by Skye, S. D.
Manny glared at Scott, squinting his eyes.
“I, uh, I think I know who’s available,” Scott said.
“Good. Between a wire and a national security letter for phone records, we’ll have enough data to take the next steps. We’ve got to get inside the fortress. Given our severe lack of CIs, we need every means necessary.”
“I’ll start Maggie on this.” Scott nodded and shot out the door.
“Meanwhile, I’d like to set up a meet with this lone CI. Perhaps I can persuade him to share what he knows about Kozlov.” J.J. knew whether he told the truth or lied, she’d walk away with more knowledge than he ever meant to provide.
“I’ll make a few calls, see what I can do,” Manny said. “Until then I’ll bring in the case files so you can get up to speed and set you up with some desk space. We’ve got some vacant ones you can use.”
Manny stepped up beside her. He shifted his glance between them. “I gotta tell ya I was a little bit skeptical when the S-A-C told us he had agents coming in from D.C. but you seem to be on your game. I look forward to putting this one to bed.”
“Thanks, Manny. Me too,” she replied as she watched him leave the room.
She turned to Gia. “While you wait on the files, Tony and I are going to step out. We’ll be back in a few minutes.” They headed out the squad bay door into the hallway just beyond the elevators. Posters of arrested spies lined the walls; they contained messaging designed to deter insider spying, like “Espionage does pay…and Prison is the bank” and mug shots of convicted spies like Hanssen, Ames, and Pitts. A critical reminder to J.J. of why she was still an agent.
“Glad you made it okay. You get checked in?” Tony asked.
“Sure did. Fantastic room. Everywhere we go you’ve got the hook-up,” she said with a chuckle.
“Listen, I need to check on Dante. I’ll be back in a couple of hours if you’re all set.”
J.J. peered over his shoulders and behind her back. “Our friend, he passed some critical information. It’s the Mashkovs. They put a contract on Santino,” she whispered.
“What?”
“Yeah. In her last act of betrayal, Miss Svetlana sent her father some evidence implicating Santino in her murder. He’s dead if he doesn’t stay off the streets. After saving our lives, we owe him a warning.”
“Shit,” he said with a quick nod. “I’ll take care of it after I leave the hospital.”
“So…you’re going alone?” She tried to force a smile. He didn’t ask her to tag along which pissed her off. No matter how she or he tried to spin the situation, in her mind, the truth added up to one fact: Tony was ashamed of her. She couldn’t mask the disappointment. His actions revealed more than his words ever said or her expression could ever conceal.
“Quit with the sad puppy dog eyes, will ya?” Tony said. He looked as if he wanted to reach out to her, but he couldn’t, not on the job. “You told me you understand.”
“Unfortunately, I do,” she said, her eyes dampening before she shifted her gaze to the floor. Then she pushed through her hurt and shook off the sting. “Listen, whatever, I’ll be fine.” Her voice hollowed. “The Russians are my biggest problem. Not you. Not your family. Scott hit the nail on the head. Their ruthlessness is equal to our doggedness and—their code is to eliminate all perceived obstacles in the most gruesome ways possible. If we don’t figure out how to prevent an all-out war, Santino’s life won’t be the only one in danger. Go ahead and check on your brother. I’ll get a head start for tomorrow. I’ll be fine.”
“You’ve said that twice now.”
“Well…I meant it the second time.”
He jammed one hand into the pocket of his black leather coat and pushed the call button with the other. “A couple of hours, okay?”
“Sure.” She offered him a weak wave before he stepped on the elevator, and the door closed.
He left...son of a bitch. Her mouth began to water as she leaned back on the wall for a brief second. Her thoughts drifted to the hotel minibar. How she craved just one shot to soothe her emotional wounds. She snapped her mind to reality and decided to opt for something less detrimental, such as the room service menu. One of everything chocolate.
She pulled in a deep breath, opened her eyes and turned her head. The stairwell door opened, and footsteps clunked toward her.
“Tony? I thought you’d left.”
“Get your coat, woman. Let’s take a ride.”
Chapter 11
Wednesday Afternoon — U.S. Embassy, Moscow
Six’s anxiety grew in the night’s blackness with his body curled in a fetal position; the trunk space was too constricted to extend his legs beyond a slight bend. After almost two hours of driving, the stench of gas and oil made him dizzy but the fresh air would be his to breathe soon. He held up his hand in front of his face, couldn’t even detect the white of his freshly manicured nails. He drew in long deep breaths to achieve calm as the Michelins absorbed successive shocks from the minefield of potholes peppering the street. Twenty years of conducting operations and Six never had quite adjusted to riding in the trunk. After a bumpy ride, made longer by his exhaustion, they’d arrived at the switch car, a Russian-licensed Volga Siber; the trunk was significantly smaller than the Embassy’s Camry. It’d be another few miles before he’d kick down the back seat to combat roll onto a deserted side street in Biryulevo (a Moscow warehouse district) in the dark of night.
Mark had scheduled a critical meeting for Six to attend with Ghost Man at the black site. The topic: Mosin. The landing gear had barely touched the runway on his flight from Washington, but Mark forced Six to keep it.
“We clean?” Six asked Bart. “We can’t afford to blow this op or this site.”
“Yes, sir. Squeaky as a monk’s conscience. The location is about a half klick ahead. When I stop, you roll out to the right. Take the worn path into the woods fifty yards. Ghost Man will meet you.”
“Into the woods?” Six hated going any place with more trees than asphalt and more grass than concrete.
“Well, we can’t exactly pull up to the front entrance, Six. We use the back entrance,” he replied as the car rumbled over a span of railroad tracks.
Moments later, Bart slowed to a near stop. “This is it! You’ve got a thirty minute window then we head back. If we don’t return to the grid soon, the watchers in the stationary post outside the embassy will report unusual absences.”
Six kicked down the seat as the car came to a halt. He opened the door and rolled out onto the gravel and into the tall grass lining the roadside; the door was a hair from shut before Bart took off. The shock from the severe wind stopped his breath as his body adjusted to the temperature. After the taillights had disappeared into the darkness, he scanned the road to ensure surveillance wasn’t behind Bart. He curled into a crouched position, careful to stay behind the stuttering beam of light emanating from the streetlamp, and scuttled into the patch of evergreens.
His feet crunched through the brush as he crept into the darkened brush, his eyes stretched open to the height of alertness, volleying back and forth, monitoring for movement. As he made his way toward the lone light, a twig snapped behind him. His head jerked toward the sound; he sensed the presence of a large body behind him and the stiffness of steel in his back.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” the man asked in perfect Russian.
Six, a Level 3 Russian speaker, understood every word; the dialect was authentic. The man had learned Russian in Moscow, which didn’t bode well. Could the FSB be onto him? Bart was the best officer they had in terms of surveillance detection but perhaps the worst had happened. Maybe the Embassy had a mole who had tipped off the Russians before they even left.
He had two choices: Fold and concede or go for broke.
Folding was an option for cowards and fools. Not for Six.
He stiffened his back and in perfect West African French replied, “I don’t understand. I’m looking for my chicken. We’re taking the trai
n over there to Africa.”
They stood in proximity to the railroad tracks, a couple hundred feet away.
The Russian jammed what felt like the muzzle of a gun deeper into his spine, then ordered him to lay the down on the ground and put his hands behind his back.
Six stumbled forward in a drunken gait, wiggling his fingers and yelling, “Here Chickie Chickie. Here, Chickie Chickie,” to get a couple of feet of separation. In a lifesaving bum-rush, Six lunged with a wild right hook to the Russian’s horrified face before the man jerked back and yelled “Waaaaait!” This time in perfect English.
Six dead-stopped the knockout blow just a whisper from his nose and then his eyes shifted to the USMC baseball cap on his head. “Jesus! It’s you.”
The man returned the gun to the holster and grunted with disappointment. He stood at Six’s height and appeared to be a typical V-shaped Marine—broad shoulders and, from what he could see from the sweater and slacks, no beer gut at the waist. With skin creased around the eyes, he had to be in his late early-to-late 50s. His air had badass written all over it, but he leaned to the side and walked toward Six with a heavy limp. “I’m Ghost Man. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“Wish I could say the same, man. They told me you were crazy, but are you trying to get yourself killed?” Six chuckled, swiping his forehead in jest before accepting the extended hand.
“That’s the question I should be asking you since, I’m the only one between us with a gun,” Ghost replied with a smile.
“How’d you learn to speak such perfect Russian?” Six asked.
“My father was a Russian Jew who immigrated to the U.S. My mother was a Southern belle fresh from her family’s Atlanta plantation. I’m a mutt. Go figure,” he answered. “Follow me this way. We don’t have much time.”
Ghost Man led him through the thicket and a small cluster of trees to a large aluminum shed-like structure in a desolate area. A dirty-white eight-foot fence contained a man-sized hole which had been carved into the base and concealed by large trees. Appeared as if he’d cut a covert access into the unlit rear. They passed through and paced toward a side door.
A cloud of cigar smoke choked Six as they stepped into the dimly lit structure which was maybe fifteen-hundred square feet. A large wood dining room table and chairs sat on one side, an old roll top desk on the other. At the far end, a windowless caged area, sealed by bars, appeared as if Ghost had conducted more than one creative interrogation inside. Inside the two open doors, he spotted a closet and small bathroom. Thick rope, turned over buckets and a trail of cut zip-tie hand restraints littered the floor. Two aluminum light fixtures dangled overhead, and the lone side window served as the room’s sole source of outside ventilation. A smallish window on the far wall had been blacked out.
Six took a seat and grabbed a container of bottled water from the center until he noticed Ghost reaching into the desk.
“So Mark tells me you’re a former Army Ranger,” Ghost Man asked as he gripped a bottle of Scotch and poured a shot into two short glasses. He handed one to Six who nodded his head in response.
“Yep. 82nd Airborne,” Six said.
“You know what ARMY stands for, dontcha?”
Six shook his head no, but he knew where this was going. Marines couldn’t be happy unless they were giving shit to members of other branches. He considered himself fortunate he wasn’t a sailor or an airman.
“Ain’t Ready to be Marines Yet,” Ghost said with a hard chuckle.
Six winced in discomfort and let out a strained laugh.
“Okay, bet you can’t guess what U.S. ARMY backward stands for?”
After rolling his eyes, Six replied with a flat, “What?”
“Yes, My Retarded Ass Signed Up.” Ghost laughed as he poured a second shot and downed it.
“Well, I’d planned join the Marines but I couldn’t pass the physical,” Six said, his facial expression sullen. “Disgrace of my life.”
“Oh, yeah? What was the problem?” He faced Six with an expression of curiosity and concern.
“My head—it wouldn’t fit in the jar,” Six replied with a hearty laugh; Ghost joined in after an awkward pause. Then Six glanced at his leg. “How’d you get hurt?”
“Served on the Marine Expeditionary Force in Fallujah, Sunni section of western Iraq. We had a sympathizer in our unit who leaked our patrol route to the brother of an Iraqi insurgent. One IED later, my truck was overturned. Almost lost a leg. We lost three men that day. Something in me snapped—I don’t much like traitors of any kind.”
After a few minutes of discussion about Ghost’s service, Six got down to business. “So, do we have eyes on Mosin? I heard he disembarked yesterday.”
“Yeah, he’s in a rattrap hostel, the 7 Penguin Hotel on Petrovsky Boulevard. Walking distance from Lubyanka Square, about twenty-five klicks from here. My team’s got him under close watch, and we’re tapped into his cell phone,” Ghost Man said. “Made a few calls to unknown subjects, and he’s talking in circles but we believe he’s planning to walk-in at FSB Headquarters tomorrow. The time for all this tiptoeing bullshit is over. We’re gonna take him out before the Russians get to him, or he’s in the wind. Gone. And we’ll never get our hands on him.”
A chill shot through Six’s core. “Your orders have changed—I need him alive.”
Ghost Man tightened his lips, removed his hat, and scratched his head in frustration. “Your boss explained his position. But the word on the street is General Ronaldson ordered him killed on sight. Now I know General Ronaldson personally. I don’t know you or your boss from Adam’s housecat. Given what that son of a bitch Mosin is trying to get away with, I’m inclined to side with the military on that one.”
Six’s eyes bulged. “Listen, you may know Ronaldson, but he’s not bankrolling your stay in Moscow. The CIA is.”
“Son, if you think I’m doing this for the money then you’ve really picked the wrong Marine.”
Six’s mind churned. Ghost seemed impenetrable. There had to be another way to persuade him. “You’re right, Ghost. I apologize, but I’m tired and desperate here. There’s some critical intel to which you’re not privy, and you’re my only option. I can’t tell you what the intelligence is. But I can tell you that it involves a covert military strategy involving our biggest allies and, if exposed, it could eventually cost the lives of American soldiers—a lot of them. I’m asking you to give me a chance to recover it before disaster strikes.”
Ghost man looked at him with a skeptical expression, but Six held his ground. He hadn’t lied—much.
“I’m telling you; we’ve looked. Son of a bitch doesn’t have the intel on him. We searched the room, which isn’t bigger than a minute, by the way—nothing. I suspect he stashed it somewhere, but we haven’t been able to locate any trace of it. If we snatched him without it, the FSB could find it before we do; we’d be no better or worse off if he was dead.”
“How the hell could he get rid of it?”
“Got no fucking idea. If I could answer that, I wouldn’t be sitting with you in this room right now.”
“Give me an option here. We have procedures…and he’s an American.”
“I don’t give a shit if he’s the Queen of Sheba. He’s an enemy of the state.”
Six shuddered inside. If Ghost accomplished his mission, Six would never return to Langley with the intel—and that was not an option. “Listen,” Six implored. “Capture him and give me the chance to recover the intel. One week. If I’m unsuccessful, you take him whether I have the intelligence or not.” Six took the gamble of his life. Staked his entire career on his interrogation skills against a lying traitor. He’d never met a man he couldn’t make sing canary strong with non-lethal encouragement. His record was impeccable. Director Miller told Six to do whatever he had to do, say what he had to say. But he probably didn’t intend for Six to barter with Mosin’s life or make returning Langley without the intel an option. Now Six’s bargain would be the difference betwe
en a commendation and a pink slip.
Ghost looked at Six expressionless, unmoved, as if he’s pleas has fallen on deaf ears and a hard head. “The only thing I can promise you is this: Our op’s going down early tomorrow morning. I don’t care whether he survives it or not.”
“Seven days,” Six pleaded for the last time.
“Six, I like you. I’m not making any promises, but I’ll leave you with this… I’m running the show around here. Now, you can be an observer. You can be a facilitator. But what you won’t be is an obstruction. Are we clear?”
“Crystal.”
•••
Back at his room in the Embassy’s residential wing, Six collapsed on his bed exhausted from the day’s events. Ghost Man’s declaration hung heavy in his mind. He wanted Mosin caught and brought to justice more than anyone. But he hadn’t considered what that meant—in Moscow with rogue Marines contracted to hunt him down and kill him. The endgame haunted his conscience and complicated his mission, but he still held out hope that once caught, Mosin would turn over the intelligence. He refused to entertain the alternative until he had no other choice. At that moment, all he wanted to force himself to do was sleep.
He stripped down to his boxers and T-shirt and slipped under the heavy blankets. The second his lids closed, a ring sounded.
J.J.’s burn phone.
He scrambled from the bed to grab it and glanced at the caller ID before answering.
“Yes? Who am I speaking with?” Six asked.
“I don’t have long to talk.”
It was Stanislav Vorobyev. Six scrambled to shake the covers from his feet and sit up in bed, his heart now racing. “What’s going on?”
“They spotted me. I wore the disguise, well not every time…but…I think an FSB watcher following the American recognized me,” he said, his voice panicked, strained. He lowered it to a hush. “I can’t be certain. He stared too long for my comfort.”
“Shit. What were you doing out of the safe house? We gave you very explicit instructions. Are you following them?”
A lengthy silence preceded a stammered beginning to his speech. “Well…understand, I—”
