by Skye, S. D.
She bowed her head in acknowledgment. Took a lot of backbone to choke those words out given he’d been a douche bag toward her since the minute she arrived. “Thanks, but Misha’s not a hard ass…from what I can tell. If you understand his pressure points and when to push them, any agent could’ve made him talk…even you,” she said in jest with an accompanying smile. “With that said, Misha isn’t to be trusted. Ever.”
As J.J. looked around she couldn’t help but compare New York’s squad bay to Washington Field's which had undergone a major renovation and New York’s was in need of one with its tall, closed-in cubicles, ancient wooden desks, and carpeting that had seen better days.
He chuckled as they rounded the corner and approached the conference room door. “Only six days left. You think we can get this done?”
“I’ve got to tell you, Scott, this situation’s not looking good. Between Misha and Sunnie, I’m praying we get a breakthrough. If we don’t wrap this up before the deadline, we may never get the momentum or a shot at the evidence again,” she replied. “With that said, we’ve both been at the Bureau long enough to understand one thing about the FBI: You can count us down, but never out.”
They entered the conference room where the video teleconferencing equipment was installed and a picture of one of the VTC rooms at headquarters appeared on screen. Accompanied by and a twenty-something, studious looking Asian woman with long hair and a smart pantsuit, Sunnie was conservatively dressed. Even her hair was coiffed in a manner more consistent with the Bureau uniform. Walter sagged in his seat along with his suit. Looked a few cups of coffee short of alert. Must’ve been a long night.
J.J. scanned the room and noticed Tony eyeing her with a sheepish expression, no doubt because Gia had taken the lone seat to his right. He was posted at the table’s end. J.J. opted not to sweat it and sat on the side opposite him between Scott and Manny. “Good to see you, Sunnie,” J.J. said, making introductions around the room. “Who’s with you?”
“Thanks, J.J. This is Amie Chang, an Intelligence Operations Specialist from the Organized Crime/Drugs Section downstairs. She’s supporting a joint FBI, ATF, DEA task force and provided some intel that’s pretty vital to understanding the expansiveness of this network.”
“ATF and DEA? Sheesh. Sounds messy.”
“Believe me, it is, so we should probably get started,” Sunni began. “Yesterday, we received the phone records for six office lines at Troika technology—five business lines, one fax machine. We assess five are used by the executives and administrative staff.”
“Have you noted anything of interest?” Tony asked.
“Yes. What’s interesting is they rarely use the office lines to make calls. Classic criminal/intelligence tradecraft, a huge red flag given this is supposed to be a legitimate business. Most of the calls made were international, so we asked NSA to run the numbers through VECTOR. Ten minutes later we got a hit, several in fact. A fax machine linked to a company called VolgaTeK Investment Group, headed by Jov Rakov, a former FSB officer with ties to Rusvorzheny.”
Hmmm…a former FSB officer, J.J. thought. The report came as no surprise her. After the fall of the Soviet Union and break-up of the KGB, many intelligence officers ditched public service for criminal enterprises, leveraging their international contacts, networks of networks, to support some of the most insidious mafia enterprises operating today. The line between Russian intelligence and organized crime was often a murky one, and Jov Rakov was but one example of that.
Gia sat at attention. “Wait, Rusvorzheny is the state arms company. All Russian arms transactions are conducted through this company, both above and under the table. The Russians have been engaging in major military upgrades over the past few years. Some get sold; some get stolen and then sold. That’s an interesting connection.” She folded her arm across her chest. “So NSA had already initiated a SIGINT op targeting VolgaTeK because of this drug investigation; it’s not intelligence related, correct?”
“Yes. A joint DEA-ATF investigation targeted Rakov’s narcotics and arms trade network operating throughout Russia and the Republics. DEA traced parts into Latin America. The reporting is languishing in NSA’s dissemination channels; they’ve not been released yet. Amie’s going to explain more about the network.”
“Thanks, Sunnie,” Amie began, her posture as stiff as her voice. “Based on available intelligence, we assess that Rakov leverages his ties with Rusvorzheny to illegally obtain and sell older military-grade Russian arms to South American drug cartels in exchange for narcotics, heroin and cocaine. Max Novikov’s people, we’ll get to him in a minute, sell the narcotics throughout Russia, the Republics, and inside the United States. They get top dollar for the drugs in the American market, amassing millions more in sales than if the cartels paid them in cash for the weapons’ value.”
“Arms for narcotics. Do we have proof?” Tony asked. “How strong is the intel?”
“Rock solid,” Amie said. “DEA has CIs who help move the arms and drugs between Russia to South America. A complex web of narcotics traffickers and Russian organized crime figures.”
“So, I don’t understand how Troika fits this equation,” J.J. said.
“Based on what Amie and I discussed,” Sunnie chimed in, “we assess Max Novikov from Troika is the New York krysha—a roof or cover for Russian mob narcotics operations on the east coast. He’s the big boss.”
“Exactly,” Amie added. “Drugs are transported from South America and into Miami using Russian-made Narco subs—DEA intercepted two off the coast of Bogotá in joint operations with the Colombians. Miami-based Russian mob networks pay for their cut of heroin and cocaine which they sell on the streets; the remaining cash proceeds and drugs are transported to the New York area where they are sold up and down the east coast. Huge market. Lots of cash.”
“And when the drugs are sold,” Sunnie said. “Troika launders the money. They pay big cash to live high on the hog so to speak—cars, money, women—the usual suspects. They convert the remaining proceeds into small bank deposits, less than 10K so they stay below Treasury’s radar and disperse them into multiple accounts. The remaining money is shipped overseas on pallets containing millions of dollars in hundred-dollar bills. One account belongs to Lana Michaels’ illegal network which we discovered last week; it’s now frozen. A second account is new and still active—we think this is the new account the SVR setup to pay off the Russian illegals. The third account is the unnamed Russian company I had identified last week—we’ve now determined it is VolgaTeK.”
Walter piped in. “If I may, NSA intercepted fax transmissions from Troika to VolgaTeK—phony purchase orders and requisitions for technologies and building supplies. Troika pays the fake invoices and transfers the cash to VolgaTeK. Rakov uses money from the money laundering account to buy the illegal arms…and the cycle begins again.”
“How is ATF involved in all of this?” Manny asked.
“The Latin American cartels are taking the guns they buy from the Russians and supplying them to their U.S.-based smuggling networks, putting some heavy firepower on American streets. It’s a problem at the border and for law enforcement. ATF confiscated several weapons from a cache used to hit U.S. Border Patrol agents in an attack last week. Three wounded in a shootout, but our agents got the best of them.”
“Jesus, this is bigger than I thought. There’s a lot at stake here.” J.J. expelled a hard breath. She stood up and paced to the back of the room, scribbling some boxes onto a small whiteboard. Once completed, she had arranged boxes representing the networks into a circle as Sunnie and her team had described. “Sorry, I needed to wrap my head around this. It’s the freakin’ Circle of Life…an organized crime syndicate operating in the shadows of the intelligence world. And it starts with Jov Rakov. Keeping in mind we’re on a tight deadline, we have few ways to penetrate this network. Either we get inside Troika, which is looking more and more impossible. Or somehow get our hands on a shipment—the money, the vehicle, or the
driver with Troika. Or wait…Wasn’t MCM Construction a part of this network—Gary Mosin’s company?”
“Yes, MCM Construction bank accounts were linked to Lana’s accounts but now both are frozen,” Sunnie said. “If we had Mosin in custody, he might be able to provide the proof we need to demonstrate that Troika and the Mashkov’s are financing illegal arms deals, narcotics, and intelligence operations—the criminal trifecta. But what are the chances we could catch him, right? He’s hidden in Podunk, Moscow, by now.”
“You’re right,” J.J. said, once again deflated. The U.S. had as much hope of catching Mosin as she did in joining a convent.
“I’m glad you said that, J.J. because there’s more,” Sunnie said.
“Jesus, Sunnie. You trying to solve the case all by yourself?”
She chuckled and pulled out a short stack of papers. “In a few of these faxes, we found multiple references to the delivery of a baby. The next baby is coming on Defender of the Fatherland Day and Victory Day. I Googled the dates—the first is February 23rd, the latter is May 9th. What’s strange is the same days are mentioned in multiple months, including this month, and they’re discussing the deliveries as if they are urgent or imminent. We believe it’s code for something, maybe deliveries? We don’t have enough intel to confirm it at this time.”
J.J., Scott, and Manny exchanged knowing looks. Misha had just reported the same thing.
“This language is pretty typical in the criminal world,” Amie said. “We have information from validated sources across the criminal spectrum indicating terrorists discuss ‘weddings’ before operation or bombing. We feel certain this terminology is along the same vein.”
J.J. pulled out her cell phone and looked at her calendar. “Hmm. The 23rd is on Monday.” She turned to Manny and Scott. “The date is consistent with Misha’s information. If the discussions on these so-called baby deliveries have taken place in multiple months, I doubt they are referring to the actual holiday, rather they’re referencing a day of the month, time of day—or both.”
“I dunno,” Gia said as if someone asked her for her opinion. “Sounds too straightforward to me. Russian intel codes are much more complicated and require more math.”
“That statement may be true of Russian intelligence,” Sunnie said, “but for the Russian Mafiya? I doubt the low-level support network is as sophisticated or as well educated as intel officers.”
“I agree,” Amie said. “Troika’s leadership may have ties to Russian intel, but the guys in the trenches aren’t geniuses. They’d keep the schedules and terminology simple for couriers, smugglers, dealers and the like. They won’t trust just anyone with more complex codes because they don’t want botched shipments. People die for mistakes in the narcotics trade.”
“Without an address and time, we need 24-7 surveillance on the Troika execs. There’s no other way to find or intercept the shipment.”
Scott tightened his lips and shook his head. “No way will Fitzpatrick authorize those kinds of resources for this investigation. No way.”
“Why not? We’ve got two independent sources corroborating the possibility of a multimillion dollar shipment of drugs and cash, which may help shut down the Mashkovs. He’d be crazy not to.”
“Hmph. You gonna pitch to him? ‘Cause I’m not,” Scott said, still unsold on the op.
“Hate to ruin your weekend, Sunnie, but I’m gonna need you and Amie to keep running the phone records through VECTOR and call us the minute anything comes up suggesting a time and place for the Monday shipment. In the meantime, Manny and I will pitch Fitzpatrick. Nothing beats a failure like a try.”
•••
As Tony and Scott waited outside, J.J. and Manny walked out of Fitzpatrick’s office, their expressions stony and shoulders slumped.
“No, go, huh?” Tony asked, eyeing J.J. with more tenderness than he perhaps was aware of. J.J. noticed and appreciated it.
She shook her head no.
“That was a fail,” Manny kicked in.
“An epic fail,” J.J. added. “It wasn’t just a no; it was a hell no. He wants more evidence. Another source. An address. A time. Something more than a hunch and a prayer, which is all we can offer. He thinks we have shit for intel. Unless by some miracle an answer falls in our laps, we’re screwed.”
Chapter 24
Saturday Night Dinner — The Donatos
J.J.’s stomach had commenced a Riverdance of twists, turns, and thumps as the group approached the Brooklyn brownstone where Santino and Tony’s mother were staying. Not only had her entire case just gone to shit, she’d been roped into dinner with the Donatos.
Her nervousness about being held hostage with his family for hours was compounded by her desire to roast Tony’s ass on a spit for inviting Gia. She gave him some lame sob story about depression and her dead father’s birthday. He thought J.J., of all people, could empathize, and that would be true…with any other human being on the planet except Gia.
J.J. had accepted an invitation to Saturday’s dinner which now appeared to be a mistake from the moment the word “yes” slipped from her mouth. With the family still in turmoil from Dante’s shooting and his father Sal’s recent release to the halfway house, emotions ran high. Putting herself in the midst of the volatile situation would bring out the best of the Donatos…or the worst. And she feared, if the latter, both sides may say things that neither could retract, leaving J.J.’s and Tony’s relationship D-O-A.
On a brighter side, Santino and Tony were on the road to mending fences. They realized they had common enemies—but not each other.
Tony knocked on the door, and the ball-busting Dree flung it open with a massive chip on her shoulder. She then left it ajar and stomped away without so much as a hello.
“Hello to you, too,” Tony said, allowing Gia to proceed first. He tugged J.J.’s arm and whispered in her ear. “Remember how much I love you. Whatever Dree says today, and trust me she will say something, she doesn’t know me, you, or my heart. You understand me?”
J.J. nodded, casting a glance over his shoulder at Gia, who was dripping in jealousy green while admiring the photos lining the foyer walls. Dree hated J.J. and made no attempt to hide her contempt. With each scornful glare, every cut of the eye and icy Italian sneer, J.J. told herself over and again this was only two hours out of her long life, but the short span now seemed a lifetime too long. That’s why she insisted on bringing her own car. Catching a cab while black was as impossible as finding a parking space in New York.
Once they stepped inside and the door shut, Tony said, “Here, let me take your coats. Follow the smell of Sunday sauce back to the kitchen,” which she discovered was spaghetti sauce, the red kind.
J.J. crawled along the wood-paneled hallway, taking in her surroundings. She somehow felt comfortable there. The home reminded her of Grandmother’s place. The living room, to the right, had a similar brown velour sofa covered in three-ply plastic, which also ran the length of the carpet from the front door to the kitchen. And like her grandmother’s place, it looked like the un-living space, not a speck of dust in the room and not a table or knick-knack out of place. It was clear nobody was allowed to sit in there. All the real living was probably done in the kitchen and the family room.
Stalling the inevitable, she looked at each school picture of Tony, his brother, and sisters lining the walls, waiting for him to catch up. She wouldn’t approach the lion’s den without him. In a moment too quick to take a breath, his mother’s voice boomed. “Well, aren’t you lovely?” Then, in Italian, she asked Gia if she was Sicilian. J.J. remembered the question from when Tony had asked her the same only weeks ago.
Of course, Gia responded likewise, her voice happy, demure, and innocent. J.J. fought the urge to stick her finger down her throat and fake hurl.
“How wonderful! Come. Have a seat right here.”
“I’m Carla, his sister. Dree’s in the family room sulking…as usual. This is our cousin, Santino.”
Couldn
’t have escaped Gia how much Santino and Tony resembled one another. Certainly hadn’t escaped J.J. She hoped Gia might transfer her affections to him instead, but Gia didn’t bat an eye. Perhaps she preferred the law-abiding type.
“Nice to meet you all,” she said.
J.J. rolled her eyes at Tony and tightened her lips before she crossed the threshold into the kitchen. He shrugged with an uncomfortable expression. He clearly understood how it pained J.J. to endure Gia and his family in one dose, but he had to know the only reason she stayed was because she loved him.
At least when Six showed up at her father’s house, she had not invited him, and she gave Six the blues the entire time he stayed. Gia had already formed alliances, and Tony would not be taking the same aggressive posture.
J.J. greeted everyone in the warmest tone she could muster. “Thank you for having me…us over. I realize you have so much going on right now.”
His mother offered a sincere smile in return. “Forget about it. We must keep up our strength. Sit down, please. Make yourself at home,” she said with a welcoming pat on J.J.’s hand. The sincerity and warmth in her demeanor reminded J.J. of her mother a bit. Mrs. Donato had an air of peace and serenity J.J. hadn’t sensed from a woman outside her family in years. At this moment, she thought she might survive the day. She had no idea what fate had in store.
“So,” Tony began, “what’s on the menu, Ma?”
“Ahhh,” she said. “A little antipasto in the fridge. Carla, take the tray out.” She motioned to her daughter, flipping her hands. “I’ve got macaroni and sauce. And then your favorite—melanzana!”
Everyone in the kitchen froze and hesitated as they turned to J.J., their expressions somewhere between shocked and embarrassed. She’d said eggplant in front of a black woman, God forbid.
