Chapter 15 Sasha
Sasha
Morning comes too early, and I haven’t slept.
I spent the night staring at my ceiling, replaying every conversation with Tony.
Every touch.
Every look.
That card game on the train. Dinner in St. Petersburg. His hand in mine outside the Hermitage, making me feel like I wasn’t alone for once.
How much of it was real?
The question eats at me until I can’t stand lying here anymore. I grab my laptop and settle at the small desk in my bedroom. If Tony won’t give me answers, I’ll find them myself.
My contacts from Christie’s include people who know people. Art world connections overlap with intelligence networks more often than most realize. Forgers work with smugglers. Smugglers work with operatives.
Everyone talks if you know the right questions to ask.
I start with the basics. Tony Haugh, American, thirty-eight years old, former military. The public records show an honorable discharge eight years ago after twelve years of service. Standard information. Nothing remarkable.
But when I dig deeper through a contact who owes me a favor from my London days, the picture changes.
Tony’s military records are sealed. Not just classified, sealed at a level that requires special clearance to even confirm they exist. Standard soldiers don’t get that kind of protection. Special operations, maybe. Or intelligence work.
The gap in his employment history after he left the military three years ago is another red flag. According to Tony’s cover story, he transitioned into journalism. Freelance work. Contract assignments. But I can’t find a single piece of his published work before six months ago.
Six months was right around the time someone began investigating my family’s art transactions at Christie’s. Right around the time Adrian lost everything.
The timeline turns my stomach.
I keep digging. An hour passes. Then two. My eyes burn from staring at the screen, but I can’t stop.
Finally, I find something.
A photograph buried in an archived news article about a humanitarian crisis in Syria four years ago.
The article focuses on refugee camps and aid workers, but there’s a background image of military personnel coordinating with local forces.
The photo quality is poor, grainy from being zoomed in too far.
But I recognize the man in the tactical gear standing just apart from the main group.
The build is right, and the height matches. Even though his face is partially obscured by sunglasses and a hat, the way he carries himself is unmistakable.
Tony.
The caption identifies the group as “private security contractors assisting with refugee protection.” Private security. Not journalism or standard military. The kind of work that exists in shadows and doesn’t leave paper trails.
I screenshot the image and save it to a folder of evidence that I’ve been building. Proof that everything he’s told me has been carefully constructed lies.
My hands shake as I close the laptop.
What hurts most isn’t even the deception; it’s remembering how safe I felt with him.
I’d started imagining a future with him, something I haven’t let myself do since I left Christie’s. Mornings together. A life built on trust instead of duty.
And now, I have to face the possibility that the man I was falling for doesn’t exist. That every moment of connection was preplanned. That he’s been playing a role this entire time while I gave him pieces of myself that I don’t share with anyone.
The thought makes me want to scream. Or cry. Or march into the living room and demand answers he probably won’t give me.
Instead, I get dressed.
Professional clothes.
Armor for the conversation I need to have with Dmitri.
Tony is already awake by the time I emerge from my bedroom at seven. He’s sitting on the couch with coffee, looking like he hasn’t slept, either.
“Sasha—”
“I’m going to see Dmitri.” I cut him off. “Don’t wait up.”
I’m out the door before he can respond.
The drive to Dmitri’s office through Moscow traffic takes thirty minutes. I use the time to rehearse what to say and how to present the information I found without sounding like a jealous girlfriend who can’t handle being lied to.
Because that’s not what this is. This is about security and protecting my family from someone who might be using me to get to them.
At least that’s what I tell myself.
Boris is waiting in Dmitri’s outer office when I arrive. He takes one look at my face and doesn’t ask questions. Just opens the door and lets me through.
Dmitri is on the phone when I enter, but he ends the call the moment he sees me.
“You look terrible,” he observes.
“Thanks. I had a productive night.” I drop into the chair across from his desk and pull out my phone. “We need to talk about Tony.”
“I was wondering when you’d come to me about this.”
The lack of surprise in his voice makes me pause. “You already know.”
“I’ve been running an investigation since we brought him on board,” Dmitri explains. “His cover story has more holes than Swiss cheese. The question is what he’s doing here and who he’s working for.”
“So why haven’t you done anything about it?”
“I wanted to see how deep it went. Who he contacted. What information he tried to gather. I also wanted to see if he’d come clean on his own, or if you’d figure it out first.”
I click my tongue. “You used me as bait.”
“I gave you an assignment. You chose how to handle it.”
“By sleeping with him?”
“By getting close to him, yes. That was always the plan, Sasha. Keep him nearby. Build trust. See what he reveals when he thinks no one’s watching.” Dmitri opens a folder on his desk. “What did you find?”
I show him the sealed military records, the employment gap, and the photograph from Syria. He carefully examines each piece of evidence, his face giving nothing away.
“This confirms what Boris has been telling me,” he says. “Tony Haugh is not who he claims to be. The question now is whether he’s dangerous.”
“He’s been living in our safehouse for weeks. He has had access to our operations, our security intel, and—” I stop myself before saying “me.” “He could have done anything by now if he wanted to.”
“Which is why I haven’t moved against him yet. Men who want to hurt us don’t usually spend weeks building relationships and taking their mark on gallery visits.” Dmitri closes the folder. “But we can’t let this continue. We need answers.”
I swallow hard past the lump in my throat before I ask, “What will you do?”
“Bring him in for questioning. Properly this time.” He picks up his phone. “Boris can—”
“I want to be there.”
Dmitri pauses. “Sasha—”
“I need to understand who he is. What he wants. Why he—” I stop myself again. “I need to be there, Dmitri. Please.”
My brother studies my face for a moment. Whatever he sees there makes him nod.
“All right, but you let me run the interrogation. You’re there to observe, nothing more. Understood?”
“Understood,” I answer with a nod.
He calls Boris into the room to make the arrangements. Tony will be picked up within the hour and brought to a secure location. Not the main
compound. Somewhere more private. Somewhere designed for getting answers from people who don’t want to give them.
“One more thing,” Dmitri states, holding up a finger. “If this goes the way I think it will, you need to be prepared for what we might learn. About him. About why he’s here.”
“I know.”
“You look like a woman who’s hoping I’m wrong about him, Sasha. That there’s some explanation that makes this okay.” His voice softens just a fraction before he adds, “There usually isn’t.”
I don’t have a response.
Because he’s right. Part of me is hoping that Tony will walk into that interrogation and explain everything in a way that makes sense. That the lies were necessary for some reason I haven’t considered, and the man who held my hand in St. Petersburg is real, even if his name isn’t.
But hope is dangerous. It’s what gets you hurt when reality doesn’t match your expectations.
“When do we start?” I ask instead.
“Two hours. That gives Boris time to set everything up.” Dmitri stands. “Go home and get some rest while you can. This is going to be a long day.”
“I’m not going back to the safehouse.”
“Then stay here. I’ll have someone bring you coffee.” He pauses at the door. “For what it’s worth, Sasha, I’m sorry. I know you cared about him.”
“I barely know him.”
Dmitri leaves without responding, and I’m left alone in his office with a phone full of evidence and a chest full of hurt I don’t know how to handle.