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

by Skye, S. D.

  As J.J. thought about it, Six had a good point. An internal investigation would be disastrous for all involved. Dmitriyev, although he had made a major error in judgment, might still pull through with some critical intelligence. With him supporting the op at the Ellipse, he’d come under immediate suspicion if the Bureau shutdown the device. Yes, the bug had to go, but they couldn’t afford to throw Aleksey under the Golikov bus. Losing yet another source, by her own hand nonetheless, was not an option. Once Director Freeman understood the consequences, he would have to agree.

  “We’ll need to get authorization from Freeman, but it’s got to stay, at least for now.”

  “Have you lost your mind?” Kendel asked.

  “No, my mind isn’t the loss I’m worried about,” J.J. said, glancing at Tony. She conjured up an excuse, hoping he would put two and two together. “I’ve got to confer with Director Freeman to ensure we don’t compromise our sources and methods. Once the ERT arrives, nobody can use the room, not even the President. So, barring the discovery of any new devices, there’s no danger of leaking any more intelligence to the Russians once it’s sealed.”

  Kendel reluctantly nodded in agreement and scanned the room. “This situation feels incredibly surreal. I mean, any number of things should have tipped us off to a problem. How did the perpetrator mitigate the risks and pull off what appears to be a flawless operation? It’s not like you can practice this.”

  At once, the deafening blares of a fire alarm sounded. Everyone in the room jumped, then froze amid the muffled grumbles and chaotic footsteps pounding outside the conference room. All FBI team members eyed J.J.; all Secret Service personnel looked at Kendel.

  J.J. scanned the room and yelled to Kendel, trying to raise her voice above the screeching bonks. She inhaled but smelled no smoke in the air. “What the hell’s going on?”

  “Fire alarm! We’ve got to go.”

  J.J. shook her head. “I’m not going anywhere. We’ve got to secure the scene.”

  Kendel smirked. “I’m sorry, but if the President has to leave the premises, so do you,” she said. “Hawk is fully cleared. He will secure the room.”

  J.J. hesitated for a moment, staring down Kendel. Finally, she conceded. “Let’s go,” she said to Tony and Six. She looked back and watched everyone leave, then stood outside the door as Hawk brought up the rear and secured the room.

  “Don’t worry,” he said, waiting for her to follow the crowd heading outside. “Go ahead. I’ll lock it up.”

  She waited for a reaction, but none came. He appeared sincere in the eyes, but a slight edge in his voice left her with a strange chill of uncertainty. Seconds after she exited the building, Hawk appeared in the doorway and headed toward a group of White House personnel. He hadn’t lingered behind for as long as she suspected he might—but long enough.

  Standing outside in the driveway, just beyond the Presidential cavalcade, J.J. pondered Kendel’s question. It was a good one. How in hell do you conduct an operation of this magnitude so flawlessly? It was almost as if they had… Oh my God! That’s it! J.J. stepped away from the bustling crowd and motioned Six and Tony to follow her.

  They paced toward her and huddled up.

  “You remember the State Department case? The listening device was placed in a conference room down the hall from the Secretary, but the space wasn’t classified. They probably got nothing in terms of valuable intel.”

  “Yeah?” Tony and Six said at the same time.

  “Well, what if they never meant to collect intelligence? What if the operation was practice, a dry run? What if the Russians had another target all along?”

  “The Sit Room,” Six said.

  “Interesting theory,” Tony said. “And if that’s the case, narrowing down the list of suspects should be a matter of finding the person in the White House who also worked at the State Department.”

  J.J.’s eyebrow popped up. “Well, off the top of my head, I can think of one person who fits the bill on all counts.”

  Tony and Six glanced at J.J. and then, one by one, each turned toward Kendel.

  With their gazes burning holes into her back, Kendel spun around, appearing confused. She shifted her gaze between the trio and, with a bemused expression, said, “What?”

  “Uhhh, nothing,” J.J. said. “We’re going to let the team wrap up here and go back to headquarters. Our analyst needs to get started on the deep dive. Who should we call to coordinate interviews?”

  “Me,” Kendel said. “I’ll get you access to whomever or whatever you need.”

  J.J. knew the answer before she responded. She suspected that if the case implicated Kendel in any way, she’d want to be alerted as early as possible.

  Based on the itching sparked during the discussion in the office, J.J. was certain Kendel knew much more than she’d let on—but expert carpentry was probably not her forte. At worst she was a mole—at best, a Paper Doll. Thus, the questions lingering in J.J.’s mind circled around the depth of Kendel’s involvement and who, if anyone, had helped her.

  Chapter 26

  Tuesday Morning, November 10th—Irving Street

  5 Days Left…

  Lana woke up earlier than usual, peering through the black strands of wild hair shrouding her face; they blocked the sunlight bursting through the window. Her vivid, rampant dreams allowed her little rest. The more her mind churned over the inevitable, the death of J.J.’s father, the more difficult it became to still her mind. She’d come to the sobering realization that she would much rather see J.J. screaming in pain as she watched Tony bleed out from shots to the head and chest than Mr. McCall. But getting close enough to slaughter them without risking capture was nearly impossible. And leaving the United States without making J.J. suffer was not an option. No, though his only fault was his genetic connection to J.J., Max McCall must die.

  But a spirit haunted her, perhaps her guilt, and an eerie, uncomfortable darkness consumed her every time she looked at the front of his house. She quickly shrugged off the thoughts as paranoia born from stress, and, fortunately, she had no time to stew. With hardly three hours of sleep, she needed to leave and check the signal as soon as possible. In the last dead drop, her father had instructed that he would leave one when her travel documents were prepared. Once in her possession, she would escape this godforsaken country.

  Santino had posed a minor threat to her plan but not anymore. She had him right where she wanted him…dependent on her for his safety, just like all the others. Her newest Paper Doll—her cut out. As long as he needed money and she had it to earn, he would do her bidding to save his own hide. In the mafia, whether Russian or Italian, the only principles that ranked above anger and revenge were money and self-preservation. He would forgive her the minor transgression to pay his debt and return home.

  Lana checked her closet, which was woefully bare, and selected the day’s outfit. Nothing to wear except the identical jeans, shirt, and jacket she wore at McCall’s store two days ago. The fashion rotation was short and would remain so until she left the country. After winding her hair into a bun and tucking it into the Washington Nationals’ baseball cap that she swiped from a vendor near the metro, she moved quickly to the window and scanned up and down the block. The neighborhood was funeral-home still. The only light poured from tall street lamps.

  She quietly crept down the stairs and slipped outside, turning her back to the street as she pulled the door shut and locked the bolt. She threw her head back in relief and drew in a long breath before trotting downstairs. Just as she stepped beyond the gate a deep voice called out, “Hey!”

  It sounded familiar. “Uhhh…excuse me?” Her eyes searched the darkness for the body connected to the voice, but nothing appeared. Before she could turn to run inside, fast-paced footsteps padded toward her. Her eyes darted around the area. The voice was close, but the man still out of view.

  “I’m over here,” he said, his dark figure appearing on the sidewalk. “It’s me. You were in my store the ot
her day.”

  Max McCall. She stared at his front steps until his body materialized from the darkness of his porch door and into the street lamp’s beam.

  She gasped and grabbed her chest. “Oh my God! You scared me.”

  He had a warm, gentle smile, and his tall frame hovered high above her. Except for his pumpernickel skin, his girth and the strength emanating from his eyes reminded Lana of her own father. “Thought I recognized you. I never forget a face, although you don’t have sunglasses today so that threw me off. But the hat…and…you know, the clothes,” he said uncomfortably. “So, you’re bunking with Mr. O, huh?”

  “Uhhh, yeah. Just for a couple of weeks. Had a little trouble at home. Needed a place to stay.”

  “You don’t have any family in the area?” he asked.

  “No, not in the area.” She shook her head and looked down to check the time. “Anyway, I should get going. I’ve got an early appointment. Nice seeing you again,” she said pointing in the direction opposite of his store.

  “Oh, okay. Well, thank you again…for the other day. If you ever need anything, stop by the store. Your groceries are on me.” He turned to walk away. A few steps into his stride he stopped and said, “Hey, what are you doing for dinner Saturday?”

  “I don’t know,” she answered in confusion. “Why do you ask?”

  “Well, my daughter and her friend from work are coming to dinner for my birthday. It would be great if you could come by…and meet him. You two would be perfect for one another. ”

  “Well, I don’t—”

  After staring at her expression, he shook his head and chuckled. “Ohhh…no no no. He’s not …like me…he’s more like…you. So, what do you say? 6 pm?”

  “I say…,” she began, as an evil smile edged the corners of her lips upward. “Six pm would be perfect. I look forward to it.”

  As Lana paced toward the metro station, a sense of calm enveloped her body. Max McCall’s life had been spared. In an instant, her main enemy was back in her sights and headed for the slaughter. The tips of her fingers tingled with anticipation. Just as Lana’s heart would forever ache for Jake, J.J.’s would ache for Tony—right before her own death. A miserable and just way to die. And after Santino finished the crime, collected his money, and Lana locked the vision of J.J.’s expression into her mind, Lana’s well-timed call to the police would shift the focus of their manhunt from the Red Honeytrap to the new agent killer—Santino Santino—while she sailed the high seas onto France, and finally to Moscow.

  Saturday evening couldn’t come soon enough.

  • • •

  Tuesday Morning – Washington Field Office

  Hopper walked briskly through the vacant hallway to Kyle’s office tucking in the tail of his shirt while he replayed the conversation with the Metro Police in his head—a 7 am breakthrough. Lana was still in D.C. He was certain of it. The long-awaited call came just as he bit the sole hunk out of his morning bagel. The noise from his stomach growls muffled his thoughts as he tried to anticipate what Kyle would ask him to do next. He’d learned the hard way to stay two steps ahead of him if at all possible. This morning he was ready.

  He knocked on the door frame and poked his head past the threshold. “Hey Kyle. You got a minute?”

  “Yeah, come in. What’s up?”

  He stepped inside and plopped down in the guest chair. “Metro called this morning.”

  “They said they would,” Kyle said. “What’s the good word?”

  “The footage is fuzzy but looks like they found a clip of Lana leaving the station. Green line, U Street area. Not far from Howard University, right?”

  “You work in this city. Do you get out?”

  “Yeah, just not U Street. Wonder what the hell she's doing over there?”

  “The fact you ask is no doubt the precise reason she exited at that stop.” Kyle rose from his seat. “I doubt her bestie lives in the area.”

  “Certainly nothing in her file.”

  “So, tell me, hot rod, what do you think we should do?”

  Hopper blew out a long puff of air and a pressed his lips together in a slight grimace. “Well, if she’s laying low in the area near Howard, she’s got to find a place to stay. And there’s probably plenty of rooms to rent in the area—no shortage of college kids looking for local housing.”

  “Now, you’re thinking, Sparky.”

  “Not Sparky. My sister has a dog named Sparky.” Hopper frowned. “A labradoodle.”

  Kyle chuckled. “Fair enough, Junior, how do you propose we follow-up this brilliant theory of yours?”

  Hopper thought for a second, flashed a cocky grin and squared his shoulders. “Check the Post, school newspaper, see who’s renting rooms in the area. Then go door-to-door.”

  Kyle pursed his lips. “Is that your last and final answer?”

  He thrust out his chest and, with over-confidence, said, “Yeah. Last and final.”

  “Figures,” Kyle said flatly. He scribbled on a Post-It, which he tore from the pad and thrust at Hopper. “Here. Start with the Post. Call my contact. He’ll get you a list of all the renters who have pulled their ads since Thursday. If anyone’s rented a room…”

  Deflated, Hopper’s chin dropped to his chest as he finished Kyle’s sentence. “They don’t need the ad anymore.”

  “Lucky for you, the list should be pretty short. Now scram. The timer’s winding down, and we’re running out of time.”

  Chapter 27

  Tuesday—Russian Embassy

  Like the sunless afternoon sky, a dense gray cloud loomed over Aleksey Dmitriyev’s life, threatening to unleash a furious storm that would drench him in conflict and accusation. He didn’t often lose his cool, but between the panic-induced heart palpitations and sweaty palms, he found himself on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

  Agent McCall had spotted him at the site of Gusin’s operation, and her distempered glare burned through him like a laser knife. He had no refuge—he couldn’t run and was scared to stay. To compound his troubles, the ultimate snafu, Vorobyev and the missing tennis shoe. He had no idea whether Vorobyev had discovered the FBI burn phone and reported him to security. Or even worse—to Golikov.

  His own guilt gnawed at him. He should’ve dumped the phone. He shouldn’t have been at the op site, especially as he’d only days before been declared to the State Department as the new embassy security officer. Now, he only questioned whether or not she would expose his activity. And if so, how long before she lodged her complaint? He had no idea and her decision was beyond his control; however, contacting Vorobyev to find out whether the Crooked Twins would be snatching him up in the dark of the night was well within his control, so that’s what he set out to determine.

  Dmitriyev’s feet pounded against the steps as he jogged up the Embassy stairwell leading to his office. He felt as if his heart had exploded in his chest, anticipating the consequences he’d suffer for any one of his many transgressions. He avoided the elevator to remain unseen and slipped past the Resident’s closed door, practically unnoticed. It was lunch time and the office had emptied with the exception of a couple officer’s wives who worked as secretaries.

  Once inside his office, he picked up the phone and tried Vorobyev’s number again. If he could just speak to him and hear his voice, he could gauge from the tone whether or not he’d been cast to the traitorous hell he deserved. The secure phone rang five times before a female voice answered.

  “May I help you?”

  “Ludmilla, this is Aleksey Dmitriyev calling from Washington,” he said in Russian. “Is Stan available to speak?”

  “Ah yes, hello, Alek. Did you forget the time difference?” she said.

  Dmitriyev looked up at the clock on the wall. 3:00 pm. He grunted. It was 7 am in Moscow. “I don’t know where my mind is today. Perhaps he arrived early?”

  “I’ll check. Maybe he’s in.”

  While waiting, Dmitriyev stewed in his thoughts. His new fear was that the FBI might di
scover the bug and immediately pull the plug on the operation and expel Gusin. If Agent McCall was pissed off and acted as expected, as he himself would have, the focus of the Russian intelligence inquiry would point the finger directly at Dmitriyev himself. His presence was the only new variable in the RAPTURE operation, one that had been conducted without incident for at least five years, maybe longer from what he could gather. Yet, refusing to participate could’ve sparked the Resident’s suspicion. He’d be no better off, anyway.

  “I’ve checked his schedule and he’s in already, scheduled for an all-day meeting with General Stepanov. Some big, new operation.”

  “New operation? Hmm. Sounds fascinating.”

  “Between you and me, I heard they’re trying to catch someone spying for the Americans.”

  Dmitriyev gulped hard and swiped his hand across his brow. Sweat beads had burst through his pores before he realized he was warm. He tried to shake off the nervousness and suppress the tremble in his voice. He cleared his throat and said, “Not again. Fucking assholes!” He cringed as the words spilled from his mouth. “Any idea which residency?”

  “No, that information is very tightly held,” she said. “Anyway, I must get going but I’ve left a message on Stan’s desk. Watch yourself. You never know who may be lurking about.”

  “Indeed, you never know.”

  The silence was now deafening. Was Stan sufficiently disenchanted with the Service to cover Dmitriyev’s ass as he had so many times before? If not, it would be only a matter of time before Komarov called him to attend a “special” or “urgent” meeting. Golikov’s goons might return from New York; they had more experience in the art of torture than Filchenko. They would subject Dmitriyev to a gruesome beating before summarily shipping him back to Moscow and feeding him to the vicious wolf called Mashkov.