Dropping back, she positioned herself in a shallow depression made by the tree’s roots and sited the rifle. Ben and the others continued to return fire, keeping the gunmen in the cottage busy. Leine peered through the thermal scope and took a bead on the front door. She could just make out the partial glow of one of the gunmen near the entrance. Ben fired again, and the gunman darted from behind the door to take a shot. Leine exhaled and fired. The body dropped, sprawling headfirst onto the patio.
Two down, five to go.
Hopefully, Zarko and Daniel would locate the gunmen Drago deployed and neutralize them. That would leave two—Drago and one other—unless there were more inside.
Leine sighted on the door and waited.
“Pavel, what’s your position?” Drago’s voice crackled over the radio.
“We’re five min—” There was a sharp cry, followed by abrupt silence.
“Pavel? Pavel! Answer me.” No response. “Vasily. Manuel. What’s going on?” The alarm in Drago’s voice told Leine that Zarko and Daniel had found their quarry.
“Mission accomplished,” Zarko’s voice came over the mic moments later. “Three down.”
“Good work,” Art said. “Now get your asses back to the cottage and let’s smoke these motherfuckers.”
Ben and the three teams closed the loop, surrounding the building. Jorge joined Zarko and Daniel as they moved toward the patio. Leine relocated to a position farther up the hill with a full view of the front door and side window. Releasing the bipod, she set up the rifle and dialed in the scope.
“Bring out the girl, Drago,” Ben yelled, his voice echoing off the hillside. “You’re not getting out of here. There’s too many of us.”
At first there was no reaction. Moments later, the front door opened and a woman with long black hair stumbled out. A man stood behind her holding a pistol to her head. Leine peered through the binoculars and confirmed that it was Olga. But the man with the gun wasn’t Drago. It was Frederik.
“Let me go, or the princess is dead,” he yelled. Frederik’s gaze skated left and right, unsure where his biggest threat was.
“Easy, everybody. This guy’s squirrely,” Leine warned. “I’ll see if I can take him.”
Frederik kept moving, using Olga as a shield. Tears streamed down her face. His back to the wall, he dragged her to the corner of the cottage and stopped.
“Alpha, he’s at the southeast corner of the cottage,” Leine said in a low voice. “It looks like he’s going to run.”
“Copy that.”
Eyes wild, Frederik started to look around the side of the cabin but stopped, apparently thinking better of it. Leine exhaled and blinked to maintain focus. Olga closed her eyes and gave a slight shake of her head.
Olga, what are you thinking? Alarmed that the young woman might try something foolish, Leine took a deep breath and refocused.
With a cry, Olga gripped Frederik’s arm and dropped, leaving him open for a split second. Leine took the shot. Half of Frederik’s head exploded in a red mist. Olga screamed and staggered away as he slid to the ground, the gun at his side.
“He’s down.”
“Good work, Leine. Alpha, grab the girl. Everybody else, stay focused. There’s one more gunman that we know of.”
One of the members from Alpha Team showed himself and gestured for Olga to meet him halfway. Half crying, she stumbled toward him and collapsed in his arms. They disappeared into the shadows.
“Bingo,” Ben said.
“Excellent,” Art replied. “Where’s Drago?”
“He hasn’t come out.” Leine kept her rifle aimed at the front door.
“Give him a chance to surrender and then blow the bitch,” Art said.
“Copy that,” Ben replied.
Leine stayed put to provide sniper support in case things went sideways. The rest of the unit spread out along the hillside. Ben and Zarko slid down the hill toward the cottage.
When they were within range, Ben cupped his hands to his mouth and yelled, “Drago! This is your last warning. Give yourself up now, or we’ll blow the cabin.”
They waited thirty seconds, but there was no response. Ben pulled the trigger on his MP-5 and fired, chewing up the door until there was nothing left. Then Zarko unclipped a grenade, pulled the pin, and was about to lob it through the front door when someone yelled from inside.
“Wait! I am coming out.”
The voice wasn’t Drago’s.
Moments later, a tall man with sand-colored hair emerged from the open doorway with his hands behind his head. Younger than the others, he seemed almost cherubic.
“Who the hell are you? And where’s Drago?” Zarko demanded.
“My name is Luka.” He looked behind him, into the cottage. “Drago…is gone.”
“What the fuck?” Ben got to Luka first and zip-tied his wrists. Then he frisked him for weapons. “He’s clean. What do you want me to do with him?”
“Interrogate him. He might have information on the asswipe who ordered the kidnapping,” Art replied. “Search the place. Drago’s got to be in there.”
Zarko replaced the pin in the grenade and followed Daniel and Jorge into the cottage. Moments later Zarko came back through the door. Jorge and Daniel followed a short while later.
“The house is empty. Looks like he escaped through the shitter.”
“Find him,” Art growled.
Zarko, Jorge, Daniel, and Ben took off at a fast clip down the main trail. With the all clear, Alpha ushered Olga out of the shadows, steering her away from the cottage and Frederik’s body. Leine joined them. Olga glanced at the rifle in her hand and then at Leine.
“It was you who killed him?”
Leine nodded. “With your help.”
Olga raised her chin. “Thank you.” Tears welled in her eyes, glistening in the moonlight.
“You’re welcome,” Leine answered. “Let’s get you back home.”
Chapter 32
Moscow, Russia
“Sir, you have a phone call.”
Roman Tsarev waved his assistant away. “Not now. Can’t you see I’m busy?” He glared at the man and cocked his head toward the assembled dinner guests.
The elegant, linen-draped table shimmered in the candlelight. A warm glow reflected off the extravagant crystal centerpiece and bathed everyone in its golden radiance. Prime Minister Fedorov laughed uproariously at something Pearl said as she coquettishly touched his arm. Tsarev had originally intended the buxom blond to be his own companion for the evening, although it looked like she had her sights set on a bigger score. He’d have to remind her who paid the bills.
Still, chatting up the prime minister wasn’t exactly a bad idea. There was much he wanted to discuss with him. Their past friendship would only get him so far. First and foremost, he needed to plant the seeds of doubt in his mind regarding Anatoly Sakharov. If worse came to worse and it was his word against Sakharov’s, having the prime minister on his side could only help.
And then Tsarev would show him the photographs he’d had taken of the prime minister at an exclusive club based in the Minskoye Shosse area, one that catered solely to men with uncommon tastes in their private activities.
“The man is adamant that he speak with you. Something about an island in the Cyclades?” the assistant urged.
With a grunt, Roman Tsarev excused himself and walked down the hallway and into his office next to the ornate entryway. Closing the door behind him, he went to his desk and took a seat before picking up the gold-plated handset. He jabbed at the blinking light to access the correct line and growled, “General Tsarev.”
“General. I have bad news.” The voice belonged to Farid, his mole in Sakharov’s security detail.
“Why have you called me at home?” Tsarev snapped. “This phone is not for business.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I tried the other line, but you didn’t answer.”
“Of course I didn’t answer,
you fool. I’m in the middle of a dinner party with the prime minister.” The general drummed his fingers on the desk in irritation. “What is this important news that cannot wait?”
“I’d rather not—”
“Farid. Tell me. Now.”
“The girl is back.”
“What exactly do you mean by ‘back’?”
“She’s home. In Athens.” Farid stopped speaking as a vehicle roared past in the background, drowning his words.
“Wait for my call.” Tsarev slammed the receiver down. He wiped his clammy palms on his tailored slacks and drew in a long breath. The blood beat heavy in his ears as he opened the top drawer of his desk. Lying beside a suite of burner phones was a vial filled with emergency heart medication. He took out one of the phones and slid the drawer closed. He didn’t need the vial now but was comforted to know it was there. After wiping the perspiration from his face with a handkerchief he called Farid back.
“Who rescued her?”
“I don’t know. I did as you instructed and haven’t been back to the Sakharov house. None of the other guards knew what they were planning.”
“Where is our team now?” Tsarev would call Drago to get his take on the rescue, and hopefully piece together who ordered the operation.
“I haven’t heard from any of them. I had hoped someone called you with news.”
“Did you try contacting Frederik or any of the others?”
“No one responded.”
Tsarev covered his eyes, trying to think of some way to explain the lack of contact from the men guarding Sakharov’s daughter, but the only thing that made any sense was that they were now either dead or being held somewhere for the purposes of extracting information. Except for Drago Milosevic. The general couldn’t imagine that bull of a man going down without a fight.
“Where are you now?” he asked.
“Downtown Athens. I called you as soon as I realized she’d been rescued.” Farid paused. “Now that my cover is blown, what are my instructions?”
“Disappear until Dmitry contacts you,” he ordered. Shaking with anger, General Tsarev set down the phone. The shock of the reversal along with the two glasses of wine the general had consumed at dinner was a bad combination for thinking clearly. He should never have allowed himself more than one.
How could this be? No one knew of the island. Nothing could be traced back to him. He would have to find out from Milosevic what happened. And then, for his failure, he would have him killed.
But what of Farid?
He thought back to the last time the bodyguard had checked in, informing him that everything had gone as planned and that Olga was on her way to the island. He hadn’t called back with an update, which had seemed odd. Now he knew why.
The rescue operation had to have been instigated by the Basso woman. There was no other explanation. She was almost certainly the reason Anatoly Sakharov had been able to pull off his daughter’s rescue without tipping his hand to the general. Even if Farid had gone back to the villa and erased the security footage, he wouldn’t have been privy to the details of the rescue operation. If Basso was American intelligence as he suspected, then she would certainly have shut out Sakharov’s bodyguards, suspecting a plant. There were too many opportunities for leaks.
And what of Drago Milosevic? The general pulled out another phone he used for communication between himself and the Serb and tapped in his number. After the sixth ring, Tsarev hung up. Drago always answered on the first or second ring. Always.
What of the other guards? He’d assigned a contingent of eight, relatively small by modern warfare standards. But that amount of men under the command of someone like Drago Milosevic should have been sufficient to counter an attack on the small island. Especially from below, where a rescue force would have had to originate.
He closed his eyes, envisioning his plan and how it could work now with the new development. You must be nimble, Roman. Always work with what is, not with what you wish.
His mother’s words rang as true today as they did when she spoke them so many years ago. They’d stood him in good stead throughout his career. A pang of yearning for her presence surged through him, and he got to his feet, a renewed sense of purpose burning in his chest. He could handle this small reversal. He was General Roman Tsarev, the man who would single-handedly bring Russia back to its former greatness. His mother would be proud.
Encrypting his communication, he sent word of the latest development to Dmitry and ordered him to double his efforts to detain the Basso woman. There was no time to waste. He added a bonus to the money he’d already paid him. Dmitry was an assassin motivated entirely by finances, which made him easy to work with. And trust.
His next communique was to the operative called Salome.
It is time, was all he wrote.
Chapter 33
Sakharov villa, Athens, Greece
Leine waited until Sakharov returned to the living room. His expression was a mixture of triumph and weariness. She was happy for him, but Olga’s rescue wasn’t the main play—not by a long shot. The abduction set back their timeline by a couple of days, but there was still time to get the information to the right folks before the US moved to commit troops to the Libyan conflict.
She couldn’t help but wonder if the general would be satisfied when and if events played out the way he wanted them to. Yes, US troops were spread thin, involved in multiple engagements around the world, but what would one more conflict accomplish? There was something larger at stake here, and Leine needed to find out what it was.
Why not set herself up as bait? Surely Tsarev knew of the rescue by now, and possibly of her role in the operation. He knew she’d given Sakharov the information on the flash drive, casting doubt on the general’s motives. He’d be eager to find out what else she knew. Then she’d see if she could smoke him out by floating a little maskirovka of her own.
Sakharov crossed the room to where Olga and his wife were sitting and kissed the top of his daughter’s head. Katarina hadn’t stopped crying, and Olga wasn’t far behind. The relief in the air was palpable, an emotion Leine knew only too well.
She let them enjoy their moment but checked her watch, itching to move forward with their plan. They needed to establish where, when, and how Sakharov would help bolster the evidence she was going to take to her old boss, Scott Henderson. She’d made the call to his assistant to set up a meeting and had been surprised when he’d given her a date and time. Maybe she wasn’t as much of a pariah at her old agency as she’d thought.
Leine leaned against a wall, waiting for the Sakharovs to finish their impromptu lovefest. Art and four of his guys were standing watch outside while Leine debriefed Sakharov and planned the trip to DC for their meeting with Henderson. The other five operatives had been paid and were in the wind.
Sakharov extricated himself from his family’s embrace and joined Leine.
“Shall we?” he asked.
Leine nodded and they climbed the stairs to the second floor.
Sakharov closed the doors to the library behind them. She took a seat on one of the couches, while he walked over to a table with several bottles of booze and some highball glasses on it. He chose a fifth of vodka and grabbed two glasses, before returning to sit on the opposite couch.
“You must drink with me to celebrate the return of my daughter.” He took the cap off the bottle and poured them both a healthy shot, then slid one toward her. He raised his glass. “To your health.”
“To yours.” Leine raised her glass and threw back the drink. The smooth burn of the alcohol warmed her throat and she felt herself relax. Sakharov poured another and motioned for hers. Leine slid her glass toward him and he poured her a second shot.
“To my daughter,” he intoned and downed the drink.
“To Olga,” Leine said, and did the same.
He poured them both another but Leine left hers. “To the health of my wife.” He threw the third d
rink back and pounded the empty glass on the table with a satisfied smile. “You brought my daughter back to me. For this, I am grateful,” he said with a nod. “You and Art will always be welcome in my home.” He poured another drink, toasted his mother, and threw that one back.
“Thank you for your generosity, Mr. Sakharov.”
“Please, call me Anatoly.”
“Anatoly. I’m glad we were able to do this favor for you.”
When he realized she’d stopped drinking, he gestured toward her glass. “Please. Drink with me.” He filled his again and waited for her to comply.
Leine lifted the vodka to her lips, but when he downed his, she quickly poured hers into a potted plant next to the couch. She waited for him to set the bottle down, signaling that business would be next on the agenda. He poured himself another, but then set the bottle on the table.
She caught and held his gaze. “Now it is time for a favor from you.”
“Yes, yes.” He waved at the air, dismissing her words. “I promised I would help you with your government, and I will. But first, you must tell me what other information you have.”
Leine nodded. “We questioned Luka, the surviving gunman. He said Milosevic took his orders from someone called The General.”
Sakharov nodded, his face a mask. “And Drago Milosevic is still alive?”
“As far as we know, yes. He escaped through a hole in the bathroom. The toilet was essentially an outhouse incorporated into the cottage. The hole had been enlarged and he shimmied down a rope. We were unable to find him after that.”
“So he’s crawled back into the rat hole from which he came.”
“That’s what we believe, yes.” Leine leaned forward. “It’s good that you’ve increased your security detail, but if Tsarev was able to insert a mole once, he may do so again.”
“I’m well aware.”
The Last Deception Page 18
