Spy Catcher: The J.J. McCall Novels (Books 1-3) (The FBI Espionage Series) (37 page)

Chapter 15

Friday—Russian Embassy, Washington, D.C.

The day after Svetlana Mikhaylova’s escape from custody, Aleksey Dmitriyev, and the other senior Russian intelligence officers, gathered in their secure conference room. Now that their operative had been caught operating under deep cover in the FBI, they needed to discuss their strategy. He dreaded attending the meeting or helping their precious Svetlana. It was because of her that the man he called brother was recalled from Washington back to Moscow and tortured at the hands of Mashkov. His close friend Vorobyev was nearly beaten to death by Golikov’s goons at her behest. If she rotted in an American death chamber, it would be more than she ever deserved. He wanted her to die, and he wanted to choke the life out of her with his bare hands.

“No one is to leave the compound without my authorization. No meetings, no nothing if I have not given my expressed consent,” the Resident ordered. Andrei Komarov served as the most senior Russian intelligence officer posted in the Washington Embassy. He met with the key members of the staff involved in the debacle termed by the media as “The Mikhaylova Affairs.”

A member of the more sophisticated political operational line, his English skills had been perfected such that he could speak with no detectable Russian accent in the company of Americans. He also relished in his lady-killer reputation, nicknaming himself the
bunny trap
for his ability to successfully target assets of the female persuasion and corrupt them into cooperation with relative ease.

“The FBI must have six teams posted outside. Every gate covered. They're not even trying to disguise their activity anymore,” said the Resident, pinching his squared jaw as he peered out the tinted conference room windows into the streets surrounding the compound. He feared the increased traffic stream in the area was no coincidence. “Mikhaylova—the Red Honeytrap as the American press calls her, as well as the NOC arrests in Moscow, have caused quite a stir.”

“The FBI views Svetlana as an American agent of a foreign power and she murdered a senior FBI official on behalf of a foreign service. In their eyes, she’s a traitor of the worst kind,” said Dmitriyev, hoping with every shred of his being that the FBI found her before she managed her escape to Moscow. “They will not stop searching until she's in custody or dead.”

The senior intelligence officers circling the table all nodded in agreement.

“Without question,” the Resident began, as his azure glare cut across the table and caused his underlings to shrink in his presence, “but we cannot stand down our operations. And our ability to provide her with the necessary support is limited at best. We are paralyzed and mobilizing our deep cover personnel to support her will put them in equally grave danger and that’s unacceptable.”

“I agree. We cannot afford to shut down our critical operations,” said the Political Chief. “Our contacts refuse to meet with us until this controversy dies down, which elevates the priority of the intelligence we're collecting from RAPTURE. We must extricate Mikhaylova from the United States soon. I needn’t remind anyone here that inspections are underway.”

If higher-ups determined the Washington Residency was ineffective during inspections, they risked losing personnel and funding for their missions.

“I agree,” said Lana’s father, Mikhaylov. He had only one goal—to ensure his daughter’s safe travel to Moscow. “Svetlana can’t stay underground much longer. The more time we take to conduct the dead-drop and provide her travel documentation and money, the greater the risk she will be apprehended. She devoted her entire life to conducting this operation on behalf of her country. We
cannot
fail her.”

Dmitriyev sighed. He understood that Mikhaylov was speaking with a father’s desperation.

“How do you propose we service the dead-drop and arrange travel, Comrade?” Dmitriyev asked only because his position required it. The words tasted like acid in his mouth. “Even if she retrieves the package from the drop location, American authorities have blanketed the area. Comrade Komarov has said so himself. We can hardly take a shit without some surveillance team handing us toilet paper. Our chance of getting her out on a flight to Moscow is non-existent. Impossible.”

Lana’s father tapped his temple with his index finger. “I've come up with an idea. While somewhat risky, it’s much less so than the usual routes.” He clasped his hands together as he cleared his throat. “She’s booked to travel to France on a freighter ship that accommodates passenger transit. Our trusted agent is a crewmember who can ensure safe passage. The crews are usually foreigners; only small groups of five to twelve people can board at a time, so it's unlikely that she would be identified. Our agent will keep her name off the manifest and ensure they conduct only a cursory check of her documentation if at all.”

The Resident nodded. “This sounds like a very good idea, Comrade. When is she set to leave?”

“She
must
leave next Sunday—nine days from today—otherwise he will not return for four months. I'll work with Dmitriyev on a plan to get her the money and a new passport. We have a very small window of time to extract her and it is quickly closing.”

“Agreed,” he responded. “We must act now. I'll contact the Center for final approval.”

“I foresee another significant problem,” Dmitriyev interjected. As the new Secuity Chief, it was his job to do so. “The Americans probably suspect we will attempt to deliver instructions, money, documentation, or some combination of the three. You need only look outside the compound to see the amount of surveillance they'll assign to anyone who exits the gates, intelligence or otherwise.”

“Yes, this is a problem, and we cannot count on support from our Ministry brethren either,” he replied, referring to the diplomats assigned to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. They were often antagonistic toward Russian intelligence, too many hardened memories of the KGB. “How do you propose we address this?”

Dmitriyev pinched his bottom lip and tapped his finger against it. Then he stood and paced the room, his crisp white sleeves rolled to the elbow, and the razor-sharp creases in his slacks slightly buckled after enduring third meeting that morning.

He carefully considered his options. The thought of supporting her made him want to projectile vomit, but in order to secure his access to the critical intelligence he needed to provide to the FBI, he would need to demonstrate his competency, even though temporarily complicating FBI efforts to find the witch. So, he said, “We should take the Americans on...uh, how do they say it, a
wild duck chase
?”

“Goose,” Mikhaylov said. “I’m sure it’s goose.

Everyone at the table sat at attention waiting for him to expand on his explanation.

“Go on,” the Resident said.

“The FBI is expecting us to conduct an operation, this is no secret. So, let's give them what they’re looking for,” he scanned around the room and locked eyes on Lana’s father. “We'll, send comrade Aleksandr out. Svetlana is his daughter; they will expect him to support the operation. We should also include counterintelligence; it will appear as if they are providing security or countersurveillance,” Dmitriyev continued, more pleased with himself. He knew the FBI would catch on quickly and likely devise a counter-operation to neutralize them. “Perhaps the new Counterintelligence Chief—they will assume he is little more than a decoy because he’s new. We'll take them on a few surveillance detection runs and then return immediately to the embassy without conducting any hint of an operation. We'll repeat this daily; it won't take them long to identify the pattern. In two or three days, they will assume we’re playing with them and back off. That’s when we can fill the dead drop. But if we get an opportunity to conduct the operation earlier, we’ll seize it.”

A wide grin spread across the Resident's face as he let out a throaty chuckle and pounded his fist against the table. “That just might work,” he said to Dmitriyev, shaking his index finger. “You! You’ve been a little off in recent days, but by all appearances, you’re back on track.”

Dmitriyev nodded and smiled, as his mind shifted to. J.J. McCall. He needed to find a way to help her without compromising his present position. He was indebted to her. The operation she devised saved his brother Viktor Plotnikov from a gruesome untimely death at the hands of Mashkov. He wanted revenge on Mikhaylova as much as he wanted to repay J.J. for her loyalty, but attempting to do either at this time was too risky, too dangerous.

Lana’s father asked, “Now that we’ve resolved that issue, how much longer must we endure Golikov's . . .
inspections
?”

“Why, you're not ready to send Igor and Vasiliy packing already, are you?” the Resident said facetiously of the Crooked Twins, the hulking henchman sent to tattletale on insubordinate colleagues. He scanned each face as if verifying their loyalty before speaking. “I've rather enjoyed having my every move scrutinized, walking on eggshells. Let’s not pretend. We all understand that generals conduct
inspections
. They were sent here as watchdogs, bullies...thugs.”

“Perhaps, we can ask the American State Department to declare them persona non grata,” Lana’s father, Mikhaylov, joked.

Everyone laughed. 

“As a matter of fact, they are expected to visit New York next week since Golikov selected Yuriy Filchenko, Dmitriyev’s replacement as line chief, as he is promoted to the Security Officer position,” the Resident continued. “We can all be certain Golikov has identified someone who shares his zest for identifying traitors.”

Dmitriyev's back stiffened and he sat board straight. His new position as Security Chief provided him with access to files that would allow him to turn over more Americans to the FBI. However, with a new Golikov thug en route, he must be even more careful and vigilant. And divulging the details of the Residency’s support for Lana to the FBI would implicate everyone sitting in the room—including  himself. He wanted to find a breadcrumb to pass to the FBI but he didn’t know how…or what.

“Congratulations, Comrade Dmitriyev,” Mikhaylov said, the first to offer congratuations. His colleagues followed.

Dmitriyev bowed his head in contrived thanks.

The Resident checked his watch and glanced at Dmitriyev. “About time for you to take Comrade Vorobyev to the airport, isn't it?”

“Right, you are,” he responded and turned to Mikhaylov. “We can discuss the details of the plan to neutralize FBI surveillance when I return.”

Chapter 16

Friday Evening—The Russian Embassy

Stanislav Vorobyev, the beleaguered outgoing Security Officer, served out the final day of his Washington tour reflecting on his career as he packed his family photos. The thought of returning to Moscow left him hollow. He was thankful to be leaving the Embassy on his own accord the Crooked Twins nearly beat him to death a couple days before. The gash beneath his eye and the bruised ribs were sore but the pain of each thrash from their fists still reverberated in soul-deep wounds that would
never
heal. Although he'd been cleared of the false charges alleging he'd cooperated with the FBI and would arrive home a free man, he felt stigmatized, ruined by the accusations. Overgrown strands of grey concealed the worry creases in his forehead and he’d tightened his belt extra notch since the week began. His once illustrious career would be forever colored by a traitor's mistake.

If not for his family, he might stay in the U.S. Except for his two children going to university in a few short years, he might have retired. He could not afford to quit working with that expense looming over his head.  Unless….

He shuddered at the ill-timed thought, at committing the ultimate crime against his country that mere months ago would have been unthinkable. Alternately, he considered seeking a lucrative position in the private sector. He'd spent years developing contacts throughout all sectors of Russian society, including hobnobbing with a few oligarchs. So many of his colleagues begged him to quit the service and join any number of privatized companies after the fall of the Soviet Union. He believed in a life of public service and wanted to make a difference, wanted his work to help Russia evolve into a strong democracy. Now, word of his troubles preceded him, and the gossip would reach Moscow Center before he could defend himself.

Three sharp knocks jolted him out of his thoughts. He pulled his suitcases into the living room before answering the door.

“Stan, it's me, Alek.”

“One moment,” Vorobyev replied, rushing to open the door.

His dear friend, whose tall frame dwarfed his own, greeted him with a tenuous smile. “You almost ready?” Dmitriyev said, toting a bag containing two tennis shoe boxes.             

“Is that a trick question? Come in and sit. I'll be ready to leave in a moment.”

Dmitriyev scanned the sparse room, spotted a half-full duffel bag, and proceeded to pack the shoes inside. “These are the Keds I promised your boy. You’re checking this one, right?” 

“Yeah, yeah. Go ahead and put them inside. That’s fine.”

After securing the lock on the bag, Dmitriyev took his comfort on the worn brown sofa. “Looks like you're about ready to go. Any idea how long you'll be stuck at Center until your next tour.”

Vorobyev shrugged and pursed his lips. “You and I both understand I'm not likely to get another slot for some time, if ever again. I can't believe my career has devolved to this.”

“What do you mean? You've done nothing wrong. The agent admitted he made a mistake. You’re over-thinking this, comrade.”

“Oh, you think so?” Vorobyev said. “If you believe that, perhaps I've been in this business too long...or you haven't been in it long enough.”

“I have enough experience to know one thing,” Aleksey said. “We serve. We don't question,
right
?”

“Yes. We serve,” Vorobyev said. “The question is whom? The people? Does our work benefit the least among us in our so-called democracy? Or do we support a system that celebrates its thieves and betrays its faithful?”

“You’re asking questions, and questions are not a part of the job description,” Dmitriyev said as he pulled the handle on the larger of Vorobyev's suitcases. “Especially not those we can't answer. As the world changes, so will Russia. We need more time.”

“You say that to yourself long enough, you’ll believe it,” Vorobyev said. “If I've learned anything in this ordeal, it's that nothing has changed, not really. Same bullshit, different day. That's how it is and always will be.”

“Well, if you ever need anything, brother, contact me. Anytime. I will help you in any way I can. While you have an extensive pool of people to whom you can reach out, I too am…
well connected
.”

Vorobyev froze mid-stride and tilted his head to the side. The tone in Dmitriyev's voice had piqued his curiosity.

“What?” Dmitriyev said. “You think you're the only one who’s met an oligarch?”

Vorobyev studied the precision of his friend’s expression before taking a final look around his flat. Anticipating the treatment awaiting him when he returned home left him numb; he shuffled as if weighed down by cinderblock. “Did you hear Golikov found a new replacement for your old position?”

“Yes, Yuriy Filchenko. Komarov told me this morning,” Dmitriyev said, leading Vorobyev down the hall. “You ever worked with him?”

“Unfortunately. He's, for lack of a better phrase, a piece if shit,” Vorobyev replied, “fresh from the shithouse.”

“That bad?”

“Worse,” Vorobyev continued. “He's nothing but a power-hungry tattletale. Be careful. He will study your every move, exploit any opportunity to cast you under the proverbial bus, and report everything back to the Center to ingratiate himself to Golikov who I hear is being promoted to general.”

“Figures,” Dmitriyev said.

“Watch your drinking...and
other vices
,” Vorobyev warned. “You will find him far more intolerant than yours truly...and even less forgiving than Golikov himself.”

Dmitriyev reached the end of the hall and pressed the elevator button. “Didn't think anyone could be worse than Golikov.”

Vorobyev eased up beside Dmitriyev and locked eyes with him. “They aren't.”