by Skye, S. D.
There were reasons longstanding diplomatic protocols forbade true diplomats from crossing the murky line into intelligence, reasons why the two worlds coexisted in an uneasy yet necessary alliance. At a time when Russia was flexing its military might to the detriment of regional peace, Six and Mark proposed an op threatening to decimate the President’s single-most important intelligence channel.
However, Slayton was a good friend of the President, one of his drinking buddies from law review; he served at the President’s pleasure. If Six and Mark convinced him the op was low risk (at least in his role) and would strengthen the President’s short-term political position and foreign policy image, his support would be reluctant but willing.
They rounded the corner past the conservatively decorated corridor, framed by rich mahogany and neutral Victorian seating, to Slayton’s double-door office entrance straight ahead. His Secretary, a sharp-suited, middle-aged blonde with a librarian bun in her hair, greeted them with a smile. “Grayson Chance and Mark Levin here to see Slayton McCarthy,” Mark said.
She nodded and smiled as if hiding a secret. They were part of the top-floor group—the spooks. Everyone knew…but didn’t really know. She escorted them inside and gestured for them to take seats in the burgundy leather executive chairs crowning his desk.
Slayton reached his hand out to Mark first and then Six. He and Mark were well acquainted, for the most part friendly. Slayton was more risk averse and Mark more risk prone; it was the nature of their jobs. They were always honest to a fault during daily briefings. Slayton smelled trouble in the unscheduled visit. Six could see the concern in his eyes.
“Good to see you again,” Slayton said to Six. He volleyed his glance between the two. “What op from hell have you planned to make my life miserable today?”
“What do you mean?” Six replied.
“Don’t play coy with me. My mother gave birth to me at night, not last night. The constipated looks on your faces tell me you’re about to pitch an idea that’s certain to get me canned. What’s going on?”
“You may want to sit down for this,” Mark replied.
“Perhaps I should call the President and resign right now.”
Mark and Six took turns explaining Vorobyev’s predicament and providing a detailed account of everything the U.S. stood to gain if they got their hands on Stan’s intel. He understood the motivation and agreed, even if less than thrilled. The proposed operation, on the other hand, left him dumbfounded.
“Jesus. Do you believe, in your gut, we can get away with this?”
Mark shrugged. “Worst case—you get stopped and show them your credentials. You have diplomatic immunity so they can’t arrest or detain you.”
“But there’s only one way they stop you. If they take the bait, we’ve got them by the balls.”
“This all sounds too tidy for the Russians. If they find out what we’re doing, it will set off a contest that’ll leave a trail of piss from Moscow to D.C. It’s always tit-for-tat with these guys. You, of all people, are well aware of that consequential fact,” Slayton said to Mark, who rubbed his chin and grimaced.
“I’ve considered the possibility,” Mark began, “but there isn’t a country in the European Union not looking for Putin’s head on a platter over the Ukraine,” Mark continued. “What goodwill we lose with the Russians, we’ll gain with our allies. Besides, they stand to lose as much as we do by escalating tensions. Whatever actions they take against the Station here, the FBI will serve right back to their residencies in the U.S. and our allies will follow. We have far more to gain than lose.”
“So, why me?”
Six handed him a doctored photograph of Stanislav Vorobyev. He stared in stunned silence. “Wow.”
“My thoughts as well,” Six said. “What do you say?”
He walked to the window and stared out as if the right answer would fall from the sky. Six had always wondered whether he had any backbone.
“Let me talk to the President,” Slayton said. “If he gives me the go ahead, I’m in.”
Six and Mark smiled, shook his hand, stewing in disappointment as they walked to the door. Stall tactic if Six had ever seen one before. In politics, a slow no was equal to or greater than a fast one, just took longer to deliver and was buried in more bullshit. His hopes for Slayton were dashed.
“On second thought,” Slayton said as they prepared to exit. “How often does a guy in my position get to help with something like this? I’ll clear it with the President.”
Chapter 37
Tuesday Morning — FBI New York Office
J.J. and Tony stepped off the elevator, headed to the interview room and prepared once again to speak to Zory. She’d Googled the meaning of Zory’s tattoo and realized she needed to devise a new strategy to question him about the documents. The tattoo of the crucifix at the neck meant he was true to the thieves’ code. La Cosa Nostra called it omerta. He’d never admit to any information directly incriminating his colleagues. He’d never come straight out and tell her the truth. But she could depend on him to lie like a Persian rug. Armed with her strategy, she decided to use his lies to her advantage.
“Tony, I’m going to try something a little different during questioning. You may start to believe I’ve lost my mind, but please trust me.”
“And this would be different from every other interview, how?”
J.J. smiled. “You got everything in the file?”
He held it up. “Just as you asked.”
“Great, let’s get to it.”
When she entered the room, he appeared more relaxed than before but still on edge. His droopy eyes and the tenseness in his brow signaled he was both exhausted and apprehensive.
“Zory, I empathize with the fact that you must be pretty worn out, but I wanted to thank you for the lead. We found the documents. Account numbers for the various deposits. They don’t use these accounts to launder money, right?”
J.J.’s question ran contrary to every class she took in Quantico on interviewing. Every question was leading…and in the opposite direction of where she really needed his answers to go. But with her ability, they would lead her to the truth.
Zory peered at her with a curious expression, surprised her questions had all but let him off the hook. He replied by shaking his head no.
“I need you to speak your responses, please,” J.J. said. A nod wouldn’t provoke a physical response.
“No,” he said, his words shaky and timid. “Those aren’t the money laundering accounts.”
His response registered as a lie, a strong lie, but she’d braced herself anticipating it would.
“The letters next to each of the account numbers, do they represent the initials of Troika’s leadership?”
“No,” he said. “They do not. I mean…nobody ever told me what they stand for.”
An itch again pulsed through her hand, and she clasped them together until the feeling dissipated. “Why don’t I believe you?”
Now, knowing without question that the account numbers were indeed assigned to specific members of Troika, she found it interesting not a single one was noted with the letter “Z.” This confirmed what she’d suspected since her first discussion with Zory—he was a cut-out. They’d used him as a scapegoat, a fall guy, and he’d played his part well.
“Based on all of the M’s listed, my guess is Mashkov himself monitors these accounts?”
“As he is the president of a company, I imagine he’d control the money for his own business. Makes sense, wouldn’t you say?”
Again, he sparked a reaction as the sensation moved through her. His response meant that Mashkov wasn’t in control, at least not of every account. And if he wasn’t, then who? Zory appeared strained to his limits, but she decided to attempt one more question on the topic. Max Novikov and Matvey Trifonov—one of them was the money man. Since Max ran the narcotics end, she went out on a limb and guessed Matvey was the real accountant, the reason why they’d written the letter “M” nex
t to so many of the account numbers. That it was Matvey, not Zory, who had access to the records which could confirm Troika’s funding of the illegals network. And finding the source of the funding meant they could end the case and take the network down.
“As I sift through the profiles we’ve developed regarding Troika’s leadership, seems to me Matvey Trifonov is a nobody in the organization. No ties to the money or any critical activity, right?”
Zory nodded, “Yes. You are correct. Matvey has no connection to the money at all. He is as you say, a nobody.” After he forced the words out, his eyes shifted in nervous twitches.
A crotch itch almost sent her crumbling into the floor. She experienced those when subjects told the worst lies. The excruciating sensation meant Zory had, without intent, identified the money man. They still had no way to get to him but at least now she knew who the hell he was.
J.J. drew in a long hard breath and leaned back in her seat. “This is the best you can do?” she asked, feigning disappointment at his answers that, to the unknowing, would sound as if he told her squat.
“I’m afraid so.”
“Well, I won’t accept this. You’ve told me nothing,” J.J. said. “If you want my assistance then I’m giving one final chance to help me. I need to know if Troika’s leadership has nicknames? Tell me this information, and I might lend you my support.”
His contorted expression revealed his confusion. “Okay,” he said, uncertainty coloring the tone in his voice. “Uhhh…I only know two. Levi Mashkov is called The Duke….and Matvey Trifonov—the Sparrow.”
J.J. contained her excitement inside. There it was, confirmation she’d found The Sparrow. “I suppose we’re done here, Tony. Let’s go.”
As they closed the door behind them, he asked, “Why’d you leave? And what’s with all the leading questions? I could’ve Googled more information than he shared.”
Now J.J.’s eyes were shifting as she searched for a lie of her own. “Are you kidding me? I asked you to trust me. He told us everything. Didn’t you notice his expression when I asked whether Trifonov was a nobody? Matvey is our guy. He’s the real accountant, not Zory. I’m certain of it.”
Tony sucked in a deep breath and stuck his thumb in his belt. “Let’s say you’re right. We still don’t have any way inside. If we could access their system records, accounting reports, some piece of evidence establishing a direct link between Troika and the illegals, we could make an arrest. With you interrogating, we might roll everyone up.”
“Yeah, but—”she began when Tony’s phone rang.
He glanced at the screen and batted his hand toward J.J. to get her attention. “For chrissakes. It’s Misha.”
“Hmph. He didn’t lose the number,” she said. “See what he wants.”
Tony hit the button and placed the phone to his ear.
“Uh - huh.”
Tony nodded his head.
“Pavlov Mashkov? In the U.S.?” Tony repeated so J.J. could hear. He couldn’t suppress the concern in his eyes; they reflected the fear swelling in her belly.
Tony nodded again without speaking, leaving J.J. anxious to know what was next.
He shook his fist in the air, mouthed the word Yes and then whispered to J.J., “His cousin thinks he knows a way we can get into Troika. The cleaning service. They come in twice a week after hours.”
She nodded.
“What days?” Tony asked, returning his attention to Misha.
He walked to a nearby desk and took down a note. “You just earned yourself a bonus.”
After another pause he said, “We will.”
J.J. glimpsed the smile emerging on Tony’s face as she stood on the edge of anticipation waiting for him to spill the news. “Well?”
Tony looked at J.J. as she almost jumped out of her skin waiting on him to speak. “You heard about Pavlov Mashkov. He’s flying into the U.S. Got to be using a fake passport. Turns out he’s the one who accepted the contract to kill you.”
A chill spiked through her. She, like few others, understood what Mashkov was capable of, given the brutal way he’d massacred her sources and carved them up for cooperating with American intelligence. For the first time, she was afraid. Didn’t want her father receiving body parts in the mail. But she would not be deterred, either.
“Yeah, I caught that. What’s the reason for the smile?”
“An all-female West Indian janitorial service cleans Troika’s offices. Twice a week.”
J.J.’s posture straightened. “Then that settles it. I’m going in.”
Tony’s anger bubbled to an instant boil. “Are you out of your fucking mind?” His face turned instant crimson, and his head nearly spun off into the ether. “These people want to kill you if you hadn’t heard. And you think I’m gonna let you go undercover in their headquarters?”
“First of all…let me?” J.J. said, blinking her eyes. “Second of all, if you think about it, Troika is the last place they’ll expect me to be. It’s our only chance to get the intel. I’m going in, and that’s the end of this discussion. Are you with me?”
Chapter 38
Wednesday Morning — Washington, D.C.
At Six’s request, Hopper called Dr. Badal to set up an interview to discuss the medical services he provided Mosin before he defected to Russia. The appointment was scheduled for two p.m. Hopper’s Spidey senses tingled because Badal’s voice sounded tenuous; the call from an FBI agent shook him to the core. However, also in his voice was an undertone of expectation, as if Badal been waiting for Hopper’s call, as if Hopper’s voice had brought to life every nightmare he’d ever conceived. Hopper could hear the doom in Dr. Badal’s voice when he agreed to the meeting, which is the precise reason Hopper went beyond the bounds of due diligence to prepare for the all-important interview. He conducted a full background check and called the doctor’s nurse to verify his schedule before he ever picked up the phone to make the initial call.
That’s how Hopper knew the true reason Dr. Badal had scheduled the meeting for two p.m. He’d months ago planned to be unavailable at that time…which is the exact reason he arrived at the NIH campus two hours early.
After parking his car, Hopper stepped his foot onto the frosted asphalt, and took in the expansive NIH campus; it was dense with low and high-rise research buildings over an area the size of one-hundred sixty football fields. The blue glass and cinnamon brick high-rise where Dr. Badal worked contrasted starkly against the stout white Neuroscience Research Center adjacent to it.
Hopper had neither the time nor energy to chase him down. So, instead of taking the elevator up to the doctor’s suite, he rode down to the garage and paced the lot, scanning the license plates until he spotted the correct sequence. He found it on a late-model S-Class sandwiched between a Range Rover and Prius, barely enough room to open the doors on either side. He glanced over his shoulders to ensure no one was watching and retrieved the Slim Jim from his pocket, popped the lock, and disconnected the fuse to stop the alarm. Then he hunkered down in the back seat and waited for Dr. Badal to arrive. Hopper’s Bureau uniform, a black suit beneath a navy all-weather coat would cloak him well.
While trying to conceal the light from his cell phone in the back seat, the locks opened—this time it was Dr. Badal—and the door handle clicked. Hopper could see Badal remove his top hat, toss it onto the passenger seat; he peered into the rearview mirror after sitting down and shut the door.
Hopper raised his FBI badge, and Dr. Badal noticed the gold glimmering in his periphery. He jerked his head around with a startled yelp.
“Imagine meeting you here,” Hopper said, sitting upright. “You planning to skip out on our appointment?”
Dr. Badal’s breath grew heavy as he scrambled to get out. He couldn’t run forward—a wall blocked his getaway. The only way out was to pass by the back driver-side door where Hopper sat or jump over the hood. The podgy man didn’t strike Hopper as an over-the-hood kind of guy.
When he stumbled out of the car tryin
g to scamper away, Hopper slammed open the back door, and Dr. Badal’s body bounced against it, forcing him backward.
“Ooooph!” he belted out, struggling to steady himself on his feet.
“Ouch,” Hopper said. “Looked like that hurt, Dr. Badal. Much like my feelings. This is no way to treat a guest.”
“What do you want?”
“The truth.”
“I’m just a researcher. I don’t know anything about anything.”
Hopper chuckled. “All evidence to the contrary. I haven’t asked you a single question. If you didn’t know anything about the questions I haven’t asked, you wouldn’t bother to run. Now, you can continue to obstruct my investigation and lie to a Federal agent,” Hopper said, using the buzzwords that spelled hefty charges. “Or we can sit down and have an honest discussion so you can get back to work. Which is it?”
Dr. Badal refused, shaking his head no. “I…I can’t.”
“Sorry to hear that. Care to offer a reason, just so I’ll know what to say to Immigration when we discuss your visa…which, if I recall, is up for renewal?” Hopper glanced down at the date on his watch. “Next month, too! Man, you better tie up the loose ends on that research.”
He stood motionless with his mouth gaping open, perhaps evaluating his options before he realized the truth of the moment—he had none. “Okay, okay. Just give me time to catch my breath, all right? I’ll answer all of your questions. Just don’t…not the visa. My family needs me. This job is our livelihood.”
“Then let’s get started. You know why I’m here.”
•••
Dr. Badal appeared relieved to bare his soul and relieve his conscience. Hopper believed every word even though Mosin’s extortion had reached a new level of low. He was as desperate as Dr. Badal.
Hopper offered a sheepish nod and ended the meeting on a handshake. Once he returned to his car, he scrolled through his cell phone until he came to her number. It rang.
“J.J., this is Hopper,” he said after the beep. “Spoke to Dr. Badal today. Just make sure you’re sitting down when you call. I’ve got some critical information for Six.”
