by Skye, S. D.
“L-l-l-l-listen,” he stammered. “You…you got this all wrong. I never bilked the Bureau outta anything. I love you guys... I’m not playing games.”
“I dunno, Misha…or Vanya…or whatever the hell you’re going by,” Tony said. “Cough up some information of value or you’re not gonna make it. That’s a long drop. Scott doesn’t look happy, and I’m not gonna stop him.”
“Me either,” J.J. added.
Misha laughed. “He’s not gonna throw me out the window.”
“You’re right,” Scott said, snatching his gun from his holster and pressing the barrel against his head. “But I will shoot you. And, as I look around the room, I don’t see any witnesses.”
Each one mumbled. “Nope…no witnesses here.”
Then J.J. stood next to him. “No, no, Scott. I can’t let you do this. Tarnish an honorable career on this piece of shit? No, we can book him today, and he’s doing five years minimum in federal prison,” she locked eyes with Misha. “Should be a fun bid when we put him in a cell surrounded by Bonannos and tell them you’re the Russian responsible for trying to clip the boss’s son. You’ll be shanked before the number dries on your jumpsuit.”
“That’s a lie!”
“One good lie deserves another…wouldn’t you say?” She signaled Scott to release him, and he sunk to the ground. “Get up!”
Misha scrambled to his feet, breathing hard as he looked into her eye. “J.J., you and me we go way back. Don’t do this. I swear. I can explain.”
J.J. pursed her lips. “No, you didn’t play the ‘we go way back’ card. You’ve got two minutes. Start ‘splaining.”
Yes, their relationship went way back but not to any place she wanted to go. Misha befriended a number of intel personnel from the Washington Residency. He helped her spot and assess Kostya Belikov, her first recruitment target. She considered Misha a reliable source until he disappeared, and Kostya was recalled to the Center out of the blue. While she’d always attributed his compromise to the ICE Phantom, now known as Lana Michaels, something about him always left her feeling uneasy, as if he could sense the precise amount of truth he needed to tell. He rarely made her itch, but she didn’t trust him as far as she could throw him.
“This isn’t a con. I-I do have access to information on Troika. It’s just not…direct.”
J.J. waited to feel a sensation, but none came. He’d started with the truth, but she doubted he’d end with one. Tony and the others grabbed chairs to sit and listen to his tale of woe. “Okay. If you don’t have direct access, then who’s your source?”
“My cousin, Dani. He’s Levi Mashkov’s driver.”
J.J.’s eyebrow arched. No sensation. No lie . . . which meant they had found another way to get into Troika. The question was how they’d use him. “Is that right?”
“Yes. Mashkov holds a lot of his meetings in his limo, so my cousin overhears conversations. He listens to their problems. He tells me. I tell you. He and I—we split money,” he said. “Our family in Russia, they’re poor. We send home money.”
“Heartwarming story,” Scott interrupted, “but in a year of reporting, the only thing you’ve managed to find out is the accountant has a beef with Mashkov.”
“I must be careful of what I say…to protect Dani. He’s my only family in America. If they find out he speaks to me about Troika business, they’ll kill him. They’ll slaughter everyone in Russia like pigs. And when I’m in my darkest hour of pain, they will come for me. I had to take special care. When the agents push too hard for my source, I leave, move. But I want to help.”
“I’m still missing something here. Why even bother? What’s in this for you?” Tony said.
“Pavlov Mashkov, the brother in Russia, he killed my uncle…over a five-hundred dollar gambling debt. Five-hundred dollars.” He emphasized each syllable with sweeping hand movements. “What’s that? He wipes his ass with that much every morning. Why kill people for it? Americans, you spend that much money on shoes. His life wasn’t even worth the cost of a pair of shoes. I want to help you. You tell me, how can I support you without getting my cousin killed?”
“Do you think he’d help us wire the car?”
He thought for a minute and shook his head no. “Mashkov is very paranoid. Dani said they use the scanners on everything. The building. The cars. At least once a week. They check him every day.”
J.J. exhaled in frustration. It was worth a try, but she’d heard similar rumors about the Mashkovs herself. Maybe he’d offer some assistance with the money man. “What more can you share with us regarding the accountant?”
“Ahhh, yes, Zory Kozlov. Trust me when I tell you he hates the Mashkov’s as much as anyone, but he can’t quit. The only way he leaves Troika is in a casket or five separate trash bags. He knows too much…although it seems maybe not enough,” he said.
“What do you mean by that?” Scott asked.
“Well, yesterday my cousin told me Mashkov and Zory argued in his car. Zory complained about never having all the information he needed to process the transactions. Said the baby was coming this Monday but he couldn’t attend the delivery. Something like that.”
“Hmmm. Strange.” Manny glanced at J.J.
“My cousin thought so. He’s seen their wives. Neither one is pregnant.”
“Sounds like code for something. Maybe drugs or money—or both.”
“Man, if we could get our hands on a shipment and tie it to Troika,” Tony said, “we’d have enough evidence to put this baby to bed.”
J.J. stood into a stretch and patted Misha on the shoulder. “I think I’ve got everything I need for now. Let’s go.” The gears in her head turned. She’d worked with Misha enough times to know the team needed to quit while they were ahead. “Glad you decided to come clean. But we need you to ask your cousin to find out where Zory hangs out. Where does he go drinking or to the grocery store? Any place away from Troika? And I want to know if there’s any way we can get inside. When I contact you, I want an answer.”
He offered quick, successive nods. “So, you’re not going to arrest me?”
“Not today, Misha. Maybe tomorrow,” she said with a wry smile.
•••
J.J. stewed in her thoughts on the way back to the office, wondering how she could leverage Misha’s cousin without getting him killed. Lord knows, she’d put too many families through too much suffering already. Six would tell her to screw the families, do her job, and figure out a way to bully him into cooperating, but her conscience was her own. There had to be another way to get some insight into that company, to find out more about the shipment. Just as the thoughts flitted through J.J.’s mind, a text came through her cell phone. It was Sunnie’s number.
National Security Letter approved.
I have Troika’s phone records.
Walter and I are working on the analysis.
Initial results tomorrow.
“Yes! Hallelujah!”
Every head in the car turned toward her.
“What is it?” Tony asked.
“We got ‘em. No wire yet but we’ve got the phone records. Sunnie and Walter are conducting the analysis now. We’re gonna nail these sons of bitches.”
“Or die trying,” Tony added.
Chapter 22
Saturday — Russian Embassy, Washington D.C.
Aleksey Dmitriyev had finished typing up a report when the daily thirst hit him. He glanced at his Invicta, the time said coffee, but he knew from the date that he needed to check the signal. J.J.’s communication instructions indicated he must mark it to let her know if he had an emergency and needed to meet. The embassy had been in a period of relative peace since the celebrations over Stanislav’s death ended. Komarov stood down most operations, except the RAPTURE operation at the White House, which they still monitored, even more so than usual. The intelligence they’d pulled from the listening device had begun to change in quality if not quantity, but Dmitriyev was careful not to say so, at least not until J.J. ret
urned. Eventually, he’d be forced to identify the degradation in intelligence quality to Komarov—or Filthchenko. That snitch would no doubt fly into Komarov’s office like a sniveling tattle if he even for a moment suspected Dmitriyev had provided an inaccurate assessment regarding its value.
Aleksey locked his computer screen and strode down the stairwell to make his coffee run. No sooner than he put his hand on the doorknob did a hollow cold noise emanate from behind him.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Filthchenko snapped; his voice twisted like a knife in Aleksey’s spleen. He’d never held such deep-seated contempt for another human being in his life. Intensified in all likelihood by the fact that Filchenko served, honored, and obeyed the most despicable man in the Service—Anatoliy Golikov, whose father was responsible for the torture of his own. Filchenko, a parasite, latched onto Golikov, leeched the diabolic blood from his being and absorbed them into every crevice of his own cells until they became woven into his own DNA. Now the two were indistinguishable from one another, in almost every way. Standing in his presence was like being hosed from head to toe with pond sludge.
“Why? Would you care to take a ride with me? I have someplace where I’d like to drop you off,” Aleksey remarked, still pressing ahead down the steps toward his car while Filchenko followed behind.
“Ahhh, then you haven’t heard today’s news out of the Center,” he said.
Dmitriyev stopped midway down the flight and spun around toward his nemesis. “What news?”
“Stanislav Vorobyev—he’s still alive.”
Dmitriyev held his poker face as long as he could and then exploded with false laughter. He shook his index finger at Filchenko and said, “You are a funny man, Yuriy Vasilyevich. But don’t quit your day job.”
When he turned away, he concealed his bulged eyes and stunned expression, struggling to catch his breath. His face tightened along with his throat as he thought, Mother of God. What has Stan done now?
“I’ve no doubt he’s holed up in Moscow.”
“By what evidence?” Aleksey said. “You expect me to believe a trained operative who is supposed to be dead would be seen strolling along Gorky Street? Give me a break. You’ve been watching too much television. Mistaken identity.”
“Oh, you think so, yes?” Filchenko asked. “Do you not find it odd the Americans have not turned over the body to the family? Our watchers in Vienna observed no signs of a grieving family.”
“We’re Russian. How can you tell? My mother didn’t laugh or cry until I graduated from the institute and then it was after four celebratory shots of vodka.”
Filchenko sucked his tongue and rolled his eyes as if Aleksey was a simpleton. “The watchers? They’ve seen someone who favors him in the company of an American.”
“An American intelligence officer?”
“Well…no.”
“Then what we are we discussing here? In poor lighting and with a little vodka in their systems, the watchers could walk the streets of Moscow and pluck fifteen people from the crowds who favor me and twenty who look like you.”
“I suppose time will tell.” Filchenko shrugged, still unconvinced. “The implications for you would be much greater if he is found alive, tried, and imprisoned, wouldn’t you say? It is fortunate the FSB won’t give up until they’ve verified one way or the other. And if what they suspect is true, heads will roll. I, for one, hope one belongs to you.”
As Filchenko stopped in his tracks, Aleksey continued down the steps to the bottom level and pressed the exit bar on the door. “The feeling is quite mutual. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Starbucks awaits.”
Aleksey high-tailed it to his car, glancing down at his watch. The time for leaving an emergency signal had passed. Even if he marked it today, they wouldn’t meet for two days which might be too late. If he was going to warn J.J., he had to do so now—and there was only one way to do so safely.
• • •
FBI Special Agent Hopper Mack was flying high and riding easy down Connecticut Avenue in Upper Northwest D.C., on his way to check Aleksey’s signal in J.J.’s absence. His supervisor at Washington Field had now trusted him with more responsibility. His addition to the bigot list afforded him access to the identity and reporting on J.J. McCall’s very trusted source in the Russian Embassy and now he must keep him alive for two weeks, which wouldn’t be an easy feat based on her briefing about him. According to J.J., he had a big mouth, quick temper, and a persistent enemy in the embassy looking for every opportunity to take advantage of both.
As Hopper approached the 4000 block where the signal mailbox was located and slowed his speed; some dumbass blocked the side where the mark was supposed to be placed and didn’t appear to ready to budge anytime soon. Hopper shifted his eyes back and forth to scan the area, looking for a bus stop or something to indicate why the slug was standing there, in that spot. Nothing came to mind. He craned his neck as he passed the man trying to see around him and, for some reason, his eyes drew up to the gentleman’s face.
Hopper gasped and did a double take. “What the hell?” Dmitriyev was the slug blocking the mark. When Hopper turned forward, a car had stopped in front of him. He slammed on the break and skidded within an inch of the bumper in front of him. His heart raced and not just because of the accident. Dmitriyev had shown up in person and hadn’t marked the signal as instructed. Something must be very wrong.
Hopper circled back at the next light, making an illegal U-turn when the coast cleared. By the time he arrived at the mailbox again, Dmitriyev had vanished.
“Damn!” he yelled. Then he noticed Dmitriyev padding down the sidewalk along Tilden street which was accessible by a one-way eastbound road. He made a left-hand turn onto the adjacent westbound lane and pushed his pedal to the floor, looking for a place to park. Anywhere. Four blocks down he found a spot. Hopper put on a skull cap and sunglasses, jumped out, and ran at top speed to catch up with Aleksey.
As he huffed and puffed, every breath fogged. He reached Aleksey a couple minutes later; he was leaning against a lamp post along a sleepy residential street. Hopper studied his expression, waiting with his guard up until Aleksey signaled it was okay to approach. Then he walked forward, with his hands in his pockets and, head down, trying to recall the parole J.J. told him to speak so Aleksey could verify Hopper’s identity as a friendly. Something about the Redskins. The words failed him, so he winged it.
Aleksey bowed his head forward, giving a nod to Hopper’s approach.
“Ummm…how about those Redskins?” he asked, his face crumpled with discomfort.
Aleksey gave him the side-eye.
“Sorry, I’m not prepared. Thought this was a drive-by.”
“It’s okay. I’ll be leaving soon. You must pass an urgent message to Agent McCall.”
“What’s going on?”
“Moscow. They remain unconvinced of the reports suggesting Stanislav Vorobyev is dead.”
Hopper stepped back, and his eyes widened. “Damn,” he said, catching himself. “Why? How?”
“His family is being watched. No remains have been turned over to the wife, and they don’t appear to be grieving. Although this is subjective. They are Russians, after all.”
Hopper exhaled and tightened his lips. “Well, it’s only been a few days. I’m certain the Agency has some logistics to work out. Anything else?”
“Watchers report seeing someone who resembles him in the company of an American. I sense they will intensify surveillance until they determine one way or the other whether their suspicions are valid. If the Agency is going to make a move, now is the time.”
“Okay. I’ll tell her right away,” Hopper said. “You all right otherwise?”
“Don’t worry about me. Get this information to her. The implications don’t only impact Stan. If they find out he’s alive, they will have no doubts Rapture has been compromised. With Golikov’s thugs lurking about, the time it takes to point the finger at me will take what you call…a New York minute
.”
Chapter 23
Saturday — FBI New York Office
Saturday morning arrived on the heels of a heavy rain. Grayish wisps skipped across the morning sky as J.J. prepared for Sunnie’s briefing on the Troika phone records. She questioned whether the analysis would reveal information she needed to solve the case. Then her mind clouded with Misha’s reports about babies being delivered on Monday. What could that mean?
The office was as quiet as the city, J.J. noticed as she gazed out of the window and peered down to the street; she eyed workers fidgeting with festive holiday wreaths dangling from light posts. Somewhere in the Big Apple, she imagined there was a woman around her age rolling out of bed, thinking about shopping. Or the Christmas bauble that would adorn the tree-top. Or—Do these shoes go with that dress? Or—Can Paulo squeeze me in for a Brazilian at the salon?
J.J. envied that woman wherever she was.
Most days she woke up from her slumber devising plans to keep sources from dying and putting bad guys in jail. All the while trying to stay alive in the midst of the conflict. The contrast was stark, jarring, part of her inner conflict. Was she the kind of woman who could ever think shoes and dresses before national security, even if she had the mental space to do so? Or was the fleeting moment of uncertainty a matter of the proverbial green grass in the neighbor’s yard?
Through the streams of thought, she heard a voice call. “J.J.? J.J.? Earth calling J.J.”
She shook loose the jealous thoughts and turned to spot Scott standing behind her; his demeanor was relaxed in an uncharacteristic way, which may be why she didn’t recognize him at first. She struck the heel of her palm against her forehead. “Scott…sorry. My mind drifted off again.” She grabbed her notebook and pen from the otherwise empty desk, leaving the room and her reflections behind. She glimpsed the time. “Sunnie on the VTC yet?”
“Yeah, she just called in, but the sound’s not working. The tech is working on it,” he said. “Listen, I gave you a hard time, but I figured, to be fair, I should tell you that you did all right yesterday, with Vanya—or Misha. Whatever the hell his name is.”
