by Skye, S. D.
“Go on,” the Resident said.
“The FBI is expecting us to conduct an operation, this is no secret. So, let's give them what they’re looking for,” he scanned around the room and locked eyes on Lana’s father. “We'll, send comrade Aleksandr out. Svetlana is his daughter; they will expect him to support the operation. We should also include counterintelligence; it will appear as if they are providing security or countersurveillance,” Dmitriyev continued, more pleased with himself. He knew the FBI would catch on quickly and likely devise a counter-operation to neutralize them. “Perhaps the new Counterintelligence Chief—they will assume he is little more than a decoy because he’s new. We'll take them on a few surveillance detection runs and then return immediately to the embassy without conducting any hint of an operation. We'll repeat this daily; it won't take them long to identify the pattern. In two or three days, they will assume we’re playing with them and back off. That’s when we can fill the dead drop. But if we get an opportunity to conduct the operation earlier, we’ll seize it.”
A wide grin spread across the Resident's face as he let out a throaty chuckle and pounded his fist against the table. “That just might work,” he said to Dmitriyev, shaking his index finger. “You! You’ve been a little off in recent days, but by all appearances, you’re back on track.”
Dmitriyev nodded and smiled, as his mind shifted to. J.J. McCall. He needed to find a way to help her without compromising his present position. He was indebted to her. The operation she devised saved his brother Viktor Plotnikov from a gruesome untimely death at the hands of Mashkov. He wanted revenge on Mikhaylova as much as he wanted to repay J.J. for her loyalty, but attempting to do either at this time was too risky, too dangerous.
Lana’s father asked, “Now that we’ve resolved that issue, how much longer must we endure Golikov's . . .inspections?”
“Why, you're not ready to send Igor and Vasiliy packing already, are you?” the Resident said facetiously of the Crooked Twins, the hulking henchman sent to tattletale on insubordinate colleagues. He scanned each face as if verifying their loyalty before speaking. “I've rather enjoyed having my every move scrutinized, walking on eggshells. Let’s not pretend. We all understand that generals conduct inspections. They were sent here as watchdogs, bullies...thugs.”
“Perhaps, we can ask the American State Department to declare them persona non grata,” Lana’s father, Mikhaylov, joked.
Everyone laughed.
“As a matter of fact, they are expected to visit New York next week since Golikov selected Yuriy Filchenko, Dmitriyev’s replacement as line chief, as he is promoted to the Security Officer position,” the Resident continued. “We can all be certain Golikov has identified someone who shares his zest for identifying traitors.”
Dmitriyev's back stiffened and he sat board straight. His new position as Security Chief provided him with access to files that would allow him to turn over more Americans to the FBI. However, with a new Golikov thug en route, he must be even more careful and vigilant. And divulging the details of the Residency’s support for Lana to the FBI would implicate everyone sitting in the room—including himself. He wanted to find a breadcrumb to pass to the FBI but he didn’t know how…or what.
“Congratulations, Comrade Dmitriyev,” Mikhaylov said, the first to offer congratuations. His colleagues followed.
Dmitriyev bowed his head in contrived thanks.
The Resident checked his watch and glanced at Dmitriyev. “About time for you to take Comrade Vorobyev to the airport, isn't it?”
“Right, you are,” he responded and turned to Mikhaylov. “We can discuss the details of the plan to neutralize FBI surveillance when I return.”
Chapter 16
Friday Evening—The Russian Embassy
Stanislav Vorobyev, the beleaguered outgoing Security Officer, served out the final day of his Washington tour reflecting on his career as he packed his family photos. The thought of returning to Moscow left him hollow. He was thankful to be leaving the Embassy on his own accord the Crooked Twins nearly beat him to death a couple days before. The gash beneath his eye and the bruised ribs were sore but the pain of each thrash from their fists still reverberated in soul-deep wounds that would never heal. Although he'd been cleared of the false charges alleging he'd cooperated with the FBI and would arrive home a free man, he felt stigmatized, ruined by the accusations. Overgrown strands of grey concealed the worry creases in his forehead and he’d tightened his belt extra notch since the week began. His once illustrious career would be forever colored by a traitor's mistake.
If not for his family, he might stay in the U.S. Except for his two children going to university in a few short years, he might have retired. He could not afford to quit working with that expense looming over his head. Unless….
He shuddered at the ill-timed thought, at committing the ultimate crime against his country that mere months ago would have been unthinkable. Alternately, he considered seeking a lucrative position in the private sector. He'd spent years developing contacts throughout all sectors of Russian society, including hobnobbing with a few oligarchs. So many of his colleagues begged him to quit the service and join any number of privatized companies after the fall of the Soviet Union. He believed in a life of public service and wanted to make a difference, wanted his work to help Russia evolve into a strong democracy. Now, word of his troubles preceded him, and the gossip would reach Moscow Center before he could defend himself.
Three sharp knocks jolted him out of his thoughts. He pulled his suitcases into the living room before answering the door.
“Stan, it's me, Alek.”
“One moment,” Vorobyev replied, rushing to open the door.
His dear friend, whose tall frame dwarfed his own, greeted him with a tenuous smile. “You almost ready?” Dmitriyev said, toting a bag containing two tennis shoe boxes.
“Is that a trick question? Come in and sit. I'll be ready to leave in a moment.”
Dmitriyev scanned the sparse room, spotted a half-full duffel bag, and proceeded to pack the shoes inside. “These are the Keds I promised your boy. You’re checking this one, right?”
“Yeah, yeah. Go ahead and put them inside. That’s fine.”
After securing the lock on the bag, Dmitriyev took his comfort on the worn brown sofa. “Looks like you're about ready to go. Any idea how long you'll be stuck at Center until your next tour.”
Vorobyev shrugged and pursed his lips. “You and I both understand I'm not likely to get another slot for some time, if ever again. I can't believe my career has devolved to this.”
“What do you mean? You've done nothing wrong. The agent admitted he made a mistake. You’re over-thinking this, comrade.”
“Oh, you think so?” Vorobyev said. “If you believe that, perhaps I've been in this business too long...or you haven't been in it long enough.”
“I have enough experience to know one thing,” Aleksey said. “We serve. We don't question, right?”
“Yes. We serve,” Vorobyev said. “The question is whom? The people? Does our work benefit the least among us in our so-called democracy? Or do we support a system that celebrates its thieves and betrays its faithful?”
“You’re asking questions, and questions are not a part of the job description,” Dmitriyev said as he pulled the handle on the larger of Vorobyev's suitcases. “Especially not those we can't answer. As the world changes, so will Russia. We need more time.”
“You say that to yourself long enough, you’ll believe it,” Vorobyev said. “If I've learned anything in this ordeal, it's that nothing has changed, not really. Same bullshit, different day. That's how it is and always will be.”
“Well, if you ever need anything, brother, contact me. Anytime. I will help you in any way I can. While you have an extensive pool of people to whom you can reach out, I too am…well connected.”
Vorobyev froze mid-stride and tilted his head to the side. The tone in Dmitriyev's voice had piqued his curiosity.
“What?” Dmitriyev said. “You think you're the only one who’s met an oligarch?”
Vorobyev studied the precision of his friend’s expression before taking a final look around his flat. Anticipating the treatment awaiting him when he returned home left him numb; he shuffled as if weighed down by cinderblock. “Did you hear Golikov found a new replacement for your old position?”
“Yes, Yuriy Filchenko. Komarov told me this morning,” Dmitriyev said, leading Vorobyev down the hall. “You ever worked with him?”
“Unfortunately. He's, for lack of a better phrase, a piece if shit,” Vorobyev replied, “fresh from the shithouse.”
“That bad?”
“Worse,” Vorobyev continued. “He's nothing but a power-hungry tattletale. Be careful. He will study your every move, exploit any opportunity to cast you under the proverbial bus, and report everything back to the Center to ingratiate himself to Golikov who I hear is being promoted to general.”
“Figures,” Dmitriyev said.
“Watch your drinking...and other vices,” Vorobyev warned. “You will find him far more intolerant than yours truly...and even less forgiving than Golikov himself.”
Dmitriyev reached the end of the hall and pressed the elevator button. “Didn't think anyone could be worse than Golikov.”
Vorobyev eased up beside Dmitriyev and locked eyes with him. “They aren't.”
Chapter 17
Friday Night—J.J.’s Place
J.J. stepped into her condo, exhausted from the day's emotional roller coaster and ready to lick her wounds. She’d lost Tony to Gia and wanted a drink more than sleep, food, or anything else really. Pouring out the entire contents of her elixir bottle in a rare fit of sanity now seemed a bit hasty in hindsight. Yet, she was too tired to make a liquor store run. So, she decided a warm bath, hot tea, and Star Wars would suffice.
As she looked around her empty space, she remembered how differently day was supposed to proceed and her night was meant to end. In the version she'd envisioned, she stumbled through the door attached semi-permanently to Tony's lips while they stripped bare and released a year of pent-up passion in a perspiration-filled body rock. They'd both prepared to face society, their families, their friends, but neither were ready for the walking nightmare that was Six.
Schlepping into her bedroom to change into her pity pajamas, her cell phone rang. Her heart leapt at the misplaced thought that Tony might have come to his senses. She practically dived toward her purse and began an ungraceful scramble to answer the phone. When she finally fixed her eyes on the caller ID, to her disappointment, a headquarters number flashed. She started to ignore it, but if the search for Lana had yielded some results, she wanted to know before crazy showed up on her doorstep.
It was John Nixon, the next worst thing to Jack Sabinski even though Freeman kept him in check…mostly. And the conversation didn’t last long. With barely concealed disdain, he delivered three sucker punches to the gut and left J.J. not only impotent but drowning with regret. J.J. didn’t know what axe Nixon had to grind with her, most likely the sudden unemployment of his good-ole-boy buddy Jack Sabinski. But she was thankful Freeman directly led the charge. God forbid she should ever have to answer to Nixon—he would make her life hell.
“So let me get this straight. We’re standing down all Russian operations indefinitely; I’m off Lana’s investigation, Task Force Phantom Hunter is now an analytical group; and you’ve ordered the Gs to watch me like a Secret Service detail on the President’s grandmother while I serve as bait for a bat-shit crazy woman hell-bent on revenge. Does that about sum it up?”
“Uhhh...”
“I should’ve quit today while I had the chance.”
“Maybe you should’ve.”
“Gee, thanks. Now if you’ll excuse me. I need a cup of tea, preferably with hemlock in it.” Her mouth salivated for the heat of vodka but tea, minus the hemlock, would have to do. It was all she had in the house, and she was too exhausted or depressed to leave her condo.
Everything she longed for—Tony, the task force—had slipped in and out of her hands so fast she hardly had time to form a memory. She resolved then to quench her thirst Saturday if it lasted through the night. She had nothing else to lose.
After hanging up the phone, J.J. walked out onto her patio, tightening her robe around her neck to fend off the chill. She looked down on the street, spotted the familiar silver Malibu, and waved.
Money T.
He flashed his high beam to acknowledge her greeting before she returned inside and secured the lock on the patio door.
She dawdled around the room, trying to focus her mind on the drama that lay ahead in the week to come. She paced the floor trying to think of something else she could do to appeal to the adoring man she'd fallen for, but the stubborn ass side of him ruled supreme and her hopes of reconciling faded by the second.
She hated the sense of powerlessness, defenselessness, the inability to force her enemy’s hand…or even her own. For once in a long time she’d been forced to accept that every person and event threatening to impact her life over the coming weeks lie outside of her control.
To escape the pain and frustration, she sought consolation from the remote control. No sooner than she flipped to the Spike network and scooped up enough M&Ms to soothe her alcohol cravings, she caught one of her favorite scenes in The Empire Strikes Back.
Yoda asked Luke Skywalker, “Why wish you become Jedi?” And Luke replied, “Well, mostly because of my father, I guess.”
The words struck her like a hammer to the head of a nail. She repeated the words out loud, except one. “Well, mostly because of my…mother, I guess.” J.J. questioned whether choosing to join the FBI was ever what she wanted for herself—or some misguided attempt to keep a piece of her mother alive. At that moment, she realized she had only made one decision in the last thirty years that was uninfluenced by anything except the desires of her own heart—her choice to love Tony.
A hard, rapid knock at the door made J.J.'s heart beat wildly. She wasn’t expecting anyone. Although she hoped Tony had come to his good senses and had arrived to kiss and make up, her enemy was on the move. She grabbed her gun from the holster, then jetted to the bathroom, checked herself in the mirror, and did a ten-second primp before bounding for the door.
Steps away, she yelled, “Just a minute!” before pressing her eye to the peephole and her finger firmly against the trigger. A coif of spiked blond hair barely reached her line of sight. Definitely wasn't Tony. She latched the chain for added security and pulled the door slightly ajar.
“Yes? Who is it?” she asked with a quizzical tone in her voice.
“Ma'am, I have a delivery,” he said, holding two large shopping bags with Maggiano’s printed on the front of the peephole, “for a… J.J. McCall?”
“Uhhh…that's me,” she said, confused and excited, her earlier troubles disappearing into the night. She tucked her gun in the small of her back, opened the door, and eyed the load of foil containers sealed with thin white cardboard lids. “What's this?”
“Judging from the smell, I'd guess dinner.”
J.J. smiled. “But who sent—”
The courier threw his hand up to stop J.J. mid-sentence and handed her the gift.
“Give me a second to put these down and I'll get you a tip.”
“No, thank you, ma'am,” he replied. “Already taken care of. Enjoy your meal.”
The grand gesture had Six written all over it, although a poisoning would be a smart move on Lana’s part. In a different time and state of mind she would’ve tossed the food in the trash at the mere possibility of Six’s involvement, but this night she welcomed the distractions. J.J. rushed off to wash her hands before sampling the delights. Spinach and cheese manicotti, artichoke dip, gnocchi, spaghetti, an entire family-style meal with all the trimmings—and every sweet treat from cheesecake to cannoli. She’d decided to sample the desserts first when there came another knock at the door.
She paused and smiled, anticipating yet dreading the presence on the other side. She looked out the peep hole hoping beyond hope to see curly black locks. Instead she saw a tall black man…of the non-Six variety. He delivered a bottle of wine, a 2008 Spottswoode Cabernet Sauvignon, and refused the tip.
“Now what did I do with the corkscrew?” she asked herself aloud, admiring the Napa Valley bungalow gracing the label. Whoever sent the hundred dollar bottle of wine was trying to make a lasting impression. By the time she poured out enough to fill two bowls half way, the doorbell rang once more.
She began the routine again, hoping the admirer would reveal himself this time. When she cracked open the door, two black, beady little eyes met hers...and a round stomach with plush, brown fur. Judging by the hands, a gentleman was concealed behind the top-shelf, carnival-sized teddy bear. In a not quite familiar voice, he said, “Delivery for J.J. McCall!”
J.J. laughed when she finally noticed the red T-shirt covering the midsection of the enormous furry creature. “Kiss me I'm Italian” was written in the colors of the Italian flag. The delivery man lowered the bear from his face and her heart melted the way it had every day since she met him.
“So, you're the guilty party.” She grabbed the bear from his arms and backed up to allow Tony inside. “Thought you had an engagement after work this evening.”
“I do. That’s why I’m here with you.” He stepped in and glanced at the dining room table, noticing the two full glasses of wine waiting on the table. “You were expecting someone?”
“As a matter of fact, I was.” J.J. grabbed his hand and led him to his offering. “Denzel is on his way and likes his wine pre-poured.” She turned sharply toward him and peered into his smiling eyes. “You, Mr. Donato, better make this quick. Now, to what do I owe this honor?”
Tony laughed and shook his head. “I got your message...and couldn't stay away.”
“So it would seem,” J.J. replied, beaming as she handed him his wine glass. “How about a toast? To new beginnings.”
