Spy Catcher: The J.J. McCall Novels (Books 1-3) (The FBI Espionage Series)

by Skye, S. D.

  “So, what’s your decision?” he asked. “Will we thrive together…or die together. What’s it going to be?”

  Nicky gave Santino the side eye, no doubt because he’d hijacked the entire meeting.

  “If we accept this deal, I want your word there will no more attacks on me or anyone in my family. Anyone.”

  Max looked at him with sincerity in his gaze. “Frankie knows me as a man of my word and you have it. If you set aside your desire for vengeance and don’t seek retribution from anyone affiliated with me, I will not allow any attacks on you or your family…from anyone affiliated with my organization.” He glanced at Nicky Mumbles. “But please don’t mistake my kindness for weakness. Breach our contract, and I will rain down the fury of hell on each and every person responsible, I don’t care what family they belong to. So, what do you say?”

  “I say…we thrive.”

  As they stood up from their seats to shake on the deal, a mountain burst in the door and, in loud breathy words, whispered in Max’s ear. Santino strained to listen, but he couldn’t understand angry Russian.

  The mountain stomped away, and Max turned to Santino and Frankie. “Please excuse me, you’ll need to see yourselves out. There’s been a slight…ahem…problem with my shipment. Nothing I can’t handle but I must make a few calls. I’ll reach out to you next week to arrange delivery of your other packages.”

  After the meeting concluded, and the family dispersed, Santino and a fire-spitting mad Nicky Mumbles stood outside waiting for Frankie to exit. He thought about the briefcases in the car and broke the uncomfortable silence.

  “Listen, I’m sorry about how everything went down in the meeting. My temper got the best of me. After all is said and done, you have my utmost respect. And I mean that.”

  Nicky chuckled and shook his head. “You jackass. That was some crazy shit, heh? Thought we’d be forced to shoot our way outta there for a second. Max is nuckin’ futs.”

  “Tell me about it, but this might turn into a lucrative partnership judging from the contents of those cases.” Santino saw them sitting on his backseat. “I think you oughta hold onto ‘em for the time being.”

  “Yeah, we’ll ask the Boss how to split it later. I’ll tell him to kick in a little extra for your crew. You showed some balls. It’d make Sal proud,” Nicky said.

  After Santino dropped off Nicky and arrived at his apartment, he made a phone call to Knuckles, the call he’d been waiting to place for weeks. He relayed the events of the meeting which left Knuckles speechless. “I got the name of the guy responsible for Dante. Pavlov Mashkov,” Santino said. “Get your people on this and find out where he is. I don’t care what this Novikov guy says. When we find Mashkov, he’s dead.”

  •••

  Max saw the flicker of movement in his peripheral vision and the expression on his brother Igor’s face. He realized the news couldn’t be good. Igor leaned in his ear and half whispered, “The FBI seized today’s shipment. The lead special agent, that bitch J.J. McCall from Washington, was trying to conceal her face during the press conference.”

  “Did they get everything?”

  “Yes. Everything. Including Rakov. He’s going to need help.”

  Max snarled, pointed his finger in Vasiliy’s chest, and growled through clenched teeth. “Listen to me, and you listen closely. Make sure you hear every word I’m saying to you. No one is to respond without my order. Are we understood?”

  “You know how he is. Whoever made the arrest…”

  “I’ll contain Rakov. You call The Duke and see if we can get him released.”

  Vasiliy nodded and disappeared.

  Max would have to pay millions out of his own pockets to make good on his deal and pay his suppliers. That didn’t worry him—but Rakov did. He was a vengeful son of a bitch. In Moscow, the last officer who arrested him was found hanging from a light pole days later; FBI agent J.J. McCall had awakened a sleeping giant that threatened the future of his operation. Max needed to keep the peace until Rakov returned to Moscow, and when he was released, they’d be assured of having anything but.

  Chapter 33

  Tuesday Morning — FBI New York Office

  J.J. and the team dragged their worn, tired carcasses into the office Tuesday morning. Monday’s two a.m. operation wasn’t the epic failure Fitzpatrick touted it to be, but far from a success. They were still playing from behind. The press had splashed the operation across every headline. And Fitzpatrick was less than pleased, stomping around threatening to shut down the entire “goddamned field office” if anyone “fucked up again,” which was extreme and yet understandable.

  Tired and brow-beaten, the team scrambled to control the damage, find a way to regroup. Gia was off trading intel with Amie on the arms and Rakov angles while J.J. and the team sat in the squad conference room trying to come up with a Plan B. They had the money, drugs, guns, and a few documents but no perp. And they were no closer to getting on the inside of Troika than they were when she arrived in New York. In reality, the progress had turned into a setback.

  She scanned the listless faces at the table, looking for signs of life, an idea, a stroke of genius, anything. Their expressions were as blank as their eyes.

  “I dunno,” Tony said. “Right now, our sole option is to put the squeeze on Misha. We’ve gotta ask his cousin Dani to go in for us.”

  “I don’t—” J.J. hesitated, always squeamish about putting any source in danger, given Pavlov Mashkov had murdered two on her watch so far.

  “J.J., I realize you don’t want to endanger him but what choice do we have? We’ve got nothing else. The only way to neutralize Troika or to set up a meet with the accountant is to involve Misha.”

  J.J. took a deep breath and scanned the frustrated mugs glaring at her, a vote in every expression.

  “I hate to say it,” Scott said, “but Tony has a point. After yesterday’s fiasco, the wire request is off the table. The phone records are as much as we’re going to get without some miracle.”

  Manny nodded his head in agreement, as did Gia. Even though her opinion didn’t mean anything to J.J.

  Just as J.J. was about to capitulate and give in to the pressure another agent opened the door and interrupted with an announcement that floored them all.

  “Zory Kozlov, the Troika accountant. He’s downstairs getting booked. Just turned himself in.”

  “What?” the choir called out from around the table.

  “Yeah. Confessed that heroin, coke, and cash belonged to him. Came in with a ledger claiming he’s been laundering money he stole from Troika. Apparently, he can no longer live with the guilt,” the agent said with an eye roll.

  Turning himself in out of guilt? Zory’s excuse had bullshit written all over it. The Mashkovs were in damage control mode, offering sacrifices to the FBI, which meant the team was now more than a step behind.

  J.J. pursed her lips. “Yeah, if he’s guilty, I’m Pocahontas. Let’s go talk to him. Sounds like he has a lot he wants to get off of his chest.”

  The foursome took the stairwell down to the 22nd floor and walked to the interview room. Kozlov sat behind a table, no doubt cuffed to his chair by threats of brutality, providing his vitals to a duty agent until the interview team arrived; they looked at him through the two-way mirror.

  He appeared nothing like the self-assured man in his surveillance photo. J.J. couldn’t have pointed him out in a line-up except for the tattoo emerging from his shirt collar. The crucifix with a hand chained in manacles was hard to forget. The fact that he didn’t attempt to conceal it meant something. He was sending a message to the world; she made a mental note to find out what.

  He visibly sweated, wringing his hands with crackhead speed. His legs jittered beneath the table; the knocking of his heel against the floor would’ve grated on her nerves except for the carpeting.

  “Who’s going in first?” Manny asked.

  “Oh, you gotta let J.J.—.”

  “Me and you!” Scott interr
upted Tony and looked at Manny. “We’re the lead New York agents, and we’ve been covering them longer and have more knowledge than Tony and J.J.,” he said. Then he turned to them and said, “No offense.”

  “None taken,” she said, conceding the lead to them. Russian criminal personnel emerged from the womb lying. Whatever Zory revealed during Nick and Manny’s interrogation, she could do what neither of them could—detect his lies.

  An hour later, the pair emerged from the interview room dejected. Kozlov slouched in his seat, silent as a stone, never revealing a word other than the rehearsed lines he’d been equipped to speak before he turned himself in.

  “This guy,” Scott said. “He’s sealed as tight as a pickle jar. We couldn’t get anything out of him.”

  J.J. pressed her lips together and in a reserved tone said, “Mind if I give it a go?”

  Scott shrugged. “Whatever. I guarantee you if he won’t talk to me, he’s not gonna talk to you.”

  J.J. shrugged. “Hey. Nothing beats a failure but a try, right?” As she exited the room, she said, “Tony, why don’t you come with me? Just in case I need a bad cop.”

  Moments later, J.J. and Tony slipped into the seats across from Kozlov. J.J. crossed her hands. The fact that he appeared ready to disintegrate into a massive puddle of fear and guilt eased her angst over the kind of personality she’d be dealing with.

  J.J. scanned the form that was prepared by the original interviewer and then her eyes scrolled up to meet his. “I’m FBI Special Agent J.J. McCall and this is Agent Donato, Mr. Kozlov. Is it okay if we call you Zory?” She kept her voice soothing and matronly. Bad cop was unnecessary, might have sent him into cardiac arrest.

  He nodded.

  “A wife and three kids, I see,” she said, reading from the sheet. “They’re all in the U.S. I presume?”

  He nodded again, but his voice creaked, “Yes, but my family—mother, father, and three brothers—they’re still in Moscow.”

  “I understand,” J.J. said, waiting for a sensation. None came. He was telling the truth…so far. She hadn’t begun to delve into the difficult questions.

  “So, you’ve come to confess a crime, I understand.” She braced herself for a barrage of lies.

  “Yes, please. Confess.” His voice shook as much as his hands. “The shipment you seized yesterday. I’m responsible for it,” he said.

  J.J. waited for a reaction and felt only a slight tingle in her fingertips, but not as much as she’d expected.

  “Define responsible,” she replied.

  He rolled his eyes to the ceiling and calculated his response. “I mean, I set up the logistics. The truck. The drugs. I arranged the meeting. I’m responsible.”

  The sensation moved into her arms and up to her neck. The revelation didn’t surprise her. With a wife, children, and family in Russia, Mashkov’s crew recognized how much Zory had at stake. He’d lie to save his family in a heartbeat.

  J.J. turned her attention to the large ledger book on the table. “Can I look at that?”

  He slid it over, and she scanned the entries. Several years’ worth—all in the same exact ink. She ran her finger across one of the pages from three years ago and the ink smudged. Still fresh. She glanced at Tony with a skeptical smirk and turned back to Zory.

  “You expect me to believe these are Troika’s original records?”

  “Yes.”

  J.J.’s leg jerked and the crawling sensation shot from the tips of her fingernails to the cracks between her toes. He was lying—big time.

  Tony turned to her after she came close to squirming out of her seat. “You okay?”

  “Yeah. Fine. It’s just…the thing. You know…the thing. Could you please excuse us for a few minutes? I’d like to speak Zory alone.”

  “Sure. Sure,” he said, the door closing behind him seconds later.

  J.J. feigned exasperation. Paced around the table, muttering under her breath. Then she sat back down, her eyes wild; she glared at him. “Okay, Zory. Let me cut to the chase. If you’re going to continue lying to me, we’ll lie together. Maybe I’ll call Troika and tell them instead of turning yourself in, you turned State’s witness. I mean…since that’s the kind of relationship we’ve established.”

  His eyes bulged, and he began to fidget. “You wouldn’t.”

  She shrugged. “Hey, I have nothing to lose. Worst case scenario for me is we take you at your word, and you go to jail. Given your worst-case scenario, on the other hand, can you really afford to call my bluff? You’ve got thirty seconds to explain why you’re doing this before I start making phone calls.”

  “I’m not—”

  “Please, spare me, okay?”

  “Agent McCall. I work for the Mashkovs,” he said, his voice thin, urgent. “Why I’m saying this is no mystery. And one way or the other, I will say it to my grave.”

  “You want to spend the rest of your life never seeing your kids grow up, go to college, get married, bounce your grandchildren on your knee…all for a crime you didn’t commit? C’mon. One ledger covering several years written in the same ink? This is an insult. Forget my interests, okay. Why would you do this to your family?”

  “I’m doing this for them, not to them.”

  “If you want to do something for their future without looking over your shoulder for the rest of your life, you’ll get us the records we need to shut down the bastards before they execute everyone you love, here and in Russia. You must know that’s the plan no matter what tales you feed us today.”

  He dropped his chin to his chest. “You may be right, but…”

  “But nothing. Get us access to the computer records. We’ll offer you protection only the U.S. government can provide…if you give us what we need to take them out.”

  He shook his head no. “I can’t,” he said, hesitating to speak further but grimacing as if concealing the truth caused him physical pain.

  “Fine. If that’s how you want to play it.” J.J. opened the door, asked Tony for his cell phone, and called information. “Yes, could you please connect me with Troika Technologies?” After a pause, she said, “Yes, that’s the address.”

  “Please, stop!” he yelled.

  She cut her eyes at him. “Why should I?” J.J. barked.

  His mouth quivered before he spoke. “Don’t see you? I don’t have access. I never did.”

  J.J. waited for a reaction, an itch, a tingle, anything, but none came. He was telling the truth which sparked an entirely new round of questions. If he didn’t have access to the financial records and never did, that meant…

  “Wait a minute. Is…is there another accountant?”

  Sitting with his chin to his chest, he peered up and pinched his lips but didn’t speak.

  “That’s it, isn’t it? They sent you here as bait…to take the rap so the FBI would cease the investigation. They didn’t want us to find out the truth. They didn’t want us to target the real accountant.”

  She stared in his face. His expression calmed as he shifted his body. He seemed grateful she’d figured out the truth without him speaking a word.

  “Don’t even answer that. Your body language is telling me everything I need to know…except the name of the real accountant. Listen, you don’t have to give me his name. But understand I can’t help you or your family without it.”

  She stood to leave and dawdled around on her way to the door, trying to give him a chance to come clean. She put her hand on the knob, and he yelled, “Wait!” She did an about-face and listened.

  “Agent McCall, you’ve already got the information. If you examine the shipment, everything you need is there…in black and white. That’s all I can offer.”

  She left the room and took a moment to consider his only admission.

  Black and white? He was full of shit. She’d have been angry at the waste of time had he not appeared so pathetic. Then it dawned on her—no reaction. He’s telling the truth.

  “You heard him, right?” she said to Tony, who was po
sted outside the door. “I didn’t see anything, except a few blank sheets of paper and a couple of fake invoices.”

  “Just because you can’t see it,” Zory called out from behind the door. “Doesn’t mean nothing’s there.”

  Chapter 34

  Tuesday — U.S. Embassy, Moscow

  Six sat on his bed feeling dejected after his fruitless visit with Mosin. He’d spent the better part of ten hours scouring Moscow, searching every place intelligence reporting had indicated Mosin visited to find the missing intel—and still came up empty-handed. He glanced at the calendar; they had only four days left before the stand-down, and he had only two days before Ghost and his crew collected Mosin. Resigned to give up questioning Mosin about the intel’s location, he set out to find another path to the truth.

  Wracking his brain, he’d convinced himself he had missed something. A clue somewhere that would help him achieve his mission—he’d never failed in one and refused to do so now. Perhaps the answer would arrive with the FBI’s computer forensics report, but he couldn’t depend on the findings with any certainty. He had no idea what contents were on the hard drive. Furthermore, despite his trash talking to Mosin, the Bureau might not even have the capability to break the encryption. And even if, by some miracle, they did accomplish that feat before Friday, he’d still need time to sift through the information and find the missing piece to the puzzle. He needed to identify another option.

  Six reached into his nightstand drawer and pulled out the pocket litter he’d retrieved from Mosin’s pants—a medical prescription and a receipt from a tattoo parlor. He read them both but never thought much of either before; his mind was bogged down in distractions. Thought perhaps Mosin needed to obtain medicine before traveling. People did it all the time. But as he studied the writing, he noticed the doctor prescribed antibiotics. He glanced at the doctor’s name and location. Odd, he thought. The National Institute of Health Clinical Center in Bethesda? Why would a fugitive on the run from the FBI, and defecting to Russia no less, stop at NIH for some service requiring an antibiotic?