by Skye, S. D.
“I can’t do it. My job’s on the line, and I’m not sure whether I want to lose it yet.”
“Then don’t think of it as an investigation. Think of it as an…exchange of ideas,” he said.
J.J. remained silent.
“C’mon, wasn’t it you who told me ‘Do your duty and damn the consequences’?”
Ugh. General Patton. She hated when her motivational speeches came back to bite her in the ass.
“That was low, Jig. All right. All right.”
“Great! But you need to get down here now. Gusin's still in the area so try not to draw attention.”
“This is me you're talking to, Jiggy. Low key is my middle name.”
J.J. hung up, swept back into the office, and interrupted the mumbles. “Uhhh, sorry to break this up everyone, but Tony—we’ve got some important business to attend to,” she said, cutting her eyes to signal that he shouldn’t question her in that moment. His twisted expression revealed his confusion; however, he didn’t say a word.
“Since we’re still an analytical working group, when are we going to prioritize and conduct our analyses?” Gia asked.
“I'll email you all tonight. By then I’ll have more direction.” J.J. expected that if events unfolded as she anticipated, the cases would prioritize themselves.
As everyone gathered their things to depart, Gia lingered awkwardly, waiting for Tony until she finally realized he wasn’t leaving. A few moments later, she drifted out of the door.
Tony eased beside J.J. and in a hushed tone asked. “What’d Jiggy want?”
J.J.’s eyebrow lifted. “He was following the new counterintelligence line chief, Filchenko. The guy gets lost and Jig runs into Gusin at the Ellipse with equipment and a possible receiver. He wants us to go check it out.”
Six’s glance volleyed between Tony and J.J. He tilted his head to one side, pursed his lips, and said, “Wait. Gusin’s a radio intercept guy, right?”
Tony looked surprised at his interruption. “What? You put your hearing aid in? We were havin’ a private conversation here,” Tony snapped. “As a matter of fact, he leads the entire signals group, the most senior guy in Washington.”
“You’re not going down there to conduct an operation,” Six ordered, drawing side glances from his colleagues. His expression grew serious, his voice stern. “Or do I need to define ‘stand-down’ for you? Too many lives are at risk for you to run out playing Dirty Harriet because some signals guy landed in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Oh really?” Tony snapped, sneering at Six and defending J.J. “This…from Shaft?”
“Okay, you two. Watch it or I’ll take you both to the principal’s office,” J.J. said, locking eyes with Six. “We’re not conducting an investigation at this stage. We aren’t making any arrests. We’re only talking to the Gs. If I recall correctly, Title 18 gives me the authority to do so on behalf of the American people without regard to any of this political bullshit.”
“And you wonder why you can’t get a promotion,” Six barked.
His words stung, especially coming from someone who knew first-hand how she’d suffered under Jack Sabinski’s reign, but she bit back. “And you wondered how I could question your loyalty.”
Six’s eyes widened. He opened his mouth to speak, but remained silent.
“Okay. Okay. Now, who needs a trip the principal’s office?” Tony said. “Let’s get outta here, J.J. Time’s a’ wastin’.”
“I’ll be right behind you,” Six said. “Somebody’s got to protect our interests.”
J.J. rolled her eyes. “You’re an American citizen. Our interests are your interests,” she growled before mumbling, “asshole.”
“I heard that!” Six said.
“Uhhh, I don’t want to intrude,” Walter piped in. “But if signals intelligence is involved, as the only NSA rep in the group, I may be able to help.”
“Good thinking! You’re in,” J.J. said, a slight smile emerging from her scowl. Walter might have more balls than she gave him credit for. “We’ll walk. It’s only a few blocks away.”
Chapter 4
Monday Afternoon, November 9th—Russian Embassy
Yuriy Filchenko was reminded of just how much he needed to take exercise as he lugged his girth toward Embassy entrance in a light jog. He paused before starting up the stairs, trying to slow his racing heart. Although tired from running, the day’s events certainly had contributed. He feared he had blown a major operation—and on the third day of his first U.S. tour, no less. His career flashed before his eyes in an instant. He'd go from being a Golikov protégé and the promising new Counterintelligence Chief to nothing more than a cocktail joke in the time it took to pour a shot of vodka.
What a stupid, stupid mistake. One wrong turn had led him and his FBI watcher on a direct path to RAPTURE, one of Russia’s most successful eavesdropping operations since they delivered to the Great Seal to the U.S. Ambassador in Moscow in 1946. He was not aware of the full details, but he knew the operation was so critical that the Center had ordered no one to drive within a ten-mile radius of the area.
This would quickly become his last tour if he didn't find a way to cover his ass. Such a mistake at this tense critical time in U.S.-Russian relations might end his career. If his actions compromised the operation, he must find someone else onto whom he could pin the blunder, deflect the blame. Confessing the truth was not an option.
Only one person came to mind – Aleksey Dmitriyev.
Many influential officers already questioned his loyalty to the Service. Colonel Golikov had entrusted Filchenko to monitor the Washington Residency in general…and Dmitriyev in particular. Said he believed Stanislav Vorobyev, the departing Security Chief, had been covering up Dmitriyev’s misdoings, making the two equally culpable. He’d given Filchenko the responsibility to expose Dmitriyev for the duplicitous hoax he was. He greened at the thought of Dmitriyev, Resident Andrei Komarov, and their fortuitous climbs up the ladders of success, their GQ dress and mannerisms more reminiscent of cartoonish, self-serving James Bonds than the real intelligence officers who served at the will and pleasure of the state.
Filchenko paced through the corridor leading to the Resident's office. He cleared his throat as he approached the door and steeled his nerves. Komarov was perceptive, perhaps too much for his own good—certainly too much for Filchenko. The impression Filchenko left on Komarov must leave no doubt the operation went according to plan and he must also plant the seed that Dmitriyev was not to be trusted.
When Filchenko peered inside, the Resident looked up from a file on his desk. “Ahhh, Comrade. Come in.”
“Uhhh...thank you.”
Komarov lowered his voice to a hush to avoid the ears of unknowing passersby. “I've been hearing positive things about your support on this current operation. You've been a great help at a critical time.”
“Thank you. I'm merely doing my duty.”
“Have a seat. Anything you needed to discuss?”
Filchenko remained standing, shifted his gaze from the Resident and rubbed his hands down his pant leg to dry his palms. “No, I was wondering if Comrade Dmitriyev has returned from his meeting downtown yet. I haven’t seen him all morning,” he lied, knowing the Resident had forbidden all officers from leaving the compound without his expressed consent.
“Hmmm. He reported no such meeting.”
“Perhaps I misspoke. I could’ve sworn he mentioned something to that effect the other day.”
After checking the time on his wrist, the Resident said, “He should be at his desk. He passed by only seconds ago.”
Filchenko nodded. “I’ll let you get back to work.”
“Thank you.” The Resident eyed him suspiciously. “Close the door behind you.”
Filchenko lengthened his stride toward Dmitriyev's office, changing his colors like a chameleon to play his new role. He was taking a major risk. He tugged at his collar to release the stifling sensation from around his neck. He needed
to appear panicked, afraid, so Dmitriyev would snatch the bait and shift into protection mode when this frightened first-tour officer confessed his mistake. Then he’d convince Dmitriyev to allow him into the space beneath his wing and mentor him. It was important to keep his enemy close. As soon as Dmitriyev let his guard down, Filchenko would strike for the kill, boosting his star into the stratosphere and driving Dmitriyev into the muck where he belonged.
He rapped his knuckles against Dmitriyev’s door frame. “Hello, Comrade. May I speak with you for a moment?”
Aleksey smiled and pushed himself from his desk to stand. “You look concerned. Something wrong?”
He was comforted by Dmitriyev’s strained expression; Filchenko’s ruse had kicked off as planned. Counterintelligence officers were trained to detect problems and then investigate them. Only those vulnerable to engaging in corrupt activity failed to report, an observation which gave him pause. Filchenko felt confident he’d selected the ideal stooge. “The truth is, I don't know. That's why I'm coming to you.”
“Is this about today? When you showed up later than usual, I figured you'd gotten lost. If you’re concerned about your performance, you shouldn’t be. You've done well for someone who's been here less than a week. Some officers who've been in D.C. two years can’t go from here to the corner without Sat Nav.”
Filchenko chuckled before his smile evaporated. “They gave me a car with a manual transmission. I can barely keep it from stalling, let alone pay attention to the street signs. Before I realized my location, I had passed Comrade Gusin's car and drew FBI surveillance into the area. They could've seen him. I’m almost certain they did.”
“Gusin? I don't under—” he began. “Wait...to which operation are you referring?”
“RAPTURE. The White House operation. Certainly you’re aware of it.”
“Ah, of course,” Dmitriyev leaned forward on his desk and dropped his head into his hands. Then glanced up at him. “He's involved in another as well. I get them confused. Have you told anyone else?”
“No, just you.”
Dmitriyev locked eyes with Filchenko. “I hate to belabor the obvious but I don't need to tell you that the ramifications could be significant. My God, if the FBI shuts it down, we will lose our only window into the White House and a critical source of reports during the embassy lockdown. No reports to the Center means more negative attention for the Residency. Komarov won’t be happy,” he said. “On the other hand, the chances that the FBI spotted Gusin are infinitesimal, at best.”
“I agree, and I’m relieved to be working with someone so … calm and reasonable.”
Dmitriyev nodded. “We'll say nothing at the moment. Let's monitor the situation and see what happens.”
Filchenko nodded and smiled as he stood to leave. “Thank you for your assistance in this matter.”
“Well, let's just hope you won't need it,” Dmitriyev said as his eyes followed him out. “Please close it behind you,” he said, motioning toward the door.
Aleksandr Dmitriyev sat back hard in his seat as a wide grin subsumed his face. His scattered thoughts began to coalesce. Thanks to that sniveling sack of scum Filthchenko, he now had the intelligence he needed to prove his worth to the FBI—RAPTURE. However, if the longstanding operation was shut down within days of Dmitriyev finding out about it, the Resident might blame him for the compromise and his life would be over. On the other hand, his clueless underling had unwittingly provided him with a scapegoat if he needed one.
Dmitriyev now needed to contact Agent McCall and warn her, but he would have to ask her to do the unthinkable—find a way to leave it in place until he could ensure he would not come under suspicion. The optimal means of contacting Agent McCall was via the disposable phone she had provided him during a previous operation. Yes, she had ordered him to get rid of it, but the Mikhaylova Affairs and Moscow arrests had distracted him. He would destroy it the minute he sent the text. He couldn’t afford the risk of keeping it in his possession any longer anyway.
He slipped out of his office, passed the administrative assistant, and announced that he was heading out for his daily Starbucks run. Then he made his way to his flat. Pressing through the chilled air, he trekked across the parking lot and up the steps to the 4th floor of the residential building. He flung open the door to his place, clambered to his closet, and grabbed one of the Nike boxes from the sea of shoes on the floor. He dug his hand into the left shoe, pulled out the ball of tissue paper, and unraveled it.
Nothing.
He searched the other shoe.
Nothing.
His brow furrowed as he stared at the sea of boxes. The thought of searching each one of the minimum fifteen boxes at that moment left him feeling a little exasperated, and he’d already had a long day. While he needed to find the phone, he didn’t need to find it at that moment. He decided to take a break and find it later.
Chapter 5
Late Monday Afternoon—The Ellipse
By the time J.J. and the rest of the team had arrived at the expansive patch of field south of the White House called the Ellipse, Gusin was gone. They trekked through the line of trees, majestic oak limbs barely clinging to the last remnants of fall circling the walking path that led them to Jiggy. Based on his earlier text message, he’d clocked the Russian out two hours and fifteen minutes after his arrival. Still she felt jittery. She was more than well known to most D.C.-based Russian intelligence officers and if any one of them spotted her, the jig was up—and at the worst possible time. Each time dead leaves crunched under the feet of passersby, J.J. scanned over her shoulder to watch for stray intelligence officers in the area until they reached the Zero Mile Marker. Their position afforded a direct view of the bowed columns of the White House’s south front façade just a few hundred feet away.
“So, Walter, what do you think?” J.J. asked, as he squatted on the ground next to her. He whipped out his laptop with swiftness of a gunslinger's Colt 45 and zealously tapped his fingers across the keyboard. When the map of the Ellipse appeared, he touched the screen, pushed his digits together and pulled them apart until he'd zoomed in. The satellite image labeled every nearby street and building.
J.J. leaned forward hovering over his shoulder like a watchful mother hen while Jiggy and Tony flanked her on either side. She scoured the map of the area surrounding the Ellipse, shifting her stance to avoid the sun's harsh glare.
“It's tough to say,” Walter said, pushing his glasses on the bridge of his nose. “But the fact that he comes here and physically sits in this location suggests he’s targeting a very specific mode of communication or device in close proximity. It can’t be more than a few hundred feet away.” He traced the surrounding streets with his index finger. “In that distance, the most logical target according to my calculations....”
He froze. Silence weighed down his face.
“Where?” J.J. urged.
“Can’t be that bad.” Tony chuckled and swiped his brow. “I mean it’s not like they wired the friggin’ White House.”
Walter glance dragged slowly from J.J. to Tony, his face wrenched. The glare reflecting off of his glasses barely shielded his bulging eyes.
“The White House?” Tony asked
Walter nodded. “It could be anywhere. The private residence. The West Wing. Can’t be certain without more information.”
“The West Wing?” Tony asked. “What’s there? Secret Service, the uhhh…what else?”
J.J. eyes protruded from her head. “Cabinet Room?” She moved around and collapsed beside Walter, eyeing the screen to get a closer look. “But there’s no way in hell they could get inside. No way.”
“Well, that’s not true,” Walter said, his expression and tone questioning J.J.’s assertion. “It’s a long shot but they could feasibly install a listening device with a remote switch. They’ve done it before, and it would explain why he physically visits this location.”
“If you’re Russian intelligence and you wire the President’s
residence,” Six said, “would you bother trying to plant it any place else?”
“How in the hell could the Russians get a fucking listening device in the White House?” Tony asked. “You can’t change your mind in that place without bumping into Secret Service.”
“A highly placed source for starters. You know, like a recruitment, a mole, or...an illegal,” said Six.
“An asset and opportunity,” J.J. added.
Walter glanced up. “Well, they’ve been undergoing periodic renovations for the last six or seven years now.”
J.J.’s head snapped toward Walter. “Did you say six or seven?”
He nodded. “We helped install their secure comms networks in the Situation Room. The space had been totally gutted and remodeled. There are a couple conference spaces and video teleconferencing rooms.”
“With all this new technology, seems like they would’ve installed sensors or something to detect electronics activity in the room, right?”
“Yes, they did,” Walter ran his fingers through his hair. “But they sense high frequencies. If the Russians used a low-frequency device, the sensors probably wouldn’t pick up the signal.”
“I’ll be damned!” Tony said.
“On the bright side,” Walter said, “if the device must be turned on and recorded remotely, that works in our favor. Not only does it limit the information they can collect, we have a better chance of catching them in the act and locating the device.”
“Maybe,” Six said. “But I think it’ll be pretty tough to find.”
“Seems like Secret Service would’ve caught Gusin by now if he made a pattern of coming down here too often, especially at night or odd hours. They must be spacing out the trips and showing up at different times during the day,” Jiggy said. “Or they think U.S. security is too stupid to notice. Either way they’ll be back. We need to be here so we can trace the signal.”
“With the entire residency still on lockdown from this Lana business, I’d bet my soul, if we’re right, that this is probably their only source of high-level intelligence. They can’t meet their sources without a team of Gs on their asses. They’ll be back…and sooner than later,” J.J. said.
