by Skye, S. D.
“My reading?” she asked, realizing seconds later he was referring to the day she and Tony retrieved Karat’s drop.
Before she could temper her reaction, she turned to him, her eyes and mouth opened wide and she hissed, “You,”
“We have a saying in my country,” Dmitriyev said. “The enemy of my enemy is my friend. Hello, friend.”
Chapter 23
For the second time in almost as many years, J.J. had slipped and fallen into a Russian intelligence treasure trove. It made perfect sense. The embassy would never suspect a code clerk of working with American intelligence. As the counterintelligence operational line chief, Dmitriyev had some, if not limited, access to American sources. Plotnikov wasn’t passing the documents, Dmitriyev was. Plotnikov was merely a cut-out.
But still, the pairing was highly unusual. There was more to their story than the surface revealed. The truth was hers to find.
Her only plan for the day had been to pitch him. All of a sudden, she was conducting an initial debrief. No time to get him to a safe house. She’d need to elicit as much information from him as possible—in less than an hour—so he could return and avoid more suspicion regarding his whereabouts.
J.J. excused herself from the interrogation room before the debriefing began.
Strategy. What’s my strategy?
As a counterintelligence officer, his bona fides were solid, and he had a year left on his visa, a visa that could be extended if the FBI could help him appear productive. His cooperation would deal a significant blow to his service’s operations in Washington D.C., New York, and perhaps even San Francisco. But she must find out the source of his motivation, and eliciting personal information from counterintelligence officers was akin to milking a cow for peanut butter.
Tony would know what to do. He greeted her in the hall with Malcolm just a few steps behind.
“Hey Bro, I need a favor. Find me a digital recorder. You guys must have one around here somewhere,” she requested.
“Hmmm...yeah, I think so. I’ll check with one of the duty officers,” he said, trotting down the hall. She and Tony watched him until he was out of earshot.
“Well, this is an amazing turn of events, wouldn’t you say?” J.J. said.
“I know, right? Certainly explains how Karat got the intel and made the drop before he left.”
“He had help from the line chief.”
“Yeah,” she said, heading for the door, waiting for Tony to follow behind. “You don’t want to sit in on the debriefing? I mean, even though your heart’s not in this one, this is our case.”
“No, no. You got this. Besides, I don’t want to spook him. He’s got to be pretty concerned about his security,” Tony said. “I’m just gonna run out and get more coffee and cigarettes. They help loosen the tongue.”
She flashed a comforted smile. “You’re the best. By the way, I need a disposable bat phone from the backpack. Just in case.”
“You got it,” he said. “And if I could offer one piece of advice, don’t over-think this one, J.J. He wouldn’t be here if he weren't ready to talk. Just let him talk.”
Malcolm switched J.J. and Dmitriyev from the interrogation area to a small, more comfortable conference space with a circular table, a few chairs, and a view. Dmitriyev’s eyes brightened when he saw the gifts J.J. bore. Now, a dense smoke filtered the sunrays that shone through the window. Welling with anticipation, she sat down and rested a digital recorder in the center of the table as he chain-smoked cigarettes. She could feel the cancer building on her lungs. The smokeless ashtray she had purchased years ago for such purposes had been rendered all but completely useless. No more time to get ready. It was time to get done. She had dispensed with the pleasantries and eased him into the conversation about Karat.
“So, my brother Malcolm tells me you’ve been formally introduced to Leona.”
He smirked, inhaled a long drag from his cigarette, the smoke swirling about his lips and the wisps vanishing into air.
“You mean Leon? It was like scene from Crying Game,” he joked, exaggerating his raspy Russian accent. “There’s not enough vodka in Russia to force the memory of that godforsaken moment from my mind.”
J.J. laughed, surprised at Dmitriyev’s sense of humor. She glanced at her watch. Time was passing by too quickly and the longer they talked, the more she feared for his security.
“So back to Plotnikov. Earlier you mentioned you and he are very close.”
“Our fathers served in the KGB together. First Department, First Chief Directorate. They were both stationed in London until an MI-6 officer defected and falsely claimed Sergey, Viktor’s father, was passing information to them. After a show trial, he was tortured and killed. Then my own father came under heavy scrutiny. Our lives were never again the same.”
“Ahhhh, so this is the reason you both decided work with the Bureau. But how did you both come to work for Russian intelligence, especially after what happened to your parents?” She knew the answer of course, but she wanted to ensure their stories matched up.
“In another ironic turn of events, our fathers were exonerated by one of the two big U.S. spies. I can’t be certain which, but the information was credible. Both had collaborated with the MI-6 defector and confirmed that our fathers had not been recruited by the American or British security services,” he said. “The KGB would never admit such a mistake. Ever. But when we applied to the Foreign Language Institute we were accepted immediately. Exemplary students, we were recruited by the KGB just before the break-up and offered premier assignments.”
“I see. Is Viktor okay? I mean, they didn’t—”
“I don’t know,” he said with a shrug. “Haven’t heard from him since he left. According to the rumors, Golikov thought the FBI was blackmailing him over the shoplifting and feared he was prepared to pass codes.”
J.J. shuddered inside but tried to maintain her cool exterior.
“He’s been detained. And if we don’t clear his name, and I mean soon, Golikov will murder him with or without sufficient evidence,” Dmitriyev urged, his forehead creased with worry. “He’s my brother and the only family I have left. He said he could count on you, said that you keep your promises. And I know that if you were the mole, he would already be dead.”
“I made promises, yes, but he’s in Moscow now and I have no power outside of the United States. None. And requesting the Agency to exfiltrate him means a shit load of bureaucratic red tape that will expose him to even more insider threats...and I suspect it will take a lot of time that we don’t have.”
“Is there no one at the Agency you can trust?”
J.J. immediately thought of Six, but he answered to the powers that be and there was no telling who was dirty.
“I don’t—” She hesitated and shook her head no.
“Then you have to find a way to help him from here. You must.” Dmitriyev peered out the window into the distance, then turned to J.J. as he tapped his cigarette in the ashtray. “I do not mean to rush you but we really must hurry. I’ve got to get back.”
She glanced down at her watch again. The window of opportunity had drawn to a close. “My hands are tied, but I’ll see what I can do. Just a few more questions and we’ll get you out of here,” she said, running her finger across her notes, checking for critical gaps. “What do you know about a ‘Juliet Charles’? The individual from the letter you provided in the drop.”
“He’s a well-placed asset. Based on the information he’s provided, I believe he’s FBI. I’ve been told he’s made drops two to three times a year over the past four or five years, but I’m not aware of his true identity. We only communicate through dead drops and signals. No phone calls, no electronic communication, no personal meetings whatsoever. Classic tradecraft. It is my understanding he slipped a note in Aleksandr Mikhaylov’s car some years ago when the window was cracked.”
She hesitated. “Wait. We thought Mikhaylov was Line N, an illegals support officer, not counterintelligence.�
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“Seems you know our rezidentura quite well,” Dmitriyev said, somewhat taken aback. “Yes, Mikhaylov does support illegals and deep cover operations, but if your mole were seeking to volunteer, he’d only need to see a diplomatic license plate on the vehicle. Doesn’t matter whether he knew Mikhaylov was an illegals support officer.”
She nodded in agreement. “One thing I notice. You keep saying ‘he’ . . . but Juliet Charles is a woman’s name.”
“Ahhhhh. Very good observation. When I cleared the drops, I noticed a man’s shoe prints in the mud. I’ve no doubt it’s a man.”
“So you’re his handler?”
“Yes, one of them. Since there are no personal meetings, he has several.”
Dmitriyev handled ICE Phantom himself. Good to know, but the SVR had mastered the art of compartmenting information and assets so that any counterintelligence officer could service the source but only a handful—maybe fewer—might be privy to the source’s true identity. Even worse, as a counterintelligence special agent, the mole would be skilled in burying his tracks.
“So, does anyone else in the residency have access to his true identity or files?”
“Well, normally such information is maintained at headquarters, but I believe Stanislav Vorobyev, the security officer, maintains a special file which contains his identity. It’s in a safe that only the security officer can access.”
J.J.’s stomach hardened. She propped her elbow on the table and let her head fall into her hand. “Damn! He’s scheduled to depart on Friday,” she said, throwing her hands in the air, defeated. A breakthrough was imminent. She could taste it. But recruiting Vorobyev? Impossible. She certainly couldn’t do it in such a short period of time if she could at all. And she had nothing on which to pin her hopes, nothing except the possibility that the mole would pass a document that would reveal his identity...someday. But they’d have to wait months, perhaps even years for that to happen. Unless by some miracle from heaven they could recruit the next security officer.
“Do you know who his replacement will be? We haven’t received notification from the State Department about any new arrivals.”
“In this case you would not,” he said, “because Vorobyev’s next replacement is already in the embassy.”
“In the embassy?”
“Yes,” he answered.
“Well…who is it?”
A smile parted his lips. “Me.”
J.J. heard him but couldn’t quite bring herself believe what he’d said. Me? she thought. What did he mean by me? His words zapped through her spine and hit the Hallelujah nerve. She glanced down at her notes, then snapped her head back toward him.
“I’m sorry. I must’ve been imagining things. Did you say that you are Vorobyev’s replacement?”
He nodded.
“You mean on Friday― this coming Friday―you might be in a position to identify the mole?”
“It’s very possible. Trust me, no one wants the mole caught more than I do. As long as he’s out there neither Viktor nor I are safe. But you must do everything you can to keep him from finding out that I’m cooperating with the FBI. And I’ve got to find a way to keep Golikov’s people in check,” he said, his expression strained. “Of course, I’m sure you understand that even though Russia has initiated a moratorium on the death penalty, the Russian mafia, thieves-in-law from the Solntsevskaya organized crime group, are serving as guns for hire for their friends at the Center. Golikov will kill me if I’m caught.”
“Golikov and his henchman are no strangers to me,” J.J. said, thinking of Polyakov’s hand.
“They’re here in Washington under the guise of conducting inspections. His people have been assigned to all Western embassies including here in the United States,” he said. “I trust you because the man I called brother trusted you. However, until I find out the mole’s identity, you cannot trust anyone.”
Shit. Every step forward ended in one step back. The answer was close, but not quite close enough. “I will do everything in my power to protect you,” she said, remembering her promises are what held her prisoner in her current predicament. She reached into her purse and pulled out a cell phone specially fitted with a transmitter to provide him with a means of emergency communication. She also handed him a sheet of paper with dead drop instructions.
“Mark a signal if you need to contact me. Only use the throwaway phone in life-threatening situations. Now, we’ll get you back to the embassy.”
Keeping Dmitriyev alive wouldn’t be easy, not with Golikov’s goons looming and ICE Phantom still deeply concealed.
Chapter 24
Monday Morning…
Newton’s cradle kinetic balls clicked in a soothing rhythm as Director Freeman waited in his office for Cartwright to arrive with an update on the status of the remaining personnel polygraphs and Jack’s arrest. Freeman’s stomach twisted and turned when he received the news, another fucking FBI agent arrested for committing espionage, and he still hadn’t reconciled himself with Jack’s guilt as so many others had, despite the evidence. His instinct told him to keep looking, and his instincts had never steered him wrong before. Jack was an asshole but Freeman never figured him for a spy. Hell, he wouldn’t have pegged Hanssen either truth be told. CIA case officers were trained to lie and break the laws in foreign countries of interest. They always tread a thin, murky line between mission and miscreant. He’d rarely been surprised when the CIA case officers turned, especially those from Russia House. But for FBI agents, the lines were clear. They were trained to uphold laws not break them.
He’d already been called to the Hill to testify in front of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence. They wanted answers, answers Freeman couldn’t provide because Sabinski refused to cooperate. Maybe Cartwright had made some headway.
“Has Jack started talking yet? I’d hoped he’d open up after a few days in solitary confinement.”
“Unfortunately, not,” Cartwright said, intense and focused. He crossed his legs and laid a notebook across his lap. “The only thing he’s told us is that he’s innocent and he wanted to speak to Agent McCall—and Agent McCall alone. She met with him a couple of days ago, but she hasn’t briefed me on her discussion yet, which suggests to me she probably didn’t find out any more information than we already knew.”
“Hmmm, I see. The minute we’re done here, I want you to get her in your office. Everyone’s riding my ass about this case, asking questions I can’t answer. Don’t drop the ball on this, Jim. I can’t stall for much longer.”
Cartwright nodded yes and made a notation on his notepad.
“Anyone else had poly issues?” Freeman asked.
“No, sir. So far, everyone else has passed. Agent Michaels and Sunnie Richardson, our analyst, took theirs yesterday. Neither one had any issues to my knowledge, but I’ll double check to make certain.”
“Who’s left?”
“Three agents—Johnson, McCall, and Donato. Johnson’s poly is scheduled for Thursday. Donato and McCall for Friday morning. The examiner had scheduling issues due to this recent hiring surge and couldn’t fit them earlier.”
Freeman noted the dates on his calendar and then spoke without looking up. “What about yours?”
“Sir?” His head flinched back, he reached for the base of his neck.
“Jim, you’re on the bigot list. I realize the test is a pain in the ass inconvenience—and a mere formality, but I’m not ready to put all my eggs in the Jack basket yet. I want to keep searching so you’ll just have to take this one on the chin for the team. Are we understood?”
“Yes, sir. Understood,” Cartwright said flatly and then stood to leave. “I’ll schedule mine in the morning. They should be able to get me in next week.”
“Don’t bother. I’ve already got you on the schedule for 10 a.m. tomorrow,” Freeman said. “You call me immediately after you speak with Agent McCall. And remember the door is open if you have any issues you need to discuss. Now if that’s all…”
Cartwright nodded in agreement and hurried nervously out of the office.
In a moment less than an instant, Cartwright’s face turned pale. His chest rose and fell dramatically. Fleeing down the main corridor, his expression grew panic-stricken.
Cartwright’s secretary, Sue Slater, was on her way to the cafeteria to grab some breakfast when she noticed his urgency and stopped him mid-stride. “Are you okay, Mr. Cartwright?”
He tried to force the words and respond, but nothing came. He charged ahead, his breath labored and his forehead dripping with perspiration. He flung open the door to a stairwell. It led to the main entrance. Soon the hurried clack of his shoe heels against the steps echoed louder and louder, down ten flights of stairs, until he reached the exit.
Air.
He needed air.
• • •
J.J. had dragged herself out of bed and schlepped into the office, her stress level off the charts. The ICE Phantom skulked around headquarters like a sly serpent stalking its next prey. Her worse nightmare had been realized—Golikov had detained Karat. But she’d recruited the most important Russian source to cooperate with the Bureau since...well...since her last source.
Each limb attached to her body felt as if it weighed a hundred pounds. Every movement an endless slog. The unyielding turmoil had taken a physical toll, even though her mind felt sharp and geared for action. She’d half considered setting up an intravenous Starbucks drip in the office so she could survive the rest of the day. Instead, she stopped at the second-rate coffee shop across the street to grab coffee before heading into the office.
When J.J. finally reached the Hoover building’s Pennsylvania Avenue entrance, Cartwright swung the door open. It nearly smacked her in the face. He stepped outside and sucked in a breath of cool exhaust-filled fall morning air before he even noticed J.J. Although he tried to collect himself, he appeared disturbed, flustered.
