Spy Catcher: The J.J. McCall Novels (Books 1-3) (The FBI Espionage Series) (36 page)

Chapter 12

Later that Friday

Took her a little over an hour but J.J. had finished her report when the office door opened and closed.

She stood up, and called out, “Hello? Tony? Anybody?”

No one responded, so she grabbed her report and made her way to Tony's space. His desk was dark and clean except for a short stack of paper. He’d shut off his computer and hadn't so much as bothered to leave a Post-it note saying goodbye. She grabbed his stack, scanned them, and headed to Director Freeman’s office. She’d drop them off with Mrs. Whitehouse.

Her heart ached. Tony had left to meet Gia for drinks. How could she compete with Pantene hair and Sicilian genes? Seemed their relationship had ended before it began. Tears welled behind her eyes, but she stubbornly refused to let them fall.

She entered her cubicle and printed out her section of the report, placed both in a folder, and delivered them to Mrs. Whitehouse's desk in the director's office and paced quickly to her car.

As she pulled out of the FBI garage and waited for the guards to lower the barrier, she wondered what more she could've said or done to make him understand and believe her. At that moment, an epiphany told her to take the leap and say the one thing she had not yet said.

She grabbed her cellphone and called him, expecting his voicemail. When she heard the beep, she spoke the words her head could not force her heart to silence.

One last thing...I love you.

Her greatest fear, more painful than outright rejection, was deep-seated dread that his behavior reflected the fact that he did not share the same feelings. It struck her, the courage she’d displayed, baring her heart to a man who might be in the arms of another. She had no regrets, though, and  she’d done everything possible to prevent it.

There was truly nothing left to do.

And even less to say.

Chapter 13

Late Friday Afternoon—FBI Headquarters

Director Russell Freeman released the tie from his neck and collapsed into his office chair. He stared out the window and watched the cloudless sky succumb to dense mounds of silver. The dizzy spell had passed but he was still a little short of breath. He’d regretted bumping his doctor’s appointment three times in the last four weeks to handle the massive fallout from Assistant Director Jim Cartwright's murder, Agent Chris Johnson's arrest, Jake McGee's death, and Agent Lana Michaels' escape. But the powers that be refused to wait for answers. His confidence in leaving agents McCall and Donato in charge of Task Force Phantom Hunter eased his angst, particularly given the mettle they'd demonstrated in identifying the ICE Phantom, but Lana Michaels’ disappearance troubled him.

He sifted through the stack of phone messages that his secretary, Mrs. Whitehouse, had left for him. Two from the DNI. One from Rayna, his beautiful wife. One from SAC MacDonald, who headed up the Washington Field Office. And the last from US Marshall Service Director. Deputies from his department had been working non-stop alongside WFO agents in a joint effort to hunt down Lana. He hoped the bounty on her head might yield some loose tongues, but he didn't care whether they located her dead or alive. After the cold-blooded murder of his dear friend Jim Cartwright, he wanted her off the streets and would exhaust every resource in the entire law enforcement community if he must to ensure she'd pay for her actions. He only hoped John had positive news to report.

“Hey, Russell?” Acting Assistant Director John Nixon called out in his blustery Southern twang from the threshold of Freeman's office door. Freeman turned to his voice, his eye drawn to Nixon’s his coal-colored coif that had somehow escaped the stress-born grey peppering in his own hair.  “Can I speak with you for a minute? I've got an update on the Michaels investigation.”

Freeman waved him inside and asked him to have a seat. Nixon, the lone senior executive holdover from the previous administration, was a solid counterbalance to Freeman’s own easygoing manner. But his inability to separate his personal leanings and agendas from FBI business might cost him more than Freeman’s trust. “Good news, I hope. After this week, I’d be excited to hear the FBI still had the authority to conduct investigations.”

“Well, we can conduct investigations,” Nixon said, pressing his lips together in a tight grimace. “But I’m afraid there’s no sign of her anywhere. Apparently, we trained her well. Metro Police located footage of her entering the Alexandria metro station. They're still reviewing to find out where she exited.”

“What about her house? Any activity?”

John shook his head. “It's cordoned off and we've had the Evidence Recovery Team at the premises around the clock recovering evidence. That's the last place Lana will turn up.”

“So she could be anywhere,” Freeman said. “I think we can all agree her primary objective at this point is to get the hell out of the United States. She won’t risk buying travel documents from an FBI snitch.”

“No, we think the Russians will attempt to make a drop with money and travel docs.”

“What about the Russian Embassy? Any intelligence officers been spotted outside the compound?”

“No one's left the embassy since the news broke. Security's locked down for the near future,” Nixon said. “Stanislav Vorobyev is still scheduled to depart today. Dmitriyev, who we believe will take over as the embassy Security Chief, will probably drive him to Dulles and pick up Yuriy Filchenko, the new Counterintelligence Line Chief.”

Freeman nodded. J.J. had already revealed that she’d recruited Dmitriyev. If any op had been planned J.J. would find out before anyone.

“Think they'll attempt to fill a dead-drop for Lana?” Freeman asked.

“Doubt it,” Nixon replied. “Dmitriyev’s a declared officer and can’t engage in operational activity, plus we’ll have them covered like wax on a hairy ass. They'll wait a few days before conducting any operational activity. The heat’s high and the Bureau smells blood,” John reasoned. “Lana's the wildcard. They won't disavow her so they'll attempt to provide support at some point. Even so, the question is whether she’ll risk returning to the grid to receive it. In the meantime, we've potentially got a more critical issue to deal with.”

Freeman rolled his eyes and took a seat on the edge of his desk. “God, what now?”

“Lana kept a journal, random thoughts, in an encrypted file on her computer.” John rubbed his forehead. “To say she harbored great resentment toward Agents McCall and Donato would be an understatement. And hate was an accurate description before Agent McCall killed the love of her life. With Jake McGhee dead, we think Lana's going to avenge his death before she’s extracted to Moscow.”

“You mean she's going to try to kill J.J.?”

John nodded. “She’s bitter, angry, and desperate. J.J. recruited her countrymen to spy against the Russians and was attempting to decimate Lana’s plans to return to Moscow as a hero, according to the journal entries. And she's got one hell of an ugly temper. She'll be hell-bent on getting revenge.”

“So, what's the plan?”

“Obviously, we have to protect Agent McCall,” Nixon said. “And, if I may speak frankly, McCall is a loose cannon and shouldn’t be authorized to support this investigation. She needs to sit this one on the sidelines. Doing so might offer us key opportunity to find Lana.”

“Opportunity? Explain.”

“Lana’s coming for her, but we don’t know when or how. We'd like to put a small team of Gs on J.J. until Lana's caught. Maybe rotate two or three of our best personnel. Unobtrusive twenty-four seven coverage. If the Gs spot anything suspicious, if she makes any attempt on J.J.'s life, they can call in support.”

“We can’t spare a team. Resources are thin right now. I’ll authorize one during third shift. Best I can do.” Freeman gave a tentative nod and let out a strained chuckle. “You ever met Agent McCall?”

“Once or twice. She’s a good agent, don’t get me wrong. But you give her entirely too much latitude.”

Freeman pinched his lips together; his brow furrowed and released. “Interesting. She and Agent Donato have worked side-by-side on every investigation, yet you’re not complaining about his latitude.”

Nixon swallowed hard, his eyes shifted to the right.

“You and I both know this has nothing to do with
latitude
and everything to do with her genes,” Freeman snapped.

“That’s not—”

“Please.” Freeman threw up his hand and stopped him before he began. “I haven’t been director for very long, but I’ve been here long enough. Bottom line is Agents McCall
and
Donato get latitude because
they
get results,” he said. “With that said, this is for her safety. The plan is not optional, no matter how much she balks. Let her know that when you break the news.”

“I’m happy, too.”

“I’m sure you are.” 

John chuckled. “Anything else, Director?”

“Yes. You’ll need to deliver one more piece of bad news.”

“What’s that?”

“I had a meeting with the DNI and CIA director today. They’ve requested we stand-down all Russian operations until further notice.”

“Stand-down?! Do they realize we’re in the middle of a man…woman-hunt for a Russian intelligence officer who killed an FBI agent? The daughter of an intelligence officer working in the Russian Embassy? I mean, c’mon.”

“I understand and trust me, I conveyed as much myself,” Freeman said. “But the CIA is conducting a sensitive operation with a high-level SVR recruitment. If the CIA handler is expelled or PNG’d, the entire community will lose a critical source of intelligence.”

A misplaced smile overtook Nixon’s face before he asked, “So, that’s it for the task force?” 

“Easy, John. Your Alabama is showing,” Freeman said, gently reminding Nixon of who he was…and what he knew.

“Russell, you know this has absolutely nothing to do with race.”

“And everything to do with genes…neither of which Agent McCall can do anything about,” Freeman replied. “Regardless, it’s out of my hands, at least until the CIA asset makes the next drop and Lebed returns to Moscow.” The Russian National Security Director was scheduled to visit in a week and the President had tied Freeman’s hands until it was over.

“What are you going to do when she quits?”

“She won’t. The FBI is in her blood. She can’t shake it. By the time she cools off, she’ll be operational again and Task Force Phantom Hunter will proceed as planned.”

“If you say so. I’m just marching to orders,” John said, offering a playful salute.

“I do,” Freeman agreed, his mind shifting to J.J.’s latest recruit, Aleksey Dmitriyev. “In other news, what do we know about this Filchenko, the new CI Chief?”

“Our intel says he’s one of Golikov’s most trusted officers, an ambitious backstabber who would cut his own mother’s throat to posture himself for a higher position. On the other hand, it’s his first tour and operating against the FBI is no picnic,” Nixon said. “I’ve gotta say, I’m relieved J.J. doesn’t have any recruitments in the embassy right now. If Filchenko even got a whiff that we had recruited an intelligence officer in the Embassy he’d be a Golikov victim before we could say, ‘espionage.’”

“Last and final question,” Freeman said. “Who at WFO is on the Michaels investigation?”

“The only FBI agent who wants to takedown Lana more than J.J.”

Chapter 14

Friday Night—Washington Field

Special Agent in Charge of the Washington Field Office, Greg MacDonald, made head turns with his imposing presence as he rushed through the Counterintelligence squad bay. His Eastwood attitude and ceaseless thousand-yard glare outstripped the timidity of his lanky frame and conservative suit. He quickened his pace, zigzagging between cubicles until he reached his favorite supervisor, trained by MacDonald himself. Twenty- years before, Kyle and his best buddy strutted out of Quantico, both cocksure, hard-headed rookies eager to make their first arrests…at least until MacDonald schooled them. Years later, Kyle would learn his most important lesson from Mac: controlling an operation over months or years could often yield more long-term success than a quick arrest and a little press—the soul of counterintelligence.

Kyle's office was off to the left and rear of the squad bay. Although one would never use the word spacious to describe its size, an array of family photos and Redskins paraphernalia coating the walls and desk made it his home away from home.  MacDonald, peered inside the office and knocked on the door frame.

Kyle’s back was turned to Mac as his fingers tapped furiously against his keyboard. So deep in his thoughts, he didn't realize anyone was standing behind him.

“Hey Kyle, how’re you holding up?” Mac asked, knowing he, more than anyone else in the Bureau, was still reeling from the stunning loss of his best friend. Raw grief is the reason Mac selected him as the agent best-suited to arrest Lana Michaels and take her off the streets. Kyle was someone he could trust, someone with the right connections on both sides of the law, and one thing no other agent had.

Startled, Kyle jumped and snapped his head toward the door. “Jeez, you scared the shit out of me,” he squelched before pressing his hand against his chest. “I’m not. I feel like a piece of shit, my wife’s giving me hell, and you may not want to come too close. Think I caught the bubonic plague.”

“I’ll take my chances.” MacDonald took a seat in the guest chair and leaned forward, elbows to knees. He eyed the pile of used tissues cluttering his old friend’s desk. The consummate anti-bureaucrat, Kyle shunned the standard Brooks Brother uniform for Dockers and plain button-ups. Despite the slightly contorted, pained expression furrowing Kyle’s brow, Mac proceeded, knowing he’d be compounding his friend’s present miseries.

“Bet I don’t need to ask what brings you down from the throne,” Kyle said. “It’s my fault. From day one, I had doubts, concerns. Never followed-up on them. Now look at what’s happened,” Kyle said, his voice faintly above a whisper. “
I
created the bomb. Lit the fuse. The explosion was inevitable … I just never dreamed it would take my best friend’s life.”

“Jim made choices neither you nor I could control,” Mac said. “You did your job. We all did. We’re all culpable. After chasing our tails for a decade after Hanssen, nobody in the entire community took the intel on the second mole seriously.”

“
Razor
was right all along, and we all but marched him to his death.”

Mac’s voice tensed. “We accepted the word of an agent who conducted an asset validation and provided full justification for her findings. We had no way of knowing Michaels was playing executioner. The fact of the matter is, it’s done. To sit here and stew in our missteps would be yet another mistake we don’t have time to make. We need to get her off the street—now.”

“Of all the agents in the Bureau…you picked me?” Kyle said, chuckling to himself. “No ulterior motives there, huh?”

Kyle could anticipate Agent Michaels’ every move and beat her at the game the FBI had taught her—the game Kyle himself had taught her as her mentor during her rotation at Washington Field. Since the news of her treacherous fall from grace, Kyle had been laden with sadness and guilt, hitting a tailspin into a pit of internal despair. Mac hoped this assignment would pull him out of it…eventually.

“You’ve got eyes where most people won't think to look, and you’ve got one quality no other agent in Washington Field has.”

“What’s that?”

“Strong personal motivation,” Mac said. “With you at the helm, we’ll get her safely tucked away in Supermax before she hits another agent.”

Kyle settled in his thoughts as the room grew quiet. “All right. But I’ll do it on my own. My way.”

Mac raised his eyebrow and waited. “Uh, not exactly. I’m assigning a co-case agent. Whether you realize it or not, you need help on this.”

After a few grunts, Kyle considered the proposition. “Okay, who’re you thinking about, Davidson? Smith?”

MacDonald shook his head. “Hopper.”

Kyle’s back slammed against the chair and his eyes widened. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me! He’s a hardheaded 12 year old know-it-all whose only concern is bagging bank robbers.”

Mac laughed out loud sparking Kyle’s apparent confusion. “Remind you of anyone? That’s exactly why I picked him.”

“I was different,” Kyle said, shaking his head, realizing he was the butt of an unfunny joke. “I listened. I followed instructions. And even if that’s all a lie, at least I could take a joke.”

“Yeah, not so much. Someone cared enough to set you on the right track. Pay it forward.”

Kyle stood up and walked to the window. He stared out into the distance. “I’ll do this under one condition,” he said, his eyes locked on the auburn sky. “I want the death penalty. No bullshit plea bargains. Ten consecutive life sentences wouldn’t be enough to make up for this.”  

Mac’s lips pinched together as he exhaled. He understood Kyle’s pain better than anyone else; he also knew his limitations. However personally driven, the investigation must adhere to the rule of law. “I’ll do what I can, Kyle, but the Bureau avoids trials on Espionage cases for a reason. We have sources to protect. Just between you and me, though,” he lowered his voice to just above a whisper. “I told you to get her off the street…I didn’t say
how
.”

Kyle nodded and a slight grin edged the corner of his mouth upward. They exchanged approving nods and MacDonald stood to exit the door.

“Great. Keep me updated. I want daily briefings.” He stepped through the threshold, froze, and leaned back to add his parting words of advice. “Don’t let your emotions get the best of you, my friend. Control them…or they will control you.”