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

by Skye, S. D.

  She tried to mask her exhaustion to no avail. “Good morning, glad you made it.” J.J. greeted him with a cheerful but forced smile. She gestured her hand toward the empty chairs on her right. “Grab a seat. The others should be here in a few.”

  “Thanks,” he said, his toothy grin mirroring hers. He worked his way to the other side of the table, dropped his briefcase onto the floor, and gawked as if her feeble attempts to mask her disappointment had failed. “Looks like you need coffee as much as I do. Will we have time to grab a cup?”

  She smiled weakly. “Fret not. Director Freeman’s secretary Mrs. Whitehouse will be bringing in a carafe after we get started I hope. I think most of us will be more effective with a caffeine fix this morn—” J.J. began, interrupted by the next team member’s arrival.

  Tony’s wannabe girlfriend bounced in the door with all the cheer of a drunken valley girl, gazelle graceful in her four-inch stilettos and body-hugging cranberry-colored pantsuit. After flipping her irritating Pantene hair behind her shoulder, she smiled and sang a bright, “Good morning!”

  J.J. grabbed a handful of chocolate with the quickness of a hungry toddler. “Gia, you made it,” J.J. replied in a flat tone, offering a polite but grudging head nod. Her ears and cheeks warmed as she soundlessly growled and narrowed her eyes. “Please make yourself comfortable,” she said as the words “on Mars” flitted through her mind. She stuffed the M&Ms in her mouth and waited for the next arrival.

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” she replied, full of herself. In the contest for the heart of Tony Donato’s heart, she’d scored a major victory over J.J. by all appearances. A flirtatious grin edged the corners of her lips upward when, seconds later, Tony arrived in all his muscled Italian glory. The towering hunk of olive-colored fine. Her voice bounced as she sang, “Ciao, Signore Donato.”

  Show off, J.J. groused as she shifted in her chair and shook her head in disbelief at Gia’s shameless pandering. The attraction between the two was undeniable, and Tony’s first lie confirmed her fears.

  Tony revealed an uncomfortable grin. He exchanged greetings with Walter and Gia before turning to J.J. “Agent McCall. Morning,” he said, his voice devoid of its usual lightness and affection, the cold greeting she had been expecting.

  Caught off guard by Gia’s earlier gush, J.J. could only manage a weak, “Hi.”

  “Well, well, well, the gang’s all here,” Six bellowed, strutting inside dressed tack-sharp in a navy pinstripe suit custom-cut to every bend and curve of his frame; the tension born from his impulsive kiss sucked the air from J.J.’s lungs. The aroma from his cologne wafted across the room, blurring J.J.’s thoughts. He locked eyes with hers and asked, “Everybody ready for round two?”

  J.J. pulled back sharply and squinted until she could feel the pulse of heat-seeking missiles fire from her pupils. With the warmth Six radiated, he’d be dead before he could kiss his own ass goodbye. Although no one else would get the subtext of his comment, nothing escaped her. His late Friday night visit to her condo still lingered on his mind…and hers too. For different reasons.

  “Come in, gentlemen,” J.J. said, expressionless. “Please, take your seats. I’ve got an announcement to make.”

  “Somebody die?” Six asked facetiously. “Your expression is pretty damn grave.”

  “No, nobody’s dead yet…but give me a couple of hours,” J.J. responded. “Freeman, per orders from the President, has requested that the Russian Program stand down. No offensive counterintelligence operations targeting Russian intelligence personnel. No Taskforce Phantom Hunter. The Gs can still conduct low-profile surveillance. However, the rest of us apparently must wait until a Russian intelligence operative straps a Top Secret-cleared U.S. government employee to the roof of his car and drives past FBI headquarters before we can conduct an investigation.”

  “What!” Gia said, bolting upright in her seat. Six expressed little-to-no surprise, and Tony had heard the news from Assistant Director Nixon on the same day as J.J.

  “I don’t understand. What happened?” Gia continued.

  “Thank the CIA Director and the President. They convinced Freeman. With the Mikhaylova Affair blowing up in the press, the Russian FSB has arrested two U.S. businessmen in Moscow, accusing each of being CIA NOC officers. Moscow Station fears more arrests if the FBI becomes too aggressive.”

  Tony turned to Six. “She in the ballpark?”

  Six cleared his throat and slumped back in his chair. “Unfortunately, yes. These provocations against CIA personnel might be the tip of a Titanic-sinking iceberg, and we have a much more important asset to protect—one that is key to operations across the entire community. So, yes, the stand-down is painful, but it’s necessary to protect national interests. The Agency can’t afford any more retaliatory expulsions.”

  “How’d the Russians assume the position of power and put us on the defense? We should’ve been expelling their officers, not the other way around,” Tony said.

  Walter clasped his hands together and leaned forward. “So, maybe this is a moot point, but what’s next? Sounds like we’re no longer needed here.”

  “Yeah, what the hell do we do now?” Tony asked. “Sit around playing with our balls, eatin’ tea and crumpets?”

  “Well, we’ve been downgraded from a task force to an analytical working group,” J.J. said. “We get no investigative resources. No Gs. Any cases referred for preliminary inquiries must be vetted through AD Nixon, who will probably send them to WFO for action. Put in layman’s terms—we’re no longer the hammer, we are the nail. Quite frankly, I wouldn’t blame any of you for wanting to bail.”

  “How long this will last?” Gia asked.

  J.J. responded with a shrug. “The Russian National Security Council Director is supposed to visit next week and the President’s trying to smooth relations. Once he’s gone, we may get some breathing room. Until then, nothing.”

  “I’m still in, but what do we do now?” Gia asked.

  J.J. opened her mouth to answer when the song “Gettin’ Jiggy With It” blasted from her cell phone. She recognized the ringtone given she’d heard it a thousand times over the past week. It was her favorite G. “Uhhh, if you'll please give me a minute. I should probably take this.”

  J.J. answered the phone as she stepped outside the conference room and closed the door behind her. “Hey, Jiggy. I'm in the middle of a meeting.”

  “You and Tony need to get down the Ellipse right now. It's urgent.”

  “The Ellipse? That’s Secret Service territory. What interests could the Bureau have there?”

  “With all the shit hitting the fan right now,” Jiggy said, “you may not want to know.”

  “Then why’d you call?” J.J. replied.

  “Because I have a sneaking suspicion the Russians have somehow gained access to a U.S. government agency communications network in this area…and judging by the close proximity to the White House…I think it’s in the White House.”

  J.J. released a heavy sigh and shook her head. “You’re right. I didn’t want to know.”

  Chapter 2

  Monday, November 9th—Surveillance Detail

  Russian intelligence officers burned the D.C. streets, trying to get in the black—the unseen. Their mission was obvious: Exploit the operational standdown to provide support to Lana Michaels and extract her from the United States. The Gs were vigilant, determined to prevent it—and few were better than Jiggy Jazz, and Money T.

  “Jazz, do you read me?” He clung to the bumper of his new target—the stout, weasel-like counterintelligence line chief, Yuriy Filchenko. Jiggy smelled the burn of Filchenko's tires across the asphalt through a slight crack in his window. The force of the fall wind pulled his Malibu toward the median line, but his tight grip on the steering wheel kept his car steady until he could grab his radio. “I've still got the eye on Filchenko. This is four days in a row, guys! I’ve spent forty minutes outside Potbelly’s while he scarfs toasty sandwiches. Then he gets back in
his car and drives in circles, as if his steering wheel only turns in one direction. Could’ve at least offered me a cookie.”

  Jazz laughed. He was assigned to cover Lana Michaels’ father, Aleksandr Mikhaylov, one of the most senior Russian officers serving in Washington. “Jot that down. We’ll note it in our justification to get him declared persona non grata.”

  A clearing in the silver sky exposed a sliver of blue as Jiggy eased his foot off the gas pedal. He hooked a sharp left onto K Street, the Wall Street for D.C.’s lobbyists, replete with charmless, dwarfed concrete boxes that stretched from downtown to Georgetown.

  “Now, we’re back on the road driving in circles. Just turned onto 17th Street. We usually head north. This is a new route from yesterday and his driving’s erratic.”

  “Something tells me he’s lost and can’t drive a stick. What's your twenty?” Jiggy asked.

  “I'm heading west on Wisconsin. Traffic’s crawling up ahead,” Jazz replied. “Looks like Mikhaylov’s going back to home base. Same route.”

  “Keep me updated. I’m gonna need Dramamine if he loops around this block again. All these one-way streets are throwing him off. Maybe I should pull up beside his car and give him a Welcome to Washington tip—don’t fuck with the Gs.”

  Both chuckled.

  As Jiggy trailed Filchenko onto the cramped 17th Street, his stomach rumbled. The early morning start left him little time to eat breakfast. He scanned the food trucks lined along the northbound curbs next to the Ellipse, the circular tree-lined field of grass that crowned the south side of Presidential Park and afforded a direct-view of the White House. Thought he might pull over and grab a street dog and a bag of chips to hold him until he could eat real food after his shift.

  When he stopped at the D Street red light, he glanced out the driver-side window, froze, and did a double take. The man's face, the beige Toyota Corolla with diplomatic plates, it was him—Boris Gusin—the Russian signals intelligence officer serving under diplomatic cover as a Third Secretary. The Gs called him Goose. He dropped a handful of quarters into the parking meter, which immediately struck Jiggy as odd. Russians were notorious for racking up parking fines and not paying the tickets. They considered free parking anywhere in the region, metered or not, a diplomatic privilege. The hair on Jiggy's arm stood on end. Goose was up to no good.

  Chris Johnson and Lana Michaels were the first case agents assigned to cover him and they often debated about whether Goose was truly an intelligence officer. Lana said he was a nobody, but Chris finally convinced her he must be in a technical operational line—a signals collector, an eavesdropper, roughly analogous to the American NSA contingent. His job was identifying and decrypting U.S. government communications channels and exploiting the information collected to the advantage of the Russian government—the more secure the network, the more damaging to U.S. national security, the better.

  Gripping his cell phone, Jiggy glanced down to check the time, wondering what the hell a signals collector would be doing at the Ellipse before noon, no less? The lookouts hadn't called him out. How'd he get out of the gate without anyone noticing?

  The light turned green and Jiggy didn't budge. He'd gotten lost in his thoughts, wondering whether he should break coverage on Filchenko and pick up Goose. The horn blared in the car behind him, jarring Jiggy out of his daze. He threw up his middle finger and grabbed his radio.

  “Jazz, this is Jig, do you copy?” he asked.

  “Yeah. What's going on?”

  “I'm breaking coverage. Filchenko's lost…but I’ve spotted Goose dropping money into a parking meter near the Ellipse.”

  Jazz paused. “That’s against Embassy rules, isn’t it?”

  “All day, every day. That’s why I’m staying with him. Going on foot.”

  A lengthy silence fell between them. “While I’ll admit that something’s off, I gotta advise you not to do it, Jig. We’re under strict orders.”

  “I know,” he said, letting the static crackle in the void. “I’ll consider myself advised. I’m shadowing him on foot until he leaves the area so I’ll be going radio silent. Text my cell to contact me.”

  “Roger that, but if something goes wrong the only pedal you’ll be pushing is on that 21-speed Trek collecting dust in your living room.”

  “It’s probably nothing,” he lied. “I’ll be in and out in no time.”

  “You’ve been warned,” Jazz said. “I’m riding this out with Mikhaylov. Hit me up when you figure out what's going on.”

  Jiggy called an audible and hoped he wouldn’t live to regret it. Filchenko would spend the rest of his morning finding his way back to the compound; following him would be a waste of time. He pushed Jazz’s lecture from his mind and made the command decision to break off and pursue Goose. His gut feeling solidified his resolve.

  Jiggy hung a right at the first corner near Constitution Hall. Nothing but rows of metered spaces. He grunted, parked in the empty one closest to 17th Street, and emptied his cup holder of all the change. After loading the meter, he scrambled through the rush hour traffic toward Goose's vehicle, pulling his hoodie over his head. He slipped on his sunglasses to conceal as much of his face as possible. He'd been assigned to cover Gusin before; Jiggy feared Goose might recognize him. He didn’t want to risk it.

  Once next to Goose’s car, he peered into the passenger windows.

  A red-bottomed cooler with a white lid and square handle rested on the back seat. A thin silver wire hung out of the rear corner. Looked like an antenna…which were usually attached to receivers. Why would he keep a receiver in a cooler?

  “That's no picnic lunch,” Jiggy mumbled under his breath. He picked up his pace, scanning from left to right before he spotted Goose resting on a park bench, holding a newspaper with one hand and fiddling inside his bulky jacket with the other. He bobbed his head to the music presumably pumping through the buds plugged in his ears. As Jiggy passed Goose, his eyes traced a thin, coated wire protruding from Goose’s sleeve. Why would he conceal electronics equipment beneath his clothes?

  After circling the walking path once, Jiggy found a park bench within eyeshot of Goose. He pulled out his cell phone and began to send a text just as his phone rang. Jazz's number flashed on the caller ID. He rolled his eyes. The next time he saw Jazz, he’d explain the difference between a text and a phone call.

  “I told you to text me!” Jiggy whispered.

  “I lost him,” Jazz said. “Mikhaylov's in the black.”

  “What? What the hell happened? You said he was running the same route.”

  “Yeah…the son of a bitch pulled up to the embassy gate, waited long enough for me to break coverage. Then he threw the car in reverse and took off toward Wisconsin.”

  “Damn! He's probably making the drop as we speak,” Jiggy whispered.

  “Probably. If Michaels shows up in Moscow, I’ll never live this down,” Jazz said. “What's going on with Goose?”

  “He’s wearing headphones, fidgeting with electronics inside in his jacket, and he’s got a possible receiver in his cooler. He’s targeting something. I mean this area is pretty target rich. The question is what…and, more importantly, how?” he said as he scanned the area. He gulped hard when his eyes locked on the White House grounds.

  “You might want to find out who his new case agents are. There may be a clue in his file.”

  “Will do. See you back at the command center.”

  After Jiggy hung up, he immediately scanned his contacts to find her number. Only took twenty seconds to figure out J.J. was the only agent who’d have the balls to take on the case in the current environment. He glanced at his target once again; Goose appeared in no hurry to vacate his position. If she and Tony joined him at the Ellipse, they could confirm his well-founded suspicion. An intelligence officer engaging in signals collection activity a few hundred feet from the White House? He was operational. The question was: what was he targeting?

  Chapter 3

  Monday, November 9
th—FBI Headquarters

  J.J. could hardly believe Jiggy’s tale—the Russians monitoring U.S. government communications from the Ellipse? Maybe even the White House? Jiggy rambled as he detailed the chronology of the events leading up to his presence in the park.

  “The M.O. looks familiar. This whole situation takes me back a few years—1999 to be exact.”

  J.J.’s forehead wrinkled in confusion. Took her a moment to catch his reference. The case. The thumb in the eye of the U.S. government delivered by a couple of quarter-sized electronic listening devices found in a State Department conference room. Doors down from the Secretary’s Office. And inside the walls of the very Agency whose existence allowed for the Russian diplomatic presence in the United States, no less. The story was all over the news.

  “199— You mean the— get out! But…how?”

  “How in hell should I know? I drive cars for a living,” he said. “I, uhh, hesitated to call. I’m sure you’re on ice because of the stand-down.”

  “You got the memo, huh? I wish I was on ice,” J.J. said. “The water’s hot as hell over here and Director Freeman’s got more eyes on me than a two-headed spider. I can’t step a toe out of line or the CIA will roast my head on a spit.”

  “What gets me is the Russians don’t give a shit about a memo,” Jiggy said. “The Bureau is the only one playing by the freakin’ rules.”

  J.J. agreed. Bad guys didn’t care about the concept of “fair.”

  “Listen, I hate to put you in a compromising position, but…”

  The pits of her arms began to burn; his lie made her itch. She smirked and shook her head. “Give me a freaking break, Jig. You knew exactly who you were calling.”

  He chuckled and continued, “All right, all right. You got me. But if I’m correct about the similarities, this discovery could be the beginning of something big.”

  J.J. quieted and sunk into her thoughts.

  “Hello?” Jiggy said.