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

by Skye, S. D.

  “You mean she's going to try to kill J.J.?”

  John nodded. “She’s bitter, angry, and desperate. J.J. recruited her countrymen to spy against the Russians and was attempting to decimate Lana’s plans to return to Moscow as a hero, according to the journal entries. And she's got one hell of an ugly temper. She'll be hell-bent on getting revenge.”

  “So, what's the plan?”

  “Obviously, we have to protect Agent McCall,” Nixon said. “And, if I may speak frankly, McCall is a loose cannon and shouldn’t be authorized to support this investigation. She needs to sit this one on the sidelines. Doing so might offer us key opportunity to find Lana.”

  “Opportunity? Explain.”

  “Lana’s coming for her, but we don’t know when or how. We'd like to put a small team of Gs on J.J. until Lana's caught. Maybe rotate two or three of our best personnel. Unobtrusive twenty-four seven coverage. If the Gs spot anything suspicious, if she makes any attempt on J.J.'s life, they can call in support.”

  “We can’t spare a team. Resources are thin right now. I’ll authorize one during third shift. Best I can do.” Freeman gave a tentative nod and let out a strained chuckle. “You ever met Agent McCall?”

  “Once or twice. She’s a good agent, don’t get me wrong. But you give her entirely too much latitude.”

  Freeman pinched his lips together; his brow furrowed and released. “Interesting. She and Agent Donato have worked side-by-side on every investigation, yet you’re not complaining about his latitude.”

  Nixon swallowed hard, his eyes shifted to the right.

  “You and I both know this has nothing to do with latitude and everything to do with her genes,” Freeman snapped.

  “That’s not—”

  “Please.” Freeman threw up his hand and stopped him before he began. “I haven’t been director for very long, but I’ve been here long enough. Bottom line is Agents McCall and Donato get latitude because they get results,” he said. “With that said, this is for her safety. The plan is not optional, no matter how much she balks. Let her know that when you break the news.”

  “I’m happy, too.”

  “I’m sure you are.”

  John chuckled. “Anything else, Director?”

  “Yes. You’ll need to deliver one more piece of bad news.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I had a meeting with the DNI and CIA director today. They’ve requested we stand-down all Russian operations until further notice.”

  “Stand-down?! Do they realize we’re in the middle of a man…woman-hunt for a Russian intelligence officer who killed an FBI agent? The daughter of an intelligence officer working in the Russian Embassy? I mean, c’mon.”

  “I understand and trust me, I conveyed as much myself,” Freeman said. “But the CIA is conducting a sensitive operation with a high-level SVR recruitment. If the CIA handler is expelled or PNG’d, the entire community will lose a critical source of intelligence.”

  A misplaced smile overtook Nixon’s face before he asked, “So, that’s it for the task force?”

  “Easy, John. Your Alabama is showing,” Freeman said, gently reminding Nixon of who he was…and what he knew.

  “Russell, you know this has absolutely nothing to do with race.”

  “And everything to do with genes…neither of which Agent McCall can do anything about,” Freeman replied. “Regardless, it’s out of my hands, at least until the CIA asset makes the next drop and Lebed returns to Moscow.” The Russian National Security Director was scheduled to visit in a week and the President had tied Freeman’s hands until it was over.

  “What are you going to do when she quits?”

  “She won’t. The FBI is in her blood. She can’t shake it. By the time she cools off, she’ll be operational again and Task Force Phantom Hunter will proceed as planned.”

  “If you say so. I’m just marching to orders,” John said, offering a playful salute.

  “I do,” Freeman agreed, his mind shifting to J.J.’s latest recruit, Aleksey Dmitriyev. “In other news, what do we know about this Filchenko, the new CI Chief?”

  “Our intel says he’s one of Golikov’s most trusted officers, an ambitious backstabber who would cut his own mother’s throat to posture himself for a higher position. On the other hand, it’s his first tour and operating against the FBI is no picnic,” Nixon said. “I’ve gotta say, I’m relieved J.J. doesn’t have any recruitments in the embassy right now. If Filchenko even got a whiff that we had recruited an intelligence officer in the Embassy he’d be a Golikov victim before we could say, ‘espionage.’”

  “Last and final question,” Freeman said. “Who at WFO is on the Michaels investigation?”

  “The only FBI agent who wants to takedown Lana more than J.J.”

  Chapter 14

  Friday Night—Washington Field

  Special Agent in Charge of the Washington Field Office, Greg MacDonald, made head turns with his imposing presence as he rushed through the Counterintelligence squad bay. His Eastwood attitude and ceaseless thousand-yard glare outstripped the timidity of his lanky frame and conservative suit. He quickened his pace, zigzagging between cubicles until he reached his favorite supervisor, trained by MacDonald himself. Twenty- years before, Kyle and his best buddy strutted out of Quantico, both cocksure, hard-headed rookies eager to make their first arrests…at least until MacDonald schooled them. Years later, Kyle would learn his most important lesson from Mac: controlling an operation over months or years could often yield more long-term success than a quick arrest and a little press—the soul of counterintelligence.

  Kyle's office was off to the left and rear of the squad bay. Although one would never use the word spacious to describe its size, an array of family photos and Redskins paraphernalia coating the walls and desk made it his home away from home. MacDonald, peered inside the office and knocked on the door frame.

  Kyle’s back was turned to Mac as his fingers tapped furiously against his keyboard. So deep in his thoughts, he didn't realize anyone was standing behind him.

  “Hey Kyle, how’re you holding up?” Mac asked, knowing he, more than anyone else in the Bureau, was still reeling from the stunning loss of his best friend. Raw grief is the reason Mac selected him as the agent best-suited to arrest Lana Michaels and take her off the streets. Kyle was someone he could trust, someone with the right connections on both sides of the law, and one thing no other agent had.

  Startled, Kyle jumped and snapped his head toward the door. “Jeez, you scared the shit out of me,” he squelched before pressing his hand against his chest. “I’m not. I feel like a piece of shit, my wife’s giving me hell, and you may not want to come too close. Think I caught the bubonic plague.”

  “I’ll take my chances.” MacDonald took a seat in the guest chair and leaned forward, elbows to knees. He eyed the pile of used tissues cluttering his old friend’s desk. The consummate anti-bureaucrat, Kyle shunned the standard Brooks Brother uniform for Dockers and plain button-ups. Despite the slightly contorted, pained expression furrowing Kyle’s brow, Mac proceeded, knowing he’d be compounding his friend’s present miseries.

  “Bet I don’t need to ask what brings you down from the throne,” Kyle said. “It’s my fault. From day one, I had doubts, concerns. Never followed-up on them. Now look at what’s happened,” Kyle said, his voice faintly above a whisper. “I created the bomb. Lit the fuse. The explosion was inevitable … I just never dreamed it would take my best friend’s life.”

  “Jim made choices neither you nor I could control,” Mac said. “You did your job. We all did. We’re all culpable. After chasing our tails for a decade after Hanssen, nobody in the entire community took the intel on the second mole seriously.”

  “Razor was right all along, and we all but marched him to his death.”

  Mac’s voice tensed. “We accepted the word of an agent who conducted an asset validation and provided full justification for her findings. We had no way of knowing Michaels was playin
g executioner. The fact of the matter is, it’s done. To sit here and stew in our missteps would be yet another mistake we don’t have time to make. We need to get her off the street—now.”

  “Of all the agents in the Bureau…you picked me?” Kyle said, chuckling to himself. “No ulterior motives there, huh?”

  Kyle could anticipate Agent Michaels’ every move and beat her at the game the FBI had taught her—the game Kyle himself had taught her as her mentor during her rotation at Washington Field. Since the news of her treacherous fall from grace, Kyle had been laden with sadness and guilt, hitting a tailspin into a pit of internal despair. Mac hoped this assignment would pull him out of it…eventually.

  “You’ve got eyes where most people won't think to look, and you’ve got one quality no other agent in Washington Field has.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Strong personal motivation,” Mac said. “With you at the helm, we’ll get her safely tucked away in Supermax before she hits another agent.”

  Kyle settled in his thoughts as the room grew quiet. “All right. But I’ll do it on my own. My way.”

  Mac raised his eyebrow and waited. “Uh, not exactly. I’m assigning a co-case agent. Whether you realize it or not, you need help on this.”

  After a few grunts, Kyle considered the proposition. “Okay, who’re you thinking about, Davidson? Smith?”

  MacDonald shook his head. “Hopper.”

  Kyle’s back slammed against the chair and his eyes widened. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me! He’s a hardheaded 12 year old know-it-all whose only concern is bagging bank robbers.”

  Mac laughed out loud sparking Kyle’s apparent confusion. “Remind you of anyone? That’s exactly why I picked him.”

  “I was different,” Kyle said, shaking his head, realizing he was the butt of an unfunny joke. “I listened. I followed instructions. And even if that’s all a lie, at least I could take a joke.”

  “Yeah, not so much. Someone cared enough to set you on the right track. Pay it forward.”

  Kyle stood up and walked to the window. He stared out into the distance. “I’ll do this under one condition,” he said, his eyes locked on the auburn sky. “I want the death penalty. No bullshit plea bargains. Ten consecutive life sentences wouldn’t be enough to make up for this.”

  Mac’s lips pinched together as he exhaled. He understood Kyle’s pain better than anyone else; he also knew his limitations. However personally driven, the investigation must adhere to the rule of law. “I’ll do what I can, Kyle, but the Bureau avoids trials on Espionage cases for a reason. We have sources to protect. Just between you and me, though,” he lowered his voice to just above a whisper. “I told you to get her off the street…I didn’t say how.”

  Kyle nodded and a slight grin edged the corner of his mouth upward. They exchanged approving nods and MacDonald stood to exit the door.

  “Great. Keep me updated. I want daily briefings.” He stepped through the threshold, froze, and leaned back to add his parting words of advice. “Don’t let your emotions get the best of you, my friend. Control them…or they will control you.”

  Chapter 15

  Friday—Russian Embassy, Washington, D.C.

  The day after Svetlana Mikhaylova’s escape from custody, Aleksey Dmitriyev, and the other senior Russian intelligence officers, gathered in their secure conference room. Now that their operative had been caught operating under deep cover in the FBI, they needed to discuss their strategy. He dreaded attending the meeting or helping their precious Svetlana. It was because of her that the man he called brother was recalled from Washington back to Moscow and tortured at the hands of Mashkov. His close friend Vorobyev was nearly beaten to death by Golikov’s goons at her behest. If she rotted in an American death chamber, it would be more than she ever deserved. He wanted her to die, and he wanted to choke the life out of her with his bare hands.

  “No one is to leave the compound without my authorization. No meetings, no nothing if I have not given my expressed consent,” the Resident ordered. Andrei Komarov served as the most senior Russian intelligence officer posted in the Washington Embassy. He met with the key members of the staff involved in the debacle termed by the media as “The Mikhaylova Affairs.”

  A member of the more sophisticated political operational line, his English skills had been perfected such that he could speak with no detectable Russian accent in the company of Americans. He also relished in his lady-killer reputation, nicknaming himself the bunny trap for his ability to successfully target assets of the female persuasion and corrupt them into cooperation with relative ease.

  “The FBI must have six teams posted outside. Every gate covered. They're not even trying to disguise their activity anymore,” said the Resident, pinching his squared jaw as he peered out the tinted conference room windows into the streets surrounding the compound. He feared the increased traffic stream in the area was no coincidence. “Mikhaylova—the Red Honeytrap as the American press calls her, as well as the NOC arrests in Moscow, have caused quite a stir.”

  “The FBI views Svetlana as an American agent of a foreign power and she murdered a senior FBI official on behalf of a foreign service. In their eyes, she’s a traitor of the worst kind,” said Dmitriyev, hoping with every shred of his being that the FBI found her before she managed her escape to Moscow. “They will not stop searching until she's in custody or dead.”

  The senior intelligence officers circling the table all nodded in agreement.

  “Without question,” the Resident began, as his azure glare cut across the table and caused his underlings to shrink in his presence, “but we cannot stand down our operations. And our ability to provide her with the necessary support is limited at best. We are paralyzed and mobilizing our deep cover personnel to support her will put them in equally grave danger and that’s unacceptable.”

  “I agree. We cannot afford to shut down our critical operations,” said the Political Chief. “Our contacts refuse to meet with us until this controversy dies down, which elevates the priority of the intelligence we're collecting from RAPTURE. We must extricate Mikhaylova from the United States soon. I needn’t remind anyone here that inspections are underway.”

  If higher-ups determined the Washington Residency was ineffective during inspections, they risked losing personnel and funding for their missions.

  “I agree,” said Lana’s father, Mikhaylov. He had only one goal—to ensure his daughter’s safe travel to Moscow. “Svetlana can’t stay underground much longer. The more time we take to conduct the dead-drop and provide her travel documentation and money, the greater the risk she will be apprehended. She devoted her entire life to conducting this operation on behalf of her country. We cannot fail her.”

  Dmitriyev sighed. He understood that Mikhaylov was speaking with a father’s desperation.

  “How do you propose we service the dead-drop and arrange travel, Comrade?” Dmitriyev asked only because his position required it. The words tasted like acid in his mouth. “Even if she retrieves the package from the drop location, American authorities have blanketed the area. Comrade Komarov has said so himself. We can hardly take a shit without some surveillance team handing us toilet paper. Our chance of getting her out on a flight to Moscow is non-existent. Impossible.”

  Lana’s father tapped his temple with his index finger. “I've come up with an idea. While somewhat risky, it’s much less so than the usual routes.” He clasped his hands together as he cleared his throat. “She’s booked to travel to France on a freighter ship that accommodates passenger transit. Our trusted agent is a crewmember who can ensure safe passage. The crews are usually foreigners; only small groups of five to twelve people can board at a time, so it's unlikely that she would be identified. Our agent will keep her name off the manifest and ensure they conduct only a cursory check of her documentation if at all.”

  The Resident nodded. “This sounds like a very good idea, Comrade. When is she set to leave?”

  “Sh
e must leave next Sunday—nine days from today—otherwise he will not return for four months. I'll work with Dmitriyev on a plan to get her the money and a new passport. We have a very small window of time to extract her and it is quickly closing.”

  “Agreed,” he responded. “We must act now. I'll contact the Center for final approval.”

  “I foresee another significant problem,” Dmitriyev interjected. As the new Secuity Chief, it was his job to do so. “The Americans probably suspect we will attempt to deliver instructions, money, documentation, or some combination of the three. You need only look outside the compound to see the amount of surveillance they'll assign to anyone who exits the gates, intelligence or otherwise.”

  “Yes, this is a problem, and we cannot count on support from our Ministry brethren either,” he replied, referring to the diplomats assigned to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. They were often antagonistic toward Russian intelligence, too many hardened memories of the KGB. “How do you propose we address this?”

  Dmitriyev pinched his bottom lip and tapped his finger against it. Then he stood and paced the room, his crisp white sleeves rolled to the elbow, and the razor-sharp creases in his slacks slightly buckled after enduring third meeting that morning.

  He carefully considered his options. The thought of supporting her made him want to projectile vomit, but in order to secure his access to the critical intelligence he needed to provide to the FBI, he would need to demonstrate his competency, even though temporarily complicating FBI efforts to find the witch. So, he said, “We should take the Americans on...uh, how do they say it, a wild duck chase?”

  “Goose,” Mikhaylov said. “I’m sure it’s goose.

  Everyone at the table sat at attention waiting for him to expand on his explanation.