by Skye, S. D.
Tony took one last long look around the house. “All right, all right already. I’m leavin’. Just make sure you keep your nose clean until you get outta town,” he opened the door and stepped outside. “You don’t have my back…I don’t have yours. We clear?”
“Fine with me,” Santino snapped. “Everybody knows you can’t trust a Fed anyway.”
As he peered out the window and watched Tony drive away, Santino’s mind churned over everything Tony had said. Could that snake Nicky Mumbles be responsible for the lie that put the wedge between Tony and his family? Thinking back to when they were kids, Tony told the truth even when confessing was to his detriment. Honest to a fault, drove Santino nuts. How could he convince Tony’s brother Dante or his father that they’d been wrong about him all along? They were as stubborn as Tony was forthright, but they needed to understand what Nicky Mumbles was capable of. He might make a move on the boss next.
Since he was already downstairs, Santino wandered into the kitchen to grab some food from the fridge. He bought some nice prosciut’ and bread from a little Italian bakery in Arlington, Virginia. It wasn’t like home, but it was good enough to make a snack. No sooner than he pulled the handle, the front door opened. The sound of footsteps was followed by a loud thump that shook the floor. He poked his head into the hallway and saw Katherine’s body sprawled out, face down; she moaned like a dying cow, either sick, in pain or both.
“Ow!” she groaned, struggling to turn onto her back. Then she kicked out her foot to shut the door. “Ugh. I don’t feel so good,” she said, her words slushed and slurred together.
Santino ran to her and kneeled beside her, the whiff of liquor so strong he thought she’d been swimming in it. “Holy Mother of God, what’ve you been drinking?” He fanned his hand in front of his face.
“The bar. All of it,” she replied. “Do you smell that?”
“If you mean the booze, yes. You are seriously hammered.”
“No, the smell of quicksand. I’m up to my eyes in it,” she said, her words running together. “It’s over. My life’s over. You’re over. I’m over. It’s all over.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” he said.
“Look in thish package,” she said. Her body wobbled as she emitted a loud, acrid belch. She struggled to sit up but didn’t have enough arm strength. “Look and shee for yourshelf.”
Santino peeked inside the package and saw the stacks of money, more than enough for him to pay Nicky back. He didn’t understand the problem. “Money’s in here.”
“Yep. But no passa-porta,” she said, attempting to mimic an Italian accent. “I’m stuck in this godforsaken country for-fucking-ever!”
“Can’t you just tell them you need a new one?”
“No, I marked the signal telling them that I received everything okay,” she said. “They’re standing down operations assuming that tomorrow I’m on my way to France. Now, I’m trapped here. And if I can’t leave, I can’t give you money to pay back your people either. To put the situation in porn terms—we’re seriously fucked.”
“Shit!” Santino said, letting his head fall in frustration. If he didn’t pay Nicky back by Monday, he was as good as dead. Both of their death warrants would be signed. No, he needed to get a passport as much as she did. And fast.
Santino calmed his thoughts long enough to think of who to call. He had a few contacts but would any of them have access to one ready to go by the next day?
“Here, let me help you upstairs,” Santino said, gathering her limp body in his arms and lifting her from the floor. Like Superman, he’d come to her rescue yet again, maybe not for the reasons she suspected. He carried her upstairs, only banging her head against the railing once or twice. Then he moved into her bedroom where he gently laid her on the bed and pulled the trashcan over to catch the inevitable vomit spree.
“What am I gonna do?” she moaned, suddenly releasing a crushing round of sobs. “I want to go home. I want to go home,” she cried.
Santino gazed upon her face. Never before had he seen her so vulnerable, so helpless. Yet, she had never been more attractive to him than she was at that moment either. He wanted her in what, for him, was the worst way. He wiped the tears from her eyes. “Stop crying. I’m gonna make a couple of calls. I think I can find you a passport, but it’s probably going to cost ya ten Gs at the very least.”
She bolted upright from the bed and pressed her hands against her head as if to keep it from exploding. “I’ve got it. Whatever. I can pay it.” Then she grabbed Santino’s hands and gazed in his eyes. Her face brightened with hope. “You’re not kidding me, are you? I mean, you have a legitimate contact?”
He nodded and smiled. “Let me make the call. You should take a shower and get some rest. We’re probably going to have a long day tomorrow.”
She caressed his cheek and leaned forward to kiss him but he pulled back.
“After your shower,” he chuckled as he stood to leave.
He walked to his room and closed the door behind him, then scrolled through his phone to find the number to the D.C.’s most connected middleman. Santino figured that’s how he got the nickname “D.C.” He’d only met the guy a couple of times, but he’d left a strong positive impression. Certainly didn’t hurt that Santino was Italian and The Godfather was his all-time favorite movie.
The Jack of all Trades and master of none, if D.C. didn’t have direct access to what you needed, he could point you in the direction of who did. Then he made a nice commission on whatever service he provided and kept his hands clean. He hoped this single call would be the only call he had to make. “Yo’, D.C. This is your Godfather friend. I need a favor. A big one.”
“My man, Castellano!” he said in his usual upbeat voice. “Leave the gun, take the cannoli.”
Santino chuckled for D.C.’s sake and rolled his eyes. “Listen, I need a passport…not for me. Let’s just call her Italian. You think you could hook me up? I need it tomorrow by 10 am.”
“Hmmm. A passport for a woman?” D.C. replied. “I might have something for you. But it’ll cost you eight Gs and a kickback for express service.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve got it. Knew you wouldn’t let me down.”
“Email her photo and vitals to this account,” D.C. said reading off a Gmail address. “I’ll call you later with a location. We’ll meet tomorrow.”
He hung up the phone just as Katherine poked her head in the door. Suspicion in his gut told him the call was too easy. He questioned whether D.C. should’ve needed more time to call some people and get back with him later.
“Any luck?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Santino said. “Which makes me wonder…I thought it would’ve been tough to find something at this late hour.”
She nodded. “It should’ve been. I think we both know how the FBI operates. When something sounds too good to be true, somebody usually winds up in Supermax.” She held up her index finger. “Give me one second.”
Katherine disappeared from the doorway and reappeared a short while later with a canvas blue bag the size of a large envelope and a roll of aluminum foil.
“What’s at?”
“A trick I learned in my old job,” Katherine said. “I need the passport even if it’s FBI made.”
Santino agreed. “I know.”
“Fortunately, I’ve got a plan to ensure we got both get the hell out of here as scheduled. When he calls you back with the meet location, we’ll take a ride.”
Chapter 55
Late Saturday Night—FBI Headquarters
Director Freeman labored to draw in a deep breath. The stress was taking a greater toll each day, but he’d slotted a check-up into his schedule next week. Exhaustion filled him to the core of his bones, but the night wouldn’t end for at least another hour. He’d almost begun to regret his decision to call in Kyle, J.J. and Tony for an update on their cases.
With the Russian National Security Director expected in just a couple days, he couldn’t affo
rd an international scandal due to FBI operations, not when he’d been ordered by the President to cease activity. As a last resort, he could stand firmly on the grounds that political machinations had no bearing on critical national security issues, with a spy and FBI agent killer on the lam and a bug in the Situation Room, planted by Russian intelligence, and he could ill afford to wait for a “convenient” time. Even though his reasoning was concrete firm, he wanted to avoid the necessity if possible.
“So, you believe Mr. McCall is safe for now?” Freeman asked.
Kyle nodded. “Absolutely. J.J.’s brother’s a cop and taking a leave of absence to stay with him. In the meantime, we’re waiting on the CJIS facial recognition analysis. We should have something by Monday at the latest,” he said.
“Facial recognition isn’t an exact science, so I hope we’re not putting all of our eggs in that basket.”
“No, sir. I’ve also got an informant on the lookout for white females trying to purchase fake passports,” Kyle said. “Since Jiggy retrieved Lana’s passport from the drop, it’s only a matter of—”
Kyle’s phone buzzed. He unclipped it from the belt holster and stared at the text screen. He slapped his knee and yelled, “We’ve got her! Goddamnit, we’ve got her.”
Everyone sat at attention. “Some guy, Castellano, requested a passport. He wants to pick it up in the morning. The passport he’s exchanging is the one I gave him and it’s got a GPS tracker in it.”
“Castellano?” Tony said, sitting up at attention. His voice shot up an octave. “Who Castellano?”
Freeman looked at Tony askance and then at Kyle.
Kyle shrugged. “I don’t care if he’s the son of the Pope John Paul. When he picks up that passport he’s leading us straight to Lana Michaels and I’m taking them both to jail. That’s all I care about.”
“Here, here!” J.J. added. “You need me and Tony?”
“Nah, you two have had a long couple weeks. My team will take this from here. Should be a one-two punch. We’ve got a tracker in the passport. All we need is a couple of G-teams on surveillance, and one Tac Team to support the arrest in case things get out of hand.”
“Sounds good to me,” Director Freeman said. “I want a call the second Michaels is in custody.”
“Me, too.” J.J. glanced at Tony and appeared concerned by his blank expression. “Tonight we’re supposed to meet with the Task Force and drink to closing this case. Tomorrow’s Sunday Brunch with the family. After missing my father’s birthday yesterday, he may disown me if I don’t make it.”
“Okay, now if you’ll excuse us, Kyle,” Freeman said. “Agents McCall and Donato are briefing me on another case before I get out of here.”
“Okay, sir,” Kyle said, standing up from his seat and moving quickly toward the door. “We’ll call tomorrow when the op is over. You have a good evening.”
Freeman nodded and smiled as Kyle closed the door behind him. “Now, tell me more about what happened with this Mosin character. Just thinking about him gives me a headache.”
J.J. and Tony explained the entire case to him, going into granular detail about the Paper Doll clues left by Jim Cartwright, the former assistant director and FBI mole who was killed by Lana, Kendel’s involvement with Maddix Cooper and the role Gary Mosin and MCM Construction played in the operation. Gary, like Lana Michaels, was the mole in a separate but linked network and he used Cooper and Kendel the same way Lana had used Chris Johnson and Jack Sabinski.
“We blew this one,” Tony said. “Based on Lana’s case, we should’ve known Maddix Cooper was just a cut-out for the real mole, but he covered Mosin’s tracks well.”
“Worst of all, he’s probably half way to Moscow by now—and based on what Cooper says he’s got a box full of intelligence on American operations that, in the hands of the Russians, will not only significantly damage U.S. national security, it will prove very embarrassing diplomatically. We’ve got to take him down.”
“I agree. That’s why I’ve already contacted the CIA Director,” Freeman said. “What I’m about to tell you is closely held …but, on emergency orders from the National Security Council, they’ve mobilized every black ops officer west of Siberia to intercept Mosin before that information gets to the FSB.”
“Wow. The world must be coming to an end. Can’t believe you got the CIA to agree,” J.J. said, covering her mouth in surprise. She’d never seen the agencies come together and agree on such a swift, decisive action.
“This isn’t cooperation on their part,” Freeman said. “It’s self-interest. If the information he’s carrying gets out, Moscow Station will be gutted. They have more to lose than we do. The decision was easy.”
J.J. nodded. “I guess the only thing left is to figure out what we’re gonna do with Vorobyev. He’s got files in his possession that could certainly even up the score in our favor. This man has been operational for twenty years and his family’s outside of Russia—at least for the time being. We’re never going to get a better chance at helping him defect.”
“Except one thing, J.J.—the man is still inside Moscow, a city with more FSB officers than ants in the Everglades. He’s not even in the U.S. Embassy yet,” Freeman said. He felt his hair turn grayer by the second. “Not only will we have to put CIA operatives at significant risk to get him into the Embassy, we will have to find a way to transport him across Russian territory, without getting caught, so we can exfiltrate him back to the United States. I don’t even want to think about the amount of resources and time this will cost the Government. But we do take into account that the value of his information will far outweigh the risks, which is why we’re working on it.”
“We understand, sir. He’d have been better off if he had just turned over while he was still in Washington…then again he couldn’t have accessed the intelligence that could end these mole investigations for good,” Tony said.
“Even with the intel, we’re still screwed. Between Golikov and the FSB, he’s almost better off dead,” J.J. said. “Thank God Dmitriyev pulled a major one out for us in helping Jiggy find that passport, but we still need the leverage that intelligence offers now more than ever.”
“I know,” Freeman replied. “Which is why I’m attempting to work out a solution with the DNI and CIA. We’ve all got our best exfiltration experts on this. I’m hoping like hell we’ll figure something out soon. The longer he stays in Russia, the more our risks increase and the poorer our chances of getting him out become. In the meantime, we’ve got another pressing matter to deal with.”
J.J. and Tony glanced at each other and then turned back to Freeman.
“The Secret Service Director made it very clear during an extended rant that he wants the bug removed from the Situation Room…and I mean yesterday. Apparently, the President prefers not to have a Russian listening device in the walls of his office and is less than happy, to put it mildly, that we’ve stonewalled them on this. So if you can’t think of any justifiable operational reason to keep the thing in place. It’s out. Bright and early Monday. Are we understood?”
J.J. pursed her lips and let out a heavy sigh before nodding in agreement. “Okay, okay. Just seemed like a prime opportunity to throw a sucker punch; we don’t get the chance to do that very often. We’ll ensure it’s removed and have Washington Field place it in evidence.”
“No argument from Agent McCall? Hmph, there’s something new and different,” Freeman said. “Now if that’s all, scram so I can go home. I’ve successfully averted divorce for two weeks straight—and I’m going for three.”
“Yes, sir,” J.J. said as she collected her things. “Please let us know if we can do anything to assist in the Vorob—” J.J. froze in her spot, her eyes wide and lips slightly parted. Then she slapped herself in the forehead. “Oh my goodness. I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before!”
“Uh-oh, I know that look,” Tony said.
“Unfortunately, so do I,” Freeman said to Tony. “What is it, Agent McCall?”
> “I’ve got an idea about how to get Vorobyev out of Russia safely,” she said, her glance volleying between the two. “Don’t you see? We’ve got to kill him!”
Tony’s and Director Freeman’s eyebrows scrunched in confusion and both shook their heads. Then Freeman said, “Excuse me? Let me get this straight. You’re suggesting that the FBI should kill a Russian intelligence officer… in Moscow?”
She shook her head no and looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. “Of course not, Director Freeman! I mean, we aren’t the CIA for goodness sakes,” she said. “I was thinking more along the lines of getting the President…and the National Security Council to murder him in the White House.”
Tony felt her forehead and he and Director Freeman shared a hearty laugh at her expense. “J.J., you’ve really lost it. You want the President…along with members of the NSC to kill a Russian intelligence officer,” he chuckled. “What should they use? Professor Plum with a candlestick in the study? We’re going to get you some medication for your condition.”
“No. The President—with a bug—in the Situation Room!” J.J. snapped, crossing her arms across her chest. “Listen, no matter what we tell the Russians, they will never believe we’re not hiding Vorobyev.”
She paused to let the idea settle on them before continuing.
“But if they hear about Vorobyev’s untimely death from the President during Gusin’s next visit to the Ellipse, they will believe every word.”
Both Tony and Director Freeman looked at each other in shock and then at J.J., conceding with deferential head nods. Her idea not only had merit, it would solve a couple of problems—if the President approved. And given he and Putin were not seeing eye-to-eye in recent days, they had every reason to expect a “yes.”
“Hmm. Silence. Who’s laughing now?” J.J. sang in a joking voice. “In chess terms, I believe we call this a checkmate.”
• • •
J.J. and Tony spaced out their arrival at the District Chophouse, a retro downtown steakhouse and brewery, by thirty minutes. Tony arrived earlier. J.J. admired the rich mahogany décor. The place was a throwback to the 1930s post-prohibition era, where agents and spies could toss back handcrafted beers. She weaved through the L-shaped walkway toward the expansive bar, only to see Gia wearing a dress cut to every man’s satisfaction, beaming her bright licentious smile intimately close to Tony’s two-timing mug. Apparently, Gia was taking advantage of her time alone with Tony until J.J., Six, and Walter arrived.
