Spy Catcher: The J.J. McCall Novels (Books 1-3) (The FBI Espionage Series) (8 page)

“Look J.J., if you wanted to invite me over to your place, you only had to ask. You didn’t have to pretend you didn’t want to go to headquarters. I realize I can sometimes have that effect on women.
If
you know what I’m saying.”

She shook her head and blinked rapidly. His sweet moments were touching, but, oh, that Italian machismo. “Earth calling Tony! Welcome back to reality,” she said. “If
you
wanted to
kiss me
, you didn’t have to put on that performance with the Park Police. You only had to ask. I realize I can have that effect on men.
If
you know what I’m saying.”

He winced, laughing uncomfortably as they approached the stoplight. Tony locked his eyes on J.J.’s and a sexy grin sliced between his lips. She leaned into him and smiled, her face a reflection of his. Softly, she traced her index finger along his jawline, down his neck, to his bicep. “Well, since we’re here together, in this car, on this glorious moonlit night . . . and we’re on the way to
my place
. I’ve got an important question I’d like to ask you.”

He cleared his throat and then shot her a gloating I-know-you-want-me glance. “Yeah?”

“Why don’t we pull over,” she paused, “at that McDonald’s up the street. I still want ice cream.”

He shook his head. “That was cold.”

“No, the ice cream’s cold,” she said. “That was just funny.”

Despite their deep-seated desires to explore the “something” between them, whatever it was, they never crossed the line. They treaded along the edges with tight-rope walker precision but never crossed it because both had insurmountable familial obstacles to overcome.

Tony was supposed to fall in love with and marry a good Sicilian woman, one who would stay home, cook, and birth male heirs.

As for J.J.?

Well, her father, a former Black Panther, would go ballistic, melt out of his skin if his only daughter waltzed through the door with Tony on her arm. She and her father had grown close, almost inseparable since the crippling loss of her mother. Each week she ate Sunday brunches with her brother and father; they helped keep the family together. She visited without fail despite Max’s criticism of her career choice and the constant chidings she took for not finding herself a good black man, as if they grew on the “Brother Tree” and all she needed to do was pluck one from its ripe fruit and marry him.

If only finding a good man of any color was that easy.

Love had mostly evaded her for thirty-two years. Mostly. She’d almost been taken once, but her gift saved her in the nick of time. With Tony, there was a major difference between her past and present, one thing she couldn’t deny: Tony was the only man in three decades of life who never made her itch. With the exception of the wife comment in the park, her discomfort in his presence emanated from only one source—her heart.

Chapter 11

Thursday Night…

T
he unit was desolate and dark. The only the exception was the light from a desk lamp in Sabinski’s office. He’d stayed late to type up a few reports, thumb through some closed cases, several involving Russian sources that had mysteriously disappeared in mid-2005. He wanted to find out why. Could ICE Phantom go back that far? He considered the possibility when Lana tapped on his door.

She stuck her head inside, scanned to ensure the coast was clear. “Hey, Jack. I was trying to put my files away but couldn’t get into the vault.”

Jack ran his hand along the back of his neck and then waved her inside. “Come in. Close it.”

Sabinski’s eyes clung to Lana’s every move. Her sexy grin sucked the air from the room and rendered him stuporous. His eyes locked on her hands as she unfastened her suit jacket. Each button she opened revealed a sheer white blouse agape to the waistband of her mini skirt. Her nipples were taut and visible through the sheer fabric. He licked his lips hungrily as she sauntered toward him and bent over his desk just enough. A hint of cleavage was all he needed to see to make him wild. Then Lana eased into the lone chair in front of his desk.

Sabinski spun his seat sideways. “Come on now, Lana. You know that’s not your seat.”

She glided to him, as a stripper to her pole, claimed a seat on Jack’s lap, and pressed her lips to his.

As the passionate kiss lingered and Jack’s member swelled, neither noticed Chris. He’d forgotten his wallet inside his desk and swung by on the chance that Jack was working late. And working late Jack was.

Chris heard voices and peered through the venetian blinds. There she was. He wondered why she hadn’t answered any one of his dozen phone calls or two dozen texts. Visibly flushed, his jaw tightened and stomach burned;  the tips of his fingers rolled into his palms. He wanted nothing more than to storm inside and bash Jack’s head in. Lana belonged to him and him alone. But she’d be livid if he didn’t stick to her plan. That’s why he created one of his own, a plan to rid himself of Jack and ensure Lana could live without the fat bastard’s interference.

Chris turned away, stormed to his desk. He wouldn’t be played for a fool this time. His hands juddered as he grabbed his iPod and earphones from beneath the clutter in his desk drawer. Hurriedly, he plugged the buds into his ears. The device took a moment to tune in. His buddy in the headquarters’ Special Projects Unit, the “Q” of the FBI, modified the iPod so that it no longer played music. Rather, it functioned as a receiver for the wireless transmitter Chris had planted beneath Jack’s desk. He huddled into the corner of his cubicle, concealed in the darkness, and tuned into Jack’s and Lana’s conversation.

Just as the signal came through, Jack cried out a loud moan.

“Ahhhhh…you’re amazing,” Jack said. His zipper sounded. “You sure know how to make an old man feel young again.”

“Please. I don’t see any old men in here,” she hummed.

“What are you doing here, Lana?” he asked.

She relieved her knees and returned to his lap.

“A girl like you could have anyone you want,” Jack said. “Why me?”

“Why not you? Seems you and I differ in our perceptions,” she said flirtatiously, peppering his fat head with kisses.

Chris struggled to restrain his gag reflex. Hearing them coo at each other like a pair of fucking teenagers made him sick. The things he’d done for the love of that woman, but she’d warned him from the beginning that her career was her first priority—and she would go to any lengths (or stoop to any depths) to fulfill her mission. But he hadn’t banked on her tryst with Sabinski becoming part of the package deal. Disgusted, he couldn’t stand to listen to another gut-wrenching word. He slammed the iPod in his desk drawer and slipped out of the office unnoticed.

“Now back to our discussion,” Lana reminded Jack, easing into a business-like tone. “You were telling me about the vault.”

“Oh, yeah. I met with Freeman and the AD about this compromise business. They’ve revoked access to everyone on the bigot list. We’ll all have to take polygraphs. No access until we pass.”

“
Everyone’s
got to take it? Even
you
?” she asked.

“Everyone. I just finished drafting the list and you and I are the first two. I want to make sure we don’t miss a second of precious time finding this fucking mole.”

She swallowed hard, noticeably more uncomfortable than moments before.

“What is it?” Jack asked, concerned.

“Now that you mention this mole, I’ve been hesitating to speak with you...about Chris. It’s probably not my place to say anything but,  uhhh...he’s been acting strangely as of late. Well, more strange than usual. I think he’s in trouble, and I’m not certain I can help him.”

Jack sat forward in his seat. “What kind of trouble?”

“I don’t know. He’s secretive. He’s been spending insane amounts of money, buying very pricey gifts, too expensive for an agent’s salary. There are also the crazy mood swings....and the flash drive. I’ve seen him with it in the office.”

“Is that right?” he asked. “Well, I’ll definitely follow-up on the flash drive issue. They’re not authorized in the SCIF. As for the money, well, anybody could see he’s got it bad for you.”

She shook her head. “Well, he’s certainly not in love with me. Obsessed maybe. I was really hoping you could just...I don’t know...have a talk with him.”

He nodded. “I’ll speak with him tomorrow afternoon and see where his head’s at.”

“Appreciate that Jack.” She stood in front of him, sighing in relief. “So, what about J.J. and Tony?”

“What about ‘em?” Jack snapped.

“Another one of the agents mentioned they’re targeting a diplomat providing intelligence on European missile defense negotiations. They might need access sooner than we do.”

“Her case is shit. Karat’s not giving up anything of value, so I made certain they’re the last two on the list. They aren’t scheduled to take the exam until Friday. I’ll assign you to work her cases until she gets access if she ever gets access again. Wouldn’t surprise me if the bitch is guilty.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me either. Which begs the question, why is she still working here? I’ve been telling you to get rid of her for years.” Lana cut him a sideways glance. “Don’t tell me you’ve bought this competent act of hers. She’s not good. She’s lucky.”

“Lana, give me a break, will you? I’ve denied every promotion she’s ever been up for. I’ve made her working environment as hostile as I can without getting myself fired. I don’t get it, either,” Jack replied. “Something tells me she won’t leave until she finds what she’s looking for.”

“Looking for? What do you mean by that?”

“J.J.’s father was a Black Panther, one of those hoodlums who killed cops for sport. I’ve overheard her talking to Donato about COINTELPRO a few times. She’s probably biding her time until she can access the restricted files,” Jack said, referring to the FBI’s 1960’s covert program. J. Edgar Hoover created it to neutralize the Black Panthers and other black civil rights and dissident organizations. “And don’t even let me get started on Donato. His father’s a former Capo in the Bonanno crime family. He’s serving seven years on racketeering charges. Trust me when I tell ya, the rotten fruit don’t fall far from the tree.”

“So you’re suggesting the crimes of the parents apply to the children? If so, my father doesn’t have a clean past either. I mean, he didn’t before he died. So, what does your little theory make me?”

“Beautiful.” The glint in Jack’s eye suggested he’d finished with his conversation. He wanted to talk about a more appealing subject. “Now, are you coming to my place tonight so we can finish what we started? I don’t know about you but I need an
entree
with my appetizer.”

“Let me wrap up my report. I’ll see you later. Maybe I’ll even pour your favorite
cocktail
,” she answered.

Chris, without realizing it, had held his breath as he waited for her. Concealed in the FBI garage’s darkness, he stood statue-still and fixed his eyes on the exit door.
What’s taking her so long?
he wondered as he stewed in his own disgust. He watched until she appeared in the doorway. His gaze stalked her until she entered her vehicle, the convertible Benz he bought with the spoils of his dirty work. He clenched his eyes tight, trying to shake the image of Lana and Jack from his mind.

Never again
, he thought.
Never again.

He had one trump left. One trump that could make the Jack problem disappear for good. And the time had come to play it.

Chapter 12

W
hat the hell was I smoking?
J.J. thought, wondering what possessed her to invite Tony to her cozy slice of sanctity. It was a foreclosure she got for a steal. Inside the elevator, she hit number ten on the panel and watched the numbers light up as she tried to dim her anxiety. The maid service had been rescheduled for the following day, so she hadn’t had a chance to do the ritual maid pre-arrival clean up.

Now she was afraid of what he would think of her.

When they finally entered her condo, a slow smile brightened his face. His lips parted slightly as his gaze roamed J.J.’s sparsely decorated apartment, from the sectional sofa and naked dining room table, to the Crate & Barrel wall shelf supporting her 51-inch flatscreen and Bose stereo system (she loved her toys). He halted abruptly before passing the photos of J.J. with her father and brother. Another photo of J.J. with her mother, aunt, and grandmother as a child.

Then her heart stopped. Tony’s expression told her he’d spotted the one she never meant for him to see.

“Nice place. Decorate much?” he said as he made a bee-line toward the shelf.

She tried to intercept him, but her reflexes were slow. She couldn’t position herself ahead of him.

“Well, well, well, what have we here?” He snickered at the photo of J.J. wrapped in the arms of her last relationship faux pas. He grabbed the frame and held it up facing her. “Who the hell is this
douche bag
?”

Douche bag? He can tell from the picture?

J.J. would never give Tony the satisfaction of knowing, but he’d hit that nail on the head. At the age of thirty-two, she’d never suffered a
severely
broken heart thanks to her gift. It protected her from dating liars for longer than an outing or two. Except for this one.

Grayson Chance was known as “Six” to his friends and the many victims of his smash-and-dash. Six could light a fire with the heat from the sexual vibe he radiated. Tall and chiseled, his body was carved from a mass of perfection. His face was sweet as sugar cane; he was Easter Bunny brown…and equally hollow. He could donate a sliver of his ego to every living person on the planet and still have enough left over to rate pompous asshole.

He’d been recruited by the CIA in college and became a counterintelligence case officer when he graduated from The Farm, the CIA’s training academy. For the last ten years, he’d been both a case officer and security officer, mostly serving in overseas embassies and consulates. His job was to catch CIA case officers cooperating with foreign intelligence services such as the Russians, thus a joint investigation at the Agency a few years ago brought J.J. and Six together.

They shared a torrid on-again-off-again affair. She was drawn to his mystery, his charm, his sense of humor. Nobody had ever made her laugh more...except Tony perhaps. They shared moments when their souls connected on heights she’d never before allowed herself to reach. And the sex! He did sensuous things to her body that made her shiver at the mere thought. One or two of his moves might be illegal in every state except California and Kentucky. The problem with their relationship? He couldn’t stop living his legend, always undercover. The real Grayson rarely stood up and the legend always lied, so she always itched. Couldn’t stand to be around him except when their time together didn’t involve speaking, which was often, but not often enough. His career and lifestyle forced them onto separate paths. Her path led to sanity, his path led to the land of ill repute. Six’s career consumed him. Somewhere along the line, he lost himself...and so he lost J.J. The break-up was difficult, at least for J.J. Six, on the other hand, possessed an ice-cold resilience when it came to failed relationships. But, all in all, J.J.’s decision to let go was probably the best for both of them. Probably.

She still battled moments of doubt, the instances of which had nearly disappeared unnoticed until…

“His name is Six. And why’s he got to be a douche bag?” She snatched the frame from his hand and replaced it on the shelf. For some time now, she’d been planning to take the damn thing down. But with Tony Snoopers in the house, she’d have to wait until he departed for the evening. She refused to give him a second’s pleasure of thinking that his sneers had any effect on her decision to remove it.

“What kind of name is Six, anyway? His folks hadda give him a name he could spell?” Tony drew the number six in the air with his index finger.

“Ha, ha, ha! You’re so funny. No. He graduated Summa Cum Laude from Princeton. I assure you he has no problems with his spelling,” she said, avoiding an explanation she didn’t want to provide.

“So what’s with the ‘Six’ already?”

“If you must know, Six is a nickname he received because he can bounce a quarter on his six-pack,” she joked, patting her stomach.

Tony rolled his eyes and pretended to vomit. “Oh. I thought it might be his rating in the sack.”

“No. If that’s what it stood for, they’d call him
Ten.
” A pregnant pause followed shortly behind her quip, a testament to the jab’s effectiveness. J.J. kicked off her shoes and squiggled her feet into the plush carpet. “What’s it to you anyway?”

“Hey, it’s your business. I was just askin’.” He carried the trash bag toward the dining room table, ran his finger across the surface, collecting dust along the way. Then he shot her a “bad housekeeper” look, as if she didn’t already know.

“So, how long you been
dating
this. . .
Six
?” he asked, his tone amusingly bitter.

“I’m not, not anymore.”

“Is ‘at right? So what’s his picture still doing on your shelf then?”

“Haven’t had a
chance
to take it down yet.” She avoided his gaze and headed toward the bedroom. “Now, if you’re done with your inquisition, I’m gonna change.”

J.J. closed her bedroom door and flopped back-first on the bed. Her hands smothered her face as she cringed. She knew bringing him to her place would be a mistake, one she realized too late.

She brooded over Six’s picture every day in the first few months following the break-up. Finally, she’d forgotten it was there, that is, until Tony dredged it up. He’d opened an old wound, picked the scab. How long before it healed again? She rolled over, pulled a flask from her nightstand drawer. Two gulps.
Just a little something to take off the edge. That’s all. She glanced at her watch.
Scandal,
her usual evening indulgence, would have to wait. They’d have a long night ahead of them.

She grabbed a can of lemon-fresh furniture spray and returned to the living room. When she approached the table, J.J. could see Tony’s eyes meander down her body, starting from her face and caressing each bend and curve until he glimpsed the pink foot coverings resting on the plush beige carpet. He stifled a chuckle and backed up his chair so she could spray and wipe the table down. “About time you cleaned this place.”

“I’m an FBI agent, not Martha Stewart.”

She shot a puff of lemon-scented spray wax in his direction. He coughed dramatically and fanned his face.

“Now, can I get you a beer before I sit down?”

“Sure,” he responded.

Tony was thirsty, but maybe not so much for the beer. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see him. He drank her in with his eyes as she opened the refrigerator door. After a lingering stare, he diverted his attention to the work at hand. He laid the evidence bag on the table and pulled rubber gloves from his pocket.

She arrived a few moments later. The two long-necked bottles of Yuengling had begun to perspire. She opened the first with her teeth, stunning Tony into silence. He gawked at J.J. as if he’d just witnessed her swinging from a chandelier in a porn flick.

“What? You gotta be The Hulk to open a beer bottle? Get over it.” She placed the bottle in his hand.

He bowed his head in gratitude and tapped the mouth of his bottle against hers. “Salut!”

“Salut!” She smiled weakly. Her knees buckled.

Mmmm,
she mumbled. The touch of Sicily in his voice danced in her ear, sent chills through her body. Her emotions welled within. Suddenly, she was the one who needed to shake him off.

She placed the mouth of the bottle to her lips and drew the cold lager inside, allowing the cool fluid to wash across her tongue. She wished his lips had met hers instead and longed to repeat that moment in the park, but she was more than a little relieved they’d resisted the temptation. “What are we toasting to?” she asked.

“Hmmm. Why don’t we make it to...a productive night.”

•  •  •

Thursday night…

Russell Freeman devoured the dinner cooked by his divine wife, Rayna. She tried to force him to take the night off. No work, no phone calls. But all to no avail. His mind was on the job. He stared at the remnants of his T-bone until his vision blurred.

“Honeeeeey, it’s time to blow out your candle and make a wish,” Rayna sang. Her glowing latte-colored skin almost negated the need for candlelight. Russell had been too distant, too consumed with his mystery case to notice. “Honey? ... Honey? Rayna calling Russ. Is anyone home?”

He snapped out of his daze and forced a smile. He’d been outed in the worst way. “Oh, I’m sorry, baby. My mind was somewhere else.”

She shook her head. Her brilliant smile disappeared behind a look of indifference. “As usual. Now, blow out your candle before I use it to set you on fire.”

He gazed at her, his every expression pleading for her forgiveness. But her unforgiving expression replied, “Go to hell!” Russell let out an uneasy chuckle, smoothed her cheek with his fingertips. “Okay. Okay. Here we go.” He closed his eyes just long enough to make a wish. Then puckered his lips and blew.

She picked up the cutter from the linen table cloth and sliced hard into the mango cake, his favorite. The little things mattered most, and she showed him every day. Oh, he knew she loved him deeply. She was, after all, his high school sweetheart. But after four years of college, three years of law school, fifteen years serving as an FBI agent, twelve years as a federal prosecutor, and seven years as a judge, her patience had worn toilet-paper thin. She’d made no secret of the fact that she longed for the day when he’d belong to her, and only her, once again. Most days, she lived with a ghost, a man home with her in spirit but his mind and body were someplace else.

She slipped a piece of cake on his plate. “It’s about work, right?” she said, filling the empty seat beside him.

“Yeah...you know how it is,” he said, feeling the warmth of her hand rub along his thigh, her signature move. Most days, it would be sufficient to motivate him into the boudoir. At that moment, however, it felt more irritating than stimulating.

“Care to talk about what’s going on?”

Her question was met with silence. Perhaps sensing his reticence, she pulled back.

He exhaled in frustration. Certainly, he wanted to share the details of his day with her but he couldn’t. Most husbands had license to disclose the nine-to-five drudge. Russell’s job was nine-to-infinity, and the specifics were mostly classified national security information.

“I—” he started, preparing to offer yet another excuse for his silence. But she interrupted. He needn’t bother.

“Never mind! I know, I know. If you tell me, you’ll have to kill me.” She shrugged and snapped. “That line’s getting old, Russ. Old and tired like me. Or hadn’t you noticed?”

“Baby…,” He tried to put his arms around her shoulder, but she jerked away and slipped out of the chair.

“I’m exhausted. It’s been a long day,” she said, heading toward the staircase.

“I’m following right behind you.”

She stopped in her tracks and turned to him, her body stiff, the lilt in her voice smothered in venom. “Do me a favor, Russ. Don’t!”

Sadly, Freeman felt more relief than guilt. Off the hook for the night, he let out a frustrated sigh and dropped his face into the palm of his hands. If he didn’t find out who’d been compromising these cases sooner than later, his marriage might meet the same sticky end as the Bureau’s sources.

• • •

Early Friday Morning…

More than two hours later, Tony and J.J. had sifted through everything Karat passed, the massive pile of documents he had smuggled out of the residency before the SVR recalled him to Moscow. He didn’t provide the codes as they had expected, as they had hoped.

No, the material he passed was infinitely more important, of greater valuable than anything they could’ve imagined.

Pages and pages of Xeroxed files, operational files, no doubt slated for encrypted transmission or for transport by diplomatic pouch to Moscow Center.

U.S. military intelligence information reports, CIA communication cables. Pages and pages pilfered from FBI case files and surveillance reports. NSA signals intelligence reports. Defense Intelligence attaché reports. Human intelligence source reports on Russian intelligence officers operating in the United States and abroad. An intelligence disaster as bad as Hanssen and Ames combined.

The sound of J.J.’s heartbeat thumped in her ears, her body tensed. She could feel her veins constrict the flow of blood through her entire panic-stricken body. The compromise wasn’t as bad as they initially thought.