by Skye, S. D.
“Back so soon,” Mark said, joking given that Six had left Moscow a little more than a month before.
“What can I say? Couldn’t stay away,” Six replied. “So, who’s on first and what’s on second?”
“Stanislav Vorobyev,” Mark replied. He launched into an in-depth briefing on the former Washington Residency security chief and now fugitive. He’d killed his allegedly depraved Directorate Chief and absconded from SVR Headquarters, the Center, with enough secret documents to start a Russian intelligence archive.
“Hear he’s dead,” Six said with a wink and a scampish smile. “Or didn’t you receive the memo?”
“Yes, and we’re trying to keep him that way. But he’ll rise like Lazarus if we don’t develop an airtight plan to get him out of here.” Mark scratched his head. “While J.J.’s plan is this side of genius, we have yet to produce a body; there’s been no meeting with the family to return the remains, and this guy’s got other issues too.”
Six studied the pained expression on Mark’s face. “Oh, hell, what’s the problem?”
“Let’s just say that while he’s a good handler when it comes to running agents, he’s not good at being handled. He’s giving us shit at every turn. We put him in a guarded safe house, and one of our trusted assets checks in on him every so often. Despite our explicit instructions, he does whatever the hell he pleases. Refuses to stay in disguise, damn Russian pride. Even worse, he refuses to turn over the documents. Says he’ll reveal where he stashed them once he’s inside the embassy.”
“Well, shit. Who’s controlling whom?” Six asked. “If he doesn’t cough them up, we cut him loose.”
“Easier said than done. We need the intel, and it’s worth more than the cost of abandoning the idiot who can hand it to us, no matter how careless he is.”
Six shrugged.
“And don’t forget our President killed him, so-to-speak, even if he did it through a channel they shouldn’t have been listening to. If they find out he’s alive, due to our screw-up, how many sources do you think will trust us in the future? Zero.” His fingers formed a circle.
Six understood that while the op was not easy, whatever bullshit the Agency had to endure to get him to safety would be well worth the trouble. The intelligence cache might bring down not only the illegal spy ring, but put a screeching halt to all Russian operations targeting the United States at home and abroad.
“Let’s not forget we’ve still got a high-ranking source working in place at the Center. We stand to lose a whole lot more than this intel if the Russians gut Moscow Station.”
Six nodded. The big picture kept his concerns about Stan’s carelessness in perspective. “So, is he safe?”
“For the moment. He’s holed up not far from our safe house in the Biryulevo area. Our most significant problem now is one of logistics. We’ve got to get him inside the embassy or out of the country and under close scrutiny. We could walk from Moscow to Washington on the surveillance bodies the FSB is using to cover us.”
“Why can’t we just put him in a trunk?”
“Increased random militia checkpoints throughout the city, at least fifty of them. They’re also on high alert for a terrorist threat. Our personnel are stopped daily. We can’t explain away an undead SVR officer hiding in the trunk. We can’t risk it. So you’re going to have to come up with something a little more creative.”
Six palmed his forehead. “Yeah…creativity is my middle name. So, let’s move on to the second.”
“Gary Mosin,” Mark said. “Son of a bitch arrived here on a freighter three days ago. He’s been lying low ever since. Good news is we’re ninety-nine percent certain he hasn’t passed the intel to FSB yet. On the flip side, we can’t contain him under grid for much longer. Once the Russians get a hold of him, he’s as golden as that other piece of shit, sleaze ball who shall remain nameless.”
The notion sparked a well of fury in Six’s gut. He’d dedicated almost every moment of his professional life to protecting his country, a patriot until the end. He characterized any American who put U.S. national security at risk as an enemy of the state subject to trial and imprisonment. And he expected Mosin’s capture to result in a lifetime in Supermax once they turned him over to the FBI. His eyes squeezed into slits. “One thing American history has proven—from Al Capone to Osama bin Laden—nobody who betrays the U.S. is untouchable. When you’re on the list, there’s two ways to get off it—both of them end in justice. Mosin can’t hide forever…neither can the other one,” Six snapped. He slipped off of his soapbox and relaxed his tone.
“Agreed,” Mark said. “But I’m not certain justice is the goal this time. I’ll be honest. We’ve been thrust between two dissenting camps in our executive political leadership. To put a fine point on the issue, both sides want to see Mosin in hell. One side wants to send him there by the end of the week. They think we need to send a message to anyone who considers selling U.S. secrets. If we don’t get the point across successfully, more damaging compromises are ahead.”
Six shrugged. “Well…something to consider, I suppose.”
“And some of the black bag operatives want him dead whether we recover the intel or not—hard to determine which camp they fall in.”
“So, we got a location on Mosin?”
“Three days ago, I got headquarter’s approval to enlist some support. A Marine, former Force Recon special ops. One of the contractors I told you about. He’s on the case because we can’t risk using anyone from the Station. Leads a team coordinating black bag ops across Russia and the Republics for the Agency. His father’s a Russian Jew. Immigrated to the U.S. 35 years ago but he’s still got some legit but sketchy connections. Works in our favor as long as nobody finds out he’s CIA operated and owned.”
“A Marine, huh? You trust him?”
Mark nodded. “With my life. I wouldn’t be standing here today without his help. Saved my ass twice in the first Iraq war.”
“So what’s his deal?”
“Loose Russian mafia ties. Some of his mob connections are also tied to shady Russian intel officers who’d give up their mothers and first born for crisp new hundred dollar bills. But he’s the real deal. And we’ve scheduled a meeting between you and him…tonight.”
“Tonight? You need to lay off the vodka because you are drunk if you think I’m going anywhere except to bed.”
“Yes, I do need to lay off the booze…but you still must go.”
“If I leave the embassy in the open, the FSB will be on me like honey on a bee’s ass. I’m declared, remember? And thanks to Ames, they’re well aware that I’m exfil. They’ve got to be wondering what’s brought me back to paradise so soon.”
“You’ll be concealed.”
Six grimaced and rolled his eyes. “My life’s been moving a thousand miles a minute for the last two weeks. I’m jet-lagged, starving, and craving the comfort of meager accommodations, hard pillows, and listening devices, and you expect me to pull a tuck-and-roll out of my ass tonight? You must’ve bumped your head.”
“Listen, we could wrap Mosin up any minute now and our Marine contractor tends to follow his own orders without adult supervision, if you get my point. He’s that kind of Marine. Your role is to make certain his methods don’t drag us into a murky mess we can’t get out of. We need Mosin alive…until we want him dead.”
Six let out a deep sigh. The Director ordered him not to return to Langley without the intel, and he planned to fulfill the mission at all costs.
“Guess I’ll be on trunk duty tonight.”
“Time is short and every second counts. In less than two weeks, we’re on desk duty for the next three months, so we need to wrap this up. I’m not ashamed to say I hope he leaves in a body bag.”
Chapter 6
Tuesday Morning — J.J.’s Condo
Turn your lights down low
And pull your window curtain…
J.J. McCall drank in the magnificence of Tony Donato, the love of her life, as he
plunged between her legs slowly grinding to Bob Marley’s rhythm. His eyes spoke with the softness of an angel’s breath. Yet, his chiseled body curved with the glory and power of Roman gods. His bulging pecks propped him above J.J. as he penetrated her with a passion too delicious to contain. She gripped his hips and slowed his hungry strokes to a gentle paint-drying drag, intensifying his moans and strengthening her groans. He called out her name and vowed his everlasting devotion in loving whispers, his adoring gaze, and his tender touch. Tony’s arms trembled with weakness from pleasure’s pain when she pulled his soaking body to hers. He pushed his hand underneath her taut bottom and gripped her ass as she wound her hips with a churning speed that drove them to heavenly peaks. They lay together in a silent embrace until their panting slowed. Nothing could be heard except the sound of Bob Marley humming from her iPod, and rain pattering against the window after a winter downpour.
“Mmmm, the best ever,” Tony said, purring like a man who’d tasted chocolate for the first time. He rocked to his side, propped himself up on his elbow, and stared at her with awed appreciation. “Damn, babe. You’re tryin’ to kill me, aren’t you?”
“Me gwine kill yuh wit a smile ‘pon your face,” J.J. said in her Jamaican patois. She learned it from years of listening to reggae…and an ex-college boyfriend of two years who spoke in his native tongue whenever trying to conceal information from her.
“Ooh, sexy. Sound like you’re straight out of Flatbush,” he said. “A woman of many…talents.”
“Baby, you don’t know the half of it.” She brushed her palm against his cheeks, and the corners of her mouth turned downward, coloring her face with the melancholy pout. Gloom hovered over their coming days and weighed heavy on her heart. “Wish we could stay here forever.”
He forced a smile but shifted his eyes from hers. “Someday we will, make no mistake about it. For now, duty calls.” He wrapped his arm around J.J.’s waist as she tried to escape. “You finished packing yet?”
“Yeah. The sooner we wrap up this case, the better. I’m limiting my luggage to two suitcases…in a vain attempt to will my wish into reality. If I need any more clothes than that, I’ll shop when I get to New York.” She kissed his fingers and pushed his hand back before slipping out of bed to start the shower. “Anything new from the home front? How’s your brother doing?”
“Same. Vitals are stable, but he’s still in critical condition. Hasn’t regained consciousness. Even if he recovers, the doctors aren’t sure he’ll walk again.” She brought him a warm washcloth and sat beside him on the bed.
“I’ve never met him but your blood’s running through him, so I have no doubt he’s a fighter. The Russians better come with more than a couple of bullets to keep him down.”
Tony’s smile was tenuous. “Listen. I should warn you up front. My family, they’re not going to welcome you with open arms…at first.”
“You mean, the way my dad welcomed you? Inviting Six, of all people, to breakfast?”
“It’s not the same. They can be real drama queens. I’m talkin’ Susan Lucci drama. My sister Dree, ugh, she’s a bitch on wheels. You think I’m exaggeratin’ but we grew up together. She’s a troublemaker, for sure.”
“You mean, like my father?” she said with a chuckle. “You’re trying to make a point here, so cut to the headline.”
He grabbed her hand and caressed her fingers, avoiding her hardened glare. “I think it’s best…that we don’t tell them…about us...at least not right away. Give me some time to ease them into the idea.”
“Ease them? Hmph,” she snapped. “Perhaps on the way to New York we should take a side trip to OZ so we can ask the Wizard to give you some courage.”
“J.J., listen—”
“Ummm, no. My father’s not any happier about our relationship than yours will be, as evidenced by his effort to hook you up with a deranged killer. But, guess what? I told him; he got over it. Well, he’s getting over it, but you get the point,” J.J. growled, grabbing her lingerie from the drawer. She stomped into the bathroom before slamming the door shut. “I’ll bet if my name were Gia Campioni you’d have no problem introducing me to your family.”
After a few moments of silence, she heard the locked doorknob wiggle.
“Really, J.J.?” His voice sounded muffled as she brushed her teeth. “Listen, I understand your frustration, babe. I do. Trust me, if I had the close relationship with my family that you do with yours, I’d tell ‘em in a heartbeat,” Tony said. “My relationship with them is strained to the point of breaking. We should be pulling together not tearing apart. Dealing with you and me, the death threats, Dante’s condition, and God forbid, his death? For Christ’s sakes, a man can only take so much and dumping this on them isn’t fair, either.”
J.J. stared in the mirror and tried to empathize, get past her own selfish desires and be supportive. Truth be told, he had a good point, several of them. Dante’s health trumped any efforts she might engage in to ingratiate herself to his family. But the moment he turned the corner, and she believed he would, Tony better ‘fess up, or their relationship was over. She wouldn’t allow him to hide her like some family shame, loved under the cover of night like a side-chick as Six had done. He could put that in his bank and smoke it.
She cracked open the bathroom door, and his face met hers, nose to nose once he bent forward. He slipped his hand through the crack and caressed her cheek, flashed half a smile, and pecked her on the lips. “Okay, Tony. We’ll do it your way…for now. Not forever, but for the time being I’m silent on the matter.” She zipped her fingers across her lips.
“Thank you, babe,” he said. “Did I ever tell you that you were the best woman in the world?”
J.J. nodded. “How about you show me with diamonds?” She chuckled. He would get the irony of her statement given she didn’t wear much jewelry. Just her mother’s promise ring and a pair of diamond studs in her ears, a gift from Six.
“So, what time are we leaving?”
She spun around and stepped into the shower. “You drive ahead of me whenever you’re ready. I’ll meet you at Federal Plaza first thing tomorrow morning. And before your brain starts churning, this has nothing to do with the family issue. I’ve got to meet Dmitriyev.”
“You sure it’s not—”
“I’m positive!” she replied before he could finish. Her suggestion had nothing to do with him. One lesson her father had instilled in her from the time her feet could reach the gas pedal is to be responsible for her own transportation. When an argument broke out, a woman should always be able to get home on her own. “Hopper Mack’s is going to stand in for me. He’ll be Dmitriyev’s handler until we return, so I need to give him contact instructions,” J.J. said. “Plus, I’d like to get an update on new developments in the New York residency and find out how much he knows about this Troika business.”
“So, you don’t want me to hang back and meet him with you?”
“No, I’ve got this covered. You go home, support your family. God forbid the worst should happen; the last thing you want is to live with the regret that you could’ve been there, but you weren’t.”
Chapter 7
Tuesday Afternoon — Russian Embassy
“Where do you think you’re going?” Yuriy Filchenko barked as Aleksey Dmitriyev made his way to the door. “Our meeting begins in twenty minutes. At such a delicate time, our comrades will question your absence.”
Filchenko was the new Counterintelligence operations chief in the Washington Residency and Dmitriyev was his superior in rank and moral fiber. Their entire relationship had been built on mistrust and resentment: Yuriy’s for the treacherous turncoat he believed Aleksey to be, and Aleksey for the backstabbing snitch Yuriy had proven himself to be.
Aleksey growled under his breath and rolled his eyes. Filchenko nosed around him and dished heaping servings of grief at every opportunity. Aleksey’s saving grace came in the form of the leverage he’d gained from Yuriy revealing his major fuck up to Alek
sey. If Aleksey played his trump and revealed the junior officer had, by accident, led the FBI straight into the White House operation, the disclosure would deal a crippling blow to Filchenko’s career.
“Tread lightly, little boy,” Aleksey snarled. “You don’t want to push me too far, not whilst my grip is so firm around the weak bones in your neck.”
Filchenko paused and reconsidered his stance before waving Aleksey off.
Dmitriyev exited the main building and headed out for his daily Starbucks run, now more aware of the time. As he pulled out of the gate and neared Wisconsin Avenue, he scanned his rearview and side mirrors for familiar faces from the FBI’s surveillance team. He recognized the one he’d met in the park and tipped his hat. They kept their coverage loose, as he expected they would. Aleksey was meeting one of their own.
Distancing himself from the residency liberated his mind, allowing him for the first time in days to absorb the gravity of recent events and his own looming peril. He clenched his eyes shut for a brief moment and shook his head at the disbelief at Svetlana Mikhaylova’s death. Her father’s grief, which had transformed from sorrow to rage, set him on a path of revenge and destruction, steeled his determination to avenge her murder. Aleksey himself had sunken to the pit of all moral lows—pretending to celebrate the death of his dear friend Stanislav Vorobyev in order to protect his cover and guarantee his future by spying on behalf of the FBI. After defecting from the service, he could leave the duplicitous life behind and live out the rest of his days in peace. Until then, he’d be forced to work in place; he’d crossed over the line too far to turn back now.
