Spy Catcher: The J.J. McCall Novels (Books 1-3) (The FBI Espionage Series) (9 page)

No, it was worse.

Much
worse.

Her level of distress compounded a hundred fold each and every time she turned a new page. All the major agencies in the community had been burned. No, burned didn’t adequately describe the massive security failure that had left the Bureau and the intelligence community with their balls flapping in the wind. They’d been charred to the core, gutted like a school of mahi-mahi at a midnight Luau. With this information in the hands of the Russians, the community would need to shut down half the nation’s intelligence operations targeting Russians around the world. Not tomorrow—yesterday. And the CIA would have to exfiltrate at least three assets operating in Moscow or they were dead, Golikov cautionary tales.

“FBI, CIA, NSA, DIA. This traitor’s giving up the baby and bathwater,” she said. But one question nagged at her. “How could a code clerk get his hands on this? I mean, look, Tony. These are photocopies of original documents. He wouldn’t have had access. Encryption codes and cables, yes. Original documents? No.”

Tony shrugged. “I’m at a loss. I’m just glad we’ve got ‘em so we can find this nut job.” He wiped his perspiring brow with the back of his hand. “Looks like Plotnikov photocopied every document the rat passed. Case files, surveillance and lookout logs, message traffic, everything. And we’re even more screwed because most of this information is available to the entire community through the joint communication system, except some NSA SIGINT collection and the military special ops reports.”

“Yeah. Every agency, military and civilian, has access. Anyone with a log-on and password could pull this information from the network. Even with cyber forensics, it would be nearly impossible to pinpoint the source.”

“Yeah, you’re—” Tony started. He flipped through the stack of papers carefully before sinking into his chair in disbelief and resignation. “No...not the surveillance reports and lookout logs. That information is only available at FBI Headquarters and the field offices. We don’t share these reports on the Joint network.”

“Shit! I’ll be...”

“Damn!” Tony yelled in frustration. Tony turned to J.J., his face solemn. “You know what this means, don’t you?”

“Yeah. No one else could access the surveillance and lookout logs. I can’t speak for the other intel, but whoever took
these
documents has got to be an FBI agent. And judging from these cases,” she heaved a weighty sigh, “he’s someone with access to the vault. Someone who probably smirks in our faces every damn day knowing that we’re working our asses off so that they can cash in our cases in for a few thousand dollars and a Jaguar.”

“A few thousand? No, J.J. This information is potentially worth millions of dollars, you hear me? Millions.”

What they had once only suspected, Plotnikov’s drop had removed all doubt. The FBI was at least one source of the problem—not the CIA, not the NSA, not DIA, but the FBI. And they still didn’t have enough evidence to convict anyone, including Jack.

J.J.’s anxiety was compounded by Tony’s earlier revelation. If his contact from the Director’s office got his information straight, the next few days might spell the end of at least two careers. They would be subjected to polygraph examinations that both were doomed to fail.

They were working against time, and every second that passed brought them one step closer to becoming the primary suspects, locked up, and facing death penalty charges.

Tony eyed a typewritten sheet of paper and scratched the faint stubble on his chin. “Now, this one’s interesting. It’s a photocopy of a typewritten note. Looks like it’s from the source. Check it out.”

He handed the paper to J.J. and she began to read it aloud.

The house we built was strong, but I’m beginning to detect a few cracks in the foundation. They must be sealed before the entire structure collapses. My best to Mikhaylov. Juliet Charles. (Solnyshko).

“Solnyshko? What the hell does that mean?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” he said, smirking. “But Lana’s a Russian speaker. Why don’t we take this to her in the morning and ask? I’m sure she’d be happy to help.”

J.J.’s expression hardened. “Yeah, right. Over my cold, dead, maggot-eaten body. I think Sunnie’s a Russian speaker. I’ll ask her.” Sunnie was one of only two black intelligence analysts within the headquarter-based counterintelligence organization. Recruited from Howard University, J.J.’s alma mater, she was the go-to-girl for all analysis. She’d made an art of creating actionable intelligence, something they could use to build cases, make arrests. She idolized Condoleezza Rice, the only other African-American she knew (living or dead) who also spoke fluent Russian.

J.J. leaned back in her chair, trying to calm her thoughts. “God my head is spinning. I don’t think I can process anything else tonight.”

Tony examined the note again, and then looked at J.J. in frustration. “I hate these cryptic fucking notes. Why can’t people just say, ‘My name is Joe Smith. I work for the FBI and I’m a traitor.”

“A little thing called the Supermax . . . and lethal injection.”

She yawned long and deep, exhausted from the days misadventures. Tony succumbed a few seconds later.

“It’s nearly 4 am. Let’s get some sleep and take the package to the vault late tomorrow afternoon. Then we’ll report it,” J.J. suggested.

“That’s easier said than done,” Tony said. “If we’re right and the mole has access to the vault, who can we trust?”

Chapter 13

Friday Morning…

J
ack, blank-faced and disoriented, sat wired to the computerized polygraph instrument, his pulse beating at an unusually high rate. He attempted to clear his mind, stare at the white space on the wall in front of him as his examiner had instructed, but his thoughts refused to be stilled.

Memories raced, replaying visions of the less-than-honorable moments of his life, as a film loop turning over and over again. Such as the time he stole a candy bar from the local corner store when he was ten and Mr. Sharma chased him for two blocks. And the times, three times to be exact, that he cheated on his case studies during his sixteen weeks of new agents’ training in Quantico. And the dozens of times he’d concocted reasons to reassign J.J.’s cases with no warning or justification in order to boost the subpar career of the woman he loved. And why could he not shake the memory of the moment he removed Plotnikov’s file from the cabinet safe without signing the log? Or the countless nights he engaged in classified pillow talk with Lana, divulging details of sensitive investigations of which she had no need to know?

The closet-sized room’s stark walls closed in around him. The perspiration sensors on his digits pinched his fingertips as he gripped the edge of the armrest. He tapped the heel of his shoe against the floor tile in rapid motion. The sound resonated like the timer of his life ticking down to nothing. Why had his last polygraph been so much easier, so much less painful? His heart didn’t ram through his chest the last time, not this fast. Not this hard. Sweat didn’t rain through his pores as if he’d just run the Marine Corps marathon.

There was only one difference between this day and the morning of his last exam. A night with her.

Lana
.

He tried to free his mind of the negative thoughts pushing their way through. She adored him as much as he loved her. Perhaps he’d gotten too excited during their tryst. After all, he could hardly control himself in her presence. One glance at her supple breasts sent his nature in the fully loaded and upright position. She’d always been more woman than he could handle. But, even at his age, he’d welcomed the challenge, the intensity of his desire for her. He sought to quench his thirst every chance he got, a thirst that could never be satiated. He couldn’t let her go.

The irony of Jack’s predicament struck him. He was only two years away from his 57
th
birthday. Two years away from collecting his hard-earned retirement and pension. Two more years and he wouldn’t be subjected to these silly examinations ever again. But two minutes from this moment, his career might be over.

•  •  •

In an adjoining room of equal size and blandness, they stood in front of the polygraph laptop, the primary and observing testers, Mike Sullivan and Don Anderson. They were perplexed. The test results from the four-hour long examination had stunned them into silence, and both of their faces bore strained expressions.

“Check out his heart rate. The readings run clear off the charts. His perspiration level is higher than I’ve seen on any human being. And look at these readings here. He had an especially marked reaction on questions related to his honesty and whether he’s working on behalf of a foreign government.”

“Damn. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like this. All of his ranges are above normal, even his control questions. But you’re right, the two you noted are especially high. Did he have any kind of medication this morning? Or take any kind of drugs whatsoever?” Mike tried to give his old colleague every benefit of the doubt. He and Jack worked together back in the day. He’d polygraphed a few of Jack’s sources.

“I reviewed the questionnaire and asked him outright. He said he didn’t ingest any kind of drugs or vitamins today. Claims all he’s had is his usual breakfast and coffee,” Don said.

Mike swept the palm of his hand over his face and grabbed his chin. “I’ve known him for twelve years. Sabinski’s a career agent and only two years from his retirement. We’d better make damn sure we get this one right. Let’s look over the results one more time.”

They both examined the charts with microscopic intensity and then turned to face one another.

“Hate to say it, but looks like we’ve found the mole,” Don said as he stood to exit the room. Mike followed. “Let’s go talk to him.”

Jack’s fake smile appeared when Don and Mike entered the room, put-on like the mouth of a Mr. Potato Head. Mike disconnected the blood pressure monitor and offered Jack a box of tissues to wipe his sweat.

“So, we all done? Feels like I’m in the ICU at Washington Hospital Center with all these wires coming out of me.” Jack grabbed a couple from the box and dabbed his brow. “I’d like to get out of here and go grab something to eat. We’ve been in here a long time.”

Don and Mike stood stoic and expressionless for a moment. Then each took a seat in his respective chair. “Jack, I’m not sure how to tell you this,” Don began, “but there’s really no other way. You failed the examination. I mean, you ‘do to not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars’ failed.”

“Me?” he said, each breath labored, his voice strained. “That’s impossible!” he cried out. He knew. Before they entered the room, he knew. His bold-faced lies were equally ineffective on his conscience. Don had only confirmed his own suspicions.

“Do you have any
issues
you’d like to discuss? What’s on your mind?”

Jack’s stomach sank; he shifted nervously in his chair and lowered his gaze. He’d begun living his worst nightmare. Without question, there was a problem with his polygraph results. Hell, he could feel the surge of anxiety as he began taking the test.

Even so, Jack’s expression was incredulous. “Do I have any issues I need to talk about? What the hell could I possibly have to say? Mike’s here. He and I have known each other for years. Ask him! He knows I’m not capable of committing treason against my country.”

“Yes, Jack,” Don said, “he told me you’ve known each other for years, but we’ve got a job to do. Whatever he or I might
believe
is irrelevant in this matter, you’re having some statistically significant reactions when you answer questions relating to whether or not you’re working on behalf of a foreign government.”

“Impossible.”

“Afraid not. Listen, you’ve worked counterintelligence for thirty-three years. If you were standing here and I was sitting in that seat, what would you think?”

“I demand a retest!” he barked.

Don let out a long, labored breath. “We can’t test you again today. We’ve been at this for too long. You need to get some rest, meet with security, and we can try again in a few days.”

Jack’s eyes widened; his bravado disintegrated as his voice shriveled. “A few days? No! You have to retest me, tonight,” Jack pleaded.
“Mike, please don’t let me walk outta here with that monkey on my back. How am I gonna face my unit, my colleagues, with this kind of suspicion? This is my career we’re talking about. I’m not leaving until you test me again.”

Don stared into Jack’s eyes, studied his expression. “All right. All right. We’ll go over the questions again and conduct a retest. Just give me a few minutes to set up the equipment.”

Mike led Don out the door and waited just outside.

“I’ll go ahead and retest him,” Don whispered. “You call Cartwright and tell him we’ve got a problem. A big one.”

Chapter 14

Friday Afternoon…

C
hris forked his salad and glared at her, wondering how he arrived at this place in his life where he simultaneously dwelled at the gates of heaven and in the depths of hell. In his wildest imaginings, he hadn’t planned for his path to take such a dark turn.

Every day, he droned through the motions, accomplished the minimally acceptable for ten passionless hours a day. Until, that is, he met his lovely Koshechka. In and out of bed, she loved him with fervor and an abandon he’d never before known. He’d fallen under her spell and willingly succumbed. She dominated his thoughts, controlled his mind, and he indulged her every whim. Chris fulfilled her every demand and then asked what more he could do, anything to ensure he held onto the love he’d longed for since the day he could conceive that love existed.

She listened. She supported. She was the first woman truly interested in him as a person, not “the Agent.” He shared his desires, thoughts, feelings, and she soaked it in, like an emotional sponge. She empathized with his every concern, understood him in depths no one had ever explored. When he told her he’d grown bored of his mind-numbing theft cases, it was she who suggested he make a career change, pursue something more exciting, like terrorism or counterintelligence.

“Yes, counterintelligence,” she said. “You are perfectly suited.”

And when she purred in his ear a few nights later, he took it as a sign, a sign that the Russian program might be the right fit. His darling Koshechka was pleased, and he so loved pleasing her.

Once assigned to the Russian Espionage Unit, he clashed with Lana, who was nothing like his Koshechka, except for the sex exuded in their appearances. Lana’s tightly wound brunette bun and conservative spectacles contradicted her short skirts and revealing silk blouses. Everything above her neck said business. Everything below, anything but.

He questioned how he could feel like two different people in their presences. One changed him into the man he’d always dreamed he’d become, and the other had devolved him into a man he despised.

In the back of his mind, he realized she’d have to play the same game with other men of his ilk. His only consolation was the promise of a long life together after the game ended.

And end it soon would.

After the long morning he’d had with Lana, his heart smiled with Koshechka. She made angels spread wings, and the sun rise and set around her. He loved the way her silky blond locks flowed across her shoulders and into the curve of her back, like a soft, shimmering blanket. Really, he loved all of her hair colors, like the pink she wore when they played maid and master, and the red she wore when they played actress and director, and even the brown she wore when they played agent and spy. But her naturally blond hair was his favorite.

“I called you last night after I left work. You didn’t answer,” Chris said with his chest thrust out and a vein protruding through his forehead. He held his glare steady until she looked up from her salad and caught his expression.

“No,” she replied, barely blinking. “I didn’t.”

He laid down his fork and clasped his fingers together. This was no time for mind games. What he wanted, no what he
needed
, was to be reassured. If nothing between them had changed, he wished to hear the words from her lips.

“Don’t look at me that way. You know I would never do anything to hurt you if I didn’t have to,” she said. “Jealousy does not become you, my dearest. We should live the rest of our lives stuck in our dead-end jobs because of your insecurities?” She made no effort to conceal the fact that his impatience wore thin on her nerves.

“No,” he replied. “But you don’t have to enjoy it.”

“You think I enjoy this?” she exclaimed, insulted by the accusation and annoyed by his insecurity.
“
I hate it. I hate every second. But if this plan is going to work then I have to put aside inconsequential concerns and do what I have to do. Otherwise, my cover will be blown and I’ll go to jail. Is that what you want?”

He studied her expression. He just needed one sign, any sign, that she might be lying, but he couldn’t detect any. Maybe he was going crazy, wouldn’t be the first time. “I’m just glad it’s almost over.”

“Over? What do you mean when you say ‘over’?” she asked.

“Nothing. Nothing at all.” Chris’s voice trailed off as he stared out into the abyss at the many tourists passing along Pennsylvania Avenue. He eyed the fountains encircling the Navy Memorial, his gaze drawn to the American flags billowing in the wind. He wondered how he could dare set his unworthy feet in such an honorable place. How could he? Especially when he’d betrayed everything it stood for. “Since meeting you, I’ve become someone I don’t even recognize anymore. And when I call and you don’t answer... I—I just had to see you, I guess.” He reached across the table and ran his finger along the silhouette of her cheekbone. “I need to know that you and I are okay.”

She grabbed his hand, laid a soft peck into his palm, and placed it against her cheek. “Don’t you realize how much I love you? I’d do anything for you, Chris. Anything for our future. Can’t you see that?”

“Sometimes I think I’ve seen too much,” he said, his voice flat as he recalled her office visits with Jack. “I’m sure I have.”

“Haven’t we all?” She smiled and reached across the table to stroke his cheek then looked down at her watch. “We really must return to work, but first let’s discuss a little business. Who’s next? J.J. must’ve identified her next target by now. Have you heard anything?”

Chris shrugged. “I don’t know anything you don’t already know, except Jack pulled the plug on her next promotion.”

A satisfied smile seized her expression. Then she noticed Chris appeared disturbed, distracted. “What’s wrong, my love?”

“Guess I’m still anxious about taking this polygraph on Thursday. No way in hell I’ll pass.” Chris glanced at his watch then sunk deep into his own thoughts.

“You afraid?” she asked.

He didn’t hear her. He couldn’t. For the first time, fear distracted him more than her charms. “Sabinski still hadn’t returned to the office when I left.” The vacant, far off expression vanished a moment later. “His poly is probably going as well as mine will.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

He shrugged.

“Look at me,” she waited for him to turn to her. “You can do it. You have to.”

He turned away, dragged his gaze across the room and locked in on an older gentleman with a square jaw and weathered skin. He reminded Chris so much of his grandfather. A sudden wave of guilt tugged at his conscience.
What would Granddad say if he knew?
Chris thought. “I don’t know if I can do this anymore. Maybe I should―”

“No!” she cut him off abruptly. “You must put an end to this weak thinking. I-I couldn’t let you do it.”

“Maybe
you
don’t have a choice anymore,” he warned.

She couldn’t sway him, so she sunk into her own thoughts for a few moments before saying, “I can help you if you let me. There’s a better way.”

Emotionally defeated, he shook his head. “A better way? Better than what? More…of this?” he asked, doubt still clouding his expression.

“We can teach you simple techniques so that you can beat the exam. Or at least get an inconclusive finding. We’ve done it before, we can do it again.”

“In three days?”

“Two,” she replied.

“I see.” His eyebrow rose. He appeared more skeptical than assured.

“Dearest, I love you, and I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Trust me, okay. Just trust me. If you go down, I go down. You don’t want that for me, do you? Or for…
our baby
?”

He appeared dazed and his voice rose an octave. “Baby? You mean you’re...”

She nodded yes, her cheeks flush with happy tears. “That’s why I asked you here today.”

Chris forced a half smile; part elated and part doubting the baby was even his.

•  •  •

Early Friday Afternoon…

Hopper Mack noticed the neighbors peering out their windows, watching seven black, unmarked sedans screech around the corner a short distance from Jack’s house. Moments later, the passengers padded across the driveway, a dozen Agents wearing navy blue raid jackets with “FBI” emblazoned in golden letters. Plastic gloves and evidence kits filled their hands.

The front door was locked so they broke out a window panel and entered Sabinski’s house on orders from Cartwright. “If an ant shit in Sabinski’s house, you better find it!” Thanks to Freeman, who, on Cartwright’s request, called in a favor with a judge, they received an expedited warrant. The agents scattered throughout the house, carefully examined every crack and crevice for evidence, anything indicating Jack cooperated with the Russians. The allegations were incontrovertible. The assumptions of guilt evident. But their mere presence at his home, not even two hours after he’d miserably failed his poly, was a clear indictment.

A new agent on the evidence team, Hopper trekked down a darkened staircase to the basement, the air musky and humid. He reached up for a pull cord hanging at the base of the stairs and yanked. Shook his head when the lights revealed the disheveled chaos brewing in the bowels of his house. Jack, an extreme packrat, had saved dusty boxes overflowing with old magazines, including an extensive collection of
Playboy
. Judging from the sheer volume, he’d probably been stockpiling them since his teenage jerk-off days. Just beyond one stack of boxes he noticed a light in a back room. He waded through the mounds of junk until he arrived at the security door. The padlock was open, hadn’t been returned to the secure position. He pushed the door forward to find a neatly organized office area.

Metal shelves loaded with old paint cans lined the walls, the labels had been alphabetized and were perfectly aligned. The paneled floor felt spongy beneath his feet. But the space was too tidy, not a thing out of place, not a speck of dust. With the OCD-like organization, the room was a stark contrast to the rest of his home. The agent grew suspicious. What was so special about this room? Especially when the rest of the basement was a pit? He walked over to the large wooden desk, opened the drawer with his gloved hand, and grabbed an assortment of items as his mind flashed back to his counterintelligence instructor at the Quantico.

Bingo!

He pulled his radio from the pristine leather holder on his belt and yelled, “Get down here in the basement. I’ve got something.”