by Skye, S. D.
Lana didn’t make many mistakes, but allowing her ego to run her and her mouth was one that might have given us a window into her operations. She showed up at my office one day, drunk on Stoli, bragging about how she’d made her father proud with the success of her network. I recorded it on my iPhone. The following is a translation: “American arrogance astonishes me. So smug that you cannot see the thief who waves hello with one hand while picking your pocket with the other. We have eyes and ears everywhere. We moved from Foggy Bottom to 1600 without raising an eyebrow. We harvested gold from your farms, marched soldiers on ground zero, and took the cores right from under Liberty’s skirt, and you Americans remain mesmerized by the friendly hand.”
Her meaning will be as apparent to you as it is to me. She obviously wanted me to know the severity of the breaches, to know how badly her service was sticking it to us. Perhaps she believed we’d figured it out too late. I don’t know.
Of all the agents I’ve worked with, I left this to you. She despised you because you were never mesmerized by the friendly hand. She’s cold-blooded and dangerous, J.J. And she won’t hesitate to kill you or anyone who gets in her way.
Don't ever forget what I told you. Sometimes to get the King, you have to sacrifice the pawn. But you are the queen—the most powerful piece in the game.
The Bureau owes you a debt of gratitude for your service and so do I.
Your friend,
Jim Cartwright
Tears watered J.J.'s eyes as she read his closing salutation. Friend. Tony placed his arm on her shoulder and pulled her close to him in a brief embrace. She glanced at his widow and forced a smile.
“Whatever happened, Debbie, remember that in his heart of hearts, he was an honorable man and a good father.”
“I know,” Debbie said. “I only wish that he knew that, too.”
J.J. hung her head as the matronly woman again called Debbie to greet more guests.
“I should return to my guests,” she said. “If you two will please see yourselves out, I've got to muddle through the next few hours.”
They nodded and made their way through the crowds and out the door.
J.J. stopped short of stepping down the porch steps and took a seat on the landing. She opened the letter and read Lana’s passage again. “Foggy Bottom—State Department. 1600—.”
“That’s easy. The White House,” Tony said sitting beside J.J. and peering over her shoulder.”
“Gold from your farms?” J.J. said. “Hmmm.”
Tony thought for a second and snapped his fingers. “Gotta be CIA. The Farm.”
J.J. closed her eyes and said, “Cores from Liberty’s skirt. I don’t know about the cores, but Liberty’s skirt means what? The liberty bell? Statue of Liberty? An operation based in New York or Philly?”
“Maybe two operations in New York. Ground Zero’s got to be the World Trade Center.”
J.J. shook her head. “Hmm. Probably so. But a little-known fact is Ground Zero’s also a Cold War reference to the Pentagon. So it may be right across the river.”
Tony propped his elbows on his knees and dragged his fingers through his hair in exasperation. “What the fuck have we gotten ourselves into? An entire network of Paper Dolls and illegals?”
“Appears so…and other than Lana’s cryptic drunken confessions, hardly a clue about who they are or how to find them.”
• • •
Saturday Morning, November 7th – Surveillance Detail
“I can't believe those jack offs drove us in circles again today!” Jiggy said to Jazz as he slipped his classic Raybans into the breast pocket of his black leather biker jacket. He removed his toboggan, revealing the smoothness of his bald head. Jazz and he could pass for brothers except for a couple inches in height in Jazz’s favor and a slightly darker complexion. They complained as they walked to the Special Surveillance Group Command Center, based inside an old warehouse near a seedy industrial district off of New York Avenue in D.C.
“This is the third day in the row, and Filchenko is proving to be one slick son of a bitch. Another forty-five minutes at Potbelly’s, down to the millisecond. He's barely been in the United States long enough to inhale and he's already establishing cover stops and performing surveillance detection runs. You know they’re screwing with us.”
After being jerked around for three days, they decided to seek guidance from the most senior member of their team. Jiggy followed Jazz through the large steel double-door entrance of the bland white structure and they paced down a narrow hall leading to the offices. The walls were papered with security posters depicting convicted spies like Hanssen, Ames, and Walker in shackles. They were not-so-subtle hints to stay on the right side of the law and a reminder of why their work was so critical to the FBI.
To the right of the main area, a separate enclosure with 30-foot ceilings housed the Gs mechanic shop. It was visible through a large picture window. Five cars hung in the air on lifts while those awaiting service were lined up as far as the eye could see. Most were specially equipped with tracking devices, kill switches, specialized headlight controls, and supped up engines to ensure they revved up and ready when they conducted evasive or defensive maneuvers while trailing their targets during surveillance runs.
On the office side, partitions filled the area where the Gs desk-hopped to draft reports at the ends of their shifts. Jazz and Jiggy scanned each one apologizing for interrupting their colleagues who were deep in concentration. Jiggy knew Money T and Cham had to be around the base somewhere. Money T had much more experience in Russian operations than either he or Jazz. They hoped he could offer some explanation or objective opinion on how to handle recent events.
As he turned the corner and headed toward the back of the room, he noticed the top of Money's head poking up from behind Cham's workspace wall.
“Hey!” Jiggy called out.
Money peered out and smiled, the pricey haircut and signature gold teeth, two in the front, that earned him his moniker (short for Money Teeth). They glimmered against the halogen light on his desk. “Thought you two were on duty this afternoon.”
“We had the first shift this morning. Look, we need to talk to you about something. You got a minute?”
“Yeah. Step into my office,” Money said as he led them into an empty conference room and closed the door behind them. After taking their seats, he leaned his chair back and clasped his hands behind his head. “What's going on?”
“It's the Russians,” Jazz said.
“Putin? Medvedev? Mind being a little more specific?” Money asked.
“It's Lana’s father and this new guy, Filchenko,” Jiggy inserted. “They leave the embassy compound at the same time every day; hit a couple of cover stops; and then head back to the compound. At first I thought maybe Filchenko was just attempting to get acclimated to the area, but this is starting to set my teeth on edge, especially with Daddy Dearest involved. You had an experience like this before?”
Money shook his head. “No, I haven't,” he leaned forward on the table and rolled his eyes up to the ceiling. “What'd the lookouts have to say? Anybody else leaving at the same time?”
“Nope,” Jazz said. “Just these two. As matter of fact, they're the only ones who have been out of the compound since the Agent Michaels went missing.”
Money snapped his gaze toward Jazz. “First, that bitch is no agent. Secondly, have you spoken to anyone else about this?”
“No,” Jiggy said. “Not yet.”
Money grabbed a stack of Post-It notes and a pen from the center of the table and began to scribble. Then he ripped off the top sheet and handed the slip to Jiggy. “Call these guys. They're leading the investigation to find her.”
Jiggy scanned the note. “Kyle Oliver and Hopper Mack?”
“Yeah,” Money said. “They're co-case agents. They've been flooding this office with requests for information on activity at the compound. I'm sure they'll more than welcome your call. And Oliver is old school, whatever
he tells you to do, that's what you do. He won't steer you wrong.”
“Roger that.”
“Now, if you'll both excuse me, my shift's about to begin. I'm on the detail to cover J.J. McCall until you find Michaels, so the sooner you guys figure out what the hell is going on, the sooner I can get back to the team.”
Chapter 21
Saturday Morning, November 7th—Irving Street
8 Days Left…
A brisk wind iced Lana's core as she rounded the corner from Irving onto 7th Street and headed north for six blocks. Max McCall's store was open and Lana had business with the new men in her life, but no one would die—not until she’d been extracted and was on her way to Moscow.
She’d exploit this opportunity to test Santino, to gauge the level of his felonious tendencies and the lengths he would go to pay back his twenty-five thousand favors.
She’d also introduce herself to Max McCall in a way that he would never suspect she had entered his life to end it.
With her hoodie drawn over her head, she trudged face-down to minimize witnesses and pressed forward to meet her target eye-to-eye. The luminescent glow from the sun ensured no-one would question her dark sunglasses. She was, after all, a woman on the run.
Five minutes later she found it, McCall’s Grocery and Wine, a converted corner row-house with painted gray brick only three blocks away.
She peered through the beveled glass door before pushing her way inside, the jingle alerting her arrival. Then she took a moment to scan the layout before entering the fray. If all went according to plan, she only had moments to spare before the op went down. To the left of the narrow walkway, a tall black man with pepper-colored hair tapped the keys of the cash register behind the checkout counter. To the right, seven chest-high cramped aisles were loaded with grocery stock while glass-door refrigerators and freezers were lined up along back wall.
Lana grabbed one of the black plastic handbaskets and pulled her grocery list from her hoodie pocket. Max McCall peered at her with a skeptical eye before they exchanged silent nods to greet one another. She perused each aisle, glancing at the door periodically and looking down at her watch. At 10:15, she grabbed a bag of Utz in the snack food aisle and dropped it on the floor. As she bent to pick it up, she heard the bell ring and a slam after a burst of cold air washed across her face. Seconds later, heavy footsteps padded toward the counter and stopped.
“Get your hands up!” the frantic man yelled. Lana scuttled to the end of the aisle, concealed behind a potato chip rack. She peered around the corner. The robber’s hands were jammed in his jacket pocket, and the distinct form of a barrel pointed toward Max McCall's head. “Gimme everything you got! Now!”
Keeping one palm raised, a panicked McCall fumbled to open the cash drawer but couldn't open it.
“Something’s wrong! The drawer’s stuck!”
“Shut up and hurry, old man! Don't make me pull the trigger,” he growled.
The caramel-skinned thief, dressed in black from head to toe, hovered nervously, his hand shaking. His face was largely concealed beneath his hood, and he stood about her height, maybe fifty pounds heavier. Obviously an amateur. Didn't even bother to check and see if anyone else was in the store. She shook her head.
Lana eyed the overhead shelf above McCall to assess the security system. With an FBI agent for a daughter, she felt certain one had been installed. She spotted two small white cameras, one trained on the door, and the other on the cash register itself. She wouldn't be seen.
“Move it! Now.”
With the silence of a light wind, she stooped down and tipped behind the robber. Before he could turn to face her, she leaped, pulled her leg back, and with full power landed a front snap-kick with board-splitting force into his crotch, the crunch of his testicles almost audible.
His legs buckled as he howled like a wounded wolf and crumbled to his knees. Curled over and still gripping his nuts, she landed a second kick to the back of his head; he slammed face-first into the floor. Blood spurted from his nose, and his howls grew silent. She felt the outside of his pocket for the gun, careful to stay out of the camera's view or leave finger prints. Through the fabric, she felt the plastic weapon.
Max rushed to survey Lana's damage. When the robber began to squirm, Lana slammed her fist into his jaw, silencing him once more.
“Sweet Jesus Almighty,” Max yelled, thanking Lana profusely as he grabbed the handset from the phone behind the counter and dialed 9-1-1.
“You're welcome,” she said coolly, looking at her watch again. 10:20. “I'm...I've got an appointment. Trust me, he's not moving.”
“The police will want to talk to you,” he said. “You're a witness.”
“You don't need me,” she pointed to the camera. “Just pull the tapes. You'll be fine from here.”
Still standing behind the man sprawled in the floor, Lana pretended to avoid stepping over him as she walked toward the refrigerator section before cutting sharply toward the door.
“Wait!” Max said, raising his hand in the air to gesture her to stop. “Please, take everything you need. It's on the house.”
Lana smiled. “That's very generous of you.” She stuffed her hands into to her hoodie pocket and lowered her head before reaching the camera's line of sight. “But I've got to go. Good luck. And do yourself a favor and get a panic button installed. There's a lot of shady characters in this neighborhood.”
He nodded and waved goodbye as she exited.
As the sound of police sirens drew closer, Lana steps quickened and her breathing grew heavier. She broke into a slight jog and cut into an alleyway roughly three blocks away from Irving.
Minutes later, she burst through the front door of her temporary abode and leaped up every other step until she reached the upper level landing. She bent over and craned her neck to look beneath Santino's door and listened.
Is he here?
The door snatched open, startling Lana. She grabbed her chest. “Shit!”
“You shouldn't lurk outside people's rooms like that. Someone might think you're up to something.”
She exhaled and chuckled. “They'd probably be right.”
He waved her inside, backing up to his bed before taking a seat. “So, uh, how'd everything go?”
She leaned against the wall and examined her bruised knuckles. “Pure genius,” she said as she glided toward him stripping the hoodie over her head to reveal a form-fitting black camisole with her breasts seeping out of the cups. She relished in the power of her sexuality and never hesitated to leverage her looks against witless men. “Plastic gun. Nice touch.”
“We try. You’d be surprised what people will do for a couple Gs when they’re desperate for cash. I'll have my people spring him later today. You didn't hurt him too badly, did ya?”
“I could've done worse…oh wait, I almost forgot.” She disappeared to her bedroom and returned moments later with an envelope thick with fifty dollar bills. She slinked next to him and ran her fingers across the width of his chest before slapping his payment against it. “Can't thank you enough for your help.”
Santino opened the envelope and flipped through the cash. “This is more than double what we discussed.”
“Yeah,” Lana said. “You're strapped for cash right now, so let's call the extra a token of my appreciation and the beginning of a beautiful relationship...if you're willing to lend me your services again, that is.”
Santino locked his eyes on Lana's cleavage and his voice rumbled, “If this is the way you show your appreciation, I'm here for whatever you need.”
He slipped his fingers beneath the straps on her shoulder then flashed a wide smile as he tried to expose her.
“There will be plenty of time for that later. Right now, I need another favor.”
Chapter 22
Sunday Brunch November 8th—Max McCall’s House
The wind spiked and whipped around Irving Street which was otherwise listless. Dressed in slacks and a button up suitable
for a first-time meeting with his girlfriend’s father, Tony squinted and craned his neck to see past J.J. through the passenger window. He surveyed the area as the rain slammed against the three flights of concrete steps leading to Mr. McCall's front door. Dark clouds hung heavy overhead like the doubt in his mind. He wondered whether this visit was a good idea.
“Do we have to?”
“Yes,” J.J. said, glancing down to check the time. “Ten more minutes and it'll be time to eat. Listen, I realize you're a little anxious, but it’s best to just rip the Band-Aid.”
Few situations made Tony nervous in his lifetime, which spoke volumes given the nature of the family business. Meeting the Black Panther father of the woman he loved would rank somewhere in the top ten.
“Okay, okay. Let's do it.” Tony swung his feet onto the ground he peered at the house across the street from J.J.’s father to see a man hawking over him like a shadow from his past.
Tony locked glares with the familiar olive-skinned dark-haired figure before the slick New Yorker disappeared inside. Tony froze and his eyes widened as he surveyed the area, looking around for any untoward movement. After all the years of doubt and suspicion, Tony feared the order had been given and death was breathing down his neck. Maybe he’d wait until he caught Tony alone, with nothing between them except the truth and death—the family didn’t like witnesses.
He stepped out of the car and put his hand on the gun resting in the small of his back.
“Tony? Uhhh…everything okay?” J.J. asked, jarring him out of his thoughts. Her eyes locked on his hand.
Shaken, he turned to face her; she was already near the porch landing. He sharply turned back to the door across the street, jerking his head left and right. But the street was bare. He shut the car door and ran up the stairs.
“You okay? Who was that?” J.J. asked.
“Probably nobody,” he lied. “Thought I recognized him, but I can't place his face right now. It’s nothing. Fuhghettaboudit.”
“Agh!” J.J. yelled, shooting him a side-long glance. The discomfort in her face was palpable.
