Spy Catcher: The J.J. McCall Novels (Books 1-3) (The FBI Espionage Series) (83 page)

Chapter 38

Wednesday Morning — Washington, D.C.

At Six’s request, Hopper called Dr. Badal to set up an interview to discuss the medical services he provided Mosin before he defected to Russia. The appointment was scheduled for
two p.m.
Hopper’s Spidey senses tingled because Badal’s voice sounded tenuous; the call from an FBI agent shook him to the core. However, also in his voice was an undertone of expectation, as if Badal been waiting for Hopper’s call, as if Hopper’s voice had brought to life every nightmare he’d ever conceived. Hopper could hear the doom in Dr. Badal’s voice when he agreed to the meeting, which is the precise reason Hopper went beyond the bounds of due diligence to prepare for the all-important interview. He conducted a full background check and called the doctor’s nurse to verify his schedule before he ever picked up the phone to make the initial call.

That’s how Hopper knew the true reason Dr. Badal had scheduled the meeting for
two p.m.
He’d months ago planned to be unavailable at that time…which is the exact reason he arrived at the NIH campus two hours early.

After parking his car, Hopper stepped his foot onto the frosted asphalt, and took in the expansive NIH campus; it was dense with low and high-rise research buildings over an area the size of one-hundred sixty football fields. The blue glass and cinnamon brick high-rise where Dr. Badal worked contrasted starkly against the stout white Neuroscience Research Center adjacent to it.

Hopper had neither the time nor energy to chase him down. So, instead of taking the elevator up to the doctor’s suite, he rode down to the garage and paced the lot, scanning the license plates until he spotted the correct sequence. He found it on a late-model S-Class sandwiched between a Range Rover and Prius, barely enough room to open the doors on either side. He glanced over his shoulders to ensure no one was watching and retrieved the Slim Jim from his pocket, popped the lock, and disconnected the fuse to stop the alarm. Then he hunkered down in the back seat and waited for Dr. Badal to arrive. Hopper’s Bureau uniform, a black suit beneath a navy all-weather coat would cloak him well.

While trying to conceal the light from his cell phone in the back seat, the locks opened—this time it was Dr. Badal—and the door handle clicked. Hopper could see Badal remove his top hat, toss it onto the passenger seat; he peered into the rearview mirror after sitting down and shut the door.

Hopper raised his FBI badge, and Dr. Badal noticed the gold glimmering in his periphery. He jerked his head around with a startled yelp.

“Imagine meeting you here,” Hopper said, sitting upright. “You planning to skip out on our appointment?”

Dr. Badal’s breath grew heavy as he scrambled to get out. He couldn’t run forward—a wall blocked his getaway. The only way out was to pass by the back driver-side door where Hopper sat or jump over the hood. The podgy man didn’t strike Hopper as an over-the-hood kind of guy.

When he stumbled out of the car trying to scamper away, Hopper slammed open the back door, and Dr. Badal’s body bounced against it, forcing him backward.

“Ooooph!” he belted out, struggling to steady himself on his feet.

“Ouch,” Hopper said. “Looked like that hurt, Dr. Badal. Much like my feelings. This is no way to treat a guest.”

“What do you want?”

“The truth.”

“I’m just a researcher. I don’t know anything about anything.”

Hopper chuckled. “All evidence to the contrary. I haven’t asked you a single question. If you didn’t know anything about the questions
I haven’t asked,
you wouldn’t bother to run. Now, you can continue to obstruct my investigation and lie to a Federal agent,” Hopper said, using the buzzwords that spelled hefty charges. “Or we can sit down and have an honest discussion so you can get back to work. Which is it?”

Dr. Badal refused, shaking his head no. “I…I can’t.”

“Sorry to hear that. Care to offer a reason, just so I’ll know what to say to Immigration when we discuss your visa…which, if I recall, is up for renewal?” Hopper glanced down at the date on his watch. “Next month, too! Man, you better tie up the loose ends on that research.”

He stood motionless with his mouth gaping open, perhaps evaluating his options before he realized the truth of the moment—he had none. “Okay, okay. Just give me time to catch my breath, all right? I’ll answer all of your questions. Just don’t…not the visa. My family needs me. This job is our livelihood.”

“Then let’s get started. You know why I’m here.”

•••

Dr. Badal appeared relieved to bare his soul and relieve his conscience. Hopper believed every word even though Mosin’s extortion had reached a new level of low. He was as desperate as Dr. Badal.

Hopper offered a sheepish nod and ended the meeting on a handshake. Once he returned to his car, he scrolled through his cell phone until he came to her number. It rang.

“J.J., this is Hopper,” he said after the beep. “Spoke to Dr. Badal today. Just make sure you’re sitting down when you call. I’ve got some critical information for Six.”

Chapter 39

Wednesday Morning — New York City

Santino walked out of Max Novikov’s meeting with his life, a half million dollars for the family, and a name—Pavlov Mashkov. His next priority was eighty-sixing that son of a bitch as insurance that Pavlov would never threaten his family again. But to handle Step Two, he needed to accomplish Step One—collect thirty pieces of silver from Judas.

Uncle Sal had bought Santino and Knuckles a thirty-minute window. It’d take the guy at least a half hour to get over to Queens and back. By then they’d be gone. Good thing, too. Breaking into the house of a made guy was enough to get them both whacked.

“So, explain this to me again,” Knuckles said to Santino as he shut off the headlights and slowed his speed to a crawl in the alleyway. “We just got half a million dollars from the Russians and you wanna boost a TV from some schmuck’s house? I don’t get it. Did Nicky give you the go-ahead on this?”

“You don’t worry about who authorized it. Just stand watch and back me up. Trust me, this’ll be worth your trouble, but don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to.”

The house, a vinyl-sided duplex that had been converted to a single family home, was familiar to Santino, but Knuckles had no idea what Santino had gotten him into. It was better that way. Santino knew the ins and outs well. The mobbed-up owner lived in a different house over in Dyker Heights from day to day. He used this place as a stash house when he received money from his dealers and packages from his drug runners. Sometimes as a place to bone his goomar…all of them. Didn’t need an alarm or any type of security system. The neighborhood was borderline incestuous the way everyone was family, blood-related, or surrogate. Second, third, fourth, fifth… tenth cousins. Everybody was a cousin. So, anyone with half a brain had a clue about who lived there, and no one from outside the neighborhood could get close enough to break in. If a stranger dared to drive in the area, a gossip mill hotter than the TMZ hotline would alert every made guy in a five block radius…which was everyone. Between the barrage of foul-mouthed insults and the gun play, they’d never come back again.

In Santino’s favor, he was a friend of sorts, not foe; his presence would not be news, and he knew the general layout. The guy kept the goods in similar locations in every stash house he owned. His only problem was getting in and out without drawing unwanted attention.

Cloaked in black from head-to-toe, from skull caps to sneakers and thick gloves, Santino jiggered the lock for what felt like forever before they made their way inside. He’d gotten slow in his old age. Ten years ago he could break inside in less than a minute. He considered sharpening up his skills but after he succeeded in his challenge, he might never have to return to his thievery roots again.

Once inside, he slipped a Maglite out of his pocket and held it low to his body, snaking through the almost bare living room. A few metal folding chairs, a card table, and a full mattress on the floor covered in dirty sheets served as the furnishings. Curtains covered every window, so the black of the darkness was pitch.

“You sure we got the right house?” Knuckles asked. “There can’t be anything valuable in this old dump.”

“On the contrary,” Santino said. “Our future is in this house and we have less than thirty minutes to find it before we’ve gotta get outta here.”

Knuckles cut his eyes at him and give him the side-eye. “Might help if you told me what we were looking for.”

“A package,” Santino lied. “You’ll recognize it when you see it. Take a quick look around. If you don’t see anything, stand lookout. I’ll check around upstairs. And for godssakes don’t yell, no matter what happens,” he said in loud whispers.

Santino ascended the stairs and barreled in and out of each room, three bedrooms and one bath. His heart pounded in his ears, his breath heavy; his stomach curled with the surrounding smell of old socks, year-old garlic, and the pungent scent of cooked meth. Santino guessed that they used the room with the powder-coated tables to cut the cocaine before they distributed it.

The bathroom was disgusting. More brown than white. Rusted water flowing in the commode. A sheet of paper with an address lay next to the sink. He lifted it and panicked. It had a Queens address written on it.

“Fuuuuuuuuuuck!” he yelled in a louder voice than he’d intended.

He returned it to its place, but not in its exact position, a mistake he feared he’d pay for soon. His eyes flitted around as he calculated his next step. If he was right, they needed to leave in a matter of minutes. He’d already made one pass through the rooms and found nothing even though he knew something was there. He had to check again. There was no other option. If he walked out empty handed, he, his cousin, and uncle were dead men walking.

He retraced his steps, examining the most minute of details from ceiling to floor to make certain he hadn’t overlooked anything critical. By the time he reached the last bedroom, the one adjacent to the staircase, he’d almost given up hope. The sound of Knuckles’ footsteps faded in louder, closer. Maybe he hadn’t found anything either.

Santino opened the door and re-entered the last bedroom, shining the flashlight over every inch. The space was stone empty. He glanced down at his watch. He’d be out of time soon.

He opened the closet door and examined the walls. He found it odd they were paneled with laminate wood. Unusual feature in any house. Every closet he’d seen had been enclosed with drywall. At that moment, he realized—the choice was no accident.

Santino pressed the panes from top to bottom until one gave way. He squeezed his fingers behind the gap and gently pulled until a secret compartment was revealed.

The mother lode.

Piles of drugs, paraphernalia, a case of dime bags, a few stacks of cash, maybe a hundred large, a familiar briefcase—and a pile of handguns. He palmed the case handles and lifted them from the floor to ensure the weight reflected what he knew the contents to be, as opposed to empty. Then he slipped his hands into a pair of leather gloves, inspected the guns, ensuring he’d set the safeties. He pulled a plastic bag from his oversized jacket pocket and dropped a Sig inside. He grabbed a stack of cash before backing out of the closet and stepping out to return the panels to their original positions.

The briefcases could stay…for now.

Just as he stepped toward the door, Knuckles ran up to him panting like crazy. “I didn’t find anything but somebody’s coming.”

Santino snatched Knuckles inside and whipped the door to a whisper-soft shut. He considered hiding behind the panel but noise echoed in the empty house, and the level of knocking around it would take to get inside might potentially spark a confrontation that would’ve landed him in the hot seat with more than just the owner. He held the flashlight to his face and pressed his index finger against his lips, warning Knuckles not to speak or budge.

Knuckles shot a quick look inside the compartment; his eyes bulged.

Santino shut off the light.

Seconds later, footsteps, at least two sets, tapped toward the staircase. He could hear them getting closer, and his pulse made a loud pounding in his ear. Santino reached in his pocket and gripped the gun. The plastic was loose enough to allow him to fire a shot, if necessary. He prayed the situation would never come to that. A muffled crumple of the plastic was followed by the sound of a man’s voice, the garbled rasp familiar to Santino. In a stroke of bad fortune, Knuckles would recognize it and no doubt begin shitting his pants. Santino had some explaining to do… if they made it out alive.

“I think I left the address in the bathroom when I was taking a leak. Gimme one sec,” the man said in his indiscernible mutter.

The footsteps faded away, and the house went silent for a few moments that felt like a lifetime. Seconds later, the footsteps scurried again.

“Hey, Monty. Did you use the John up here? I found the address on the floor. Coulda swore I left it on the sink. Fuckin’ Feds. Bet they’ve been wiring up the place. I want to do a sweep just in case.”

Santino’s eyes darted although he couldn’t see anything but the floaters in his own vision from his eyes searching for light. His every sense heightened. He heard the shuffle of shoes against the hardwood floors. He smelled the musty scent of old dog and cigarettes in the air. Adrenaline ran his pulse high and temperature hot. Sweat began to seep from his between the cracks of his fingers.

“C’mon, you fuckin’ kidding me? What do I look like, NSA? We gotta get Richie Rich or Gino to do it, but let’s take care of this thing for Sal first.”

“Just answer my fuckin’ question. Did you move the paper?” he said, walking into the bedroom.

The man let out a hard sigh. “Yeah, I think so. Don’t remember. It was sittin’ there. I mighta moved it to wash my hands.”

There was a long pause. “Quit lyin’. You don’t wash your hands, you nasty bastard.”

“Fuck you, I’m a nasty bastard. Can we finish the inquisition later and get outta here? We’ve got an appointment, and we’re already late.”

He moved forward a few steps and stopped. “I thought I closed this door too. I’m tellin’ ya. Somebody’s been in here.”

Santino’s heart collapsed in a colossal thump.

“How would you know? Ain’t nothing in there. What? You can see the air now? Come on for chrissakes.”

His feet tapped closer to the closet. The doorknob wiggled. Santino swallowed so hard he thought the sound was audible. He wanted to release the safety, ensure he could get off a shot if he needed to. But he stood paralyzed. Couldn’t make a sound or the jig was up.

“Let’s go, Nicky. We need to get outta here. With everything you’re tryin’ to do, you can’t afford to piss off Sal, and we’re already fifteen minutes too late for that.”

A cellphone rang. Seconds later someone whispered, “Shit, it’s Sal.”

He paused again…and the doorknob stopped wiggling.

Santino held the breath he wanted to exhale.

“Yeah, let’s get outta here. The Feds can wait. We gotta keep the boss happy…
for now
. Thanks to those useless Russian fucks our plan is gonna take a little longer than I thought.”

Santino could feel his fingertips roll into his palm. He wanted to beat the Italian outta that asswipe, but he forced himself still. The door closed, and the sound of the car engine disappeared into the distance.

Knuckles’ hand bumped against the door as he felt for the knob; he twisted it open while Santino flipped on the flashlight.

“Are you fucking out of you mind? You must be. This is Nicky Mumble’s place. You tryin’ to get us clipped?”

Santino reached into his pocket and handed Monty a wad of cash. “As a matter of fact, I’m tryin’ to keep us alive. I’ll explain later.”

Knuckles fanned the cash and looked askance at Santino. “Why are we leaving all of that stuff?”

Santino patted his jacket pocket; the guns were secure. “Fughetaboudit. We’ll be back for it at a later date. I got the most important thing right here.”

Knuckles shook his head as they made their way to the back door. “Nicky’s tight on a dime; he’s gonna notice it missing…and he’s gonna hunt down whoever took it.”

Santino chuckled. “I’m counting on it.”