Spy Catcher: The J.J. McCall Novels (Books 1-3) (The FBI Espionage Series) (74 page)

Chapter 20

Friday Night — Moscow Safe House

Six’s gaze clouded; he turned away to collect his thoughts. Based on the noise erupting from inside the safe house, Ghost had definitely caught Mosin. The question troubling Six’s mind was why he tried to prevent Six from going inside. If you put a Marine and a detained enemy of the state in the same room, two things were certain: one person was going to wind up tortured — and it wouldn’t be the Marine.

Ghost just stood in silence staring back Six like a stump. “I’ll ask again, what did you do to him? You promised me seven days.”

“Listen, Six,” Ghost began, “I convinced my team to bring him in. My methods may have put you in a bind but, in all honesty, I don’t give a shit. It’s not my job to worry about your binds; it was my responsibility as a patriot to kill the belligerent son of a bitch, but I kept him alive for you. I’ve spent some time with him, and I’m telling you if you want to complete your mission, you better get okay with what’s going on in there damn fast. Report this and he disappears along with any hope of finding the intelligence.”

Six took a deep breath to center his thoughts and pushed past Ghost, bumping him at the shoulder and daring him to speak a word. He thundered into the room and zeroed on a sight that sent shivers through him like Moscow’s frostbitten winter wind. He audibly gasped. He turned to Ghost horror stricken.

Ragged and lethargic, Mosin had been stripped down to his tidy whities. His entire body shook in endless trembles. His hairy arms were strapped to wooden kitchen chair arms from wrist to elbow. A soiled white cloth, stained with the fresh blood dripping down the blackened skin around his eyes and nose, gagged his mouth. He struggled to sip air through his mouth causing him to snort through his nostrils. At the sound of footsteps moving closer, his head bobbled and he struggled to lift it before growing tired and locking his weary eyes on his detainers. Six searched for life in his eyes but found little.

As Mosin chattered, he drew enough energy to grunt and direct Six’s glare his to his hands. Needles protruded from beneath all ten fingernails, and his feet were bound at the ankle and immersed in ice water almost halfway up his calf. He was free to remove them, but two large steel buckets containing hot coals sat on either side. Burn or be frostbitten, there was no in between. Resting on the floor was stage two – a sledgehammer and a pair of pliers with red rubber grips.

“This?” Six whispered, staring at Mosin’s gagged face. He wanted to say more, but the words lodged in his throat. No sound would come, except “Jesus H. Christ!” He covered his mouth and turned to Ghost, who was now standing next to him. “Let’s step outside for a sec.”

Six paced to the door with the crazy Marine in tow. He was no stranger to interrogations. He’d led a few harsh ones himself, and he knew a lot of guys he worked with could turn away with zero guilt and forget. Whatever bravado he masked himself with from day-to-day, his sense of right had cut him from a different cloth. Even if naturalized, Mosin was still an American—and there were laws and rules and an Intelligence Oversight Committee Chairman itching to drag the director through the mud once the report came out. And he’d have to write one at some point—to account for finding Mosin and the intel, if they found it.

It was Day 1. If he could stop it now—he’d have to nothing to say. But Ghost was ornery with a head of granite, and he’d set his strategy. Six put on his armor and decided to go head-to-head, Goliath to Goliath. While Ghost may not respond to reason, he would have to respect moxie. Six strode out into the cold and stepped aside as Ghost followed and closed the door.

Six stood in silence and stared down at Ghost in outrage. “This is step ten, not step one! You gave me seven days.”

Ghost’s eyes shrunk to slits, and his nostrils flared. “Don’t you look at me with your self-righteous indignation. Inside here,” he pointed at the door, “this is my world! He’s an enemy of the state. By my calculation, you only have six more days to find the intel before you and your high ideals return stateside and this motherfucker’s dead,” Ghost said. “How did you think this worked, huh? What’d you want me to do, hug him? Invite him in for a cup of tea and ask him play nice and tell us where the fuck the President’s information is? Because if that’s what you believed you picked the wrong goddamn Marine.”

“Outside here is my world,” Six said, pointing to the floor. “He’s still a goddamn U.S. citizen and he’s got the right to be charged and tried. This is torture—and out here … you and me? We die in prison for shit like this.”

“You listen to me, Son. We’re at war, and the war ain’t out here. It’s in there. You ain’t no preacher in a pulpit. You ain’t no butcher, baker or candlestick maker. You are a C-I-A Counterintelligence Officer.” He jutted his accusatory finger toward Mosin. “And that son of a bitch has committed treason against your country. And my country. The one we took an oath to protect, the one we put our lives on the front lines to fight for every goddamned day. We’re at war, son. This shit isn’t James Bond fun and games; it’s war.

“You have a job and a responsibility and a right by the very oath that brought your sorry ass to Moscow to return the intel to our President, our Commander in Chief, and ensure this asshole doesn’t find his way to the welcoming arms of the FSB. You have a duty to make this son of a bitch pay for his treachery—with his life. And if you’re not here to do your job, the least you can do is stand the fuck out of the way and quit giving me shit while I do mine. Capiche?”

Treason. Oath. Responsibility. War. Every word Ghost spoke resonated like a sword to his armor of reason, slicing every shred to pieces. More than Mosin, Six loathed Ghost Man at that moment, hated him for the truth he’d spoken. Detested him for reminding him of one simple truth: while he might not fight the enemy over battle lines, every day he went to war for his country, to keep it safe from harm from enemies foreign and domestic—and Mosin was both. Six had never lost a battle, and he hadn’t planned to start now.

Six carved his fingers through his hair, rubbed his neck and exhaled a long breath, the warmth fogging in the cold air. He didn’t say a word, just walked back inside and took a seat in front of the interrogation area. Ghost stood next to him and crossed his arms over his chest.

“So, what now?” Ghost asked.

“Remove his gag,” Six said, avoiding Ghost’s gaze at all costs.

“I’m warning you; he’s a real piece of work,” Ghost said, his steps thundering toward Mosin’s seat. He pushed Mosin’s head forward to untie the gag at the back and removed his feet from the bucket and into a dry towel. “If he’d been the slightest bit cooperative do you think he would be sitting here like this? No, I’d be out locating the intel.”

With the rag in Ghost’s hand, Mosin stretched his lips and glared at Six as if
he
was the one under interrogation. His glower confirmed what Ghost had said.

“Listen, Hawk is it?” Six asked, waiting for a response. Hawk was the name they called Mosin when he worked in the White House. He took the name of a bird of prey—seemed fitting. Mosin stared at him with unyielding, empty eyes.

“I think you understand that there’s two ways out of here—both are life sentences; however, one will sting a lot more than the other. The faster you confess your sins, the faster you get water, food, and a one-way ticket to justice. So, are you ready to talk?”

Hawk’s lips quivered as he struggled to speak, and his words staggered. “I will get out of here…and I will cut the hearts … from the bodies of … everyone …you love …and fry them…and serve them to you … for breakfast … including that whore…FBI agent…J.J. M-M-McCall.”

Six snapped at the sound of her name spewing from his mouth like poison. Six didn’t know how his hand locked tight around Mosin’s neck. Or when his face turned blue. He just bared his teeth and snarled, “Not if I eat yours first.”

Then Six released him and revealed tight smile. He turned to Ghost Man and said, “Well, two things are for certain.”

“What’s that?” Ghost Man replied.

“First, we’re going to need to find another way to find the intel.”

“And two?”

“With that mouth, he’s without question a Russian,” Six said. “Did you find anything with him?”

“Yeah, his clothes and a duffle bag are in the closet by the front door. Nothing in there but some clothes, travel documents, and a book.”

A book?

Ghost grabbed the bag from the closet and riffled through his belongings. Travel documents. His wallet. A receipt from a tattoo parlor. A hotel claim check. A prescription. And a book wrapped in a Fruit of the Loom T-shirt with a rubber band stretched along the outside. He removed the shirt to view the title.

The Commandant’s Daughter
.

Odd. They’d found the same title at the home of Lana Michaels, the sleeper agent posing as an FBI agent at headquarters. It contained the numbers for her illicit accounts.

Six unwrapped the book and found it—a possible answer to their problem.

The book wasn’t a book at all. He’d crafted the cover to appear genuine, even the pages flipped. But inside, he’d carved a space large enough to secure what appeared to be a ten-inch Netbook.

“Bingo!” Six muttered aloud. Ghost was at his side seconds later. He lifted the lid and hit the power button. “I’ll be taking this with me.”

He grabbed his coat and headed toward the door.

“What do you want me to do about our friend here?” Ghost asked.

Six glared at Mosin, turned his back, and walked out the door to the sound of Mosin’s muffled screams.

Chapter 21

Friday Evening — New York City

With the wiretap request tanked, and nothing left but a skittish confidential informant remaining their last immediate hope for penetrating Troika, the team headed to Brooklyn for a discussion with the mystery man. The single human source with a connection on the inside of Troika Technologies. The only one with direct access to the accountant.

Right now, he was their biggest—and sole hope.

Without him, the chances of shutting down the financial hub before their ten-day deadline, which was now seven days away, was slim and none.

J.J., Tony, and Gia piled into a black government-issued SUV, and Manny took the wheel with Gia riding shotgun. Seated in the back seat beside Tony, J.J. stared out of the window knowing the interview was a long shot. Scott and Manny pressed her to understand their informant was scared shitless with good reason. If the Russians would pick a fight with one of the most powerful crime families in the country, shooting the son of a boss, they’d think little of smashing this CI like a twice-boiled potato. She ran through each question in her mind, designing each to find out whether the CI was a liar and what kind of liar he was. There were degrees.

They pulled up to an apartment building on the edge of Brooklyn, not far from Emmons Street on Sheepshead Bay’s main drag. Manny told them that in the Sheepshead area, Russian gangsters guzzled vodka, clubbed until dawn, and extorted local businessmen for protection money while their wannabe-brigades patrolled the stoops keeping trouble close and their enemies in line. The meet took place at a safe house. The informant was so paranoid he’d refused to be seen on the streets, at his home, where he worked, anywhere without security access. So the Bureau rented a dive safe house, which doubled as a lookout post. There, the Bureau could eyeball the streets for shady Russian characters wandering in and out. The most dangerous bad guys concocted schemes from indoors, but when they came outside to play, they played hard, and in full view of the FBI.

When they buzzed inside and entered the apartment, J.J. and Gia followed Manny inside; Tony paced a step behind. Her eyes locked on a bubble-headed man sitting with his back facing the front door. The greasy dark hair with limp curls looked familiar to her, and his voice strummed an odd pitchy chord she’d recognized. She’d definitely heard it before. Her eyebrow furrowed as she elbowed Tony and glanced at him. When Tony’s face reflected her thoughts, she knew his identity, the way you know milk is bad. Everything around them soured.

Manny announced, “We’re here,” and the slug turned to face them, confirming her suspicions.

“Misha?” Tony and J.J. yelled in unison.

“Oh shit!” Misha snapped his head toward Scott. He jumped up and backed toward the nearest wall like a trapped rat. “You didn’t tell me they were Washington agents.”

“What the fuck’s goin’ on here?” Manny said.

“Wait, wait. You know this guy?” Scott’s eyes volleyed between the three until locking in a scowl on Misha’s duplicitous mug.

Gia stood frozen like a stump; she had no idea what to do.

Misha’s eyes grew saucer wide, and his jaw slammed into his lap.

“So
this
is where you disappeared to. Couldn’t fucking stop while you were behind, could you?” Tony asked. He and J.J. stormed over and snatched him onto the couch. He sat dead center, and they took up seats on either side. His breathing sped up, and he gulped hard. His lip quivered as much as his hands as he leaned forward to stand. “I gotta go to the bathroom.”

J.J. and Tony grabbed him by each shoulder and pressed him deep into the cushion. “Hold it!” Tony barked.

“Don’t you know agents are like brothers and sisters, Misha,” she said. “You’ve been playing my family for fools again. I warned you. The last time was the last time.” J.J. shifted her gaze to Manny. She refused to acknowledge Scott any more than she had to. “He’s a fraud. They call him the Magic CI. Been bilking the Bureau out of thousands of dollars for years, selling half-accurate intel. New identity for every field office. Seattle, San Francisco, Miami, D.C., and now New York.”

“Yeah, now you understand why he insists on all the security,” Tony added in. “He’s not paranoid or even conscientious. He’s afraid to get caught. What name’s he going by today?”

“Vanya,” Manny replied.

“Fucking douche bag. Wastin’ our time.” The revelation threw Scott for a loop. The confusion took him off his game, left him looking to J.J. and Tony for answers he didn’t have.

“Misha, you’ve gotten yourself in a real pickle. These New York agents, they have anger issues.” J.J. looked at Scott until her eyes met his. She shifted hers toward the second exit from the room, the window. Scott looked over his shoulder. She hoped he got the hint. “What kind of tail-chasing bullshit have you been feeding to my brothers here, Misha? Tell me so I can calculate how many charges I can tack on to your
existing
obstruction warrant. Feeding false information to an agent during a federal investigation?”

Scott grunted and growled and snatched Misha up like a rag doll, dragged him to the window and pressed Misha’s face against it until his neck almost bent backward. “What games are you playing? Spit it out or I swear to God I’ll bury you so far down, the Earth’s core will burn a hole in your ass.”

“L-l-l-l-listen,” he stammered. “You…you got this all wrong. I never bilked the Bureau outta anything. I love you guys... I’m not playing games.”

“I dunno, Misha…or Vanya…or whatever the hell you’re going by,” Tony said. “Cough up some information of value or you’re not gonna make it. That’s a long drop. Scott doesn’t look happy, and I’m not gonna stop him.”

“Me either,” J.J. added.

Misha laughed. “He’s not gonna throw me out the window.”

“You’re right,” Scott said, snatching his gun from his holster and pressing the barrel against his head. “But I will shoot you. And, as I look around the room, I don’t see any witnesses.”

Each one mumbled. “Nope…no witnesses here.”

Then J.J. stood next to him. “No, no, Scott. I can’t let you do this. Tarnish an honorable career on this piece of shit? No, we can book him today, and he’s doing five years minimum in federal prison,” she locked eyes with Misha. “Should be a fun bid when we put him in a cell surrounded by Bonannos and tell them you’re the Russian responsible for trying to clip the boss’s son. You’ll be shanked before the number dries on your jumpsuit.”

“That’s a lie!”

“One good lie deserves another…wouldn’t you say?” She signaled Scott to release him, and he sunk to the ground. “Get up!”

Misha scrambled to his feet, breathing hard as he looked into her eye. “J.J., you and me we go way back. Don’t do this. I swear. I can explain.”

J.J. pursed her lips. “No, you didn’t play the ‘we go way back’ card. You’ve got two minutes. Start ‘splaining.”

Yes, their relationship went way back but not to any place she wanted to go. Misha befriended a number of intel personnel from the Washington Residency. He helped her spot and assess Kostya Belikov, her first recruitment target. She considered Misha a reliable source until he disappeared, and Kostya was recalled to the Center out of the blue. While she’d always attributed his compromise to the ICE Phantom, now known as Lana Michaels, something about him always left her feeling uneasy, as if he could sense the precise amount of truth he needed to tell. He rarely made her itch, but she didn’t trust him as far as she could throw him.

“This isn’t a con. I-I do have access to information on Troika. It’s just not…
direct
.”

J.J. waited to feel a sensation, but none came. He’d started with the truth, but she doubted he’d end with one. Tony and the others grabbed chairs to sit and listen to his tale of woe. “Okay. If you don’t have direct access, then who’s your source?”

“My cousin, Dani. He’s Levi Mashkov’s driver.”

J.J.’s eyebrow arched. No sensation. No lie . . . which meant they had found another way to get into Troika. The question was how they’d use him. “Is that right?”

“Yes. Mashkov holds a lot of his meetings in his limo, so my cousin overhears conversations. He listens to their problems. He tells me. I tell you. He and I—we split money,” he said. “Our family in Russia, they’re poor. We send home money.”

“Heartwarming story,” Scott interrupted, “but in a year of reporting, the only thing you’ve managed to find out is the accountant has a beef with Mashkov.”

“I must be careful of what I say…to protect Dani. He’s my only family in America. If they find out he speaks to me about Troika business, they’ll kill him. They’ll slaughter everyone in Russia like pigs. And when I’m in my darkest hour of pain, they will come for me. I had to take special care. When the agents push too hard for my source, I leave, move. But I want to help.”

“I’m still missing something here. Why even bother? What’s in this for you?” Tony said.

“Pavlov Mashkov, the brother in Russia, he killed my uncle…over a five-hundred dollar gambling debt. Five-hundred dollars.” He emphasized each syllable with sweeping hand movements. “What’s that? He wipes his ass with that much every morning. Why kill people for it? Americans, you spend that much money on shoes. His life wasn’t even worth the cost of a pair of shoes. I want to help you. You tell me, how can I support you without getting my cousin killed?”

“Do you think he’d help us wire the car?”

He thought for a minute and shook his head no. “Mashkov is very paranoid. Dani said they use the scanners on everything. The building. The cars. At least once a week. They check him every day.”

J.J. exhaled in frustration. It was worth a try, but she’d heard similar rumors about the Mashkovs herself. Maybe he’d offer some assistance with the money man. “What more can you share with us regarding the accountant?”

“Ahhh, yes, Zory Kozlov. Trust me when I tell you he hates the Mashkov’s as much as anyone, but he can’t quit. The only way he leaves Troika is in a casket or five separate trash bags. He knows too much…although it seems maybe not enough,” he said.

“What do you mean by that?” Scott asked.

“Well, yesterday my cousin told me Mashkov and Zory argued in his car. Zory complained about never having all the information he needed to process the transactions. Said the baby was coming this Monday but he couldn’t attend the delivery. Something like that.”

“Hmmm. Strange.” Manny glanced at J.J.

“My cousin thought so. He’s seen their wives. Neither one is pregnant.”

“Sounds like code for something. Maybe drugs or money—or both.”

“Man, if we could get our hands on a shipment and tie it to Troika,” Tony said, “we’d have enough evidence to put
this baby
to bed.”

J.J. stood into a stretch and patted Misha on the shoulder. “I think I’ve got everything I need for now. Let’s go.” The gears in her head turned. She’d worked with Misha enough times to know the team needed to quit while they were ahead. “Glad you decided to come clean. But we need you to ask your cousin to find out where Zory hangs out. Where does he go drinking or to the grocery store? Any place away from Troika? And I want to know if there’s any way we can get inside. When I contact you, I want an answer.”

He offered quick, successive nods. “So, you’re not going to arrest me?”

“Not today, Misha. Maybe tomorrow,” she said with a wry smile.

•••

J.J. stewed in her thoughts on the way back to the office, wondering how she could leverage Misha’s cousin without getting him killed. Lord knows, she’d put too many families through too much suffering already. Six would tell her to screw the families, do her job, and figure out a way to bully him into cooperating, but her conscience was her own. There had to be another way to get some insight into that company, to find out more about the shipment. Just as the thoughts flitted through J.J.’s mind, a text came through her cell phone. It was Sunnie’s number.

                                        
 
National Security Letter approved.

                                          I have Troika’s phone records.

                                          Walter and I are working on the analysis.

                                          Initial results tomorrow.

“Yes! Hallelujah!”

Every head in the car turned toward her.

“What is it?” Tony asked.

“We got ‘em. No wire yet but we’ve got the phone records. Sunnie and Walter are conducting the analysis now. We’re gonna nail these sons of bitches.”

“Or die trying,” Tony added.