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

by Skye, S. D.

  Though feeling more like an exercise in futility, Dmitriyev took one final shot at convincing the Resident’s his idea was a bad one. “If I get caught, the FBI will have a field day. It’s too risky to the Service. Not to mention the problems it would cause for you if I’m caught. You are the only one who could authorize my participation in such an operation. You would be kicked out directly behind me.”

  He let out a long drawn out breath, pressed his elbows against his knees, and dropped his face in his hands. “I understand your concerns, Comrade. And I do not argue that they are valid…under normal circumstances. In this instance, I’m confident your participation is a mere formality and you will not encounter any problems whatsoever—we never have. You’ll be back within a couple of hours. End of story. I will brook no more opposition,” he said.

  Dmitriyev took another sip from his cup and scrunched his face. “Well, this shit won’t do. I’ll definitely need Starbucks this morning,” he said. “Is that all or did you have something else you needed to discuss?”

  The Resident pressed his lips together. “I was wondering…what do you think of Filchenko?”

  Dmitriyev felt the blood rush to his face. He wondered if the Resident’s request, which felt like a test, came about because Filthchenko had already attempted to turn the Resident against him. Counterintelligence officers were notoriously two-faced, and it would not be beneath Filthchenko to twist his own mistake to Dmitriyev’s detriment, posture himself to receive the Resident’s favor.

  He shrugged and said, “It’s too early to tell.” He cautiously examined his boss’s expression and calculated his next statement. “We should keep an eye on him.”

  “Very perceptive and I agree,” the Resident’s said. “If ice runs through your veins, seltzer water must be sloshing through his,” he said. “When you first arrived at the embassy, you were cool, calm, didn’t make mistakes. He seems a little uncharacteristic of the counterintelligence line. Too jittery…nervous.”

  Dmitriyev nodded, relieved by his boss’s revelation. The Resident didn’t trust Filthchenko anymore than he. “This is his first time facing the Americans on their own turf. We’ll find out what he’s made of soon enough.”

  “I know we will. That’s why I want you to keep a close eye on him. Personally, take him under your wing and set him up…for success, of course.”

  “Of course.” Dmitriyev chuckled. The Resident was already looking for an excuse to rid himself of Filthchenko. Nobody wanted Golikov’s people lurking around, and Filthchenko would make life miserable and uncomfortable until he left. But no one except Dmitriyev understood Filthchenko had placed himself in a position of weakness, and Dmitriyev held the keys to his inevitable doom.

  “You should be ready to leave in an hour. So hurry and get your coffee fix,” his boss said as he headed to toward the door and opened it. “But for God’s sake, please don’t put any vodka in it. You’ll need to be on your toes…just in case.”

  Dmitriyev nodded and stared at the door until the latch clicked. His desperation swelled like an eye at the end of a prize fighter’s uppercut. He needed to speak with Agent McCall before he set foot outside the compound. If caught at the operational site, it’d be too late explain his presence there.

  He scrambled to his bedroom and scoured through the mass of clothes and shoes boxes from his many outlet excursions covering his closet floor. In one of them, he stored the burn phone Agent McCall told him to throw away after he helped identify the FBI mole’s drop site. He’d use it one last time to warn her of the impending operation then destroy it as originally instructed. His breathing grew frantic as he opened box after box to no avail. After minutes of desperate searching he opened the final pair. He pulled out the left shoe.

  Nothing.

  He pulled out the right shoe and dug his hand inside.

  Nothing.

  At once, he collapsed into the floor, covered his face with both hands. Minutes passed and his thoughts fluttered in spastic turns before he pounded his fist into the floor. “Shiiiit!” he cried out.

  His recollection in that moment would seal his fate.

  He’d given them away. The phone was on the way to Moscow in the hands of a man trained to detect and arrest Russian traitors—Stanislav Vorobyev.

  Dmitriyev shuddered. If he discovered the phone, he would waste no time ordering Dmitriyev’s immediate arrest. And based on Golikov’s new world order, there would be no show trial, no 20-year stint in Lefortovo high security prison. After being beaten beyond recognition, he’d be hacked by Mashkov’s blade in the belly of some Russian organized crime safe house outside of Moscow.

  It was only a matter of time.

  Dmitriyev needed J.J.’s help more than ever. And if she caught him in the act of supporting RAPTURE, he’d never receive it.

  Chapter 8

  Tuesday Morning—The Ellipse

  A cold wind pierced J.J.’s windbreaker as she glanced up at the auburn sky. The ominous clouds portended rain and threatened the operation, but the team forged ahead. With just over twelve hours left to justify a full investigation, they could ill-afford any delays. The Ellipse was fairly tranquil except for the beat of joggers’ shoes against the asphalt, spate clumps of morning commuters, and a vagabond dragging garbage bags filled with his wares across the busying streets. After scanning the park to ensure Gusin hadn’t arrived, the entire team, including Gia (to J.J.’s dismay), began moving into position.

  “Everyone wired in? I’m on 18th Street checking for countersurveillance. If they sent an officer out, he has to pass by here or Constitution Avenue.”

  “Yeah, everything’s good here,” Tony said, “I’m next to the Boy Scout statue. Was messing around on my iPhone and got a text from the lookouts. Gusin was called out of the embassy about 25 minutes ago. He should be here any minute.”

  “Messing around already? Didn’t take long, did it?” Six said.

  J.J. huffed. “Save it, Six. What’s your position?”

  “You want me to disclose something so personal to the task force?” Six said, suppressing a chuckle. After a long pause he said, “I’m kidding, I’m kidding. Loosen up, people. I’m at 17th and Constitution, and I think we’re all good.”

  A hard silence fell over the radio, and then J.J. growled in the throat. She patted her jacket pocket and pulled out her cellphone out to make sure the ringer was on. Then she looked down at her wristwatch before volleying her glance left and right along 18th Street, pretending to be waiting for public transportation so no passersby would question her presence. “Who’s got eyes on Walter?” J.J. asked.

  “I just passed him. I’m sitting a couple benches away,” Gia said. “Looks like he’s playing Galaga or something on his laptop. Hey, Walter! Did you make it to stage six?”

  Silence.

  “Walter?” Gia said.

  “Hey, enough with the freakin’ game already,” Tony interjected. “It’s time to look alert!” He waited for a response. “Walter?”

  Silence.

  “Walter?” Gia asked again with no response. “Something must be wrong with his radio.”

  Through broken waves of static, Walter said, “I can bare—hear—guys.”

  “Ugh. Bad signal. We are so screwed,” J.J. said.

  “Tony, can you go over and—” No sooner than the smile disappeared from her face she spotted him. “Incoming! Gusin’s car pulled up to the light.” J.J. turned her back toward him and glanced over her right shoulder until his Corolla passed by in her peripheral vision. “Okay, guys. This is it. He’s parking and should be entering the park in a few minutes. Stay alert. If countersurveillance is out they won’t be far behind. Tony, text the lookouts and find out if any other intel officers were called out.”

  A few minutes later, he replied, “Only Dmitriyev. But he’s declared so if he shows his face down here, he’s going back to Moscow.”

  “Hmm. Strange nobody else is making a run….unless one of ‘em managed to slip past the lookouts throu
gh another gate. Wouldn’t be the first time. Tricky bastards.”

  J.J.’s senses sharpened as she scanned the area for Gusin. The warning signal at the crosswalk sounded forcing a barrage of morning commuters to run across the street. She knew he’d be carrying a bag of some kind with him so she focused her attention on spotting it. Before she could inhale, the treacherous Russian son of a bitch passed her.

  And it wasn’t Gusin.

  “Aleksey? You can’t be here!” They froze in each other’s gazes. His eyes were empty, emotionless, as if looking straight through her.

  He said nothing.

  The bright red flashing in her eyes when she saw him had little to do with the crisp new Washington Capitals baseball cap he donned, the bill pulled close to his eyes. Her anger swelled in a surreal frenzy and he seemed to move in slow motion.

  After a few moments that seemed like an eternity, he jerked his guilty mug toward the pavement and rushed past J.J. Once on the walking path, he headed to the right, in the direction opposite the White House. J.J. stood in utter shock, waited for him to glance over his shoulder and give her a sign, any sign, that his presence at the site of a damaging operation potentially targeting the highest levels of U.S. government was a mistake, mere happenstance. But he made no such move.

  While her distracted mind churned over the implications, she’d missed Gusin’s approach; he rambled across her path a couple of minutes later. As Dmitriyev strolled to the right toward Constitution Avenue, Gusin continued his trek onto the trail toward the left.

  J.J. was paralyzed, didn’t know what to react to first. She closed her eyes for a moment and let her instincts take over. Pressing her hand against her ear, she said, “Heads up, Gia. Gusin’s coming your way. Just passed me. He’s headed north.”

  “I’ve got eyes on him—he’s coming toward me. Looks like he’s got an earphone plugged in. Why the hell is he walking so slowly?” she said.

  After a brief pause, she continued. “Okay. Just passed me. He’s…oh shit! Looks like he’s walking in Walter’s direction. Repeat, he’s walking toward Walter.”

  J.J. scanned the park and saw Walter in position. She gasped and through clenched teeth said, “Listen, Walter, can you hear me?”

  Silence.

  “Walter?”

  More silence.

  “Walter, our target’s approaching you from the left. The guy in the dark slacks and ugly shoes. Get that fucking earpiece out. If he sees any hint of a wire, this operation is over before it begins!”

  Still no sound. Just the crackle of static.

  J.J. hoped like hell Walter’s computer game was still on the screen. While J.J. waited for Gia to respond, she called Tony on his cell.

  “What’s up?” he answered.

  “You’re not gonna believe this. Our friend just passed me!”

  “Our friend. What friend?” he asked. Before she could respond, Tony growled in a loud whisper, “What the hell is Dmitriyev doing here?!”

  “Ahhh, saw him for yourself, huh? That’s the million dollar question, isn’t it?”

  “He’s declared now. He can’t engage in operational activity,” Tony said. “If that piece of shit’s been playing us, he just fucked himself royally.”

  “Well, if we wait a few minutes, we’ll know exactly which side he’s on,” J.J. said. “If he signals that FBI’s in the area, and he knows I’m here, then Gusin will abort his operation and leave.”

  “If he fucks this op, I’ll pinch his ass right here. State Department’s only a couple blocks over. He can grab his PNG papers and take them straight to hell for all I care.”

  The radio went silent as J.J. watched Gusin tread slowly around the circular walkway. She studied his movement; he appeared to be searching. Perhaps he was looking for the ideal position to get the best reception, just as Walter had done earlier. It occurred to her, they performed the same job, probably had access to much of the same training and technologies. So they probably…

  Picked the same freaking spot!

  She pressed the push-to-talk button. “Walter! Walter!” she said in a whispered scream. “Can you hear me? I need you to move. Now! Get out of there!”

  Walter didn’t budge. No hint of reception on his radio. As Dmitriyev made his way around the path, the entire operation rode on her gut instinct.

  Her stomach wrenched as her nightmare materialized. Gusin found a spot on the bench adjacent to Walter—and Dmitriyev was only fifty meters away. If he signaled Gusin and called off the op, she’d know she’d been played, and Golikov’s rage would pale in comparison to hers. After she finished raining down the fury of her wrath, Aleksey wouldn’t know what country he came from.

  Six buzzed in. “Uhh…I might be seeing things, but the man who walked past me resembles the new security officer.”

  J.J.’s eyes popped wide and she cleared her throat. “Don’t be ridiculous. He’s declared,” she lied. “You’re getting old. Might be time for a glaucoma test.”

  J.J.’s phone vibrated in her hand. Tony called again. “On my mother’s soul, if he makes one freakin’ wrong move, his balls will get back to Moscow before he does.”

  “Depends on what’s left after I get through with him.”

  The moment was upon them. Dmitriyev passed Gusin. He ran the palm of his hand across the back of his neck and tipped the bill of his baseball cap with this index finger. Then he paced quickly out of the park, avoiding J.J.’s position and disappearing into the morning crowd.

  “Looked like a signal to me,” Tony said.

  “Yeah me, too,” J.J. replied. “The question is what did it mean?”

  Suddenly, Gusin reached inside his jacket and bolted up from the seat.

  “Son of a bitch! He’s leaving!”

  As he began walking, J.J.’s blood boiled with Gusin’s every lumbering step. Her mind replayed the meetings and conversations with Dmitriyev in quick time. How could she, of all people, be deceived? Her gift of lie detection was the reason she held out a glimmer of hope, at least until Gusin rose to his feet.

  Her gaze swept across the pavement in frustration. A barrage of thoughts rushed through her mind, including every method of punishing Dmitriyev for his betrayal.

  She would leave no diplomatic sanction unexploited—splash his name through newspaper headlines worldwide. Have him declared PNG, maybe even start a rumor of how he’d volunteered his services to the FBI, but was rejected because the Bureau believed it to be a blatant provocation. That would teach him. She knew exactly who to call and scrolled through her cell phone contacts…Gill Bert from The Washington Times.

  When she returned her gaze street level, Gusin was still there, seated at the opposite end of the bench, the side furthest from Walter.

  He didn’t leave, after all. He just shifted positions. She expelled a long breath and swiped her forehead with the back of her hand.

  Dmitriyev wasn’t a double after all—or he made the move that would save his ass for the moment. His loyalty was now in question. And he’d have to prove his worth before she gave him one shred of assistance.

  “Lucky bastard,” Tony bellowed, breaking through the fog in her mind. “Looks like the op is still on. Walter’s fingers are going a mile a minute. He’s onto something.”

  “Yeah. Lucky bastard, indeed. We’ll deal with him later. For now, let’s hope Walter can intercept a transmission.”

  “No, J.J.,” Tony began, “if you think about the implications, we better hope he doesn’t.”

  Chapter 9

  Tuesday Afternoon—The Ellipse

  Three hours later, the team took refuge in the FBI Mobile Command Center that had arrived shortly after Gusin left the premises. J.J. had ordered back-up in case Walter was unsuccessful, but she felt confident she wouldn’t need it. Inside the modified interior cabin, rectangular table tops affixed to the either side of the van’s wall served as desk areas for five personnel. Receivers and recording equipment lined the shelves as Walter’s fingers flitted across his lapto
p’s keyboard. J.J. and the team huddled around, waiting for him to process the signal intercepts. A large pair of what appeared to be commercial-grade noise-cancelling headphones pressed into his curly black mane, as line after line of computational gibberish scrolled down his screen. His mind was in the zone and he blocked out everything beyond the complicated world in his laptop…at least until the burn of four sets of eyes seared through him. Jolted out of his intense concentration, his glance darted nervously around the room.

  “Uhhh…is there a problem? I feel like a guppy in a fish bowl,” he said.

  “Sorry,” J.J. said. “How much longer before you find something?”

  “Just a couple more minutes. I’ve isolated one low frequency RF signal that started emitting about the time Gusin arrived. I’m trying to determine whether it’s from the White House. It’s hard to tell.”

  Gia spoke up. “How will you differentiate the intercepted signal from any other telecommunication signal?”

  “Well, I won’t know for certain until we conduct a sweep to verify. But classified conversations should take place over encrypted lines. I can intercept encrypted signals but they’ll sound garbled. However, if I understand what they’re saying, if I hear a classified conversation, I know the signal is coming from an unsecure line or a transmitting device. Does that make sense?”

  She nodded.

  “But how can you tell whether or not it’s classified?” J.J. asked.

  “Well,” he said, looking around at the doubting faces. “We’re all cleared here. I’ll play them out loud and we’ll all take a guess.”

  “Good idea,” Six piped in. He looked down at his watch. “But we need to step this up. We’ve been at this all day and I need to get back to Langley before heading home.”

  “Okay.” Walter yanked out the headphone cord from its laptop jack and cranked up the volume on the speakers. “Here’s the first one.”

  The sound of static hummed through the speakers occasionally accentuated by a few pops and crackles more reminiscent of morning breakfast cereal than a signals intercept.