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

by Skye, S. D.

  He shook his head in feverish motions. “No, no, you’re making this up,” Maddix said. The arrogance drained from his face along with the color, leaving him pale and sapped. J.J. figured he hadn’t considered this new angle.

  “Trust me. I’m not a good actress. Justice plans to make an example of you to discourage your little treasonous alliance from further illegal activities.” Her voice was soft but convincing. “They want to send a strong message to the network and to the Russians. Since you’re the only member of Lana’s organization in custody…well…you’re the man, so to speak.”

  “No, no. Justice will never take this to court. The government won’t risk releasing classified information to the public.”

  “Ah, but you forget. My sources are dead, and the Russians are aware of their identities. They’ve already conducted a damage assessment to determine each and every piece of compromised intel. My guess is the Russians fed them bad information to pass to us anyway. I no longer need to protect them or their data,” J.J. lied. “Besides, you yourself suggested Mosin’s going to the press. Once he goes public with the information, our worries about disclosing classified intelligence in court are over. Any bargaining chip in your hand will dissipate the second Mosin’s safe in Moscow.”

  Maddix’s face turned flush; the little bit of life remaining drained from his eyes. He leaned forward on his elbows and cupped his head with both hands, pressing his fingers into his scalp until the tips whitened.

  “Funny how things worked out, huh? Seems no one needs the FBI to find Mosin more than you,” Tony said, handing him a new cigarette. “Here. Light this and take an after-sex puff…because you’ve royally screwed yourself.”

  Maddix sat soundless, all motion frozen. He didn’t turn or glance up. Just stewed there, his mug as grim as death, shackled to the table and his lies. His deception had ricocheted and exploded in his face like a scum-seeking missile. At once, his body trembled; he released a burst of sniffles and descended into intermittent weeps. “You don’t understand. Look at my face. You see this?” He pointed to his bruises. “The network—Russian mafia associates—they’re as thick as roaches on the inside. They’ll kill me if I talk.”

  “I’ve got news for you—they’re ruthless. You’re dead either way…” J.J. said. “Without our help, no prison has walls strong enough to protect you. Cooperating will ensure you’re placed where you can serve out your sentence without getting shanked to death. That’ll depend on the value and reliability of the information you provide.”

  He grudgingly sat upright in his seat and scooted his chair closer to the table, his eyes inflamed. “Fine. What do you want?”

  “Mosin’s location and a detailed accounting of the information he stole from the White House,” Tony replied.

  After letting out a long hard breath, he said, “He’s meeting with some doctor. Why? I don’t have a clue. Then he’s taking a passenger freighter . . . to St. Petersburg. He didn’t tell me the shipping line. From there, he’s on a train to Moscow. Understand, this guy’s fucking paranoid like no one you’ve ever seen. Doesn’t trust anyone he can’t kill. Not in Moscow, not anywhere. He’s scared half the Russian Security Services are working for the U.S. or our allies. So he’s planning to walk in.”

  “Walk-in where?” J.J. said.

  “Lubyanka Square.”

  “Wait…FSB Headquarters?” Tony asked.

  Maddix nodded as J.J. and Tony exchanged strained glances.

  Tony sat up straight. “And what intelligence is he trading?”

  “The man masterminded the operation to bug the Situation Room—the fucking Fort Knox of intel,” Maddix said, his expression incredulous. “Isn’t it obvious?”

  Tony pinched his lips together and released a heavy sigh. Through clenched teeth he growled, “This ain’t Blue’s Clues. You’ve got thirty seconds to spill before I crack your skull open.”

  J.J. turned to Maddix and glared in silence. Her twisted expression sending a strong message: If he didn’t offer an explanation soon, he wouldn’t live long enough to receive the death penalty.

  “Must I spell out everything for you?” Maddix said. “He’s got recordings. The President, National Security Council, Joint Staff, CIA. Maybe years’ worth. Every meeting that took place in that conference room. Every word spoken. Plans. Strategies. Damaging high-level discussions about our enemies…and our allies. I mean you gotta figure the batteries couldn’t last forever, but they probably lasted long enough.”

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” J.J. swallowed hard and tried to control her breathing which had become more labored. The thought of this information getting to the FSB or SVR sickened J.J.’s stomach, forced her morning coffee to the back of her throat like acidic bile. Any disclosure would cause untold damage to U.S. national security. “How could he…there’s no way. No way.”

  “Voice activated recorder with extended battery reserve. This system’s designed to serve as the back-up he would deliver to the Russians in the event the bug failed. He installed them at the same time. Must’ve removed it the night the fire alarm sounded in the Sit Room, and he took it with him when he defected,” Maddix said.

  “How…how do you know the recorder was there? And that it’s missing?”

  “He told me. Had me by the saggy bags. No way I’d rat him out. Mashkov’s people would chop me up like last night’s sushi. I searched for it during the fire alarm that emptied the White House after you found the listening device. Came up empty.”

  “Dammit!”

  Maddix continued, “I don’t need to tell you what’s gonna happen if that gets into the hands of the Russians.”

  “Not to mention the press.” J.J. clenched her eyes shut for a second. “They’ll massacre the president…even more than usual. We’ve got to report this to the director now. As for you,” J.J. said, slicing Maddix with a machete sharp glare. “You better pray we find Mosin before the FSB does or you’ve just committed suicide. I swear if you don’t die in prison, I’ll take you out myself.”

  Chapter 4

  Monday Night — FBI Headquarters

  Wendell Hinkley had spent the better part of the morning preparing the mail cart for his staff’s file deliveries when he heard the clack of heavy footsteps padding toward his office. He peered through the door’s window panel and noticed a man with a hard expression bustling toward the Special File Room.

  John Nixon? he mumbled under his breath. The Assistant Director rang the bell on the counter and stared at the door as if telepathically summoning someone to respond. The sight struck Wendell as unusual, an agent of Nixon’s stature descending from on high. In most instances, their secretaries handled such administrivia on their behalf—or they received briefings on the contents from more junior agents or analysts. His eyes narrowed with suspicion.

  Sporting his favorite slacks, button down, and bow-tie in hopes of impressing Sunnie, Wendell’s curiosity piqued. He emerged from the back room with his lop-sided afro and glasses weighed forward on the bridge of his nose.

  “Yes, can I help you?” he asked before acknowledging the AD’s identity. “Ohhh, Mr. Nixon. What brings you down here? Luisa always takes care of your file requests.”

  “Well, yes,” he responded, “but Luisa is handling another matter, so I decided to process this request myself. Uh, here’s my file request form.”

  Wendell took the slip of paper from his hand and scanned it. Given his encyclopedic knowledge of most key cases in the storage area, archived or otherwise, he recognized case number and his mistrust mushroomed. He typed the number into the computer sitting on the counter.

  “Sorry,” he said, jutting the paper back to its owner. “I can’t let you review that file. Under strict orders from Director Freeman, no one can access it without his expressed permission, and your name does not appear on the list of authorized reviewers.”

  “Check again,” Nixon ordered.

  “Whatever you say,” Wendell replied.

  Two weeks prior, Direct
or Freeman had restricted access to several groups of files, and Nixon’s inquiry was among them. Wendell found Freeman’s interest odd and Nixon’s even more so. No one had requested access to any of the records in over two decades. He typed the case number and waited for the rejection message to appear then shook his head no.

  Nixon shot a condescending glare at the identification badge dangling from the clerk’s neck. “Excuse me, Wendell is it?” He puffed out his chest. “I’m acting in the director’s stead while he recovers from his episode. I’m sure his instructions do not apply to me.”

  Wendell traced the words on the screen with his index finger and pretended to read them again. “The instructions do not say ‘me or a party authorized to act on my behalf.' They say ‘without my expressed permission.’ Period.”

  John’s face reddened and jaw clenched no doubt stunned at the audacity of what he considered the two-year-old file clerk denying his majesty’s request. Wendell read the spurn in his every expression. Nixon barked. “Get the supervisor, now! I will not stand for such disrespect…from the likes of you.”

  Wendell jerked his head back and paused. Nixon grew incensed and had garnered an infamous reputation for bullying to get his way rather than using common courtesy and consideration. In a calm voice, Wendell replied, “Give me just one moment.” Then he disappeared into the back room. He peeked past the sheathing to watch Nixon without his notice, before leaving to grab his lunch.

  Ten minutes later when he returned, Nixon still paced the floor, grunting and mumbling under his breath, again and again, his glance flitting between the back door and his watch. In the midst of his fury, Sunnie walked in and took a seat on the guest chair behind him, eyeing Nixon with her brows drawn in.

  Wendell bounded through the door with half of a sandwich in his hands and smiled, “Oh Sunnie! I’ll be right with you.”

  Nixon glowered at Wendell. His eyes narrowed; his nostrils flared.

  “Afternoon, Mr. Nixon. Don’t think we’ve met. I’m Wendell Hinkley, the Chief Supervisor of the Special File Room. As you’ve suggested, I’ve conferred with management. If the director provides his authorization by signature or phone, I will be happy to deliver the files to you myself. Until then, please see yourself out. I’d like to finish my lunch.”

  Nixon pinched his lips and growled between gritted teeth. “You won’t get away with this. You’re going to wish you’d never seen my face.” He stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

  “Too late,” Wendell mumbled. Nixon’s threats had no impact on him whatsoever. He understood as well as any government employee that Nixon would spend the better part of three years navigating a web of bureaucratic red human resource tape to fire him. And, in the process, he’d be forced to reveal the reason for the urgency of his request, which Wendell suspected he’d never do.

  He took another bite of his sandwich while eyeing Sunnie’s sexy ensemble. He loved the curve of her wide hips, thick thighs, and ample breasts spilling from her V-neck tops. He even loved the colorful streaks in her black hair that used to cause a stir amongst Bureau conservatives but now were little more than routine. Maybe that’s why she’d quit wearing them. The new suits were classy, but he liked it more when her wardrobe accented her charismatic personality. She’d stopped into his office, which meant she needed him. He loved those days…even if he could only offer access to files.

  Sunnie covered her mouth in shock. “Uh, Wendell? You recognized his face, didn’t you?”

  “Of course,” Wendell said. “Assistant Director of the Douche Bag Division.”

  “He seemed pretty fired up at you. What the heck was all the fuss about?”

  “He wanted access to a restricted file but the director didn’t give him authorization.”

  “Authorization? What’d he want to see? Hoover’s file?”

  “No, which is the strange part. The case started during the Hoover-era. One of those old COINTEL cases. The FBI agent was Naomi Jones. Never seen one of these with so many restrictions.”

  “I’m sorry. Did you say ‘Naomi Jones’?” she asked, holding her hand against her chest, her mouth hanging open. “Did he explain the urgency?”

  “No, also kinda strange. I remember she was one of the first black female agents, killed in the line of duty. Went undercover in the Black Panthers or something. The Bureau released most of those files through Freedom of Information Act requests but for some reason this one remains restricted.”

  Sunnie exhaled and sprang toward the door. “Uhhh…well. I’ve got to run,” she said without even bothering to look back.

  “But…but what did you need?” Wendell called out to Sunnie’s vapors.

  “I’ll be back,” she replied from half way down the hall. “I’ve got an important phone call to make.”

  Wendell took a moment to consider the implication of Nixon’s visit and Sunnie’s hasty departure. Something was amiss and, to his knowledge, he had one option to prevent the worst from happening. So, he gulped down the last bite of his sandwich and headed to the storage area for a long afternoon. He had a lot of work to do.

  Chapter 5

  Tuesday Afternoon — U.S. Embassy, Moscow

  Six dreaded the thirteen-hour flight back to Moscow, as he downed the Smirnov with a gulp and pulled a blanket over his shoulders. His mind weighed down with thoughts of the woman he’d left behind, rather than the challenges that lay ahead. Watching J.J. and Tony squabble over Hershey Bars and peanut brittle gave him the shred of hope he wished to exploit for his own good. At least this was before he received a call indicating the CIA Director had fingered him to support a mission in the one place in the world he vowed never to return again.

  This was not to say the city had not been kind to him even with its bi-polar charm. Sprawling modern skyscrapers juxtaposed against white communist-era tower blocks. Bright, multicolored cathedral onion domes against the Kremlin’s towered fortress. Not unlike D.C. in many ways with the beauty of its monuments interspersed with its monolithic government headquarters. But deep inside Moscow was the heart of its people. Even during the frigid winters, and under the watchful eyes of the security services, one could always find pockets of warmth where borsch ran cold and the vodka ran deep.

  Only after receiving the hand of J.J.’s source in the mail did Six feel pressed to leave. The gruesome dose of Russian intelligence “hospitality” sent him scrambling for American shores.

  Before he left Langley, Director Lance Miller’s orders were clear, unwavering. The mission: Impossible.

  “You can thank General Ronaldson for this, always giving me shit. He convinced the council to overrule me,” he said, taking a seat behind the desk in his seventh-floor suite. He was a muscular, broad-shouldered man whose immaculate suit and spit-shined shoes harkened back to his Army past. “Been a bug up my ass since they created the Director of National Intelligence position,” he said. “Mosin is officially a DIA HVT – high-value target—subject to kill or capture orders—which is code for Kill-on-Sight. Stupid son of bitch doesn’t even know what he stole.”

  Six jerked his head back. “What did he steal?”

  Director Miller invited Six to take a seat across from him on the couch and leaned in. “We have every reason to believe covert plans for the European Missile Defense may have been revealed in a conversation on those recordings. If the information gets out, it’ll leave the U.S. in a political and military shit storm so thick, fresh air will be a distant memory for years to come.”

  “Jesus.” Six felt a brain spasm; the migraine came on like gangbusters.

  “A military special ops team is on its way to Moscow. Your job is to get to him first and keep him alive—we must recover the intelligence. We can’t risk it getting into the hands of Russian intelligence.”

  “I understand, sir. But how? I’m a declared CIA security officer for goddsakes. They know who I am. How the hell can I operate from the Embassy?”

  “We’ve hired you some help. You’ll get the details wh
en you arrive at the Station. Our contractor operates one of our black sites outside of Moscow—Ghost Man. He’s got a head start, and you have the intelligence from Task Force Phantom Hunter that the DIA team isn’t privy to. I’ve got to warn you…if Ghost gets wind of the special ops team, he may turn on us.”

  For the first time in years, Six felt almost impotent. A thousand factors lay outside his control. If he dropped the ball, the country would suffer for it. He couldn’t let that happen.

  “Say what you have to say, do whatever you have to do. Keep him alive and recover that intel at all costs. You are not to return to Langley without it.”

  “So, what happens if…when I recover the intel?”

  “You’re the best exfil specialist we’ve got. Extract him, and we’ll turn him over to the FBI. I’ve got Congressional oversight breathing down my neck like a horny teenager. I’d like to come out on the other side of this one on the high road and with my hands clean.”

  “And if he doesn’t turn it over…if I don’t recover it.”

  “Simple,” Miller said. “Kill him.”

  •••

  Not two hours after landing in Sheremetyevo Airport, Bart Russell, the Moscow Station duty officer, whisked Six into the Embassy to attend a case briefing with Mark Levin, the CIA Chief of Station. The U.S. Embassy complex, America’s soil in the heart of Moscow, was enclosed on all sides by bricked and gated barriers. Moscow station operated inside an architecturally indistinct 12-story block of steel-reinforced concrete and blue-green glass. Though its environs were distinctly Muscovite, with one side facing the Russian White House, the interior workspace design was distinctly American, down to the open floors, big-wig offices, worker-bee cubicles, gray industrial carpeting, and left-facing doorknobs.

  A bathroom stop and a bag of chips later, Six entered the secure facility conference room and took a seat at the head of the table, adjacent to Mark, where he belonged. Six noticed Mark’s attire had gone from stylish to shabby with his silk tie loosened, collar unbuttoned, and sleeves rolled to the elbow. His close-cropped black hair was now scraggly, and his smooth-shaven jaw now sported a five-o’clock shadow. The piercing blue eyes which weakened the knees of most women in the station were now bleary and cracked red from late nights and early mornings. The political instability and spy games had taken their toll and Mark’s Adonis reputation paid a hefty price.