MASKIROVKA - The Russian Science of Deception

By Richard Meredith

It may have changed its name, but the KGB is up to its old tricks, only this time with a new puppet-the American Public!

Steve Nguyen, a newly minted homicide detective with the San Francisco Police Department, is cut loose on his first solo case-the mysterious death of a young accountant with a public-interest foundation

• Language: English
• Publisher: BluewaterPress LLC
• Release date: Sep 27, 2022
• ISBN: 9781604521924

Richard Meredith

A native of Flint, Michigan, Richard Meredith moved to California while serving in the US Navy, and remained to finish college. After obtaining undergraduate and graduate degrees in Biology, he worked as a marine scientist and wildlife biologist for the federal government and the private sector. His work has taken him to the Eastern Tropical Pacific Ocean, the Amazonian rainforests of Ecuador, the tundra and taiga of the Yukon Flats, the coral reefs of the Caribbean, and St. Lawrence Island in the Bering Sea. Maskirovka draws heavily on his work as an analyst in the petroleum industry. Mr. Meredith's experience on commercial fishing boats in the Pacific formed the backdrop of his recent thriller, The Crow's Nest, which won the Silver Falchion Award for the best Action-Adventure novel at the 2021 Killer Nashville Mystery and Thriller Writers Conference. His first thriller, Sky Dance, was based on his ecological restoration work in the oil fields of Ecuador. When not writing or reading, he enjoys travel, bird and wildlife watching, scuba, guitars, and most sports. He is on the board of Capitol Crimes, Sacramento's Sister-in-Crime chapter. Mr. Meredith is married with two children and four grandchildren.

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The contents of this book regarding the accuracy of events, people and places depicted and permissions to use all previously published materials are the sole responsibility of the author who assumes all liability for the content of the book.

© 2022 Richard Meredith

All rights reserved. Except for fair use educational purposes and short excerpts for editorial reviews in journals, magazines, or web sites, no part of this book shall be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author and/or publisher.

International Standard Book Number 13:

Hardback 978-1-60452-190-0

Softback 978-1-60452-191-7

eBook 978-1-60452-192-4

International Standard Book Number 10:

Hardback 1-60452-190-2

Softback 1-60452-191-0

eBook 1-60452-192-9

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022935792

BluewaterPress LLC

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ACKNOWLDGEMENTS

I am so grateful to my friends and colleagues who helped me put this story between the covers. My critique group, Michele Drier, Karen Phillips, Nuvia Sandoval, and Lynda Markham spent many hours reviewing and offering invaluable suggestions. Lourdes Venard of Comma Sense Editing molded a rough effort into the story you’re reading today. I thank writers extraordinaire, Jim L’Etoile and Terry Shepherd for their reviews. I am grateful for the suggestions, experience, and wisdom from the members of Capitol Crimes, my local Sisters-in-Crime chapter.

Thanks to the many friends and family who suffered through early versions and provided valuable input: Debbie and Larry Yarbrough, Deb and Joe McNamara, Simon Poulter, Sarah Powell, and Gary Wilson.

Special thanks to Patty Takeuchi, LCSW, who patiently explained in detail the pain, trauma, and travails of those suffering silently from social anxiety disorder. Thanks to my sons, Casey and Andrew, and Gary Elford for their explanation of criminal investigations, munitions, and equipment. If I missed anyone, please accept my sincere apologies.

I am grateful to Joe Clark of BluewaterPress, LLC for this great opportunity and his patience and guidance through the editing and publishing process.

I especially want to thank my sons, daughters-in-law Cassie

and Jackie, and the grandkids—Will, Allison, Emily, and Benjamin—for their patience in indulging my dream. And, of course, I could do nothing without the continued support and encouragement of my wife, Carol. She makes all things possible.

But, in the end, this is my story and I take full responsibility for any errors.

PART 1

Chapter 1

Apartment of Lucas Miller, San Francisco —Present Day

The window filtered the harsh floodlights reflecting off Coit Tower to a soft, almost alpenglow warmth. Were a witness present, there was just enough light to see a soulless curl of the lips, not a smile, but satisfaction. Secret death, one without means or motive, was most challenging, yet, somehow, most fulfilling. The assassin gazed at the body through vacuous eyes of blue ice, almost as lifeless as those staring back from the bed. There was no remorse, no guilt, nothing. Empathy was wrenched from the killer’s conscience year s before.

Under the ceiling vent, a quick jab with a pocketknife punctured the Mylar balloon. Delicate fingers coaxed it through the grate. The same with the balloon in the floor register. A rush of air streamed across the assassin’s face, but this time the balloon slipped away.

One last survey of the cold room and out the bedroom door. Kowka grabbed the tank and slipped unseen from the dead man’s apartment. Soiled coveralls, a baseball cap, and a tool bag. Simple, banal. It was a lethal gift, invisibility, anonymity; few noticed, no one remembered.

A call to the dacha was expected.

CHAPTER 2

THE MEAN STREETS OF SAN FRANCISCO

From two hundred feet, the scene seemed to unfold in slo w motion.

Damn, was all Steve Nguyen could say. The man, maybe even a teenager but a big one, cold-cocked the woman, ripping a purse from her arm, a phone from her grip, and toppling her face-first to the concrete.

In running gear and exhausted after sucking sour city fumes on a three-mile run over of steep streets, the rookie detective wanted nothing more than to duck and cover as the perp sprinted his way.

The thief approached and set a menacing gaze on Nguyen. He must have figured at six inches shorter and fifty pounds lighter, the slight man posed no threat. In fact, the thug barely altered his escape route as Nguyen, feigning fear, averted his eyes.

At ten feet, Nguyen adjusted his path a fraction. As the thief was about to pass, Nguyen bent his right arm and, a microsecond later, unleashed a brutal forearm shiver to the man’s throat.

The assailant’s eyes ballooned as the jolt threw him back five feet. Nguyen jumped at the dazed man and smashed his cell phone into his nose. In the next moment, the perp was on the ground gasping as Nguyen straddled his chest.

Hunched over his walker, a man at the bus stop laughed in delight as he shuffled on wobbly wheels toward Nguyen.

That was the best takedown, ever.

Nguyen looked up at giant eyes peering through thick bifocals, then to what remained of his cell phone on the ground. You got a phone?

Yeah, sure.

Call 9-1-1. Tell them we had a 245. Send an ambulance. Officer needs assistance.

Yeah, 9-1-1, ambulance, a 245. You a cop?

Detective. Please make the call.

You bet. He rolled his walker to the side. Mind if I kick him in the balls just once?

Call.

The thief wheezed and struggled to buck Nguyen.

Nguyen slammed a forearm into the man’s chest and squeezed the tender nerve under the perp’s collar bone until he screamed. Here’s the deal, you lay still, and I’ll stop. Otherwise, it’ll only get worse.

Nguyen caught the eye of the older man.

"They’re on the way, Officer.

***

The patrolman jammed the gas, hurtling the cuffed thief against the steel-barred window, but not before he fixed a fierce stare on Nguyen.

The crowd cleared, and Nguyen sat alone on the curb, cold and teeth chattering from acute adrenaline withdrawal. You idiot. He could’ve killed you.

It was another five minutes before the weak-kneed detective struggled to stand, and a greater fear struck; he had to return and face the squad.

***

Nguyen. In my office, now, Lieutenant Joe Morris, chief of the homicide division, yelled across the bullpen.

Startled, Nguyen looked up and pointed to the phone pressed against his cheek. Slow rollers churned his gut.

Breathe, he urged himself as he crossed the bullpen.

Morris’s office was cramped and cluttered—a purge of accumulated flotsam long overdue. The confined space made the former defensive lineman appear even larger.

Sorry, Chief. Bilsky’s got me on phone duty. What’s up? Nguyen asked.

The lieutenant rubbed his right hand across his bald scalp. Nguyen hid his amusement at the contrast between the man before him and the photograph on the wall of Morris sporting a full afro on his first undercover assignment. It was like he was bragging, Yeah, I was young once—and had hair!

I heard about your arrest today. What, you think you’re still on patrol?

Wrong place, wrong time.

No, the patrol sergeant said it was a righteous collar, but he needs your report. Said a bystander reported you tackled the perp. The big chief got a little note from a Ms. Howard. Over his reading glasses, Morris cast a quizzical glance at Nguyen. The vic, I take it. Anyway, he sends his regards. Seems Ms. Howard is a friend of his daughter. A huge smile crossed his boss’s face. You really tackled him. I love it. When I played, the little cornerbacks had the biggest stings. You didn’t draw your weapon?

Nguyen’s eyes fell to the floor. In my desk. I was on a training run. No place to —

Morris leaned back and interrupted. I’ve never known a cop with such an aversion to his service weapon.

My phone worked pretty well, but I’m gonna need a new one.

Morris laughed. I’ll give you style points for creativity but use your weapon. It’s your lifeline. Learn to live with it. While we’re on the subject, I saw your last quals at the range. Pretty lame.

I passed.

Barely. How about putting in a little more time? The armorer is a retired pal of mine, a great coach.

I know. It’s my Achilles’ heel, I guess. Something about relaxing when I know that thing is about to explode in my face. I tense up.

Morris’s easy smile was almost lost in his street-scarred stare. You ain’t the first. It’s a matter of training, repetition. You’ll get it. If not, there’s a raft of positions opening in traffic. You’d look kinda cute on one of those little scooters handing out parking tickets to the tourists.

It wasn’t the pep talk Nguyen needed.

CHAPTER 3

THE SERGOV DACHA, OUTSIDE MOSCOW, RUSSIAN FEDERATION

Patience was the one virtue Anatoly Dmiriyrvich Sergov cultivated. Time was the measure of success, and the longer a plan took to flower, the more satisfying the fruit. But today was different. Muddled brows drawn tight, he stared at the phone, conjuring a ring. Tapping his fingers on the rough-hewn desk returned his thoughts to the day his father felled the ancient larch. Tears welled in the young boy’s eyes as the giant yielded to the ax. His father’s thick, sweating arms draped his shoulders. I promise you, my son, it will live a new life. Always remember, the land will provide. The aged and battered desk stood testament to his fathe r’s words.

On the second ring, Sergov lifted the phone from its cradle.

Alex?

Colonel Sergov, it is done.

A silent sigh and a furtive smile. Very good. Accident?

Natural causes.

Sergov needed no further explanation. Where are you now?

Still in California.

Good. The woman?

Awaiting your instructions.

Hold for now.

Sergov hung up and rose from the desk. There were few people he trusted since the breakup of the Soviet Union, and one of them was Aleksei Olegovich Zhirov. Ever since that day in the remote mountains in Afghanistan almost thirty years ago when Alex saved his helicopter crew, the fate of both men was inextricably entwined. Alex became Sergov’s protégé in the Soviet Army, then the KGB and Foreign Intelligence Service (SVR), and now in their new enterprise.

Through the frosted windows of the small dacha, Sergov gazed at the snow-encrusted pines surrounding the property. While his fortune afforded him a luxury penthouse in Moscow, a winter palace on the Black Sea, and apartments and homes throughout Europe and North America, it was this small primitive cabin inherited from his father where he retreated, where he could truly relax, where everyone, save Alex, knew not to bother him. Even his bodyguards were dismissed once he arrived. Except for Valentina, his cook, and Zelka, his ever-vigilant Ovcharka sheepdog, he was alone.

His nerves were on edge that morning as he awaited the call. He busied himself splitting a fallen spruce. Zelka had another chance to patrol. The poor girl tried her hardest to guard the property, but seldom did she encounter even a squirrel or chipmunk, and those only elicited the mildest bark. She once caught the fading scent of a fox, but the chase was fruitless. Sergov prayed she would never tangle with a wolf pack; retreat was not in her heart.

His attention returned to the window. The sun was still bright, at least three hours before dusk, more than enough time to stack wood.

Donning a thick coat over his short, well-fed frame, he wrapped a heavy woolen scarf around his neck and cinched the ermine-lined hood. Though technically fall, the temperature hovered just above freezing.

Sprawled across the hearth, drawing the last bit of warmth from ebbing embers, Zelka opened a single eye to investigate the commotion.

Come on, girl. Time to work.

She rocketed to his side, tongue lapping, ears at full alert.

The early snow around the dacha was well tamped but still crunched under his boots. It was a constant battle, but he kept a path cleared to the small barn and woodshed. His father, a decorated general in the Soviet Army demanded the young Sergov and his older brother keep the trail open. We may need an escape route, he teased.

The boys spent hours shoveling. It was the hard labor of the dacha and their hunting forays for a deer or two each winter that bonded father to son and brother to brother. Both were now gone, but he carried on. Regardless of his wealth, there was no escaping the chores of the forest and garden.

As the sun fell below the trees, the pair returned to the sage and juniper drifting from the kitchen.

Ahh, sweet Valentina, my favorite. No amount of foie gras, caviar, or truffles could supplant the earthy brew of venison, potatoes, and turnips.

It will be ready in ten minutes, Colonel.

He sat on the wooden bench replacing his boots with slippers. The relief from Alex’s call was short; the angst returned. A glance at his watch. Five thirty, six-thirty a.m. in San Francisco. Sergov shook his head. The Americans. The hate in his heart was betrayed by his calm expression.

Another waft of stew.

The call could wait.

CHAPTER 4

SQUAD ROOM, HOMICIDE DIVISION, SAN FRANCISCO POLICE DEPARTMENT

Nguyen missed the action. Idle hands and dead time let his mind wander where it shouldn’t. At least on patrol, he was driving, walking, responding. Frozen to a desk and poring over phone records was driving him crazy, eh… crazier. But that’s what Bill Bilsky, his senior detective, assigned.

Stay awake—nothing would bounce him from homicide faster than a snore or, worse yet, drool dribbling down his cheek.

Hey rook, daydreaming? Those phone calls ain’t makin’ themselves. Leaning his thickset frame over Nguyen’s desk, Bilsky bellowed a laugh. I know it ain’t all that sexy, but none of our job really is.

Nguyen nodded. I need a walk, fresh air, a reboot.

I hear ya. After your little skirmish the other day, this is boring stuff. He handed an incident report to Nguyen. Hey, Steve, the boss wants us to check out this call. Guy was found dead in his apartment. I think it’s time for you to fledge this cozy nest. You ready for a solo? Bilsky flapped his hands like wings. Fly away, little bird. He then pointed to the call list on Nguyen’s desk. It’ll get you out from under this for a while, at least.

You mean it?

Yeah, probably a suicide, so, just some paperwork. I’ve done it a million times. Good to have experience as the lead on a case.

I could use it, thanks.

Bilsky furrowed his forehead. I still want those numbers cross-checked by tomorrow, okay? I’ll be outta here in a few weeks, and I want this case cleared.

***

Two uniforms were leaning against the doorway and stifling secret laughs when Nguyen arrived. He flashed his badge. Who called this in?

One officer squared his power-forward shoulders and pointed to a bereft woman against the wall. Beside her, a man was trying, without success, to console her.

Nguyen paced to her. Hi. I’m Detective Steve Nguyen. I understand you called 9-1-1.

The woman dabbed her eyes. I did. I’m Irene Spencer. I live in 2C downstairs.

Nguyen nodded. She continued. Luke and I take the 313 bus every morning. It’s a routine that sort of evolved when we learned we worked so close together downtown. She paused, swallowed hard, and continued dabbing. I waited downstairs for fifteen minutes, and he didn’t show. He always, and I mean, always texts me if he’s running late, but nothing. I texted, tried calling, that’s when I got worried. I knocked on Tony’s door, she tilted her head toward the man holding her hand. He’s the building manager.

Tony Quinn, officer. We both came up to Luke’s apartment. I knocked several times, but nothing. That’s when I unlocked the door. A ring of keys dangled from Quinn’s finger.

Tony shouted through the open door, Irene said. We kind of looked at each other. I felt a chill down my spine. We walked to the bedroom and opened the door. The smell hit us, then we saw Luke on his bed. I called 9-1-1.

Thank you. I know this is painful. Nguyen passed cards to both. I may need to speak with you again, and please call me if you think of anything.

Both nodded. Quinn continued spinning the keyring around his finger to ease jangled nerves.

In the bedroom, Nguyen’s entry caught the attention of the two paramedics. A tall pimpled redhead who looked like he was skipping first hour at Lincoln High spoke. I figure he’s been dead for a day or so.

Any idea of cause?

He shook his head.

I’m gonna need you to leave the apartment. Could you give the officers your names? You touch anything?

Redtop looked to his partner. Incidentally, maybe. Mostly the bed and around the floor. The two exited.

Nguyen pulled out his phone and called the crime lab and medical examiner’s (ME) office. He walked from the apartment and stood beside the officers. The calvary’s on the way.

The men nodded. It would be several hours until lunch and an afternoon of reports.

***

It’s always a delicate dance between the ME’s crew and the crime lab, and impossible to tell who’s who in matching Tyvek. Nguyen stood beside the ME tech as he examined the body. Anything?

Nothing external. Rigor is subsiding, I’m guessing death occurred between twenty-four and thirty-six hours. Have to wait for the autopsy. Can you approve this so we can take the body?

Nguyen signed.

He approached the crime lab tech waiting outside the apartment. Hi, Steve Nguyen, homicide.

Carl Rose. You call us in?

I did. A guy this young, not sure what to make of it, so, follow the playbook.

I hear ya. I’ll need elimination prints from the civilians who entered. The medics and ME guys are in the system. Okay if I get started, Detective?

Yeah, the ME is done. I’ll get out of your way but let me know if you find anything.

Thirty minutes later, Rose approached Nguyen. I’m pretty much done here. Collected hair, prints, and photos. Not much evidence of a crime, though. Not even blood. Rose handed the detective the man’s wallet in a plastic evidence bag. Here, this may help. I’ve already lifted prints. So, what’d you think?"

The detective shook his head. No idea. Natural causes would make our jobs much easier.

The body was rolled from the apartment and Nguyen was the last to exit. The shorter patrolman held a roll of crime scene tape and shot the detective a questioning glance.

Go ahead, seal it.

CHAPTER 5

THE GLASS FOUNDATION HEADQUARTERS, SAN FRANCISCO

Gut check time. Fists tight, heart pounding, he sucked a breath from the depths of his lungs, still, his mind tumbled in its slow spin cycle. He hated confrontations—tough break for a cop. Suck it up, buttercup . A hard headshake to clear, emotional shields deployed. Still, the panic gnawed way too close to th e surface.

It wasn’t Nguyen’s intent, but the dull rap against the glass door startled the woman.

In a jerk, her eyes jumped from the computer screen to the rigid man outside her office door.

Sorry. Didn’t mean to frighten you.

Fluster with a splash of confusion crossed her face. Can I help you?

Jennifer Krauss?

Yes.

He strode toward her desk, offering neither a handshake nor emotion. I am Detective Steve Nguyen of the SFPD. You in charge of personnel?

I am.

Lucas Miller employed here?

She looked over to Miller’s office across the hall. Yeah, he’s our accountant, but he’s not—

"Ms. Krauss, I regret to inform you that a body we believe to be Mr. Miller was found this morning at his apartment.

Her face twisted in disbelief. Th…That’s not possible…I mean…he’s just late for work. This must be some mistake.

Nguyen held up a business card. I found this and called the number. His message said to contact you if he was unavailable.

She slumped in her chair, still not processing. Nguyen caught the first tear trailing down her cheek.

No, this just can’t be true. How…what happened? I was with him after work on Friday.

You mind answering a few questions?

Yes. I’m sorry. Please have a seat. She gestured at a chair across from her desk.

Nguyen reached into his jacket for his small notebook. I’d like to see his personnel file. I need to notify his family.

After a moment of hesitation, Jenn rose and walked to a file cabinet behind Nguyen. She ran her finger across the tabs and pulled a thin blue manila folder. She clutched it against her chest as if letting it go was somehow confirming the loss of her friend. "I hope you can find what you need. I never met his family, they’re back East, but he talks about them a lot…I mean he talked. Oh, this is so hard to believe." More tears welled.

A quiet gloom fell over the room as Nguyen leafed through the pages.

Jenn broke the nervous silence. It…it must be so hard to…to…have to tell families that someone has died.

Nguyen looked up, distracted, his faux-stone demeanor held. It’s never pleasant. We try to do it in person, but it’s difficult when the family’s out of town. Local police help. He returned to the file and, without looking up, asked, Did you notice any change in Mr. Miller’s behavior. Has he had any problems lately? You know, like financial, personal, a breakup with a girlfriend, health issues? You were with him on Friday night, right? Did he confide in you?

Jenn paused. Her gaze drifted to the window and a distant horizon. Not that I know of, and we talked all the time. He never said anything. At dinner, he was laughing and joking, not a care in the world.

How about here—work? Any changes—substandard performance, absences? Was he depressed, despondent?

Jenn’s face pinched in reflection. No, he is always very diligent and professional. His attention to detail is crazy. He finds things, little things, buried deep in an audit that everyone else glosses over. If a column of numbers is off by a penny, he can’t sleep until he finds it. He makes my job so much easier. You know, I rely on him one hundred percent. Her eyes narrowed. Are you suggesting he killed himself? That’s just wrong. He would never—

No. Just background. Everything in his apartment suggested natural causes, but we’re waiting on the ME’s report. Any chance you know the name of his doctor?

I’m afraid I don’t. She leaned across the desk. Is it there, in his file?

Nguyen flipped a few pages. I don’t see anything, but I have his health insurance number. I can check with them. Thanks for your help, and I’m so sorry for your loss. Nguyen reached into his pocket for a card and pushed it across the desk with two fingers. Would you call me if you think of anything?

Jenn nodded. Is it okay for me to call his parents? I want to help them from here if I can.

I’m sure they’d appreciate it. I’ll let them know you’ll call but wait until tomorrow.

I will. Thank you, Detective.

Nguyen returned the pen and pad to his pocket, a trick he learned from Bilsky. It signaled the end of the interview and, with guards dropped, the real story flowed. He turned toward the window and the view of San Francisco skyline before volunteering his first smile—another trick from Bilsky. So, what does the Glass Foundation do?

Nguyen studied the woman’s face as she gathered herself. Ahh…mostly charitable work. Our founder, Julius Glass—I’m sure you’ve heard of him—established the foundation to support organizations involved in education, health, and environmental projects. He says it’s his way to give back for the fortunate life he’s lived.

You in charge?

Jenn half laughed. I like to think so. No. Roger Dayton, my supervisor, is the executive director.

Nguyen’s expression turned stony again, and he locked on Jenn’s misty eyes. Let’s talk about Friday night.

***

Jenn sat frozen after the detective left. It was beyond imagination, almost as if it didn’t happen. Was he really a cop? Sure didn’t look like one—that suit belonged on a stockbroker.

Her mind snapped back. She gazed through her open door to Luke’s office and dabbed her eyes seeing his cherished San Francisco Giants baseball cards in neat Lucite frames on his credenza.

Was I really that last person Luke ever saw? The hard cry began.

CHAPTER 6

HOME OF ROGER DAYTON, SAN FRANCISCO

Roger Dayton stared at his ringing phone, recoiling at the incomi ng number.

Dayton here.

What about the woman? What does she know? Sergov barked in his clipped accent.

"I had your colleague check her computer and phones after hours—there was nothing. It was just bad luck that Miller found