Spy Catcher: The J.J. McCall Novels (Books 1-3) (The FBI Espionage Series) (62 page)

Chapter 62

Monday Morning, November 16th – FBI Headquarters

“Are you okay, Director Freeman?” J.J. had nearly talked herself hoarse as she conveyed to Director Freeman the events of the past week. He appeared pleased, but unwell somehow. America’s Most Wanted was dead, and a covert black ops manhunt was in full gear to find that piece of shit traitor Hawk—Gary Mosin. Task Force Phantom Hunter had cut off the head and the tail. Now, it was time to target the heart, the source of the money—Troika Technologies. Once the New York office took the Mashkov organization down, it would be only a matter of time before the entire network imploded.

He gripped his left arm and shoulder. “I’m fine. Think I strained myself lifting weights yesterday. I’ve got an appointment to get it checked out after my meetings this morning.”

She sighed with relief and stood to leave. “Well, we can wrap this up then. I think we’ve hit all the high points.”

“You have,” he said. “But I have not. Have a seat.”

“What’s going on?” she asked, returning her butt to the chair.

“I want you, Donato, and the rest of the task force—save one—in New York. I’ve already cleared it with the SAC and the DNI. They’re expecting you Friday. Nobody knows how this network operates better than you. You have the lead on the investigation—New York is supporting.”

J.J. lurched forward in her seat. “But, sir, Tony can’t…you know his history. If he goes to New York, he may not make it back to Washington, at least not alive. I can’t risk putting him in harm’s way, not for this case.” She thought to herself, not for any case.

“The threat is legitimate?”

“Oh, it doesn’t get much more real than this.”

He sat back in his seat, rubbed his temples, then leaned forward on the desk, again. “Okay,” he said. “The rest of you should take a couple days off and then get ready to go.”

“But, sir, you said, ‘save one,’” J.J. said. “Who isn’t authorized to go?”

“Grayson. He’s one of the best exfil experts in the CIA, and he developed some very critical contacts during his last tour. We need them. So, we’re sending him to Moscow to help get Stanislav Vorobyev back to the United States.”

J.J. felt a conflicting sense of relief and consternation. She wouldn’t trust Vorobyev’s impending exfiltration to anyone more than him, but going to New York without Tony or Six was like Princess Leia without Luke and Hans Solo. She’d be stuck with…C3PO and R2D2.  

“So, it’s just me, Gia, and Walter?” she said. “No offense, sir, but they’re not exactly top cover.”

“FBI New York is 2,000 strong. You’ll have plenty of support,” he said. “Now, if that will be all. I’m going to get myself to the doctor and get this arm checked out.”

J.J. hesitated for a moment. For the first time she was alone, without Tony or anyone. And she wanted to ask him about her mother’s case. He was in a position to get her all the information she needed.

“Is there something else, Agent McCall?”

“Well…no,” she said as she stood to leave. She turned toward the door and suddenly found the courage to ask. “On second thought, sir…”

When she turned to face him, Director Freeman was slumped over his desk, clasping his chest, barely breathing. “Director Freeman?!”

Her mind blanked. She couldn’t think. Her every action was driven by autopilot. She rushed to him and pressed two fingers against his throat to check for his pulse. “Mrs. Whitehouse!” she yelled. “Call 9-1-1!”

She stretched him out on the floor. He was still breathing…but barely. She couldn’t do CPR, not unless his heart stopped. There was nothing for her to do but tilt his head to ensure he could breathe and wait in desperation. She grabbed his hand and held it tightly. “Help is on the way, Director. Help is on the way.”

“Listen…
Nixon
,” he struggled to say in a barely audible whisper. “Be….caref….”

Fear washed over her as the Headquarters nurse burst through the door and ordered her to stand back. “Nixon?” she called out from the distance. “I don’t understand…what—” she began as emergency personnel whisked in.

As they wheeled him out on the gurney, he reached out for her hand.

“Tell his wife to meet us at the George Washington University Hospital emergency room. I’m riding in the ambulance,” J.J. called back to his secretary.

In the midst of the flurry of thoughts flittering through her mind on the way to the hospital, she wondered why Freeman warned her about Nixon. He headed the good-ole-boys club that counted Jack Sabinski as a member, but J.J. had never taken him for a racist. His problem was something else she couldn’t quite put her finger on. One thing was certain: Freeman’s illness had thrown one more monkey wrench in her ability to operate freely in New York.

She didn’t know what Nixon had against her, but whatever it was she felt certain he would make her life at the FBI impossible until Freeman returned to office—or she found out what the problem was.

Chapter 63

Monday Afternoon—The Russian Embassy

Aleksey was stunned by the turn of events. Never expected for even a moment that Svetlana would be killed, even though he hoped like hell that she’d get caught. But he felt no guilt. None whatsoever. The hardest part for Dmitriyev was pretending as if he cared.

Continuous film loops of the crime scene replayed on every news channel at least twice hourly to fill the otherwise slow news day. He was thankful the Resident shut down most operations to give the residency time to mourn their fallen. He strode down the hall to Lana’s father’s office and found him glaring at the television screen with cracked bloodshot eyes and a steely, empty glare. His usually pale face was sullen and plum with a dangerous mix of anger, frustration, and grief for his lost joy.

Aleksey struggled to find words of comfort and solace, something that lacked the typical trite expressions of sympathy. Mikhaylov’s pain was one he hoped never to experience in this lifetime or any other. “Brother,” he said. “I have no words. I’m here for whatever you need.”

He bowed his head in appreciation and gestured for Aleksey to fill the empty chair in front of his desk. Aleksey obliged.

“She was so young. Had her entire life to live for. All wasted.” He tried to keep his voice from cracking but failed. Then he turned sharply toward Aleksey and though clenched teeth declared, “She will not die in vain. But the son of a bitch who did this will.”

“I don’t understand,” Aleksey said. “You know the identity of her killer?”

He reached into his desk and pulled out thin stack of papers and then pushed them across the desk toward Dmitriyev. Told him they were copies of documents Lana had found to finger the mobster responsible. “She sent these to me only days ago. Told me if anything happened, I should find him. He would have answers. The news reports may indicate his identity is unknown, but I know where he is, and I know where to find him.”

“So, what will you do?”

“Golikov’s men have already returned to New York. Mashkov’s people are already searching the streets. They will find him…and they will kill him. For me. And for my Solnyshko.”

Aleksey was taken aback. He had no idea Mashkov, Golikov’s most sadistic and vicious henchman, was connected in the United States, let alone New York City. He had a gnawing feeling that if the matter was handled sloppily—as Russian organized crime usually handled such matters—the fallout would compromise the residency. But attempting to reason with Lana’s father while he was in this torrid emotional state was pointless. He’d avenge the death of his only child, no matter what. Unfortunately, he didn’t realize he’d also just sold his soul to the devil. 

“I will leave you to your thoughts, but if you need anything at all. I’m here. We’re all here,” Dmitriyev said.

Mikhaylov’s cheeks trembled as he fought back the tears. He couldn’t choke out a thank you. Only managed another nod in appreciation.

As Aleksey stood to leave, a streak in the hall blasted by him as the sound of heavy footsteps pounded toward the residency leadership offices. He stuck his head out of the door and saw the panicked figure burst inside the Resident’s door.

It was Gusin. The Resident had authorized him to monitor RAPTURE before the self-imposed operational stand down. He figured Svetlana’s death would be briefed at the highest levels and wanted to find out what the Americans knew…and didn’t know.

What he gleaned must’ve been significant.

Aleksey lingered in the hall, until the Resident’s door flung open moments later. The Resident tromped into the hall pointing out officer after officer—all leadership. Aleksey called for Lana’s father and followed Gusin and Komarov downstairs to the basement meeting room. Once everyone was seated, the Resident addressed the captive audience.

“Comrade Gusin has collected some valuable information this morning,” he said. “According to our unwitting sources at the highest level of the American government, that traitorous, backstabbing, pig Stanislav Vorobyev…is dead. Piece of shit had a heart attack.”

Several loud gasps erupted around the table before a moment of stunned silence. Once the news settled in the room, everyone exploded in cheers. They celebrated his death like New Year’s Day or Christmas. Vorobyev had betrayed his country and he would betray no more.

Dmitriyev’s mouth fell open and he squeezed his eyes shut before he regained enough awareness to join in the cheers with his comrades. Anything less would signal his guilt. But his heart hurt for Vorobyev’s family. He couldn’t help but feel responsible. Absent the chain of events that led to his interrogation, his friend would never have reached a level of desperation that would induce him to betray his beloved Russia. He died a victim of circumstance, one of both his and Dmitriyev’s making.

Aleksey forced a fake, hearty laugh. “Serves him right. It’s too bad the Government will have to waste taxpayer dollars to throw his decomposing body face down in a shallow grave.”

The Resident shook his head no. “He is an American problem now. Let the American taxpayers waste resources to bury a man who was too dead to deliver the goods. What do we care?”

In that instant, Aleksey had learned one thing that tempered his solemn mood. First, Stan’s body was still in American custody. Second, the FBI knew about the bug and would only share information they wanted Russian intelligence to hear. That meant this story about Vorobyev was probably a fabrication aimed at misinforming Moscow.

He reached into the small liquor cabinet. The occasion called for a bottle of single-malt scotch—Oban. He poured a cup two fingers high and then held his cup high in the air. “This moment calls for a toast. To our fallen comrade, Stanislav Vorobyev,” he said facetiously. “May his soul find a home exactly where it belongs!”

Chapter 64

‘We gain strength, and courage, and confidence by each experience in which we really stop to look fear in the face . . . we must do that which we think we cannot.” —
Eleanor Roosevelt

Monday Night—J.J.’s Condo

J.J. stared out the window and basked in the quiet of the stolen moment. She and Tony had been running at 200 miles per hour since the Sit Room case began. There’d been little time for anything other than investigating. But after Director Freeman’s heart attack, after spending five hours in the waiting room with Rayna Freeman, after watching her stew in worry while the fate of her husband’s life hung in the balance, J.J. found the time to remember love. The not-so-subtle reminder jolted her, shifted her focus to what was really important in life. Reminded her that nothing, no case, no investigation, no spy was more important than her health and happiness, further steeling her resolve to stay off the bottle and shifting her evermore close to quitting. She’d reaffirmed that her life was finally moving in the right direction, with Tony beside her, around her, behind her, in and outside her.

Yet, still she eyed the letter from Jim Cartwright—work was never far away…

“Two spies down and three more to go,” J.J. said, sunken into her couch with her feet kicked up on the coffee table. “I’m really worried about Nixon being in charge until Freeman gets back on his feet. The director warned me for a reason. Something hinky’s going on there.”

“I agree. Somethin’ definitely ain’t right there. But I don’t want you to worry your pretty brown head about anything. I have people who hurt people for me,” he said. “Besides, when you take down the financial network, I’ve got a feeling this investigation’s gonna be all downhill from there.”

“I was thinking about calling Director Freeman to tell him to allow the New York office to take over the investigation. I can’t do anything they can’t do. And they know the streets better than I do.”

“You’re not fooling me. You just don’t want to leave me behind,” Tony said. “But you and I both know you’d go nuts sitting back here on the sidelines. They may know the streets, but nobody understands how the Russians operate better than you.”

J.J. let out a long sigh, set the letter on the table, and grabbed Tony’s hand. “You’re right. I know you’re right. Curse me and my work ethic,” she said. “You gonna miss me while gone?”

Tony wrapped her in the comfort of his arms for the first time in too long. “You know it, my little Hershey bar,” he answered. “Wish I could go with you, babe. But you can call me anytime. If I can’t help you, I know people who can.”

“What if I need some
personal
servicing?” J.J. asked. “You gonna send someone for that, too?”

“Oh yeah, right after I kill ‘em,” Tony joked.

J.J. chuckled and then her expression turned serious.

“About Gia,” she began, her voice exposing her vulnerability. “It’s just been a long time since I’ve allowed anyone to get close to me, and I’m not going to lie, it scares the shit out of me. But I’m beginning to realize I’d rather live with the fear, than live without you.”

Tony turned to J.J. and locked his eyes on hers. “You have nothing to worry about. Ever.”

J.J. smiled and stroked his face. “I know, my sweet Antonio,” she said with a wry smile. “because your little girlfriend Gia’s going to New York with me where I can keep an eye on her bony ass!”

They dissolved into laughter before Tony added, “And two-and-a-half will be in Moscow.”

“What’s the half for?” J.J. laughed, wiping giggle tears from the corners of her eyes.

“Because he’s a half-brain, half-wit.”

J.J. kissed him. “And not even half the man to me that you are.”

“Is that right?” Tony said in his sexy tone. “Well, the lower half of me really wants to get into the lower half of you.”

He wrapped her up in a passionate kiss, when his cell phone rang. He let it go to voicemail and it rang again. And again.

He pulled away from J.J., exhaled in frustration, and glanced at the caller ID. “It’s a Jersey number. Lemme get this.” He picked up the phone and swiped his finger across the screen. “Santino? Why are you calling me?”

He listened for a moment and bolted upright in the bed. J.J. watched his face transform, his ears reddened, and his voice quivered. “What the fuck happened? Is he okay?”

Tony kicked his feet over the edge of the bed and sat up, leaning forward on his knees. He scraped his fingers across his scalp. J.J. sat next to him and rubbed his back whispering, “Is everything okay?”

“Son of a bitch! Cocksuckers!” He gave her the hand and scooted himself away to give himself some space. She could hear the frantic voice rattling off of some story that sent Tony into a tailspin.

“No, no. I’ll call my mother and get Uncle Paulie to drive her to the city tomorrow,” he said. “Lemme make a few calls and I’ll get back to you later.”

He hung up and took a deep breath.

“It’s my brother, Dante,” Tony said. “He’s been shot. Twice. In the back. He’s in bad shape. They don’t think he’s gonna make it.”

J.J. gasped and covered her mouth in shock. “What…how did …who did it?”

“Word on the street is that it was a Russian group. Dante and Santino were meeting in Brooklyn, and they hit Dante by mistake. They look more like brothers than Dante and I do.”

“W-w-why would they want to hit Santino?” J.J. asked. “You don’t think it’s revenge for Lana, do you?”

Tony nodded. “That’s exactly what I think…and everybody thinks. The group is linked with Mashkov. And we know something my family doesn’t—that Mashkov has direct ties to Russian intelligence…and that her father is probably the one who ordered the hit.”

In an instant J.J. was deflated. She felt like a truck tire with a slow leak. She hated to see the hurt on Tony’s face and only wanted to make it go away. “What can I do to help?”

“Understand that what I’m about to say is not up for debate, J.J.,” he said. “I’m going to New York. This is my family…and the enemy is bigger than me now.”

“At least you hope so.” How could J.J. argue with that? Especially after what she’d gone through with her own father when Lana had only
threatened
to kill him. Tony’s brother lay in the hospital dying. She couldn’t expect Tony to listen to reason or act within it.

“I’m afraid if we don’t’ find a way to bring calm to this situation, my family is going to war. A lot of bloodshed.”

“I understand, Tony,” J.J. said. “But I don’t want a drop of it to be yours.”

“Then just be there for me.”

“You never have to worry, Tony,” J.J. said. She grabbed his hand and kissed his palm. “I’ll always have your back.”

J.J.’s mind whirred in confusion and despair. Her entire world shifted in a matter of seconds. Instead of going to New York to shut down the financial source of an Illegal’s network, she was potentially putting herself in an all-out war between the Russian and Italian organized crime. The moment felt surreal and out of control, just like the potential for calamity if a tit-for-tat grudge match played out on the streets.

If she couldn’t find a way to de-escalate the situation, she stood to lose something a lot more important to her life than her case.