“I’m going to check on Ahmed. See if Dr. Evans needs anything.” Marcy gave Janice a brief smile and started for the doctor’s quarters. Janice watched her leave and then turned to the smoking destruction in front of her. With a deep sigh she joined the others cleaning up.
***
A few hours later, after the last of the garbage had been taken to a holding area for pickup, Janice made her way back to her tent, hoping to grab a few hours of rest before her next shift. Everyone else not on night duty had retired to their respective quarters to do the same.
She stopped for a moment, admiring the clarity of the night, marveling over how wars, famine, death, and disease could rage on, yet the sky never changed. Every morning the sun rose, and every evening the moon and stars. Janice inhaled deeply before continuing on to her quarters. As she passed the mess tent, the sound of breaking glass made her stop.
Probably a refugee looking for food. Better go and check.
Janice reached the entrance and hesitated. The distinct silhouette of a man stood just inside the tent. With his back to Janice and dressed in the clothes of a local, she couldn’t be sure who it was. She cleared her throat, not wanting to startle him. The figure froze and slowly raised his hands in the air.
“I am unarmed,” the silhouette said in heavily accented English. His voice was raspy and undoubtedly Russian. He turned slowly to face her.
A black headscarf with white Arabic lettering framing a face with broad cheekbones and a thick beard set alarm bells off in her head. Dressed in a faded knit shirt, baggy black pants, and a pair of heavily used black boots, his attire resembled the uniform of the terrorists in the area, although the Russian accent threw her. Her gaze shifted to a Kalashnikov rifle propped against a table nearby. The man glanced at the gun and then back to her.
“I thought you said you were unarmed.” Blood rushed to her face and she stepped back.
His hands still in the air the man moved with great deliberation away from the gun. “I will not hurt you,” he said. The light from the glow of an outside security lamp revealed a dark stain on his shirt.
“You’re injured.” Janice started toward him but thought better of it and stilled. The man’s gaze followed her. He made no move.
“Yes.”
His respiration increased, evidenced by the rapid rise and fall of his chest. Sweat trickled down the sides of his face and his arms drooped, as though he found it a chore to hold them up. He winced and raised his hands higher.
“I can help you, but you must tell me who you are and what you’re doing here.”
“I am Mikhail.”
“You’re Russian?”
Mikhail nodded.
“Then why are you dressed like Izz Al-Din?” She glanced at his head covering. Although she hadn’t come into contact with a member of the terrorist group fighting the Libyans, she’d been through enough briefings to know they wore the same black headscarf to signify their solidarity with other jihadists.
Mikhail swayed slightly as he reached for the scarf and slid it off, letting it fall to the ground. “I am not…I cannot…”
His face contorted in pain and he lowered his hands. His eyelids fluttered and his legs buckled. He crashed into the table behind him, knocking it over as he slid to the ground. Janice rushed to his side. His eyes flickered open, then closed.
“Mikhail. How were you hurt? Stay with me now.”
He frowned and opened his eyes. “I wish to surrender. I—” He stopped, the words dying in his throat.
“Here. Let’s take a look at that.”
He watched her through slits as she carefully raised his shirt to reveal a gunshot wound to his left side. Gently, she felt around his torso, searching for the exit point. The hole in his back was larger and slightly lower than where the bullet entered. Blood seeped from the wound. She climbed to her feet.
The man’s gaze tracked her as she crossed the room to the kitchen. She returned with two towels, which she folded into fourths and pressed to each wound.
“Can you hold these in place?”
He nodded. She guided his hands, showing him how much pressure to use. “Is that the only place you were shot?”
“I think so.”
Janice checked his pulse. It was fast, but steady. “You need a doctor.”
“No, no doctors—”
“You’re not in a position to argue,” she said. “We’ve got QuikClot in the supply room but I need to go get it. Will you be okay if I leave you for a minute?”
He nodded. Pain obvious on his face, he shifted slightly before rearranging his hands for a better grip on the towels. She rose to leave but he seized her arm in a surprisingly firm grip. The towel he’d been holding slid from the wound. She picked it up and repositioned it, guiding his hand to hold it in place before she leaned closer to hear him.
“I am not terrorist,” he insisted. “I am Russian soldier. My superiors ordered me to join Izz Al-Din.”
“You’re working undercover?”
The corners of Mikhail’s mouth pulled downward in a grimace. “At first, yes. Now I am helping terrorists.”
Janice narrowed her eyes. “But your government is backing Libya against them. How—”
He shook his head. “This is ruse. My country fights America’s allies through Izz Al-Din.”
Startled, Janice slid her hand free of his. “You aren’t serious.” Izz Al-Din’s brutal tactics and inhumane treatment of prisoners and civilians was well documented. No sane government would ask its soldiers to willingly fight alongside such butchers.
“Da. As you people say, serious as heart attack.” A deep, racking cough punctuated his words, and pain arced across his face. Janice got to her feet.
“But—that makes no sense. Egypt and Libya are working against the terrorists, not each other.”
“Maskirovka. You understand this word?” When Janice shook her head, Mikhail explained. “Maskirovka is deception. In beginning, Russia supplied my unit with false information to give terrorists. Izz Al-Din acted on this false information and we win.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Is different now. My superiors now give correct information on United States allied movement. All so US will commit ground troops.” Mikhail winced as he tried to get more comfortable.
“But that puts Izz Al-Din in a stronger position. US-backed allies would be decimated.”
Mikhail leaned his head back, holding her gaze. “This is why I am no longer interested in helping my country.” Another cough seized him and he squeezed his eyes closed against the pain. “Do you think I will die?” he asked.
“Not if I get that clotting agent, you won’t.”
“I must get message to my father. Information is there.” He dipped his chin toward a medallion he wore around his neck.
Janice touched the bronze figurine of a saint. “This?”
He nodded. “Da. Is flash drive. Please to send message to him? His contact information is there. Anatoly Sakharov. Tell him I am alive.”
“Of course.” She pulled the necklace over his head and studied the medallion. The two ends came apart, revealing a USB connector. She snapped it closed and put it in her pocket. “I’ll do it later this morning. We’ll have satellite hookup then.”
“If I am alive in morning, please to give back?”
“Of course.” Janice straightened and started for the door. “The QuikClot is in the supply unit. I’ll be right back.”
Mikhail closed his eyes, pain evident in the white, straight line of his mouth, the pinched eyes, the deep V of his brows. Janice slung the Kalashnikov over her shoulder and hurried from the tent, headed for Dr. Evans’s quarters. It didn’t matter if the man was Russian or Izz Al-Din, he needed a doctor, now.
Chapter 3
SHEN safe house, Tripoli
Leine finished packing her carry-on bag and checked the spacious, well-appointed room one last time for anything she migh
t have missed. The house would be considered luxurious by anyone’s standards, but especially when compared to SHEN’s usual base of operations. The Libyan businessman who offered his residence as their base for rescuing Munira would be returning the next day, and she wanted to be long gone before then. The fewer people that recognized her, the better. With the increase in sex trafficking they’d been seeing, she had a feeling she’d be back in the region before long.
Hamid’s surgery had gone well. Now stable and resting in a hotel room a few kilometers away, the SHEN operative would be transferred to a medical facility in Spain for the remainder of his convalescence. The prognosis for recovering the use of his left arm and shoulder was good, although it would take considerable time and therapy. Lou suggested an extended beach vacation, assuring him that relaxation would be the best thing for him.
Leine grabbed her bag to leave, but then remembered she hadn’t replied to Janice’s message from the day before, and set it back on the bed. She thought she might be able to get away to see her old friend, but that was before she learned that she could snag a seat on military transport due out of Libya that afternoon. The thought of going home had won out over sticking around in the hot desert.
Hey there, she wrote. Much as I’d love to see you, I’ve got a ride out of here that I can’t refuse. Let me know when you’re back in Vancouver and I’ll come visit for a few days. We’ll talk smack about old boyfriends, go hiking, and drink wine. Leine.
Leine had met Janice during the early days of the US war in Afghanistan—Leine had been on a job, and Janice had been working for a non-governmental organization that provided emergency medical care to civilians. Over the years they’d kept in touch, but because of their wildly divergent schedules had only managed one face-to-face meeting.
She pressed send as memories of Afghanistan came flooding back. Considered the agency’s premier operative, Leine had been sent to eliminate one of the country’s most ruthless warlords with strong ties to the Taliban. The operation went as planned until she arrived at the extraction point. Someone had tipped off the local Taliban sympathizers and they captured her translator who’d gone ahead to secure the site. They tortured him until he broke, and then dragged his body through the streets behind a dilapidated pickup truck as a warning to others. Dressed in a burqa, Leine was able to elude the gunmen that surrounded the safe house and then get a message to Eric, her boss. But not before she’d seen what they’d done.
Though she didn’t know it at the time, that job had been the beginning of the end for Leine. Over the next few years each mission would cost her more and more emotionally, leading to her decision to leave. Her last job for the agency involved a betrayal so deep, the nightmares still haunted her.
An hour later, at an airstrip outside Tripoli, Leine stood in line waiting to be processed to leave when her phone vibrated. She checked the screen. It was a message from Janice. The time stamp told her she’d sent it several hours ago. A message lost in cyberspace, again. Leine figured with the spotty reception she’d encountered in country that she’d been lucky to send and receive messages at all.
I’m sorry we weren’t able to meet this time, Janice wrote. The idea of leaving Libya sounds really good right now and I can’t blame you for going. Things here are sketchy. Although the camp has recovered from an “accidental” bombing that occurred several months ago, the hospital is still vulnerable to attack. Dr. Evans refuses to move the facilities to a safer location. His reasoning is that the people won’t have as far to go to receive treatment. But what if those people are killed? All I can do is hope and do my work. Safe travels, J
Leine stared at the screen for a moment. Janice’s tone had changed from upbeat to bleak in the course of twenty-four hours. Had something happened to make her outlook change so drastically? The line began to move forward to the last checkpoint. She lifted her bag and moved along with the others. I should find out what’s bothering her.
That sounds pretty bleak, she typed. What’s going on? Something I can do? She pressed send and glanced at the phone of the guy standing next to her. Breaking news on one of the 24-hour news outlets showed images of a recent bombing.
“Where is that?” she asked him, nodding at the screen.
“The border, near Egypt,” he answered. “Looks like the assholes shelled a refugee camp.”
She stiffened. “What news site are you on?”
“BBC.”
Leine brought up the story on her phone. Less than an hour before, the terrorist group Izz Al-Din had shelled Janice’s refugee camp, destroying their field hospital. There were no reports of casualties. Yet.
Leine looked up from her phone to see that the line had moved on without her. She switched to a dial pad and tapped in the number for Lou’s burner phone. Still in country, he’d keep the same number until he left.
“Lou Stokes.”
“Lou. It’s Leine. I’m taking a detour. I need to get to the Egyptian border.”
“What the hell are you talking about? I thought you were going home.”
“Izz Al-Din just shelled a refugee camp where a friend of mine is working. I’ve got to make sure she’s all right.”
“Jesus. And you want to go there? Do I need to remind you that you just finished an operation for SHEN? You’ve got to be exhausted.” Lou sighed. “How many casualties?”
“None reported yet. We were supposed to meet somewhere between Tripoli and the camp, but I opted to head home.”
“Which is the sensible thing to do.”
Leine rolled her eyes. “I just called to let you know that I won’t be on the flight this afternoon.” She scanned the room for a likely contact to hire her own transportation.
He sighed again. “Give me half an hour. I should be able to find you something.”
“You’re a peach, Lou.” Leine ended the call and texted Janice.
Heard about the bombing. Are you all right? Am working on finding transpo there. Stay safe.
She slipped the phone into her pocket. It was going to be a long wait.
Chapter 4
Refugee camp, Libyan-Egyptian border
Several hours later, Leine touched down on the outskirts of the refugee camp. A combination of Lou’s contacts, Leine’s persuasiveness, and plenty of cash had scored her a flight out of Tripoli on the Mi-8. She’d worry about getting home later.
A large depression where the field hospital had been located scarred the ground, giving the area the appearance of a moonscape. Cleanup efforts appeared to be winding down, and an evacuation was under way. Patients, some on gurneys and others in wheelchairs or on crutches, were lined up, waiting their turn to board a transport helicopter. A group of men, women, and children—mostly refugees—clutched their belongings as they waited nearby.
“Where are they taking them?” Leine asked a man walking by.
“Another camp south of here,” he said over his shoulder as he hurried past.
Ignoring the sweat trickling down her back and the scorching midday sun, Leine continued toward a small group of what appeared to be camp personnel. In the center stood a man with dark hair and intense blue eyes, who appeared to be issuing instructions. He looked up at her approach.
“Can I help you?” he asked. His green scrubs were well-worn and splotched with sweat and bloodstains, and the weariness on his face spoke of sleepless nights and more than a passing acquaintance with lost causes. His nametag read Dr. Richard Evans.
“My name is Leine Basso. I’m looking for Janice Olson.” Leine braced herself for bad news. If Janice had been anywhere near the blast site she wouldn’t have survived.
Dr. Evans frowned as he signed a sheet of paper on a clipboard held by another man. “And you just happened to be in the area?”
“Tripoli,” she said. “We’re old friends. I wanted to make sure she was all right.”
The man with the clipboard left and Dr. Evans turned his attention to Leine. Although somewhere in his la
te thirties, the deep creases and sagging skin around his eyes gave the impression of a much older man.
“She was lucky.” He waved his hand, indicating the camp. “We all were. We didn’t lose anyone, although I’ve got a patient in critical condition with third-degree burns over half of his body.” The doctor sighed. “This is the second time we’ve been bombed. Why they keep targeting us is a mystery, but we keep coming back.”
A mixture of relief that Janice was all right and sympathy for the doc swept through her. “I’m so sorry,” Leine said.
Evans nodded behind him. “I think she’s in her tent. Third one on the right.” A few yards away, a young blond woman called to Evans.
“Doctor? We’re ready for you.”
“Coming, Marcy,” he answered. “One more thing to tidy up before we close shop,” he said to Leine. Resignation flickered over his features as he turned to go. “Then it’s time to beg for more money.”
“Good luck,” Leine called after him before making her way toward Janice’s tent. Hesitating at the entrance she called, “Anybody home?”
“Hold on a minute,” came the reply. A moment later, Janice poked her head out. At five-feet-five with shoulder-length hair the color of caramel and penetrating hazel eyes, she had the intensity of a person who’d been through more than most. Her face lit up. “Leine!” she said and threw her arms around her in a warm hug. Leine returned the embrace. Janice stepped aside so Leine could enter, a tired smile tugging at her lips. “God, it’s good to see you. How long has it been? Five, no, six years?”
Leine smiled back. “At least,” she said, and entered the dark interior. “Istanbul?”
“Sounds about right.”
Although the tent was open on both ends and captured what breeze could be had, the temperature inside was well over one hundred degrees. Janice followed her in and walked to her cot where she secured the top of her rucksack and set it on the ground.
“Sit, please.” She indicated a plastic chair next to a makeshift nightstand. Leine obliged and Janice sat across from her on the cot. “I thought from your last text that you were on your way home.”
The Last Deception Page 2
