Spy Catcher: The J.J. McCall Novels (Books 1-3) (The FBI Espionage Series) (33 page)

Chapter 6

Monday Night, November 9
th
—FBI Headquarters

The team returned from the Ellipse convinced they had sufficient justification to pursue the case further. The next step: meet with Director Freeman to do the impossible—get authorization to conduct a preliminary inquiry, a directive contrary to the President’s orders.

“Absolutely not!” Freeman roared like the thunder firing up outside in the night sky. “Look under my desk. You see my foot? It’s down and it’s not budging. Yes, you have a valid lead. Yes, you will pursue it. No, not tomorrow. We’ll put more Gs on Gusin and increase the FBI presence in the Ellipse when the lookouts call him out of the compound. He won’t get within a hundred feet of the park, at least not until we can conduct a thorough investigation.”

J.J. shook her head in frustration.

“But, Sir, if I may interject,” Tony began. “If we increase FBI presence, the Russians will know the op, whatever it is, is blown. If you will recall, we have a source in the Embassy. Shutting down the operation will put him at risk, especially with Golikov’s hoods running roughshod. Should we sacrifice an FBI source to avoid pissing off the President, who I guarantee you will be more ticked off than
any of us
when he finds out the Russians have wired his house? Even worse, learning the FBI suspected a problem but didn’t do anything about it because we didn’t want to piss him off?”

Freeman massaged his left shoulder, trying to ease the ache radiating through his arm. The stresses of the job were wearing the tread on his body thin, as was listening to J.J.’s tale of bugs and the White House. Impossible problems in even more difficult times. J.J. reminded Freeman of himself during early days in his career, running Organized Crime cases out of the FBI Philly office. He understood her dogged determination, her commitment and patriotism. Her persistence.

Ugh, her persistence.

But he’d like to strangle her with her blatant disregard for the rules and stubborn inability to follow protocol. She had a knack for doing the
right
thing for sound reasons at the
wrong
time. And with the President-ordered standdown, her timing couldn’t be worse.

“J.J., consider one thing for a second. What do you think is going to happen when a team of FBI agents show up to sweep for bugs, right down the hall from arguably the most aggressive press corps in the
world
?” Freeman said, animated, his hands flailing about. “The Coast Guard couldn’t save us from the splash from those headlines. And all from the office of the man who issued the order to stand down in the first place. Do you not see that?”

“Yes, sir,” she said, running her fingers through her shoulder-length hair. “I hadn’t considered the press corps.” 

“Of course, not. That’s why they pay me the big bucks. To take into consideration situations that very smart agents forget to consider.” He stood, walked to the front of his desk, and took a seat on the edge. “With that said, there’s a reason the FBI Director cannot be fired. We’re a law enforcement organization first and we operate without regard to political machinations. But the ripple effect of throwing this boulder in the water has implications for every agency in the intelligence community.”

“What if we could find a way keep the inquiry low key? Find out what we’re dealing with.”

“If you seriously believe you can conduct a low-key investigation in the West Wing, you’re more naïve than I thought,” Freeman said.

“But—” Tony said.

“Thank you for stopping by this evening.” Freeman returned to his seat and clasped his hands together. “Now, if that will be all. My wife would like me to arrive home sometime this century.”

J.J. and Tony stood in defeat and nodded before shuffling toward the door. “Okay. Thank you for your time, Sir.”

“Always a welcome visit,” Freeman said as he watched them leave. He leaned back in his seat for a moment and shook his head. A half smile inched the corners of his mouth upward. He grabbed the phone and buzzed his secretary, Mrs. Whitehouse. “Catch J.J. and send her back in here.”

He’d all but killed the task force, barred her from supporting the Michaels’ investigation. The dejected look on J.J.’s face told him she was at the edge. Somehow he knew he’d live to regret the decision, but for J.J. to ask him for permission was much more difficult than for him to ask for forgiveness. While
his
misstep would certainly require a few days on the Hill, it wouldn’t cost him his ten-year tenured job.

A slip-up might cost J.J. hers—and she didn’t appear to take issue with the prospect.

She poked her head in the door. “You asked to see me, Sir?”

“Yes,” Freeman leaned back in his seat, elbows against the armrests, and steepled his fingers. “Twenty-four hours and low key, do you understand me? I don’t want to see a blip on my radar in any way attributed to you. If you so much as turn up in the
credits
on the six o’clock news, if I see you in the society section of the newspaper, you won’t have to worry about turning in your resignation. Am I clear?”

“Crystal,” J.J. said, unable to restrain her smile. “You won’t regret this, Sir.”

“Famous last words,” Freeman said with a nod. After she disappeared, he grinned. He knew he wouldn’t. He turned to his desk and faced his monitor. As he reached to shut down his computer, an email appeared from SAC MacDonald. An update on the Michaels investigation.

Metro Transit Police called. They’re inspecting subway footage from last Thursday and Friday. Think they’ve identified Lana. Will send to WFO first thing in the morning.

He exhaled and dropped his head against the neck rest. He had a gut feeling the information would bring them a step closer to catching Lana, but any woman who could successfully operate as a foreign agent within the walls of FBI Headquarters could not be underestimated. If they didn’t find her soon, she’d be halfway to Moscow before the FBI’s radar blipped.    

• • •

FBI Headquarters – Monday Night

J.J. removed her suit jacket and tugged at the shirt label which now grated like sandpaper against the skin on the back of her neck. She stood next to the whiteboard as she surveyed the brood of stone faces glaring back at her under the harsh fluorescent light. The room was thick with uncertainty and she could barely conjure the energy to motivate herself, let alone the rest of the team.

She hadn’t slept well the night before. How could she after the eventful Sunday brunch? Now her day had gone into double overtime and the exhaustion had taken her near the edge. Her eyes felt grainy and hot and her lead-heavy body was drawn to the chair, but she had to stand and take charge, while the rest of the bleary-eyed team sat hunched around the conference table waiting for J.J. to impart direction.

Except Six.

He’d been in rare form the entire day. The contemptuous gazes he periodically shot in hers and Tony’s directions confirmed his frequent interruptions and doubt-casting was meant to stall the meeting, keeping her at headquarters and in his sights.

“You’ve all been briefed. Now, we need a plan of action. We’ve only got twenty-four hours to collect enough evidence to pursue a full investigation. I’ve got some ideas, but I’d like to hear yours first. Anyone?”

“Well I—” Walter began before Six rudely interrupted.

J.J. rolled her eyes and gave a polite nod to assure Walter she would solicit his opinion after Six turned off the hot air.

“As long as the embassy’s on stand-down and they don’t find out we know about their operation. Gusin will be out tomorrow, mark my word,” Six interjected. “We better be ready for him.”

Gia and the rest of the attendees agreed before silence settled in.

Walter waited a few moments before speaking his peace. “My equipment can detect the frequency and, if we narrow down the correct one, I can record the transmission.”

“In downtown D.C.? Yeah, right. Do you know how many signals are transmitted through that area every day?” Six said. His skepticism was as evident as his disregard for Walter’s abilities.

Walter’s shoulders slumped before he snapped to attention, his posture board stiff. “Hello! I’m NSA and I’ve got over ten years of experience in signals collection including Russian operations. So,
no one here
understands what we’re dealing with better than I do,” he retorted, kindly putting Six in his place. He turned to J.J. and without taking a breath, rambled, “I have a computer-based spectrum analyzer, UHF/VHF receiver, and historical knowledge of Russian operations. As long as I have Bureau authorization, I can configure the receiver and analyzer to conduct full spectrum targeting of the RF signals, intercept, demodulate, and record them…as long as the device is activated and within my target range—which is between 9 kilohertz and 3500 megahertz.”

“Uhhh,” J.J. said, blank-faced and open-mouthed.

“F-Y-I, that’s a broad range. I also developed a cloaking software to disguise the system. No one passing by will detect my activity,” Walter added.

A hush fell over the room.

Gia was the first to break the silence. “I’m no expert, but I’ll take his word for it.” 

“I didn’t unda’stand half of what he just said which means it’ll probably work,” Tony said.

Six’s eyebrows raised and his lips pursed. “A couple of hours? Yeah right. We need a Plan B.”  

“Plan B?” J.J. was too exhausted to even think about devising a Plan A. “Why don’t’ we bet on it?” J.J. suggested, leaning forward with her shoulders hunched. “If Walter can’t narrow down the signal and record the transmission in an hour?” she looked at Walter who nodded in the affirmative, then she continued, “I’ll buy you a new hat. Judging from the hot air emanating from your area, the one you wore today probably won’t fit.”

Everyone chuckled.

“I’ll take that bet,” Six said as they shook on it.

J.J. pointed to five positions on the map. “Okay, everybody knows where they’ll be posted. Radio communication and cell phone back-ups. The Ellipse, 7 am sharp. Dress warmly. It’s gonna be a chilly morning.”

As the rest of the group proceeded to leave, Gia hung behind and made a bee-line toward J.J. and then she slipped beside her, patted her arm, and said, “I wanted to let you know that you’re doing a great job, but you look exhausted.”

“Thanks?” J.J. looked askance as Gia continued.

“Tony and I were talking over coffee this morning and he told me you’re probably not getting much sleep with that Lana Michaels still on the loose, huh?”

J.J.’s blood steamed instantly. “Hmph. Tony said, huh? Well I’m fine…and WFO’s got the Lana Michaels’ investigation under control. She’ll slip up. It’s only a matter of time.”

At that moment, J.J. was less concerned about Lana and more concerned about her source—Aleksey Dmitriyev. She prayed he would survive Filchenko. Whether the knife plunged into his back or sliced across his throat, Dmitriyev better be prepared to fend off Filchenko’s attack. All available information on Golikov’s protégé indicated that a confrontation between the two was inevitable.

Chapter 7

Tuesday Morning—Russian Embassy

Dmitriyev nerves were on edge. He’d stayed up all night thinking about passing the news of RAPTURE to J.J. and what that meant for his future. Now this—an early morning visit from Komarov.

The palpitations in his heart rumbled in his ear, but he mustered enough calm to keep a steady hand before the java flowed. Such visits from the Resident did not bode well for the day. Either he was in trouble or about to be. Still donning a t-shirt and pinstriped pajama pants, he dragged his bare feet across the cold linoleum floor.

“Ugh, Comrade,” Dmitriyev grunted as he shuffled into the kitchen. The sun had barely emerged over the hazy horizon when the Resident arrived at his flat, which was sparsely decorated with a sofa and table and chair in the breakfast nook. He grabbed a mug and pot and started to pour. “I can’t wait until Olga returns from Moscow. Maybe you’ll go back to sleeping past the cock’s crow. Coffee?”

The Resident waved his hand in refusal. “No, too early. Gives me the shits.”

“So what brings you down to the fourth floor so early in the morning?”

“A favor…and a question,” he said, surveying the room before turning to Dmitriyev.

“A favor? Or an order?” Dmitriyev asked.

“Both.”

Dmitriyev took a seat on the sofa opposite the Resident. “What can I do for you?”

“I need you to back up Comrade Gusin today,” he looked down at his wristwatch. “And I don’t have a lot of time to explain why.”

Dmitriyev froze, his face turned from flush to pale before he could form his next sentence. He shook his head feverishly and with eyes widened, lowered his voice above a whisper. “No, Comrade. You can’t mean that. I can’t. Filchenko…why can’t he go alone?”

If the FBI caught Dmitriyev supporting an operation—a security officer and one of only two declared Russian intelligence representatives working in Washington—his career was effectively over. He would not only be expelled, he’d be declared persona non grata in the United States and unable to serve anywhere in the West, not to mention compounding the damage already done by the “Mikhaylova Affairs.” 

Even more problematic was the fact that he had no time to alert Agent McCall. God forbid she or someone she worked with caught him conducting countersurveillance in an operation she was, as of yet, unaware. With their relationship still tenuous, he had no doubt she’d believe him to be a double agent playing against the FBI. He feared she would withdraw support from him immediately, destroying any hope he had to settle his family comfortably in America. The Resident’s order couldn’t have come at a worse time.   

“First, he’s not ready, but our choices are limited and the FBI is unfamiliar with him,” Komarov began. “The minute he or another officer leaves the compound they are immediately followed by a hoard of surveillance personnel. Because you are declared and cannot participate in operations, you are the ideal person to cover this operation. You will not draw coverage,” the Resident insisted. “We need you on this. Just for today.”

“But—”

“Stop, please. I understand the position I’m putting you in, but it’s not as bad as you think,” the Resident insisted. “You do not have to participate. Just monitor. Watch out for FBI surveillance. Signal Gusin if you see anything suspicious. We’ve been running this operation uninterrupted for almost two years and based on our success, we’ll be running it for the next five—or longer—if we are successful today.”

Though feeling more like an exercise in futility, Dmitriyev took one final shot at convincing the Resident’s his idea was a bad one. “If I get caught, the FBI will have a field day. It’s too risky to the Service. Not to mention the problems it would cause for
you
if I’m caught. You are the only one who could authorize my participation in such an operation. You would be kicked out directly behind me.”

He let out a long drawn out breath, pressed his elbows against his knees, and dropped his face in his hands. “I understand your concerns, Comrade. And I do not argue that they are valid…under normal circumstances. In this instance, I’m confident your participation is a mere formality and you will not encounter any problems whatsoever—we never have. You’ll be back within a couple of hours. End of story. I will brook no more opposition,” he said.

Dmitriyev took another sip from his cup and scrunched his face. “Well, this shit won’t do. I’ll definitely need Starbucks this morning,” he said. “Is that all or did you have something else you needed to discuss?”

The Resident pressed his lips together. “I was wondering…what do you think of Filchenko?”

Dmitriyev felt the blood rush to his face. He wondered if the Resident’s request, which felt like a test, came about because
Filth
chenko had already attempted to turn the Resident against him. Counterintelligence officers were notoriously two-faced, and it would not be beneath
Filth
chenko to twist his own mistake to Dmitriyev’s detriment, posture himself to receive the Resident’s favor.

He shrugged and said, “It’s too early to tell.” He cautiously examined his boss’s expression and calculated his next statement. “We should keep an eye on him.”

“Very perceptive and I agree,” the Resident’s said. “If ice runs through your veins, seltzer water must be sloshing through his,” he said. “When you first arrived at the embassy, you were cool, calm, didn’t make mistakes. He seems a little uncharacteristic of the counterintelligence line. Too jittery…nervous.”

Dmitriyev nodded, relieved by his boss’s revelation. The Resident didn’t trust
Filth
chenko anymore than he. “This is his first time facing the Americans on their own turf. We’ll find out what he’s made of soon enough.”

“I know we will. That’s why I want you to keep a close eye on him. Personally, take him under your wing and set him up…for success, of course.”

“Of course.” Dmitriyev chuckled. The Resident was already looking for an excuse to rid himself of
Filth
chenko. Nobody wanted Golikov’s people lurking around, and
Filth
chenko would make life miserable and uncomfortable until he left. But no one except Dmitriyev understood Filthchenko had placed himself in a position of weakness, and Dmitriyev held the keys to his inevitable doom.

“You should be ready to leave in an hour. So hurry and get your coffee fix,” his boss said as he headed to toward the door and opened it. “But for God’s sake, please don’t put any vodka in it. You’ll need to be on your toes…just in case.”

Dmitriyev nodded and stared at the door until the latch clicked. His desperation swelled like an eye at the end of a prize fighter’s uppercut. He needed to speak with Agent McCall before he set foot outside the compound. If caught at the operational site, it’d be too late explain his presence there.

He scrambled to his bedroom and scoured through the mass of clothes and shoes boxes from his many outlet excursions covering his closet floor. In one of them, he stored the burn phone Agent McCall told him to throw away after he helped identify the FBI mole’s drop site. He’d use it one last time to warn her of the impending operation then destroy it as originally instructed. His breathing grew frantic as he opened box after box to no avail. After minutes of desperate searching he opened the final pair. He pulled out the left shoe.

Nothing.

He pulled out the right shoe and dug his hand inside.

Nothing.

At once, he collapsed into the floor, covered his face with both hands. Minutes passed and his thoughts fluttered in spastic turns before he pounded his fist into the floor. “Shiiiit!” he cried out.

His recollection in that moment would seal his fate.

He’d given them away. The phone was on the way to Moscow in the hands of a man trained to detect and arrest Russian traitors—Stanislav Vorobyev.

Dmitriyev shuddered. If he discovered the phone, he would waste no time ordering Dmitriyev’s immediate arrest. And based on Golikov’s new world order, there would be no show trial, no 20-year stint in Lefortovo high security prison. After being beaten beyond recognition, he’d be hacked by Mashkov’s blade in the belly of some Russian organized crime safe house outside of Moscow.

It was only a matter of time.

Dmitriyev needed J.J.’s help more than ever. And if she caught him in the act of supporting RAPTURE, he’d never receive it.