by Skye, S. D.
“I can’t say,” Sunnie answered, “but pissed doesn’t quite come close to describing the expression on his face when he walked away empty handed. This may be his first time attempting to access them; you can rest assured it won’t be the last.”
“I have no doubt,” she said, wishing she was standing inside headquarters so she could confront him face-to-face and ask him what he had to hide. Without the director’s persistence, no way would this one setback stop him for long. She could ask for more help, but she’d begun to feel as if she’d leaned on that post one time too many already. The next favor she requested better be critical, like approval for the wires and national security letters which were necessary to wrap up the New York case. However, another option occurred to her. She might be able to explore another way—a Wendell way. “It’s clear the director realizes Nixon’s intent, and the only thing standing between Nixon and the file is Wendell,” J.J. said. “How strong is his backbone?”
“To my surprise, he’s got some bricks back there. But, as acting director, Nixon will probably find a loophole. It’s only a matter of time.”
“If I ask, do you think Wendell can make that file disappear? Not forever, but until I return to D.C.”
“If you ask, maybe,” Sunnie said. “If I ask, yes.”
J.J. sighed with relief. “You’re a lifesaver,” J.J. said. “What would we do without you?”
“Let’s hope you never find out,” Sunnie replied before saying, “but I’ve got more news. The visitor’s desk called requesting approval for a visit request. Jack Sabinski is meeting with Nixon, and they wanted to verify that he is allowed in the building.”
“Not a surprise. They’re buddies from way back, but I’d be lying if I said I’m not concerned,” J.J. said. “When two snakes unite, the product of their union will slither. The reptile population is going to explode.”
“At least you won’t be blindsided,” Sunnie said. “Now, I’ll let you get some sleep.”
“Oh, one more thing,” J.J. said. “We’ve requested a national security letter. I’m going to need analytical support when we receive the numbers in the next day or two.”
“Yeah, Walter gave me a heads up yesterday. We’ve still got access to VECTOR. But with Nixon at the helm, let’s just hope the request goes through in time.”
Chapter 14
Thursday Morning — U.S. Embassy, Moscow
Through the darkness, Six patted his hand along the nightstand trying to pick up the handset in order to stop the aggravating ringing. After a few unsuccessful attempts, the noise stopped. He perched himself on his elbows and glanced at the clock. Four A.M. He’d been asleep for a mere three hours.
He sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed.
Memories from the safe house flooded his mind in a moment too quick to stop them. The panicked call from J.J.’s burn phone. Vorobyev’s face recognized by watchers. The exfil op he needed to develop in order to save the stubborn son of a bitch’s life. And the FSB—a rabid Pit-bull. If they even suspected the CIA had rooked them and Vorobyev was still alive, they’d sink their teeth into the hunt for him and lock their jaws until he choked out his last breath. How in hell would he orchestrate an exfil under microscopic scrutiny?
Before he could even conjure up his mental magic, the phone rang again. He dreaded picking up the handset. He imagined the worst. Was Vorobyev dead? Was the FSB flaunting his mangled body in front of the press? A barrage of worst-case scenarios flooded his mind, and Six didn’t want to answer, but he needed to. He grabbed the phone and allowed his body to collapse against the bed.
“Whatever it is, it better be good,” Six said, his voice thick with gravel from the sleep deprivation.
“The news. They’re reporting an explosion,” Bart said. “We’re meeting in one hour.”
“An explosion? What do you mean?” Six asked, bolting upright in his bed. He was up before he even realized he’d moved. He pressed his fingers in the cracks of his eyes which had dried with grit. They bombed Vorobyev?
“What do you mean what do I mean? Fire, smoke, BOOM!”
“Is he dead?”
“Is who dead?”
“Vorobyev. He’s why you’re calling, right?” Six shot a twisted expression at the phone as if Bart could see him.
“No. I’m calling about the explosion…on Petrovsky Boulevard,” Bart replied. “Security services are on the scene, and we’ve got the fucking disaster of the decade on our hands.”
Petrovsky Boulevard. Six turned over the thoughts in his mind. He recalled the name but couldn’t remember where he’d heard it. Just as he started to tell Bart he didn’t know what the hell he was talking about, the memory rushed in. Ghost Man. Petrovsky Boulevard is the place where he said Mosin was hiding out.
He froze. The son of a bitch killed Mosin, and Six would never fulfill his mission. Ghost hadn’t made any promises, but Six held out a thin hope that he’d permeated his thick skull anyway. His anger erupted inside, but he kept his cool despite the rush of emotion.
“Hello? Sorry. Took me a minute to get my head together. Our…uh…friend wasn’t involved, was he?” Six asked.
“You’ll receive a full briefing when you arrive. Move your ass. You can finish your beauty rest later.” He found no consolation in Bart’s response. His angst just shifted from a bad situation to the worst one. Worse than fearing Mosin was dead—he now dreaded that the FSB would find the missing intel before he did.
He jumped out of bed and scurried through his morning routine, splashing water in the cracks and crevices needing a rinse, including the little-noticed ones trapping the crust around his eyes. In the midst of preparing to handle the chaotic turn of events, he stole a few moments to allow his thoughts to wander to J.J. He slipped into a pair of Dockers, the woolen Christmas sweater she bought for him when they were one, and slid his feet into his Rockports—wishing his body could follow his mind stateside to be with her.
His mind coiled through memories of a thousand mornings when either he or she shot out of bed, stumbling through the dark. The cell phone ringing at all hours while they did the crisis dance into their clothes and out the door after late-night tangles between the sheets. Back then, with her, the CIA was his job, not his life. She was his world, until he made a mess of everything they’d built. He’d ruined their love like new sin in an old soul. Six believed with the fervor of a patriot at war, whatever distractions drew them apart—Stanislav Vorobeyev, Gary Mosin, the Mashkovs, or even Tony Donato—destiny or fate would bind them again.
He vowed with every fiber of his being that however the opportunity presented itself, he would seize it and never again let her go.
He needed J.J. His life made no sense without her. He wanted to be at her side. Not here in this godforsaken country chasing a jackass Benedict Arnold. But Moscow had called him.
Time to get to business.
In ten minutes flat, he’d pressed across the blustery compound, through the razor-sharp gusts, and up the steps to the administrative building until he reached the secured floors at the top. After badging himself into the SCIF, the CIA station’s top secret compartment, he made his way to the conference room where Station Chief Mark Levin and Bart stared at the phone as if turning away would cost them their lives.
Six took a seat, folded his hands together, and waited for one of them to speak. With the exception of a customary “Good Morning,” neither volunteered a word.
“Uh, any word on Mosin or the blast? You called me here at the crack of dawn. I assumed we’d be doing more than staring at the telephone.”
“No fatalities, but two civilians sustained serious injuries. Our sources tell us ambulances transported them to International Medical Center. Ghost Man doesn’t have an update.”
“So, we have no clue as to whether Mosin’s one of the injured, right?” Six asked.
Bart hunched his shoulders. “No idea. The FSB swarmed on that hospital like flies on a dead bunny after the explosion. If he’s hu
rt, getting to him will be harder than trying to rob Fort Knox once he’s inside. Whether or not this phone rings could make or break us. If it doesn’t ring, we don’t have him.”
“Shit,” Six said, now joining the staring contest. His every ability to recover the intel and accomplish his mission lay in Ghost’s hands. The entire station may be dangling on the precipice of an international relations nightmare for the United States sure to last for months, perhaps even years. He tensed every inch of his body trying to will the phone to ring, all to no avail. He settled his nervousness, but one truth was painful and clear.
If this intel got out, the name America is mud.
Five minutes later, he’d had enough.
“Screw this,” Six said, breaking the silence. He bolted up from his seat. Between Vorobyev and Mosin, he stood on the brink of insanity, and one wrong move threatened to push him over. He conceded one fact: If he was powerless to solve this problem, at least he could work on the other. “Hate to break up this party, but if I sit here with you guys, I’m gonna go nuts.”
“Where are you going?” Mark asked.
“We better step out into the hall. Another situation is brewing that requires your immediate attention.”
They made their exit, and Six closed the door behind him, bringing his voice down to a whisper. “Vorobyev called yesterday from the burn phone. He thinks FSB watchers spotted …and recognized him.”
Mark’s face turned red in an instant. His head all but spun around and popped off like a champagne cork. “What the hell is wrong with this guy? I mean, the man can’t stay put for a second. It’s as if he has a death wish, and he wants his murder on our heads. How in hell did this happen?”
Six shrugged. “Our asset said he’s been half-assed about wearing the disguises. I’ve ordered him to stay inside from this point forward, or I’m gonna drop his ass off at Lubyanka Square myself.”
“Jesus. So what’s the plan?”
Six looked at him with his head cocked to the side, and his lips pursed. Mark had to realize they didn’t have a choice at this stage. The person they needed to contact was a worst-case scenario option, and they’d arrived at the tipping point.
Mark nodded. “Damn, I hate to tap that well. We’d be taking a gargantuan risk.” He scraped his fingers through his scalp. “I know you’re right. We’re at DefCon 1 and a finger’s hovering over the red button. We gotta do what we gotta do. Make the call.”
“On my way,” Six said as he headed down the hall. He badged into a smaller secure area. Inside sat a rectangle-shaped, oak table lined with special ops phones used to contact sources and support covert operatives working outside the embassy. He walked to the last one on the right, picked up the handset, and dialed. After two rings, a dead space filled his ear.
“Hey, I’m on the way out. What is it?” asked Connor Burke, a CIA non-official cover officer—or NOC—running a CIA-backed high-tech front company in Moscow.
“We’re requesting your help…we need to get a, uh, package inside the embassy. And you’re the only one with the experience and cover to deliver it.”
“Mm hmm,” Connor said. “No way you’re calling me to move intel. This should be good. Who is it?”
“Can’t pull the wool over your eyes,” Six said before reducing his voice to a mumble so contorted he sounded as if he was walking under water. “Stanislav Vorobyev.”
The sound went dead again.
“Hello?” he said. “We must have a bad connection. Some crazy fuck interrupted the line and said ‘Stanislav Vorobyev’.”
“The crazy fuck would be me…and, yes, I did say ‘Vorobyev’.” Six’s voice was weak but his words were clear.
“I’m sorry. I’ve always known you were nuts but never suspected clinically insane.” His voice rose an octave. “The most wanted man in Moscow. The one whose name and pictures are splashed on the front covers of every newspaper from here to Siberia. You must be joking out of your ass.”
“I wish,” Six said. “He’s passing us the entire cache. We’ve got to get him off the streets and the intel in our hands.”
“And you thought eliciting my support was the way to go? I’ve spent fifteen years building this cover,” he said. “You and I shouldn’t even be speaking right now…and you want me to do this? I’ll be catching flies in some dank cell in Lefortovo Prison before this is over.”
“Do you think I’d bother subjecting myself to your ridicule if we had any other viable alternatives?” He paused. Six listened to his own heart pound in the silence.
“How?”
“Well…I, uh…haven’t figured out the plan yet,” he said. “But I’m working it. Just understand, today this is a favor, but one phone call and tomorrow this is an order. The President’s neck is on the line. We’ve got to get Stan into the embassy yesterday or we’re all screwed. Your cover will be worth less than used toilet paper if the entire Station is expelled.”
“You deliver one hell of a pep speech. Give me a call when you’ve got your act together. I’m in.”
Six breathed out to bring his stress level down a notch. He’d recruited ops support, now he needed a plan to bring the most wanted man in Russia into the U.S. Embassy. Not two seconds after Six hung up, the door burst open. It was Bart…and his face looked surgeon serious.
“Mark needs you in the conference room,” he said. “There’s been a development.”
“A development?” Six replied, not moving an inch.
Bart cocked his head to the side. “Well, your hearing’s all right. Let’s see if those feet work. Come on.”
Six jumped up from his seat and padded behind Bart, anticipating the colossal blunder he’d encounter when returned. From the stoic expression on Bart’s face, this announcement had bad news written all over it. The intelligence had vanished, and Mosin was in the hands of the Russians. Six’s mind spun in circles. The Russians would first splash the reports all over the media, and begin the painstaking process of expelling the entire station. He took a slight comfort in the fact that he hadn’t emptied his suitcases and, despite the mess he’d leave behind, he’d soon be headed home to J.J.
His stomach knotted into a ball as Bart pushed the door open and stepped aside to let Six enter. The look on Mark’s face was intense. His eyes were low and crunched together. The mood was bleak, hopeless.
Six stood next to Mark with a pointed expression and asked, “What’s going on?”
Mark pulled back a chair and, with his hand, gestured for his colleague to take the adjacent seat. “You’ll need to sit down for this one.”
Chapter 15
Thursday, Late Morning — New York City, The Plaza
The blackout curtains left the room pitch dark. J.J. stretched out her arms into Tony’s side of the bed and felt cold pillows where his warm body lay a little more than a day before. She realized she must’ve dozed off after her phone call with Sunnie. She looked at the clock. Ten A.M. had just barely come and gone. She never would’ve slept so late into the morning with Tony at her side. His morning routine always started with a workout. Oversleeping left her unsettled, as if she’d missed something important.
She ran her fingers along her body and touched yesterday’s suit. Groping her way through the darkness, she tip-toed to the window and pulled the curtains back to allow the sun’s rays inside. They warmed her face as she took in the beautiful Central Park views. A sudden urge to stretch pushed her hands into the air before she expelled a long, loud yawn.
Where’s Tony? she thought. And why hasn’t he called?
Then she remembered Gia’s last words from the night before. J.J. had a hunch about where he might be.
After dialing his room once, his cellphone twice, and getting no answer, she hurried through her shower and dress routine. Within minutes, she was at the door and on her way to the Palm Room. J.J. had a sneaking suspicion the Sicilian bombshell wouldn’t be far behind Tony. Her mind began to spin out of control with visions of them huddled together over coffee whi
le Tony’s eyes stayed peeled on Gia’s excessive cleavage as they exchanged flirtatious glances. The mere thoughts made her want to hurl . . . both of them out of her seventh-floor window.
Anger bubbled in her gut as she snatched her purse strap from the edge of the chair and fingered her holster to ensure her Glock was secure and at the ready. She jerked the door open, when her heart collided against her rib cage.
“Good Morning, Sunshine!” Tony said, his face bearing a wide grin. He carried a cardboard tote with two steaming cups of java in one hand. The other paper bag contained some kind of warm carbohydrates judging from the potent aroma jarring her senses and making her stomach growl. “I let you sleep in for a few hours since we had such a late night,” he said.
Her confused expression mimicked his own.
“Uhhh, can I come in or are you gonna make me eat the bagels out here in the hall?”
J.J. shook her head to snap out of her surprise at his presence. She’d convinced herself Tony was up to no good and, once again, the green-eyed monster had led her astray. She’d devolved into a high school psycho in a matter of minutes, the speed of which frightened her. “Oh, yeah. I’m sorry. Come in.” She stepped aside to let him pass. He headed straight for the sitting area and rested the morning goodies on the coffee table.
“What’s up with you?” Tony asked, fixing a suspicious glare on her. “Why are you gawkin’ at me as if you’re surprised I’m here? We’re together now, remember? Or do you have someone hiding in the bathroom?” he said, playfully jumping up to inspect it.
His quick move made her laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous. Denzel just left. You missed him by seconds.” Her mind resettled back into reality. “No, I’ve been calling since I woke up, and when you didn’t answer, I, uh …. well, you’re here now. Nothing else matters.”
Tony’s face contorted into a confused expression, and he patted down his coat until he retrieved his cell phone. He glanced at the screen. “Two missed calls. I’m sorry babe, the volume’s set on silent. Forgot to turn it back up when I woke up this morning. Where’d you think I was?”
