Spy Catcher: The J.J. McCall Novels (Books 1-3) (The FBI Espionage Series) (46 page)

Chapter 32

Wednesday Morning, November 11th—The White House

J.J. and Tony returned to the West Wing early enough to get the jump on their investigation before the previous night’s personnel cranked up the rumor mill. No matter how tightly they intended to cap the lid on the probe, word would seep throughout the staff before long, and once the staff got a hold of it, the press wouldn’t be far behind.

The sand in the hourglass was draining quickly; they only had a week and a day to get the subject off the streets—and at least four initial interviews to conduct.

Hawk, the salty contractor with a heaping grudge against the FBI, met Tony and J.J. at the entrance with his contempt on full dispay. He escorted them up the hall leading to Kendel’s office, grumbling beneath his breath the entire way.

“You know, Hawk. Anger causes heart disease, diabetes, and strokes,” she said.

He halted abruptly in his tracks, turned to face J.J. with a sneer, and snapped, “Agent McCall, anger is a futile and would suggest a level of interest in you that I don’t have.” When they reached the closed door, he said, “Wait here. She’s on a call and will be with you in just a moment.”

“All righty, then,” J.J. said, before mumbling under her breath, “cranky son of a bitch.”

They nodded and eyed him until he disappeared around the corner.

“She kind of took a shine to me yesterday,” Tony said, oblivious to the tension. “Maybe you should let me do the talking.”

“You noticed that too, huh? Clearly you have an effect on the estrogen-dominant among us.”

Tony chuckled. “You should know.” 

J.J. jabbed him in the arm, when Kendel’s door opened.

“Morning,” Kendel said, bearing a tenuous smile. “You’re here early.” Her tired eyes bagged and strands of her hair had escaped the tight bun; her suit appeared twice-worn. She locked her eyes directly on Tony’s bright beam, acknowledging J.J.’s presence with only a head jut.

“Ciao,” Tony said in his Italian accent. “Long night, huh?”

J.J. rolled her eyes and tried to suppress the gag reflex induced by his shameless flirting.

“You don’t know the half of it,” Kendel said, her voice flat. She glanced nervously over J.J.’s shoulder, now avoiding both of their gazes. J.J. turned around to see what she was looking at. There’s was nothing except a clock on the wall. “We conducted sweeps through the entire residence. The breach is limited to the Sit Room which isn’t a surprise. If the Russians could plant a bug there, where else would they need to put one?”

“You okay, Kendel?” J.J. asked. “You don’t seem like…
yourself
.”

“I’m fine,” she said. “This is what happens when you begin the day with three hours of sleep and no coffee.”

“I know that’s right,” J.J. replied. “So, where do we stand this morning?”

“The Sit Room is still locked down.” Kendel’s eyes met J.J.’s for the first time. “ERT finished collecting evidence a couple of hours ago.” 

“How many people do we need to neuralyze?”

Kendel let out a strained chuckle. “Men in Black. Glasses. Funny,” she said. “We managed to keep the stir to a minimum. Only essential staff were on duty, and the watch desk staff is cleared Top Secret with special accesses.” Her voice turned urgent. “But I’m not certain we can contain this fiasco much longer. Has your Director indicated when we can remove the device?”

J.J. shrugged and shook her head. “Freeman’s coordinating with your director. They’d both like to find out what we turn up in the investigation. We should know something one way or the other inside of a week, depending on how much cooperation we receive.”

She huffed and let out an exasperated sigh. “So, what do we do until then?”

“Issue a notice and post a sign indicating the communications systems are under repair. This
is
the U.S. government. That shouldn’t be too much of a stretch.”

“I’ll take care of it today.”

J.J. glanced down to check the time. “In the meantime, time is tight. We’ve identified a few subjects we’d like to speak with. Who can we work with to review personnel files and coordinate the interviews?”

“Can I see the list?”

“Sure,” J.J. said, digging the list from her pocket. She’d rewritten the list before they arrived, omitting Kendel’s name from the one she carried. “The list is short. Only three people for now. Anyone you know?”

Kendel scanned over the list, while J.J. watched closely for any discernible reaction. There was none. “All of them,” she said, her voice growing more coarse.

“All right, then,” Tony turned to J.J. sensing her increasing hostility. “We should get started. Where to?”

“Sheldon Vance is our Senior White House Staff Assistant.” Kendel’s gaze shifted nervously between the two before she pointed down the hall. “Make a left at that corner; his office is the last on the left. I’ll call and let them know you’re on the way.”

A crawling sensation permeated J.J.’s scalp. She tried not to scratch herself but the itching intensified by the second, driving her mad.

“Stop by and see us before you leave for the day,” J.J. said, scraping her nails through her hair. She tugged at Tony’s arm and motioned her head. “We may need to speak with you later.”

Kendel rubbed her arms and shifted her weight from one leg to the other. “Why don’t I just strap on a GPS? Save your special ops guys the trouble.”

“Excuse me?” J.J. snapped.

Tony grabbed J.J.’s arm and pulled her down the hall before she could unleash the response on her tongue.

“Did she give me attitude?” J.J. asked. “That was uncalled for.”

“She’s obviously tense. This all happened under her nose.”

“No, no. Something more is going on with her. Couldn’t you tell how nervous and irritable she was? She rubbed her arms and shifted her eyes and legs so much that I’d think she was coming off of a high…if I didn’t know better.” 

“I can’t argue with you on the strange behavior,” Tony said as they rounded the corner. He pointed down the hall. “His office must be right there.”

“Yep. That would be the last door on the left,” J.J. said with a chuckle. “Sheldon Vance, ha! I’m picturing a cross between Steve Urkel and Newman from Seinfeld.”

“You can’t tell anything from a name.”

“You wanna bet? I always win.”

“Twenty-bucks,” Tony said as they approached the entrance. “Shhh. Here’s the door.”

He tapped on the doorframe and walked inside. The room was split by a service counter. On the side closest to the entry door four waiting chairs were lined against the wall; on the other side, there were six empty cubicle spaces. J.J. longingly eyed the M&M dispenser on the countertop.

She tapped the head of the bell with her palm and a man appeared. A tall gorgeous man with bronze skin, a square jaw, and at least a hundred bucks worth of precision-cut layers in his dirty blond locks. His steel-silver eyes and a chiseled body made his custom-tailored suit sing Amen in the Hallelujah choir.

“Good morning. May I help you?” he said.

“You’re,” J.J. gulped, “Sheldon Vance?” 

He smiled and replied, “Kendel said you were on the way. I took the liberty of calling for the files already. They’ll be delivered in maybe another five minutes.”

J.J. reached into her pocket, pulled out twenty bucks and passed it to Tony who snatched it from her fingers midway.

“Thanks! We really appreciate your cooperation.” J.J. said with a little too much enthusiasm judging from Tony’s sneer; it was visible in her peripheral vision. She looked at him and noticed what appeared to be a circular birthmark at his neckline. “Is everyone in the office today?”

“Except Maddix Cooper,” Sheldon said. “He’s out of the country. All the contact information you need is in the files.”

A stinging, crawling sensation crept up the back of her knees into her thigh causing her legs to buckle briefly. Tony grabbed her arm to steady her gait.

“You okay?” Sheldon was concerned with his scrumptious self.

“Ohhh, I’m fine. Skipped breakfast.” By then, her smile had disappeared and the professional agent kicked back in.

“Out of the country, huh? When’s he due back?” Tony asked.

His eyes shifted behind J.J., he wouldn’t make eye contact. “A week or two. I’m not sure. Should be...”

“In the files. Got it. I’m pretty quick on the uptake.” In her mind, she rolled her eyes in disappointment. Sheldon was lying about something, but if Maddix Cooper was out of touch for any reason, the case would be stalled until his return.

Sheldon glanced at the clock on the wall behind J.J. and paced quickly toward the door. He rapid fired, “I’ve got a meeting to get to, but here’s my number if you need anything else. You’ve got time before the files arrive to grab a cup of coffee or something and return here to review them in these empty cubicles. Call Kendel when you’re ready to leave for the day.”

“Thanks, man,” Tony said to Sheldon’s vapors. He high-tailed out of there before they could blink. “Well, at least he was helpful.”

“Was he?” She reached behind the desk counter, grabbed the handset from the desk phone, and dialed. The phone rang twice and voicemail picked up. “Sunnie, do me a favor? I need everything you can find on Maddix Cooper, including his travel itinerary, and see what you can dig up on Sheldon Vance, too.”

“What was that all about?” Tony asked. “No, lemme guess. More of your women’s intuition.” 

“Don’t hate, Tony,” J.J. said, knowing Tony wished he had her gift. “Call me crazy, and I know you will, but my gut tells me Sheldon’s not exactly ‘keeping it one hundred’ if you get my drift. I aim to find out what he’s hiding.”

Chapter 33

Wednesday Morning—Irving Street

4 Days Left…

Santino’s stomach fluttered as he approached Lana’s door. He’d reminisced about their midnight liaison and the memory lingered with him into the dawn. He closed his eyes in the shower, and the scent of her hair overpowered him as if still swaying across his face in the midst of their passionate throes. He cringed as his emotions dragged him kicking and screaming to a place he had no desire to go, a place where he couldn’t stay even if he wanted to. Inside the recesses of his mind and the fragment of his heart still beating after Rosa, he recognized the upsurge of passion, the longing sensation threatening to drive him to distraction. Still he found himself drawn to her door. Once he peeked through the crack, there was no turning back—maybe not ever.

“You packed yet?” Santino asked, his voice more animated than his expression. Truth was, he wanted her to stay, not forever but a little longer, until he’d had his fill. There was no hunger worse than craving more of a sweet fruit you could never taste again. “By my calculations, four days from now, I’ll be taking you to catch your slow boat to France. You packed yet?”

“Are you kidding me? My entire life practically fits in my purse now. I can be packed before your stomach growls again.”

He rubbed his abdomen. “You heard? Somehow I worked up a pretty big appetite. I was thinking, maybe we could get out of this hole for a while and go grab a bite,” he said. A boyish bashful expression seized his face. “I don’t know about you, but I’m becoming a hermit. I could use some air.”

“Me too,” Lana answered. “But, uhhh, why don’t I cook breakfast here instead? I’m not big on restaurants these days.”

“Ohhh, too many people, huh?”

“No, last week I watched a 20/20 restaurant exposé where the cooks drop your food on the floor and waiters spit in your food,” she said making a hock spit noise.

Santino frowned. “Ugh, thanks for the visual,” he said. “Way to help me work up an appetite.”

Lana paused in silence and fell back on the bed, laughing deep from her belly. She laughed so hard she began snorting like a nerd, which made Santino collapse in laughter on the bed alongside her. His comment and her retort weren’t as funny as the levity would suggest; it just felt good to let loose, to live two minutes without the weight of the Cappi Merendino murder and the heat from Nicky Mumbles bearing down on him. As their chortles withered to quiet laughter and dissipated, Lana propped herself up on one elbow and looked down on Santino’s face. “Thank you,” she said. “I haven’t laughed so much since…since…”

“
Him
, right?”

She nodded.

“Glad I could make you smile,” he said, “especially with all you’ve been through.”

“No. Thank
you
. I needed that so much,” she said. “Listen, about last night…”

He glanced at her with a confused expression. “I have no idea what you’re talking about?”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about. It’s why your stomach sounds like a broken Harley.”

“Ohhhh,
that
last night. Go ahead.”

“Well, I’m very vulnerable and our…you know…was probably a mistake.” She laid her head on his chest and continued. “But I don’t care. Meeting you couldn’t have happened at a more perfect time and I can never thank you enough for what you’ve done.”

“Oh, yes you can,” he said, his smile wry. The warm and fuzzy feelings of the moment hadn’t subsumed his memory; he was helping her largely because she was paying for his services. Even still, he continued, “I know we don’t have much time together, but whadaya say we make the best of the time we have left. Deal?”

“Deal,” she said taking his hand in hers. “Now that we’ve got that settled…” She popped up from her seat, grabbed the ink pen and notepad resting on her dresser, and began to scribble feverishly.

“You’re not writing up a contract, are you?” Santino asked.

She didn’t respond until she finished and then handed him the sheet. “No. It’s the grocery list. The faster you pick up the food, the faster we lose the Harley.”

He leaned over and pecked her on the cheek, before bolting up from the bed and preparing to leave. “You’re coming with me, right?”

“Why? You need me to help you carry the bags?”

“Ha ha.” He said with a fake laugh. “I’ll be back in a few.”

Lana sat motionless, until the door shut. She jumped up peered out the window and watched until Santino’s car pulled off. Then, with her camera phone in hand, snuck into his bedroom, which he carelessly left unlocked. Already his instincts were off; he’d started slipping. She smirked smugly and began her search. She needed some insurance. She wasn’t sure exactly what she was looking for, but she’d know when she spotted it.

As she rummaged through his space, she was methodical about leaving everything more orderly than she found it. After checking the bed, she made it up, pulling the sheets tight and fluffing the pillows. As she ran her hands beneath the folded underclothes in his underwear drawer, she felt a thin stack of papers under her fingers. She pulled them out and sifted through each one by one.

Old love letters from a woman—Rosa.

The paper was wrinkled and worn as if he’d read them a thousand times. At the bottom of the stack was a
Hudson Reporter
newspaper article. The headline in the read, “Hoboken Woman Mowed Down by Drunk Driver.”

Lana pulled the cell phone from her bra, snapped a picture, and returned the stack beneath his unmentionables, lining them up military style. She hated using email. The Service taught them that the FBI monitored communications like the Russian Security Services. That’s why Russian intelligence minimized the use of landline phones, electronic communications, and the postal service. They preferred the old ways, dead drops and face-to-face meetings in foreign countries. On a chair in the corner, she noticed the jeans he wore the day before.

She lifted them, squeezed to check for pocket litter, and felt a large square bulge in the back pocket.

His wallet.

“Shit!” she yelped. Her hands quivered as she took the wallet in hand, folded the pants, and returned them to the chair. She spun around to return to her bedroom and screamed, “Oh my God!” She pressed her trembling palm over her pounding heart. “You scared me to death!”

Santino hulked over her, seething with his face twisted in a scowl and his fists balled. “What the hell are you doing in here?!”

• • •

Wednesday Morning – Surveillance Detail

At o’dark thirty in the Surveillance Group Operations Center conference room, Kyle conducted his pre-op brief in front of a band of sleepy-eyed Gs chugging coffee like happy hour Budweisers. The pack of khaki-clad twenty- and thirty-somethings cast blank stares at the projector screen. He painstakingly reviewed every detail of the operation on the zoomed-in map of the 19
th
Street area where Filchenko made his routine cover stops.

“This is our perimeter,” he said, circling the five-block area surrounding the Potbelly’s restaurant. “The flatbed with the switch car will be posted in this garage a few doors down from the target area. We’ve already cleared it with the owner.”

“So let me make sure I’ve got this straight,” Hopper said. “Filchenko parks at the meter and fails to drop money as usual. I follow him inside and engage him in conversation—a welcome to the U.S. greeting from the FBI.”

“Yeah, it’s routine. They all know we’re coming at some point. Little does he know today’s his lucky day,” Kyle said. “But wait until he starts eating. Cheap bastards won’t leave an unfinished meal, even to get away from the FBI.”

Hopper nodded. “Okay, the special ops group switches cars, circles the block, installs both GPS units and then returns and swaps them again.”

“Here’s the trick, though. His back’s gotta face the window—which goes against every instinct of an intel officer. You’ve gotta make him not only comfortable with sitting with you, but with being positioned with his back to the door, you understand?”

“Yeah. And as long as I keep him distracted for the couple minutes it takes to get the car on the flatbed, we shouldn’t have any problems. If he looks outside, our car will be sitting in the parking space.”

“You got it,” Kyle said as he scanned the lifeless faces around the room. “Everybody good? Everybody know where you’re supposed to be?”

Kyle stood there waiting for some energy, enthusiasm but saw nothing except a wave of half-hearted head-nods followed by muffled groans. His fingers curled into his hand and jaw tensed. His face turned 1969-Mustang candy-apple red. He gripped the base of the glossy blue ceramic FBI mug resting on the podium, his hand numb to the fresh heat, and slammed the mug against the far wall. The glass exploded then fell in barely audible thumps onto the carpeted floor.

“Does anybody understand what the fuck we’re doing here today? Anybody?” Kyle screamed at the top of his lungs. Startled, his audience froze with eyes widened. “Apparently not because you’re sitting around here all dead-eyed and nonchalant like this is fucking Baywatch and you’re going on beach patrol!”

He walked the perimeter of the room, and, one by one, glared in every single eye as he continued his rant. “Lana Michaels isn’t our garden variety Russian spy. In case your head’s been jammed up your ass for the last week, she’s a murderer, an FBI Agent killer. And if we don’t get her off the streets, she’s got
at least
one more agent in her sights.

“This operation is our single best chance of not only preventing the Russians from providing her with support, but locking her away for good. Raise your hand if you think that’s an important mission.”

Every hand shot up in the air, whether the sentiment was genuine or not.

“Then wake the fuck up and act like it!” he said. “Jazz and Jiggy are team leads and Cham is supporting. Everyone is dismissed…except you three,” he said, pointing his index finger at Cannon, Slicer, and Hopper. “I need a word.”

“Just one?” Cannon mumbled.

“You wish!” Kyle fired back.

They huddled around him at the front of the room as he took a seat on the edge of the table. “What the hell’s going on here, today? It’s like an army of the walking dead.”

Slicer shrugged. “We’ve been on 16-hour shifts for a week straight. Everybody’s pretty exhausted.”

“Yeah. Guess the week’s been rough for everyone involved,” he said, “but I’ve got a lot riding on this case and can’t afford to let it get away from me,” Kyle said, unable to release his grief for the life of the friend and agent she took.

“You mean, the Bureau, right?” Hopper asked, clearly not knowing when to seal his mouth shut.

“I don’t need you to correct me, Junior,” Kyle barked. “I’m the reason she’s still out there. And I’ve got to help take her down.”

He stood and walked over to the projection screen. “You two will be posted here,” Kyle said, pointing to parking spaces just outside the Potbelly’s L Street entrance. “Cannon—you signal me when Hopper’s got our target distracted. Slicer, you conduct countersurveillance. If anything goes wrong, I need you step in and backup Hopper, you understand?”

“I thought the FBI didn’t make mistakes,” Slicer joked.

“We don’t,” Kyle said. “But if I’ve learned anything about the Russians, their favorite tool of tradecraft is the monkey wrench. If they throw one in the mix, we’ve got to be prepared for it.”             

Slicer’s glance swung from Hopper to Cannon before he nodded. “Roger that.”