Spy Catcher: The J.J. McCall Novels (Books 1-3) (The FBI Espionage Series) (44 page)

Chapter 27

Tuesday—Russian Embassy

Like the sunless afternoon sky, a dense gray cloud loomed over Aleksey Dmitriyev’s life, threatening to unleash a furious storm that would drench him in conflict and accusation. He didn’t often lose his cool, but between the panic-induced heart palpitations and sweaty palms, he found himself on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

Agent McCall had spotted him at the site of Gusin’s operation, and her distempered glare burned through him like a laser knife. He had no refuge—he couldn’t run and was scared to stay. To compound his troubles, the ultimate snafu, Vorobyev and the missing tennis shoe. He had no idea whether Vorobyev had discovered the FBI burn phone and reported him to security. Or even worse—to Golikov.

His own guilt gnawed at him. He should’ve dumped the phone. He shouldn’t have been at the op site, especially as he’d only days before been declared to the State Department as the new embassy security officer. Now, he only questioned whether or not she would expose his activity. And if so, how long before she lodged her complaint? He had no idea and her decision was beyond his control; however, contacting Vorobyev to find out whether the Crooked Twins would be snatching him up in the dark of the night was well within his control, so that’s what he set out to determine.

Dmitriyev’s feet pounded against the steps as he jogged up the Embassy stairwell leading to his office. He felt as if his heart had exploded in his chest, anticipating the consequences he’d suffer for any one of his many transgressions. He avoided the elevator to remain unseen and slipped past the Resident’s closed door, practically unnoticed. It was lunch time and the office had emptied with the exception of a couple officer’s wives who worked as secretaries.

Once inside his office, he picked up the phone and tried Vorobyev’s number again. If he could just speak to him and hear his voice, he could gauge from the tone whether or not he’d been cast to the traitorous hell he deserved. The secure phone rang five times before a female voice answered.

“May I help you?”

“Ludmilla, this is Aleksey Dmitriyev calling from Washington,” he said in Russian. “Is Stan available to speak?”

“Ah yes, hello, Alek. Did you forget the time difference?” she said.

Dmitriyev looked up at the clock on the wall. 3:00 pm. He grunted. It was 7 am in Moscow. “I don’t know where my mind is today. Perhaps he arrived early?”

“I’ll check. Maybe he’s in.”

While waiting, Dmitriyev stewed in his thoughts. His new fear was that the FBI might discover the bug and immediately pull the plug on the operation and expel Gusin. If Agent McCall was pissed off and acted as expected, as he himself would have, the focus of the Russian intelligence inquiry would point the finger directly at Dmitriyev himself. His presence was the only new variable in the RAPTURE operation, one that had been conducted without incident for at least five years, maybe longer from what he could gather. Yet, refusing to participate could’ve sparked the Resident’s suspicion. He’d be no better off, anyway.  

“I’ve checked his schedule and he’s in already, scheduled for an all-day meeting with General Stepanov. Some big, new operation.”

“New operation? Hmm. Sounds fascinating.”

“Between you and me, I heard they’re trying to catch someone spying for the Americans.”

Dmitriyev gulped hard and swiped his hand across his brow. Sweat beads had burst through his pores before he realized he was warm. He tried to shake off the nervousness and suppress the tremble in his voice. He cleared his throat and said, “Not again. Fucking assholes!” He cringed as the words spilled from his mouth. “Any idea which residency?”

“No, that information is very tightly held,” she said. “Anyway, I must get going but I’ve left a message on Stan’s desk. Watch yourself. You never know who may be lurking about.”

“Indeed, you never know.”

The silence was now deafening. Was Stan sufficiently disenchanted with the Service to cover Dmitriyev’s ass as he had so many times before? If not, it would be only a matter of time before Komarov called him to attend a “special” or “urgent” meeting. Golikov’s goons might return from New York; they had more experience in the art of torture than Filchenko. They would subject Dmitriyev to a gruesome beating before summarily shipping him back to Moscow and feeding him to the vicious wolf called Mashkov.

He had but one sliver of hope. J.J. McCall. He did not signal Gusin to abort his operation—nor blow hers—and his quick thinking may have spared their relationship from damage he could not otherwise repair. His heart rate and pulse slowed. The heat withdrew from his neck and ears. He had reasoned himself into relative calm. He glanced at the time. 8:00 pm. He was ready to pack it in for the day. He’d start fresh early tomorrow. After grabbing his jacket, he reached for the doorknob to leave when a knock sounded. He opened it to see the Resident standing there, his face mashed into a fatigued grimace.

“Good, you’re still here. I need you to come with me. We have an urgent meeting to attend.”

“Urgent meeting?” Dmitriyev asked, blinking rapidly, his heart almost exploding through his chest. “It’s late and I was headed to my flat. What is it about?”

Komarov snapped his head toward Dmitriyev and growled. “Don’t worry. You’ll find out everything you need to know when we get there!” 

Dmitriyev followed his boss down the narrow hall to a conference room just at the end. When the Resident pushed the door open, Dmitriyev’s glance darted from face to face.
Filth
chenko. Lana’s father. The Crooked Twins. His judge and jury stared at him blankly as he entered.

Dmitriyev’s face felt flush, the temperature suddenly felt like a thousand degrees. He jammed his trembling hand in his pocket and proceeded inside trying to maintain his cool exterior as the door slammed behind him.

“They’re here,”
Dmitriyev thought to himself, oddly craving one last sip of Starbucks dark roast and a long drag from a Newport.
“I’m dead.”

Chapter 28

Tuesday Afternoon—Washington Field Office

“We got it!” Hopper bellowed, as he rushed into Kyle’s office flapping the printout in his hand. “Seventy-six ads dropped from the two major newspapers. Forty-one in the vicinity of Howard University.”

Kyle peered upward, stone-faced, his brow furled. “Uhh, Junior? The architect who designed this building went through a lot to put doors on the offices. The least you could do is knock on them.”

Hopper glanced over his shoulder and pointed back at the door with his thumb, then returned his confused gaze to Kyle. “You mean, you want me to—”

He nodded. “Four years of college and you
did
learn how to detect a hint.”

An incredulous expression covered Hopper’s face as he tromped away. He knocked on the threshold and waited for an invitation inside.

And waited.

And waited.

He pounded again.

“Who is it?” Kyle sang. After a long pause and no activity, he said. “Hello? Junior?”

Kyle dashed to the doorway and peered outside. His pain-in-the-ass subordinate was gone. “I don’t fuckin’ believe this kid,” he growled beneath his breath, thundering through the aisles at a breakneck pace until he reached Hopper’s desk. Junior was furiously clearing his desk, shutting down his computer and locking his overhead cabinet.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

“Ohhhh, I’m no longer invisible,” Hopper snapped, securing his gun in his holster. “I don’t have time for these fraternity hazing games. If you’ll excuse me, I have an investigative strategy to execute.”

“Are you kidding me? I pull your leg a little and you stomp out of my office like a grade school girl who got her ponytail yanked? Let me explain something to you in little words that you can understand—when you step into my squad bay check your sensitivity bullshit at the door.”

Hopper stood paralyzed, his chin dropped to his chest, and shoulders hunched. Yes, perhaps Kyle had been giving him the blues since before the Sabinski probe, but he had been a little too sensitive and his skin needed some thickening.

In his first smart move, Hopper sat down in an obvious capitulation. “Sorry. Guess I’m a little
passionate
about my work.”

Kyle sat in the extra chair and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Hey, I appreciate your enthusiasm, and I’m sure you’re about as excited to be assigned to me as I am about you. But how about you lighten the fuck up for five minutes so we can catch Michaels before she high-tails it to Moscow, huh? Let’s try that for an investigative strategy!”

Hopper conceded and threw his hands in the air.

“Good. Now, while you were on the phone with Metro, I got a call from Jiggy. You’ve worked with him before, right?”

“Yeah, couple times. What’d he say?”

“A new angle. Two intel officers engaged in some suspect surveillance detection runs. He thinks they may be attempting to make a drop for Michaels.”

“You think they’re onto something?”

“That’s what we’re going to find out later today. We’ll split this up and go door-to-door on a few of these addresses for a couple hours, then meet the Gs at their command center later this afternoon.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Hopper said, grabbing a sheet from the desk. “I already organized the list and divided the addresses so the houses are located in the same relative area.”

After an eye roll, Kyle grabbed the paper from his hand and scanned it. “Hmmm. Gresham Place, Harvard Street, Columbia Road, Kenyon, and Irving Streets. This’ll work. I know the area pretty well.”

“I’ll hit the ones near campus. Probably will take a couple of days.”

“If I need to, I’ll request a few extra bodies. For now, I think we can handle it. Let’s get out of here.”

Chapter 29

Tuesday Night—Russian Embassy

The Crooked Twins whispered intently and cut their eyes at Dmitriyev as he made his way to his seat. Aleksey felt the heat of every eye burn through him, his guilt barreling over. Although his intestines would surely melt from the excessive acid bubbling in his gut, he maintained a calm exterior and tried his best to behave as if the meeting was a matter of routine.

“Good evening,” Dmitriyev said, giving a respectful nod as he occupied the empty seat adjacent to his boss.

“Before we address the severity of the problem we are facing tonight,” the Resident began, locking his eyes on Dmitriyev with a hardened glare. “Comrade, do you have any news or developments to share with the room?”

His eyes widened; he feigned bemusement over the Resident’s request. “Excuse me? To what are you referring?”

“One of our esteemed colleagues informed me that you recently attended a special meeting,” he said. “Thought you might want to share with us any events relative to our current operations…before we proceed.”

Relative to our operations,
he repeated to himself.
Does he know?
His ears burned white heat. Now he was not only afraid, but genuinely confused. He didn’t know how to respond, what to do. His thoughts raced.

He swallowed hard and a new level of panic kicked in until he recalled one critical factor. He’d last met with J.J. well over a week ago. He hadn’t spoken at length to anyone outside of the residency—not even during the brief interlude with J.J. McCall. Onlookers couldn’t suspect him of anything other than asking for the time, if that.

Dmitriyev opted to play stupid and said, “Perhaps if I knew which colleague mentioned it…right now, my memory is failing me. I must be having what the Americans call, a senior moment.”

A few chuckles erupted across the room.

Komarov turned, looked directly across the table, and tilted his head forward. “Filchenko?”

Filchenko cleared his throat and loosened his collar and tie. “Oh, I, uhhh…must’ve been mistaken,” he mumbled, avoiding Dmitriyev’s gaze. “We have far more important matters to discuss. Mikhaylova.”  

Figures!
Dmitriyev thought. His boss’s motive was clear now.
Filth
chenko must’ve told the Resident that Dmitriyev conducted an unreported meeting with an unknown source to stoke suspicion. Komarov had sent a clear message to
Filth
chenko—his tattling would not be tolerated, and Dmitriyev hoped he’d learned his lesson.   

“Agreed,” Dmitriyev said, narrowing his gaze at the scum to his right. The tension between them was now palpable. Aleksey knew from this point forward Filthchenko could not be trusted. “A much better use of our time than mindless gossip I should think.” 

Lana’s father sat forward in his seat and spoke with urgency. “I’ve been informed that Svetlana’s travel documents are ready for delivery. We have a very short window to make the next drop.”

“What do you need from us?” Filchenko asked.

“A perfectly executed operation,” Komarov replied. “Dmitriyev’s plan has been highly effective to date, but the more times we attempt to make the drop, the greater the likelihood that the FBI will discover our activities. So, I’d like to conduct one more dry run of the operation tomorrow and make the final drop on Thursday,” he turned to Filchenko. “There is no room for mistakes. The timing must be on point. And I’m making a couple of changes.”

“What’s that?” Filchenko asked.

Lana’s father turned to him. “You and I will switch cars—and routes.” 

“Switch?”  Filchenko responded to Mikhaylov, confused by the suggestion. He’d already told Dmitriyev that he had a difficult time adjusting to driving in the U.S. already without compounding the issue. “I don’t underst…”

“It’s simple,” the Resident interjected. “Aleksey told me you had problems driving the manual transmission. We want to avoid any mishaps. Mikhaylov’s car is an automatic and his route is much simpler. You can practice on the manual sometime when our work is not as critical.”

“Exactly,” Dmitriyev said. “I’m sure the FBI will complain to the State Department but we’ll be ready to stand down our operations by the time the Ministry admonishes us.” 

“I understand,” Filchenko said. “I’m certain we can conduct the operation without making any critical errors.”

“We?” Lana’s father asked with a slight chuckle, as if insulted by the inclusion. “As I was saying, Igor and Vasiliy are running               countersurveillance at the drop site. You both will leave an hour ahead of us so you have plenty of time to get in the clear if you’re followed. If you see any watchers in the area, draw them away from the site.”

“Okay,” Vasiliy responded. Igor nodded in agreement.

“I cannot stress enough that we need to extract her this week. She’s not just my daughter; she’s a loyal officer in the Service, and she will not be left behind,” he urged.

“Agreed. This is our top priority.” The Resident again turned to Filchenko. “You should prepare to leave at the usual time,” he then faced Dmitriyev. “I have a meeting at the Syrian Embassy tomorrow morning, so you will supervise until I return sometime late tomorrow afternoon.”

“No problem. I’ll be in my office at 6 am if I’m needed for any reason. We should all return to our flats and get some rest. Tomorrow will be a long day.”

After everyone was dismissed, Dmitriyev and Komarov exchanged knowing glances as he passed by to catch up with Lana’s father. The Crooked Twins grinned at Filchenko and followed closely on Komarov’s heels.  Dmitriyev hung back and called out to Filchenko, “Yuriy? May I speak with you for a moment? After everyone leaves, of course.”

“Certainly,” Filchenko replied, flashing a cocksure smile.

Once the room emptied, Dmitriyev closed the door and turned to stand face-to-face with his new enemy. He squared his shoulders and growled, “What the fuck was that all about?”

“To what are you referring?” Filchenko responded snidely.

“You know exactly to what I’m referring. Leave your infantile games to children. You have no idea with whom
you’re
dealing!”

With a menacing glare, Filthchenko moved so close Dmitriyev could smell the scent of his last cigarette. Through clenched teeth, he spat, “On the contrary, Comrade. I know exactly who
you
are. Golikov knows, too. It’s only a matter of time before you’re exposed for the traitorous pig you are.” He stepped back as if suddenly fearing his words might get him slugged. “So, take
my
advice and find out who
you’re
dealing with!”

Dmitriyev was stunned by his boldness. As the Security Chief, he could devise any number of ruses to prompt his recall to Moscow. He was clearly stupid, and Dmitriyev planned to use that to his own advantage. “Listen to me you sniveling little piss-ant. You are stepping way up in weight class, you lightweight.”

“Is that right?

“Yes, that’s right. I already know everything I need to know about you. You’re nothing but a glorified snitch serving at the pleasure of your Master, merely a slave to Golikov’s bidding.”

Filthchenko’s jaw and lips tightened. Dmitriyev had touched a nerve. He patted Filchenko’s head like a dog. When Filchenko took a swing, Aleksey gripped his arm and twisted it behind his back to the breaking point. The scum’s face turned plum and his knees buckled slightly as he grunted in pain.

“You are little more than an irritant to me, a thorn in my foot. Continue your silly little games, and you will quickly find your neck crushed
beneath
it!” 

After Dmitriyev released his arm and stepped toward the door, Filchenko shook it out and barked, “We’ll see about that!”

Dmitriyev held the door open and stepped aside to let the scum exit first. “After you.” He slipped into a condescending tone. “Enjoy your evening, son. Leave the threats to the real men, and study your maps so you don’t fuck up another critical operation.”      

He slammed the door behind Filthchenko, collapsed into a chair, and dropped his head into his hands. That was close. Too close. His every fear had nearly come to fruition in a matter of minutes. This time he escaped the situation unscathed. Next time he feared he would not be so lucky. The matter had gone from serious to urgent. He needed to find a way to contact Vorobyev.

His life depended on it.