Spy Catcher: The J.J. McCall Novels (Books 1-3) (The FBI Espionage Series) (40 page)

Chapter 19

Friday Night—Washington Field Office

Kyle sat back hard in his seat, glanced at the red bricked façade of the National Building Museum across 4
th
Street, and chewed on Greg’s order to hunt down his former protégé. He wondered whether he should recuse himself from the case because his emotions ran so high. Mac was right in warning him. His actions were not subject to reason, but the investigation he needed to conduct must be restricted to reason and law. He drew in a deep breath and clenched his eyes shut until all doubt dissipated.

The time for second-guessing had ended and the time to work had begun. A necessary evil to take Michaels off the street was schooling the rookie.

Hopper Mack.

He'd already shown his proclivity for counterintelligence work when he located the intelligence files and money cache in Jack Sabinski's basement. He was a natural, had the makings of an exceptional agent. Unfortunately, he also had the ego of a kid who might quickly find himself in Duluth taking squirrel bite reports if he didn't reign in the self-righteous attitude. Kyle decided to let Junior cut his teeth on this case. If he survived, he'd help groom him along as Mac had done for him so many years ago. If not, he'd get him transferred to Duluth.   

Kyle stuck his head out the door and scanned the office. “Hey Junior, you out here?” After waiting a few moments with no response, he called out again. “Anyone seen Hopper Mack?”

“Yes, sir,” Hopper replied, running down the hall chewing on half a street dog with a fresh glob of mustard adorning his navy Polo shirt. Cheeks bubbled with beef franks, he mumbled, “Sorry, I was hungry.”

He was always clean-cut and fired-up like a Marine fresh out of boot camp.

“Who ordered you to eat?” Kyle barked, strutting back into his office. “Maybe I should start calling you Grey Poupon instead of Junior.” 

Hopper stood paralyzed, as if confused as to whether Kyle was pulling his leg again. His guesses were usually wrong.

Kyle cast a glance over his shoulder. “What are you gonna do, stand there with your mouth hanging open and let the grass grow under your feet? Get your hungry ass in here. I've got a case for you.”

Hopper dunked the remainder of his lunch into the trash can and slipped into the guest seat before Kyle could sit firmly in his. He sat forward, ready to listen.

“MacDonald requested my help on the Michaels investigations, and I, ahem, need some assistance. You up for it?”

His eyes widened. “Wait. You....picked
me
?”

“You'd prefer me to select someone else?”

“No...no,” he said, shaking his head. “I'm ready to go. How can I help?”

“Our job is to locate Agent Michaels and bring her in,” he said. “You're familiar with the case, right?”

“Yeah, who isn't?”

“So, what are your thoughts? Where's a good place to start?”

Hopper rubbed his face repeatedly, then cleared his throat. “Well, if I'm Lana Michaels, the one thing I want to do more than anything else in the world is get as far away from the United States as possible. I’m going someplace where I won't be extradited, so Mexico and Canada aren’t options.”

“Where would you go?”

He thought for a few seconds and scratched through the scruff on his chin. “Back to Moscow, especially if I was Russian. Maybe France. Any place where there’s no extradition treaty…which means I'll be trying to find some travel documents, a passport in Lana’s case because hers is in evidence.”

“What do you do in the meantime?”

“I’d lie low, except...”

“You’re an attractive, high profile target. Probably have money stashed but not a lot...and law enforcement has blanketed every cheap or seedy hotel east of the Mississippi.”

“Hmmm. I'm gonna find an empty house and break in. But if the neighbors see me they'll call the police. So if I've got any money at all I’ll find a room.”

“Good thinking, Junior,” Kyle said. “You might make a halfway decent agent yet.”

Hopper bowed his head in thanks. “You think she'll try to get to the embassy? If she makes it inside, she'll technically be on foreign soil. There'd be no arrest.”

“No, she won't go there. We've got the embassy covered—Uniformed Secret Service, FBI lookouts, Gs, and agents. She couldn't fart without law enforcement smelling the stink. I don’t doubt the Russians will try to make a drop though.”

“Money?”

“And travel documents. They'd probably try to get her a new identity and book her on the first flight out of here. But the likelihood of her passing through the checkpoint with all this heightened security is pretty much non-existent.”

“She won't cross any borders. The only other way for her to get out of here would be by ship.”

“You think she's going to take a Caribbean cruise?”

Hopper chuckled. “Doubt it, but the Counterterrorism Task Force issued an interesting report a few days ago. Lemme go grab it.”

He dashed out and returned a minute later with a two-page document in hand. “Check this out. What do you think?”

Kyle scanned the page from top to bottom, leaned back against his chair and clasped his fingers behind head. “Hmmmm. Passenger travel on cargo ships. This is interesting. We'll send a lead up to the Baltimore office and ask them to inquire.”

Hopper smiled.

“Don't get beside yourself. She's still on the streets, remember? Why don't you start working on a plan to investigate D.C. boarding rooms.”

“Did Metro Police ever determine which subway station she exited?”

“Do I look like Metro Police to you? You've got a few calls to make. Report back to me when you’ve got facts. First thing tomorrow morning, we hit the streets. I'm going to put a feeler out with some of my informants to see if we can get a lead on the travel docs.”

Kyle grabbed his cell phone, the one he used for his more seedy contacts and scrolled through the numbers; Hopper watched his every move without budging.

“Uhhh… private call, Junior. I’ll holler when I’m done.”

Hopper nodded and disappeared out the door. Kyle pressed the name “D.C.” and pushed his door shut. The phone rang twice before he answered.

“What's up, man?”

“Well, well, well...long time, no speak. Thought you traded in your street clothes for a cushy desk job.”

“I tried,” Kyle said. “But the Bureau’s got me on some
Godfather
shit. Every time I get out, they pull me back in.”

D.C. chuckled. “You a funny motherfucker. What can I do for you, man?”

“I need a favor. I'm sure you've seen reports about this agent on the run.”

“Have I? The streets are hot. A few people wouldn't mind cashing in her location for seven figures.”

“Is that right?”

“Hey, she's a cop. Ain’t no loyalty, even if she did kill a fed.”

“Do me a kindness. If you get word on a white chick trying to cop a passport, I need to be your first call.”

“What's in it for me?”

“The usual, of course.” 

“The usual? Try again. Do you really think my contact won’t suspect I’m asking for five-oh? He’ll charge me triple for that reason alone.”       

“Trust me, you get this done for me and you can name your price, but there’s one catch.”

“Oh, here we go,” D.C. said. “Always a catch with y’all. What is it?”

“I supply the docs and you only sell them with my okay.”             

“What do I care? Same price for me no matter who supplies the docs.”

He glanced up in time to see Hopper’s frame moving closer to his office door.

“I gotta go. Hit me up the minute you get wind of anything,” Kyle said as the phone clicked against the cradle.              

Hopper knocked and Kyle waved him in.

“What’s going on?”

“Metro police just called. Nothing yet on Lana’s location. Maybe early next week.”

Chapter 20

Saturday Morning, November 7th—J.J.’s House

The heaviness of the down comforter surrounded J.J. as she eased out of her restful slumber. The rumbling tones of Tony’s snores jarred her back into an acute state of awareness—the long night behind her…and the long days ahead. While she would like to cover her head and bask in the here and now, between Nixon’s news about the stand-down and the pending visit with Cartwright’s wife, work was determined to yank them back into reality. With that thought, J.J. decided to roll out of bed and get her day started.

“Where do you think you're going?” Tony said, gripping J.J.'s waist as she attempted to slip away unnoticed. He laid a soft kiss into her back and pulled her into his spoon; she loved to sink between the broadness of his shoulders, to feel the warmth of his body against hers. She wanted to him to live inside her. “Don't even think about getting dressed. It's Saturday and we've had a hellish week.”

She turned to face him and planted the softest of kisses on his naturally cherry lips. “As much as I'd like to make this a lazy day, I got a call from Debbie Cartwright yesterday.”

Tony's expression turned serious. He propped himself up on his elbow. “Oh, man. What did she have to say?”

“She's holding a small memorial ceremony today for his family, but she wanted us to stop by afterward. Apparently, Jim left a letter addressed to me.”

“Hmm. Did she say what's in it?”

“I asked,” J.J. said. “But she didn't open it. Told me to stop by her house after the memorial around noon to pick it up. It's already 10:30.”

Tony snuggled his cheek against J.J.'s and gave her a quick peck, then turned to get out of bed. “All right. Hate to do it, but work calls. Maybe he gave you something to help the task force…or an apology.”

“Oh yeah…about the task force,” J.J. began. “I got a call from Nixon last night. Not only have I been barred from Lana’s investigation, Task Force Phantom Hunter is dead in the water…sort of. We’ve been ordered to stand down offensive operations.”

“You’re freakin’ kidding me!” Tony yelled. “What genius came up with that bright idea? I’m sure Freeman’s not responsible.”

“Nope. We can thank the President for this one,” J.J. said, explaining the complexities involved including Lebed’s visit and ongoing CIA operations. “I’m sure Freeman fought the good fight, but you know what they say about the needs of the many…”

“Yeah, they’re ignored whenever the Agency cries source protection,” Tony said with a shrug. “It’s a shame this has become the rule more than the exception.”

J.J. got quiet for a moment, lost in her thoughts, and experienced a bout of guilt over missing Jim’s memorial service. Without realizing it, her thoughts were still torn between her memory of the agent and father she admired and the traitor murdered while meeting his Russian handler. “Jim and I were supposed to meet the morning before he died. He'd planned to tell me something. I had always thought he'd confess, but maybe there's something more.”

“You think?”

She sat up and leaned her back against the headboard then shrugged. “I can’t say. But I always suspected Jim had more intel than he let on. Time will tell, I suppose. The sooner we get over there. The sooner we'll know.”

• • •

Two hours later, J.J. and Tony pulled up in front of Jim Cartwright's house in Burke, Virginia, which sat in a small cul-de-sac lined with perfectly maintained brick-front colonial homes. A slew of cars crowded the streets as they paced up the walkway and approached the entryway. They exchanged mischievous smiles before the door opened.

“May I help you?” a stout matronly woman in a navy suit asked as she eyed them from head to toe.

“Yes, ma'am,” J.J. said. “Mrs. Cartwright, Debbie is expecting us.”

She gave J.J. the side-eye and stepped aside to allow them in. After closing the door behind them, she led them down the hall and said, “Right this way.”

As she weaved through the crowd, J.J. looked for signs of a spy's extravagance, but she found none. His home was quaint, normal. The artwork, though complimentary to their décor, was comprised of simple landscapes one might find in an advanced art class. Not Winslow Homer’s, but nice nonetheless. The furniture had a modern country feel. The size was just large enough for a family of four. Although Jim's car would likely be held in evidence until the unlikely occasion that Lana was caught, an older model minivan parked in the driveway showed signs of wear. They lived modestly. He'd been getting paid by the Russians, but signs of how he spent the money were few and far between.

As they rounded the corner of a small hallway and arrived at the kitchen, J.J. saw Debbie staring into the backyard amidst of what appeared to be a small grouping of close friends or family members, dabbing her eyes with a floral-embroidered handkerchief.

“Deb,” their guide said, calling for her attention. “You have some visitors.”

She turned toward the voice, her eyes red, the bags beneath betraying her sleepless nights. She attempted a slight smile. “J.J., Tony. Thank you for coming.”

She excused herself and they exchanged hugs before she took them to the bedroom.

“Follow me,” she said. “It's back here.”

She entered the room and reached out for a jewelry box sitting on top of a dresser. She pulled out the bottom drawer and slipped the letter out from beneath a small pile of papers. “Here you are,” she said, placing the envelope in J.J.'s hand.

J.J. observed the handwriting which appeared to be Jim's penmanship. “With the ongoing investigation, I’m not certain whether I can share the contents with you, Debbie.”

Debbie shook her head. “Please, don't worry. Given what’s happened, that’s probably for the best.”

J.J. stepped beside Tony, opened the envelope, and unfolded the paper inside. The short letter began:

Dear J.J.

I hoped you wouldn’t need this letter, but wrote it in case you did.

As you probably know by now, Lana Michaels is an agent of the Russian Intelligence Service, an illegal. I helped her obtain her position in the FBI and, when asked, I've supported other tasks. It is because of that work that I can leave this letter to you.

Lana is part of a network of moles who not only provide classified information but directly support Russian intelligence operations. Each operates a cutout, code named Bumazhnaya Kuklas—Paper Doll—who serve as go-between to make drops and pass materials. Chris Johnson was Lana’s paper doll. Find the paper dolls and you’ll find the spies.

Lana didn’t make many mistakes, but allowing her ego to run her  and her mouth was one that might have given us a window into her operations. She showed up at my office one day, drunk on Stoli, bragging about how she’d made her father proud with the success of her network. I recorded it on my iPhone. The following is a    translation: “American arrogance astonishes me. So smug that you cannot see the thief who waves hello with one hand while picking your pocket with the other. We have eyes and ears everywhere. We moved from Foggy Bottom to 1600 without raising an eyebrow. We harvested gold from your farms, marched soldiers on ground zero, and took the cores right from under Liberty’s skirt, and you Americans remain mesmerized by the friendly hand.”

Her meaning will be as apparent to you as it is to me. She obviously wanted me to know the severity of the breaches, to know how badly her service was sticking it to us. Perhaps she believed we’d figured it out too late. I don’t know.  

Of all the agents I’ve worked with, I left this to you. She despised you because you were never mesmerized by the friendly hand. She’s cold-blooded and dangerous, J.J. And she won’t hesitate to kill you or anyone who gets in her way.

Don't ever forget what I told you. Sometimes to get the King, you have to sacrifice the pawn. But you are the queen—the most powerful piece in the game.

The Bureau owes you a debt of gratitude for your service and so do I.

Your friend,

Jim Cartwright    

Tears watered J.J.'s eyes as she read his closing salutation.
Friend.
Tony placed his arm on her shoulder and pulled her close to him in a brief embrace. She glanced at his widow and forced a smile.

“Whatever happened, Debbie, remember that in his heart of hearts, he was an honorable man and a good father.”

“I know,” Debbie said. “I only wish that he knew that, too.”

J.J. hung her head as the matronly woman again called Debbie to greet more guests.

“I should return to my guests,” she said. “If you two will please see yourselves out, I've got to muddle through the next few hours.”

They nodded and made their way through the crowds and out the door.

J.J. stopped short of stepping down the porch steps and took a seat on the landing. She opened the letter and read Lana’s passage again. “Foggy Bottom—State Department. 1600—.”

“That’s easy. The White House,” Tony said sitting beside J.J. and peering over her shoulder.”

“Gold from your farms?” J.J. said. “Hmmm.”

Tony thought for a second and snapped his fingers. “Gotta be CIA. The Farm.”

J.J. closed her eyes and said, “Cores from Liberty’s skirt. I don’t know about the cores, but Liberty’s skirt means what? The liberty bell? Statue of Liberty? An operation based in New York or Philly?” 

“Maybe two operations in New York. Ground Zero’s got to be the World Trade Center.”

J.J. shook her head. “Hmm. Probably so. But a little-known fact is Ground Zero’s also a Cold War reference to the Pentagon. So it may be right across the river.”

Tony propped his elbows on his knees and dragged his fingers through his hair in exasperation. “What the fuck have we gotten ourselves into? An entire network of Paper Dolls and illegals?” 

“Appears so…and other than Lana’s cryptic drunken confessions, hardly a clue about who they are or how to find them.”

• • •

Saturday Morning, November 7th – Surveillance Detail

“I can't believe those jack offs drove us in circles again today!” Jiggy said to Jazz as he slipped his classic Raybans into the breast pocket of his black leather biker jacket. He removed his toboggan, revealing the smoothness of his bald head. Jazz and he could pass for brothers except for a couple inches in height in Jazz’s favor and a slightly darker complexion. They complained as they walked to the Special Surveillance Group Command Center, based inside an old warehouse near a seedy industrial district off of New York Avenue in D.C.

“This is the third day in the row, and Filchenko is proving to be one slick son of a bitch. Another forty-five minutes at Potbelly’s, down to the millisecond. He's barely been in the United States long enough to inhale and he's already establishing cover stops and performing surveillance detection runs. You know they’re screwing with us.”

After being jerked around for three days, they decided to seek guidance from the most senior member of their team. Jiggy followed Jazz through the large steel double-door entrance of the bland white structure and they paced down a narrow hall leading to the offices. The walls were papered with security posters depicting convicted spies like Hanssen, Ames, and Walker in shackles. They were not-so-subtle hints to stay on the right side of the law and a reminder of why their work was so critical to the FBI. 

To the right of the main area, a separate enclosure with 30-foot ceilings housed the Gs mechanic shop. It was visible through a large picture window. Five cars hung in the air on lifts while those awaiting service were lined up as far as the eye could see. Most were specially equipped with tracking devices, kill switches, specialized headlight controls, and supped up engines to ensure they revved up and ready when they conducted evasive or defensive maneuvers while trailing their targets during surveillance runs.

On the office side, partitions filled the area where the Gs desk-hopped to draft reports at the ends of their shifts. Jazz and Jiggy scanned each one apologizing for interrupting their colleagues who were deep in concentration. Jiggy knew Money T and Cham had to be around the base somewhere. Money T had much more experience in Russian operations than either he or Jazz. They hoped he could offer some explanation or objective opinion on how to handle recent events.

As he turned the corner and headed toward the back of the room, he noticed the top of Money's head poking up from behind Cham's workspace wall.

“Hey!” Jiggy called out.

Money peered out and smiled, the pricey haircut and signature gold teeth, two in the front, that earned him his moniker (short for Money Teeth). They glimmered against the halogen light on his desk. “Thought you two were on duty this afternoon.”

“We had the first shift this morning. Look, we need to talk to you about something. You got a minute?”

“Yeah. Step into my office,” Money said as he led them into an empty conference room and closed the door behind them. After taking their seats, he leaned his chair back and clasped his hands behind his head. “What's going on?”

“It's the Russians,” Jazz said.

“Putin? Medvedev? Mind being a little more specific?” Money asked.

“It's Lana’s father and this new guy, Filchenko,” Jiggy inserted. “They leave the embassy compound at the same time every day; hit a couple of cover stops; and then head back to the compound. At first I thought maybe Filchenko was just attempting to get acclimated to the area, but this is starting to set my teeth on edge, especially with Daddy Dearest involved. You had an experience like this before?”