by S. D. Skye
Vasiliy, a large man with an enforcer build and mentality, stepped out of the room and returned a moment later. He and Igor wordlessly glanced at each other before grabbing Vorobyev by his arms and pulling him up. With his eyelids pressed together tightly, he braced himself. It was coming. The fist would collide with his abdomen.
And then...the unexpected.
A chair pressed against the back of his legs. They sat him down.
“Talk,” Vasiliy barked.
He folded his hands together, as if preparing to pray. “For the last time, I have told you I am not working for the Americans,” Vorobyev snarled. “I am not working for the FBI. I don’t know who your so-called reliable source is, but if this is the intelligence they have passed to you, then you better re-evaluate the validity of all his information.”
The back of Vasiliy’s powerful hand collided with Vorobyev’s jaw. He fell to the floor in a painful thud, blood spurted from his mouth. Silence filled the room as Vorobyev anticipated the next swing. He couldn’t see, but he knew who dealt the blow. Every sound and smell was magnified. Vasiliy reeked of cigarette smoke and Igor of cabbage and coffee. Suddenly, the clack of the shoe heels shuffled toward the door. It opened and closed. The two goons had exited the room, leaving Vorobyev sprawled in the floor.
He was alone. Heard nothing except the sound of his heartbeat...and betrayal.
Vorobyev propped up his upper body with his forearm, turned toward the one-way glass, and cried out, “Aleksey! I know you’re there! How could you let them do this? You know the truth. End this madness . . . or be a man and kill me yourself!”
His cries were met with silence as his body wrenched and curled into a fetal mass.
• • •
Dmitriyev could barely stomach the mushrooming guilt. His mind took him to a cruel place when he imagined what his and Plotnikov’s fathers must have endured at the hands of their own interrogators. How they must’ve begged and pleaded for their own lives, with each appeal landing on deaf ears. He could almost hear Uncle Sergey declare his innocence until his very last breath echoing and alarming until the bullet shattered the back of his skull.
The imaginings haunted Dmitriyev, obliterated his self-denial. Retribution for a family wronged was no longer sufficient. The means no longer justified the end, not in the wake of his own treachery.
Before watching Vorobyev’s thrashing, Dmitriyev had never questioned whether cooperating with the FBI had been the right thing to do, for him, for his family, for his country. His thirst for revenge seemed just, especially for a country that thrived on the backs of its citizens and governed with intimidation and a dogged lust for economic and military supremacy. Even in the new democracy there’d been little freedom. Voting rights were laughable. What democracy could exist in this Russia where the communist KGB and the new political elite were one and the same? The old guard had gone “legit” during the break-up of the Soviet Union, but nothing had changed except the color of the uniforms, the names on the buildings, and the effort expended to cover-up the human rights realities. Democracy stood among the biggest frauds Russian politicians had perpetrated against its citizens in the 21st Century.
Dissidents had been committed to Russian mental institutions and drugged into comas for the audacity of independent thought. Such “traitors” understood better than most citizenry that corruption and deceit had become so deeply woven into the fabric of Russian society, its people could no longer distinguish might from right.
Dmitriyev realized he loved Russia, not for what it had been, rather for what it could be—but only if....
Still the unintended effect of his revenge glared down on him like the eye of God. Innocent men would be tortured, their families made to suffer for crimes they had not committed. He was no better than the state he scorned.
Standing at the fork in the road, Dmitriyev could choose one of two paths. On one side, he could turn himself in and confess. On the other side, self-preservation. Dmitriyev’s path was clear and ungenerous. He could barely muster the courage to watch, let alone make the confession necessary to end Vorobyev’s suffering and initiate his own. And his fate was tied to his brother’s. If he attempted to interfere in the interrogation, the suspicion surrounding himself and Viktor would most certainly intensify. Even if he could subject himself to such scrutiny, he refused to implicate his brother. No, he needed a way to help Vorobyev without implicating himself. Agent McCall must agree to help him clear Vorobyev’s name. If not, he would cease cooperation immediately and provide no further information, including the name of the traitor they so desperately desired. He had no choice.
Shoulders slumped, Dmitriyev stood stoically as he watched Vorobyev endure strike after endless strike, each meant to weaken his resolve and loosen his tongue. Only he knew Vorobyev had nothing to confess. He thought, for one brief moment, that Vorobyev appeared ready to concede in order to end his own suffering, but his comrade Stan was proud, a family man, and even if a confession meant the end of his own suffering, it would certainly spell the beginning of worse for his loved ones. So Vorobyev refused, willingly accepting each blow, indignant and defiant as an innocent man should be.
Vasiliy and Igor had meted out their worst and Vorobyev survived bruised but not broken. They left the interrogation room to speak with Dmitriyev.
“He refuses to talk,” Igor said, sweat pouring from the bulge protruding from his neck. “What should we do?”
“Perhaps it is time to consider that he has nothing to say. Or, if he does, he will never speak it to us.” Dmitriyev turned toward the interrogators. “Get him cleaned up and offer him something to eat. Sweep his room for any kind of communications equipment, then we’ll hold him in his residence until it is time for him to depart on Friday.”
“Ah, good idea,” Vasiliy said.
“I’m certain we’ll get nothing from him tonight and he must be strong enough to stand trial,” Dmitriyev said.
“Trial? Ha!” Vasiliy interjected. “He should be so lucky. Golikov has been informed and will certainly be awaiting his return on Friday. He and that pig Plotnikov will die together.”
Dmitriyev shuttered at the chill in the Vasiliy’s voice. He needed an excuse to leave so he could mark an emergency signal and request Agent McCall’s assistance. He’d been diligent about establishing his daily habits and routines. No one would be suspicious when he left for Starbucks.
“Listen, while you both inspect his room and help him get cleaned up, I’m going to pick up my coffee and smokes. Looks like we are in for a long day and, possibly, an even longer night. I’ll be back shortly and then we can draft our reports to Moscow.”
Igor and Vasiliy both chuckled, and then Vasiliy said, “Whatever would you do without your daily coffee fix, Comrade Dmitriyev? We’ll see you when you return.”
• • •
Vorobyev jumped abruptly, his nerves stood on edge as the distant footsteps closed in on him. Igor and Vasiliy re-entered the room and a slight breeze wafted across Vorobyev’s bloody face.
“You’re finished for the day,” Vasiliy snapped. “We’re taking you to get cleaned up and eat. You’ll need your strength for what awaits you when you return Moscow,” he said with an evil grin as he turned to face Igor. “He’s got bony wrists. Mashkov will have fun with this one!”
Vorobyev yelled at Vasiliy. “I am innocent! You convict your people without evidence, sentence them to death without trial! Take the words of some ridiculous treacherous American over a loyal government servant without a second thought.” Vorobyev lowered his voice and growled. “And you call me a traitor.”
The two men wordlessly stared at Vorobyev, stunned by his defiance. He’d never revealed such strength in their previous dealings. They mumbled to one another as they carried him, one under each arm, to his residence.
Back inside his apartment, Vorobyev showered as he waited for Golikov’s goons to finish conducting their searches. The warm water washed over his head and face, soothing his wounds an
d renewing his strength.
Vasiliy cracked opened the bathroom door. “We’re finished in here. There is food on the table. Don’t try anything stupid, okay? Security will be standing outside the door at all times.”
He poked his head out from behind the shower curtain, bowed his head in acknowledgment, then listened for his the front door to shut. Vorobyev hurried to finish bathing for he had much to do. He wrapped a towel around his waist and wandered up the hall still dripping wet. His left eye had swollen shut, but he could partly see out of the right. He used his hands to feel what he wasn’t visible in the periphery.
Vorobyev had much to do. Since they would never allow him to make any phone calls, he decided letters would suffice. Letters to his wife and children, to say goodbye and let them know how much he dearly loved them. They must know, with every fiber of their beings, that the man to whom they’d entrusted their lives, the man whom they’d kissed good morning every day and goodnight every evening, would never betray them or his country. Even though he wondered whether the letters would ever be delivered, he felt comforted in the belief that his old friend Aleksey Dmitriyev would ensure they were provided to his family. Dmitriyev was no doubt subsumed in guilt over the day’s events, events Vorobyev knew Aleksey was powerless to prevent.
He slipped into the kitchen area and ran his hand along the cabinet until the handle felt cold on his fingers. He pulled it and brushed his palm along the top shelf, pushing aside several cereal boxes. It was still there. A large ceramic canister. He removed the lid, dug beneath a layer of cotton balls until the metal from the small .22 caliber Smith & Wesson cooled his fingertips.
He’d kept the gun for protection as he had heard that parts of the city were dangerous and refused to be the victim of some random street crime. Little did he know, the biggest crimes against him would be committed by his own people. He exhaled, relieved they did not find it during their search. For what he bought for his protection would now become his savior.
He tucked it back inside and returned the canister to its place. It was time to complete his unfinished business and end this travesty.
Vorobyev swore Golikov would never torture him for another man’s crime if indeed one had been committed at all. He vowed to die in his own time, on his own terms, by his own hand.
Stanislav Vorobyev had lived in honor.
He refused to die in disgrace.
Chapter 33
Wednesday Morning…
J.J. was anxious, on edge. Only two days left before the polygraph exam, and an arrest was no more imminent than when they started. The ICE Phantom still lurked about, and J.J. had no idea whether the traitor knew she’d turned up the heat on the hunt. How the following days would unfold, she didn’t know. The evidence wasn’t coming together quickly enough.
Stay calm, she thought. Avert disasters.
If she could keep Dmitriyev’s identity concealed for two more days, meet with Cartwright to get what she suspected would be his confession, then Dmitriyev would have no need to leave an emergency signal and the nightmare would end.
She pulled next to the mailbox where Dmitriyev was directed to leave a chalk mark, sucked in a deep breath, and held it until she glanced at the spot.
Nothing. She exhaled and shrugged.
She had instructed him to mark the signal in catastrophic situations only. The likelihood of such an event occurring in such a short time period of time was highly unlikely—possible but unlikely. But her instincts, they told her, Turn the corner. Check the other side. Just in case. Plotnikov was prone to marking the wrong side. Perhaps Dmitriyev would do the same.
She pulled around and carefully examined the other side. “Damn, damn, damn!” she said out loud, relieved at first that she found it...and then not. The mark portended bad news, and she didn’t want to face it. But she needed to hear it. She did a double take to be certain. “What the hell could have possibly gone wrong now?”
Strike number one. It was a blow but not deadly. J.J. still had the meeting with Cartwright. If he turned himself in, all other problems would be moot.
J.J. blew out a long, hard breath and braced herself for Dmitriyev’s news. No sooner than she pressed the accelerator and reached the next stop light. Her phone rang.
“What’s up, Donato? I’m in a hurry.”
“We get anything?” Tony asked.
“Yeah. He left an emergency signal.”
“Already?” Tony said. “Shit, that ain’t good.”
“I know, and if I don’t get to the other side of town in twenty minutes, I’m gonna miss the first call. Who had the bright idea to select a phone booth in West-freakin’-Cucamonga anyway?”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to take the blame for that, Ms. McCall.”
“Damn! Hate it when that happens. Anyway, what’s up?” she asked. “I’m sure you didn’t call to chit chat.”
“You’re right, I didn’t. I’ve uhhhh...,” he began, “I’ve actually got some bad news.”
“What?!” she replied almost expecting Tony to say Dmitriyev was on his way to Dulles airport like all the others.
“Relax, it’s not Dmitriyev, but it still ain’t good,” Tony said. “Rumor has it, Jim Cartwright off’ed himself early this morning.”
J.J. gasped, abruptly pulled over, and put on her flashers. When the news settled in, her chest rose and fell in desperate sweeps as she struggled to catch her breath. Cartwright is dead? We were supposed to meet this morning...and now he’s dead? She didn’t believe Tony at first.
“What exactly happened?!” Her mind swirled in confusion. She couldn’t speak to Dmitriyev in this mental state. She needed to shake off her humanity and allow Agent McCall to take over. But the news cut deep. She fought to stifle the tears pushing their way to the surface, dabbed the corner of her eyes to dry the few that broke through. His wife, his beautiful girls, he loved them so. Then without warning, her mind flashed back to their conversation, the one they’d had the day she’d planned to quit.
“Park police found him in an overlook off the G.W. Parkway with a bullet in his head.”
“My God, did he leave a note?”
“Yeah, apparently he left some cryptic note about betrayal in his car, along with a goodbye to his wife and kids in his own handwriting.”
“You’re kidding me!” J.J. said. “Why would he do that?”
“Why indeed,” Tony said. “Looks like our list just got a little bit shorter, huh?”
“I’d say so,” she said, holding her forehead. “Listen, let me make this phone call and we’ll talk when I get back to the office. Every time I think things can’t get worse, they do.”
Cartwright killed himself? Why? Was jail worse than the suffering he’d put his family through in death? J.J. wondered. The despair he must’ve been drowning in. Nothing else would separate him from his girls. She couldn’t imagine sinking so low. Strike fucking number two.
Her consternation over Jim’s death would need to wait. She made tracks across town. Dmitriyev would be calling any moment.
In the advent of cell phones, few actual phone booths remained in the city. Those on which one could receive phone calls were even further and fewer between. After a week of searching, J.J. found two obscure locations. She’d instructed Dmitriyev to mark the signal by 8 am and call the first number at 11 am sharp, the same day. If she missed the call, he would try the second number 30 minutes later. If she answered neither, he was to return to the embassy and try again in two days. But two days would be too late for J.J. and Tony.
She pulled into the small convenience store right off Pennsylvania Avenue in the Southeast. The telephone booth on the outside corner of the store’s exterior was only a few feet away. Her mind still distracted by Cartwright’s death, she didn’t notice the handset was missing...along with the rest of the phone. Panicked, she rushed inside.
“Can I help you?” asked a slight Asian man protected behind bullet-proof glass.
“Yeah,” she said breathlessly. “
What happened to the friggin’ phone. It was here two weeks ago.”
“They take day before yesterday. Nobody use anymore. They use cell phone.”
“Shit!”
“Sorry...” he said, delivering his apology with all the sympathy of a roll of paper towels.
J.J. grunted and made her way back to her car. She jammed her key into the ignition, missing several times before it slipped inside. The time. I’ve got to watch the time. She glanced at her wrist. Rush hour still hadn’t ended. She might not make the next call. The next stop was twenty-five minutes away and she had only twenty minutes before Dmitriyev made his last and final call for the day—and maybe ever.
Horns blaring, swerving in and out of traffic, J.J. aggressively maneuvered her way through the crowded lanes. Her destination was finally in sight. Eddie’s Carryout. It was just across the Maryland-D.C. line. She sped into the almost empty lot, nearly losing her balance as she stumbled out of the car and scrambled to the phone booth. It rang. She was still steps away. She extended her arm and grabbed the handset.
“Hello . . . hello!” She waited for a sound, any sound. Nothing. Only the crackle of static.
“Hello?” she repeated. Nothing still.
Just as J.J. reached to return the handset, a voice broke through.
“Hello?” the man’s voice said.
“I’m here,” she replied. Then she remembered the parole, the script she crafted for operational security to ensure each the other was not an impostor.
“Good afternoon,” Dmitriyev said, his voice strained, unsure. “Did you watch the Redskins beat the Cowboys?”
“Yes,” she responded as written. “The game brought me much pleasure.”
They both exhaled in relief.
“Agent McCall. It is good to hear your voice. I’m very glad you received my message.”
“You too,” she said, equally reassured but still tense. His life must be in danger. “Are you okay?”
“For the moment. But we have a problem. A significant setback,” Dmitriyev said, his voice heavy, thick with angst. “Vorobyev has been detained for committing treason.”
