-like blades sliced deep into his carotid artery. Blood spurted everywhere as his heart pumped harder, trying to keep his body alive. The general shouted for his guards, his hand reaching underneath his suit jacket.
As if in slow motion, Leine sidestepped the dying guard and retrieved his gun as he collapsed to the floor, then dove behind the massive desk as rounds from the general’s semiauto splintered the wood. The door to the study slammed open. Leine rolled to one end of the desk and fired at the general’s incoming gunmen. There were three of them. She shot two and ducked back behind the desk.
Someone yelled for the general to come with him. Seconds later, automatic gunfire erupted as someone sprayed the desk with multiple rounds. Leine dropped low, making herself a smaller target, hoping the desk would be enough to stop the bullets. She checked the magazine in the bar man’s gun. Four rounds left.
A click told Leine the gunman had run out of ammo and was about to change magazines. Leine rolled to the center of the desk, aimed at the man with the submachine gun through the opening, and fired. The bullet carved a hole in his forehead and his head snapped backward. Two other men had taken cover behind the wingback chairs. Leine fired twice, aiming for the center of each chair, then dropped back behind the desk. One round left.
She’d have to make it count.
Shouts erupted outside the window. Moments later, the front door thudded open followed by shouts and the sound of feet pounding the floorboards. Leine chanced a look around the desk. Guns drawn, dozens of Henderson’s people swarmed the foyer and study.
Leine left the gun where it lay and raised her hands as she slowly rose to a standing position.
All agents in the room drew on her. It was quite an experience to be on the other end for once.
“Put your hands behind your head!” barked one of Henderson’s people.
“I’m Leine Basso and I’m unarmed,” she said and quickly complied.
Just then, another agent walked into the room. He was one of the three suits who had been at the hotel bar. “Stand down, Pennington. She’s one of us.”
Agent Pennington lowered her weapon and relaxed. Leine exhaled in relief and leaned against the desk. The adrenaline had begun to recede, leaving her shaky.
“Did you get Tsarev?” she asked.
The agent in the business suit shook his head. “Henderson said he was low priority. The general managed to get to his helicopter before we showed up.” He surveyed the bullet holes in the desk and the dead gunmen. “Mind if I ask what happened? Looks like a war zone in here. I doubt Tsarev’s people knew we were coming that much in advance.”
“The homing beacon set off a warning somewhere in the house when I activated it.”
“And it blew your cover,” the agent said.
Leine nodded. “But I got what we needed.”
Chapter 42
Moscow, Russia - One week later
General Tsarov sipped the after-dinner liqueur as Pearl prattled on about her shopping trip to Singapore. They’d just made love and were relaxing in the bedroom of the apartment. Tsarev leaned against the voluminous stack of pillows on the satin sheets Pearl insisted he buy.
It had taken quite a bit of cunning to sidestep the questions raised by President Ivanov regarding his part in events leading to the breakdown in relations between Russia and the United States. Having the prime minister in his back pocket had certainly worked in his favor. Fedorov had argued tirelessly in the general’s favor, trying to convince the president that Tsarev should be considered a hero. That he had rooted out the misinformation leading the two nuclear countries to the brink of war.
Apparently, Ivanov bought his argument. In a meeting just that morning, the president had commended his actions and hinted at more accolades to come. Tsarev would have to be satisfied with the direction his country was headed. For now. Already, his mind raced with ideas, ideas that would steer Russia to greatness. It would just take time. And planning.
So much planning.
With a sigh, Tsarev polished off his drink, leaned his head back, and closed his eyes. The Basso woman had played him. He’d let his pride and her guile ruin his grand scheme. He wasn’t angry. As his mother always told him, anger rarely helped a situation. Basso had only done what she deemed best for her country. A grudging admiration for her had taken hold of him. He’d like to turn her, have her work for him, but doubted that would ever come to pass. The only weakness he’d found to exploit was her daughter. Unfortunately, Dmitry had been unable to locate the girl.
Something told him that course of action would be unwise.
No, her daughter would live. It was Leine Basso herself who had to be eliminated. He checked the time on his phone—his meeting with Salome was in one hour. He’d debrief her and then offer her the assignment. He was quite certain she’d relish the thought of taking out a CIA operative. Especially the one who had rendered her work in the general’s grand scheme ineffective.
Dmitry was still out of service because of his injury. If Tsarev was honest with himself, the man was a much less effective assassin than Salome, although he had tracked down the Libyan munitions clerk at the squalid apartment he and his gay lover were renting in Paris. Dmitry killed both at no additional charge, so there was that aspect to consider. Even so, Tsarev had played with the idea of taking him off his roster. There was still time to make that determination.
Someone knocked at the bedroom door. Annoyed at the interruption he called out, “What is it?”
The door opened and a dark, hooded figure slipped into the room. Tsarev struggled to a sitting position. His security guards should have stopped whoever it was at the door. The figure paused and slid off the hood. Tsarev’s breath caught. He instantly recognized the woman’s olive skin tone and dark, flashing eyes.
“Salome. What—why are you here?” Frowning, he grabbed his robe fr
om the end of the bed and stood. Pearl had finally stopped talking and turned to look at their guest.
“Hello, Roman.” The ghost of a smile graced Salome’s full lips.
“Who is she?” Pearl’s eyes flashed with anger.
“Nothing to worry about, my pet. Only a colleague.” Tsarev approached the dark-haired assassin. “Did you forget? Our meeting is not for another hour.” His mind raced. How did she find the apartment?
Salome arched an eyebrow. “Forget? No. I was in the neighborhood on assignment and thought I should stop by.”
“Oh? Are you freelancing, now?” he asked, drawing closer. Where the hell was Georg and the rest of his security team? Close enough now to see behind her through the gap in the door, two of his bodyguards were visible. One sprawled on the floor next to the ornate glass and metal coffee table, a dark hole above his right eye. The other had fallen face first over the arm of the divan. Tsarev felt the blood drain from his face as his gaze darted to hers. His mind dulled, unable to process what was happening. Salome studied his face, her expression calm, and raised the suppressed pistol in her hand.
“Please,” he whispered. “I’ll pay more. Much more.” When the assassin didn’t respond, he croaked, “Who sent you?”
“An old friend,” Salome replied, and fired two rounds point-blank into the general’s forehead.
Chapter 43
Washington, DC
The day dawned crisp and clear, and the sun shone brightly in an azure blue sky. Tourists swarmed the Lincoln Memorial and the National Monument like ants to honey, two symbols of peace and American strength and values.
Leine zipped her jacket closed against the light breeze as she waited. Scott Henderson requested the meeting soon after she returned from the Tsarev incident. She wondered what he wanted—she’d already given her version of events to his people at the agency, as well as to Vice President Lawrence. Lawrence had brought Leine’s recording of General Tsarev’s admission implicating himself to President Blackwell, and had convinced him to lower the threat level and recall the nuclear subs. He then enlisted the help of the French ambassador to set up a meeting between President Ivanov and Blackwell, at which Lawrence played the Tsarev tape.
Scott Henderson appeared over a small rise and walked toward her, his tan overcoat buttoned against the chilly fall temperatures. The sun glinted off of his aviator sunglasses and spit-shined shoes. She walked over to meet him.
“Thanks for coming,” he said, and removed his sunglasses. There were a few more lines around his eyes, and he looked tired.
“I have to admit, I wasn’t going to come, but I figured I owed you.”
Henderson nodded. “You’ll be happy to know we released Sakharov’s assets and he’s been cleared of all charges.”
“That took a while. Do a little digging, did you?”
Henderson gave her a look. “The wheels of government spin slowly. Especially when the assets of an international arms dealer are under scrutiny.”
Leine resisted the urge to argue that Sakharov’s assets should never have been under scrutiny in the first place—she preferred to stay off Henderson’s shit list. “What’s going to happen with Libya?”
“The US will have to be more involved. The American people believe Izz Al-Din was responsible for the attack in Vegas.” Henderson stared into the distance. “Perception is everything. We need to show strength against our enemies.”
“Then the general wins. That’s exactly what he wanted—to spread the US so thin that she would be vulnerable to attack.”
“We’re aware of that.”
“Well, at least Sakharov’s been exonerated.” She sighed. “And we’ve stepped back from the brink of war. But what’s to stop the attack in Vegas from emboldening our enemies, no matter how we spin it?”
“It won’t stop anything. We live in a new world, where our friends are our enemies are our friends. The wind shifts, constantly bringing another deception. That’s like asking how will the world survive?”
“Maybe it won’t. One can only hope cooler heads will prevail.” The odds of that happening weren’t looking too good.
“Do you have a lead on the person who launched the drone in Vegas?”
“A few. CCTV feeds showed a thirty-year-old male we’ve identified as a freelancer who walked out of the casino and left the doors wide open near the time that the drone entered the structure. But someone had to have been working the controls—it wasn’t him. So far we’ve narrowed it down to three suspects that were in the area. Two men and a woman.”
Leine nodded. “Let me know when you ID the person?”
Henderson studied her. “We’ll see. That’s actually a good segue into why I asked you here in the first place. I have a proposition to make.”
Leine squinted at him and shook her head. “Don’t even go there, Scott. You know what my answer will be.”
“Hear me out. You’ll have complete autonomy, answering only to me. You can choose your assignments, and will have the full support and backing of my office.”
“Like I said, you know my answer.” She started to walk away.
“Wait. Leine. If it’s money you want, there’s more than enough to go around. You’ll be paid very, very well.”
She stopped and turned. “See, right there shows that you haven’t got a clue what drives me.”
“I’m listening. I want you to work for me, Leine. I need you. America needs you.”
She looked across the Mall at the National Monument piercing the sky. The values of democracy were still there, buried beneath the spin and the rhetoric from the Beltway, but it took too much effort to find these days. She could never work for her old agency again. There was too much history.
Leine shook her head. “Goodbye, Scott.”
As the distance grew between them, a great weight lifted from her that she hadn’t known was there. She could start over now, without the baggage of the past. It was a feeling she hadn’t experienced in a long, long time.
She was free.
THE END
About the Author:
DV Berkom is the USA Today bestselling author of two action-packed thriller series featuring strong female leads (Leine Basso and Kate Jones). Her love of creating resilient, kick-ass women characters stems from a lifelong addiction to reading spy novels, mysteries, and thrillers, and longing to find the female equivalent within those pages.
Raised in the Midwest, she earned a BA in political science from the University of Minnesota and promptly moved to Mexico to live on a sailboat. Several years and many adventures later, she wrote her first novel and was hooked. Bad Spirits, the first Kate Jones thriller, was published as an online serial in 2010 and was immediately popular with eBook fans. Dead of Winter, Death Rites, and Touring for Death soon followed before she began the far grittier Leine Basso series in early 2012 with Serial Date.
D.V. currently lives in the Pacific Northwest with her husband Mark, and several imaginary characters who like to tell her what to do. Her most recent books include The Last Deception, A Killing Truth, Cargo, Vigilante Dead, A One Way Ticket to Dead, and Yucatán Dead.
Note from DV:
Thank you for reading The Last Deception. I hope you enjoyed it. If you did, please consider leaving a short review on KOBO, and tell your friends about the book. Word of mouth and reviews are the best ways to let other readers know about a book you’ve enjoyed. Your sincere feedback means so much to me, and I greatly appreciate it.
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Acknowledgements:
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This book wouldn’t have been possible without all the generous help I received while writing it: first and foremost to my initial reader, plotting partner, and sounding board, Mark Lindstrom; my eagle-eyed editor, Laurie Boris; developmental story goddess Ruth Ross-Saucier; bodacious beta readers Michelle Yelland, Brian Yelland, Larry and Beverly Van Berkom, Bill McElwee, Jenni Conner, Ali Mosa, KC Curtis, and George; also huge thanks to my advance reader team (ART)—you know who you are . Additional thanks goes to Katie Nielsen for all the great information and inspiration for my character, Anatoly Sakharov; Dawn Gill for all things British; TSODA134 for vetting the operations in the novel, as well as making some great additions to the storyline; and last, but not least, Ed Kovacs for a multitude of great ideas and for bringing my attention to several issues that needed to be addressed. This book is so much better because of the stellar help I received from everyone. As I mention at the end of every book—writing is never a solitary endeavor.
Other books by DV Berkom:
Leine Basso Thriller Series:
Serial Date (#1)
When a former assassin's daughter is abducted, she's drawn into the twisted game of a serial killer who may be a grisly remnant from her past.
Bad Traffick (#2)
Dangerous obsessions take center stage when a former assassin and a homicide detective race against the clock to find a missing girl.
The Body Market (#3)
Former assassin Leine Basso is called in when a celebration south of the border turns into a nightmare.
The Last Deception Page 23