Spy Catcher: The J.J. McCall Novels (Books 1-3) (The FBI Espionage Series) (84 page)

Chapter 40

Wednesday Afternoon — New York City

Tony seethed in a cloud of repressed fury as J.J. pitched her idea to infiltrate Troika. She agreed the operation required significant risk but the clock was winding down, and the time to debate had passed. She empathized with Tony but, in her view, he sounded like a whole lot of pot calling the kettle black.

“I’m in,” J.J. said, looking around the table. While Manny and Scott and even Gia were cooperative, Tony, on the other hand, buttoned his lips tight and refused to offer a word in assistance. He remained adamant in his opposition to J.J.’s plan even though it was clear she was the only one within the team who could pull it off. The cleaning company, as they found out, was owned by a Jamaican and staffed by black West Indians, brown-skinned like she. Abigail Moncriefe had served as the most trusted nanny of Max Novikov’s New York, white-bred socialite wife. Scott did some checking with his contact at Immigration and found out her status to compel her to cooperate. Turned out they didn’t have to twist her arm too much. She hated the husband, who was abusive to his wife. Although she refused to participate in the op, she offered assistance and a plan to get J.J. inside. To get out, J.J. was on her own.

“I expended a lot of capital getting us in, so we better make sure this op pays dividends,” Scott said.

“I agree,” said J.J., anxious but ready to go. It’d been years since she’d gone undercover. The prospect gave her a rush better than any drug. “So, how are we going to play this? Based on what Misha said, once I get past security it should be a piece of cake. His cousin says the offices are always empty at night by the time the cleaning crew arrives. All I need to do is go in, copy the hard drives and files, and get out.”

“You gotta get out clean or else run the risk of getting Abigail and her entire crew killed.”

Manny handed her a high-capacity flash drive. “When you get inside the office, you stick this inside any USB slot and it’ll clone the drive. Press this red button, the light will flash. That’s how you confirm it’s running. Once the cloning is complete, the light will shut off, and an audible beep will sound. Remove the drive and hit the next office until you get them all.”

“Okay,” J.J. said, walking through the process in her mind, visualizing helped her commit the steps to memory. “Misha’s cousin said the shift lasts two hours, give or take thirty minutes. Should give me plenty of time to get in and out.”

“Do we have a TAC team standing by…in case anything goes wrong?” Tony asked.

“Yeah,” Manny said. “We’ve got them for two hours before they have to cover another operation. So, we don’t have a second to waste.”

After brooding in his feelings, Tony spoke up. “I foresee some problems here. J.J. may look Jamaican, but she sure as hell doesn’t sound Jamaican … and in case you all didn’t get the message, there’s a brand new two million dollar bounty on her head. They know what she looks like. What if someone recognizes her?”

“Tony, trying to convince me not to do this pointless, okay? If I pull this off, do you understand what that means? The people responsible for Jim Cartwright’s death, your brother’s shooting…hell even this contract on my head—they will all pay.

“This network allows sleazy traitors to thrive. We take it down, and we can flush out the rest of the treasonous bastards and lock them up where they can spend the rest of their lives wishing they’d picked our side. Isn’t that what we came here to do?”

“But the contract…”

“Tony, I’m going in wired. We’ve got a TAC team standing by a couple hundred feet away. If anything goes down, I’m covered.”

“What if we’re too late?”

“You won’t be,” J.J. said, barely getting the words out before Tony stormed out of the room and into the nearby stairwell. J.J. excused herself and followed closely on his heels. “Tony, Stop!” she said. “What the hell’s with all this drama? We’re FBI agents. This is our job.”

“You’re not doing this. I forbid it. And if you go through with it, you’re making a choice—and your choice isn’t me, it isn’t our future, it isn’t our life together or our future family—it’s your job!”

J.J.’s eyes welled with tears too fast for her to stop them. She shook her head in disbelief stunned by the overdose of testosterone that took over her boyfriend. “I don’t believe what I’m hearing. I would never ask you to make that choice.”

“Yeah? Well, you wouldn’t have to.”

“Really? I wouldn’t have to?” She twisted her neck ghetto style and waved her finger. “You’re full of shit. Look around you, you hypocrite. Look at where we’re standing…in New York City. You brought your ass here with a contract on your head, if my memory serves me correctly. Do you think I wanted you to come here? Don’t you think I didn’t want you to stay in D.C.?

“But, I pushed aside my fear and selfish desires and embraced my place in this relationship. Which, by the way, is
not
barefoot in a fucking kitchen knee-deep in red sauce or in bed with my ankles above my head. It’s at your side when you want me and right behind your back if you need me.”

“But—”

“No! You knew exactly who I was when we got involved. If my courage is too much for you to handle, if you don’t want to have my back? Fine! You can take your place right next to Six—
in my past
. Now, I have an op to conduct.” 

She stormed away with tears washing down her cheeks, hoping Tony would come to his senses. When only silence filled the space behind her, she remembered a Nietzsche quote she’d heard a long time ago during another low point in her life.

In reality, hope is the worst of all evils because it prolongs man’s torments.

Chapter 41

Wednesday Morning — Russian Embassy, Washington D.C.

Hopper’s request couldn’t be more impossible. Aleksey Dmitriyev wondered how in hell he would convince the Resident to send the SIGINT officer to check the Situation Room listening device on the FBI’s schedule. The op was almost out of his purview with the exception of the one time Komarov asked him to run countersurveillance. Any attempt to influence or interfere with the monitoring would be viewed with strong and immediate suspicion, especially with Filthchenko lurking around, breathing down his neck, and scrutinizing Aleksey’s every move as if his life depended on it. This was one occasion Aleksey feared he couldn’t deliver for J.J. but he would try to think of a way.

As he entered into his office, a voice called out from behind. “Aleksey Yegorovich, come to my office now,” Komarov ordered. “It’s urgent.”

Aleksey rolled his eyes wondering what had gone wrong. Nothing was ever
urgent
if it had gone well. And Komarov had called him by his first and patronymic names which meant either Aleksey was already in trouble or soon to be. He stepped into Komarov’s office as the resident gestured for him to close the door behind him.

Komarov squirmed in his seat, bit his lip, and his chin dipped to his chest.

“This cant’ be good,” Dmitriyev said. “I haven’t seen you antsy since Golikov sent those two peons to watch over us like the bumbling snitches they are.”

Komarov pulled back in his seat and kicked his feet up on the desk. “You mistake me, my friend. My discomfort comes not from what has happened to me, rather from what I must ask of you…again.”

Aleksey braced himself. His gut told him why Komarov had called him into his office and what he’d be asked to do. The only question in his mind was why.

“As you know, Operation RAPTURE has been a key source of valuable intelligence for years. We’ve increased our monitoring schedule from weekly to daily, so we may stay well informed during this period before the stand-down.”

“So, what’s the problem?” Dmitriyev asked.

“The quality of the intelligence. We are certain the device is still in place and operating as normal. But the quality of the intelligence—it’s diminishing. Not in an obvious way. The difference is subtle enough to be missed by someone less experienced. I want to find out why.”

Dmitriyev’s stomach plummeted. He was supposed to bring the problem to Komarov’s attention before he figured it out on his own; he was too late. And probably now under suspicion. “What can I do? Do you want me to review the intelligence to determine its veracity?”

“No,” Komarov said with a grimace. “I must once again order you to risk your cover. Run countersurveillance for Gusin. Look for any signs that the FBI compromised the operation. No other officer in the residency has the necessary experience or capability. And I cannot depend on that sorry excuse for a counterintelligence officer, Filchenko.”

“You gave me your word,” Aleksey said. “This could jeopardize my entire career. If I’m expelled, I’ll never work overseas again.”

“We don’t believe the FBI compromised the operation. And the likelihood that you’ll be caught is practically non-existent. But I’ll warn you about what lies ahead. If we don’t find a problem outside the residency, I must begin my search
inside
.”

“So, the witch hunt begins.”

“Let’s call it a precautionary measure, ordered by a wise man who’s worked in this business for too many years. Okay?”

Aleksey clenched his jaw and stiffened his posture. “This is an order, correct?”

“Complete this mission and I’ll submit you for a commendation.”

Aleksey grunted and stomped off without speaking.

He looked at his watch and calculated Moscow time. The President would be in the Sit Room by
Eight A.M.
delivering the report.

The Moscow operation would take place at
Four P.M.
Eastern time. Midnight in Moscow.

The timing couldn’t be better…or worse.

Chapter 42

Wednesday Evening — New York City

New York nights were a different kind of cold from those in D.C. Maybe it was the proximity to the northern waters, but the chill set into her bones and locked her joints stiff, aging her thirty years in two minutes. J.J. hustled inside the service entrance at Troika past a half-drunken guard watching the door to the housekeeping storage area.

Rather than go undercover inside the cleaning company, they decided to keep the company’s owner and Abigail out of harm’s way. Eventually, the Russians would learn J.J. was an FBI agent posing as cleaning staff; she didn’t want the company associated with her. So, she’d go in alone and claim she’d finished her previous job ahead of schedule and arrived before the rest of the crew. Abigail would have plausible deniability—the Russians had worked against the FBI long enough to recognize such a tactic was well within its bag of tricks.

But Abigail did offer a few words of advice. “Yuh listen to mi,” she said, her accent as thick as buttermilk. “Windows, furniture, vacuum. Inna dat orda. They will step out when ah time to vacuum and yuh will ‘ave a few minutes alone. Kip yuh eyes down. Don’ speak. Do yuh job an’ git de hell outta deh. De Novikov’s don’ leave nuh witnesses. Yuh understand?”

J.J. secured a gun into her ankle holster, just in case, fastened the ties on her smock, and tightened her wavy Chaka Khan wig on her head. Her stomach twisted in knots as she took the elevator up to the third floor of the four-level building; it was the location of Troika Technologies’ executive suites. She patted her pockets to check for the flash drive. It was in place and ready to go.

When she pushed the cart into the lobby area, she was surprised the entire office area was so brightly lit, especially for a building Misha had told Tony would be empty. She suddenly wondered whether she’d chosen the wrong time to trust him. Something inside told her to reverse course, but she pressed on. The cleaning crew had done its job in keeping the spaces pristine. Not a speck of dust to be found on the contemporary office décor framed by bright walls, smoke-colored tinted glass and stainless steel. A smattering of beech wood shelves accented the furnishings. It wasn’t as ornate as she expected except in the darkish marble tiles gilded with gold flecks.

As she jostled the cart through the glass doors and into the reception area, she was startled by the low rumble of Russian-accented basses and tenors emanating from the rear offices. The executives were still at work and the plan to clone the hard drives had gone to shit.

With her head down, she skipped cleaning the lobby and headed straight for the offices. She peered down the hall and spotted every door open. J.J. pushed the cart down to the first doorway. If anyone recognized her, she was dead on sight. A vision of some Andre the Giant looking guy dragging her to the garage in a headlock, throwing her to her knees, and firing a bullet into the back of her head stopped her heart. For a moment, the whisper of a second, she wished she’d listened to Tony. More than that, she wanted him to have her back the way she had his. A sense of loneliness overcame her, but she settled down and proceeded with the plan.

She entered the first office. It belonged Leonid Tenenbaum, Mr. Clean, the legit face of the company. They’d embossed his name on a gold nameplate outside the door, color coordinated with the flecks in the floors. She recognized his hardened mug from his surveillance photo. He had a grill that looked as if he ate steel with his teeth. She walked inside the expansive office, chin to chest, and swiped the duster across the furniture, keeping her distance as far as possible.

“They always start with the windows,” he said, with a slight bark in his voice.

“Ahhh, yes,” she said, drawing from her love of Bob Marley to produce some semblance of a Jamerican accent. Not perfect, but enough to be convincing and keep her alive. “Tanks,” she said.

“You new?”

“Ah, mi first time here,” she said, wiping the windows, leaving streaks. “De rest of de crew is runnin’ behind.”

“Fine,” he grumbled. “Make sure you vacuum under the desk. Dropped my lunch on the floor today,” he ordered before walking out.

J.J. quivered as she fumbled to remove the flash drive from her pocket. Just as she wrapped her fingers around it. He exploded back into the door. Her heart sank.

“Forgot my bathroom key,” he said as he grabbed it from the drawer and paced out as if his bladder was about to burst.

She let out a long breath and shoved the flash drive in the CPU resting on the lower desk shelf. She pressed the button and continued dusting. Shifted her head back and forth as she waited for the light to turn on. Nothing. She waited a little longer. Still nothing. She pressed the button again. And again. Then glanced down at her watch. One more minute and she’d pull it. The light still hadn’t come on. No sooner than the thought flitted through her mind, the door burst open again.

Leonid returned too soon.

If he sat down and noticed the flash drive, she was toast.

“You finished yet?”

She shook her head no, struggling to think of any excuse. As he stepped toward the desk, she looked at her savior and grabbed the vacuum. “Just one moment. I hafti run di vacuum cleaner unda di desk.”

He stopped in his tracks and backed up.

She glanced down. The light sputtered and then disappeared again. Nothing. The fucking flash drive was a bust. Manny would die if she made it out alive.

J.J. found a plug for the vacuum cleaner, shoved it in, and turned it on. As she glared at him from outside the door, she raised her hand, gesturing with her index finger that she’d be one minute. When she closed the door to vacuum behind it, she yanked the empty drive and stuffed it into her smock pocket. The entire op had gone to shit, and now she needed to get out before she got killed.

She pushed the vacuum cleaner across the floor in rapid sweeps. Good thing she did.

“Okay, okay. I have business to do.”

“Sorry, sir. ‘ave a good evenin’.”

She collected her equipment, exited out the door, and returned the vacuum cleaner to its spot. Then she turned to make her escape as fast as she arrived. Before she took a step, a voice called from behind her. “Hey, cleaning lady! I need you here. Now.”

She cursed her misfortune, spun around, and followed the man into the office, pulling her cart in tow. It was Matvey Trifonov. He was a skinny, nervous looking man, with thick gray and black hair and had grown a thin mustache since his surveillance photo. He grabbed the phone, which was off the hook, and returned to his desk when J.J. appeared in the doorway.

“Mi dehyah to clean.”

“Come in!” He waved her inside and spoke in an urgent hush. “Close the door behind you.”

She paced to the windows and started to clean, listening to his whispers as she wiped the glass to a shine.

“He’s here,” he said. “And you damn well better bet he didn’t come all this way to watch them light the tree at Rockefeller Center. You heard what they did to Zory, didn’t you? If they could do that to him, who am I?”

J.J. pretended to clean as she leaned in close to listen.

“No, that Rakov son of a bitch is impulsive. Going off half-cocked because some bitch made him feel like the idiot he is. Max is pissed, but he’d never order that, he’d never support a contract. It’s bad for business. He’s all business.”

Rakov—he was the narcotics courier who J.J. spat on after he fired the N-word. He’s the one who wanted her dead. He must’ve been very convincing when he went crying to the Mashkovs.

Wimp.

J.J.’s eyes met his as he glanced at her. “I can’t leave right now. But I have copies of everything. I’m going to send a courier. You put them into the safe deposit box. If anything happens, you follow the plan. I’ll call you later with the details.”

He paused again and she grabbed the vacuum cleaner handle, waiting for him to end his conversation. He scribbled a note on a pad and told her to plug the vacuum cleaner in the wall. When the motor droned, he leaned forward and whispered in her ear. “Please. I need you to make a delivery for me,” he said, holding up the flash drive in his hand. “I’ll pay you.”

He reached into his pocket and counted out twenty hundred-dollar bills. She shook her head no, filling her expression with fear.

He counted out five-hundred dollars more. She still refused. He made one final offer, counting out ten more. She grabbed the money from his hand and tucked it inside her bra along with his flash drive. “All you need to do is deliver it to this address the second you leave here,” he said, holding a slip of paper with a Brooklyn address. “And leave here as soon as you can.”

“Okay, okay,” she whispered. “I’ll do it.”

He nodded his head before she let herself out. Her mind was frenzied. The moment was surreal. Had what happened, in fact, happened? Had he handed the computer records to her on a silver platter? She promised to go to mass on Sunday and light a candle for a prayer answered. She snapped out of her thoughts and collected her equipment.

The second she pushed the vacuum into the hall, she bumped into an enormous mass of fat and muscle. Even at her 5-feet 10-inches, the man stood so tall she could practically press her nose into his belt buckle standing straight up. She couldn’t see past him to the left or right.

She apologized, stepped back, and caught a glimpse of his face—Pavlov Mashkov. Golikov’s henchman, flesh and evil, blocking her view. The man who had executed her sources, killed them like animals, and mailed their body parts to the American Embassy. The man who’d ordered Dante’s shooting and who’d accepted the contract to carry out her own murder.

A wickedness emanated from his narrowed eyes and dark manner.

His gaze locked onto her face and hovered; he studied her like a   scientist would a specimen, a moment too long for her comfort. The bad wig was her only cover.

“Who are you?” he barked in a deep hollow mutter.

She imagined snatching her gun from the ankle holster and unloading every round in his fat skull. Instead, she said, “Me done cleanin’ now.” She did an about-face and started up the hallway, sucking breath and swallowing hard the entire way.

“Wait, I know you.”

“Me no tink so.” She continued her pace up the hallway.

J.J. couldn’t run. Not fast enough. She needed a way out…and she had to get out clean.

Just as she reached the reception area, her mind flitted, trying devise an escape. Her mind turned to Abigail. The cleaning crew was on the way, and she couldn’t bolt without putting them under immediate suspicion.

If J.J. disappeared, there’d be questions Abby couldn’t answer. No, J.J. needed a legitimate excuse, preferably within the next thirty seconds, before he connected the dots and put a name to her face. A distraction that would not only get her out of the office, but out of the building.

Then she spotted it. A razor. Judging from the pink goo on the blade, they used it to scrape gum. She pretended to return a cleaning cloth to the caddy and held her breath.

This is going to hurt a little bit.

She sliced the blade deep into her finger.

“Ahhh!” she screamed, holding her hand. “Oh no! Cut mi finger.” The slice was deep and painful. His eyes shifted from her face to her finger, the blood dripping on the pristine floors.

“Wrap it….with that!” he said, thrusting his finger toward a white cleaning cloth. “You’re getting blood everywhere.”

She grabbed it and pressed it against the gash in her finger, squeezing tight as blood stains seeped through. “I needa go to duh bawtroom.”

“You need a doctor.”

“Mi car’s outside. Be fasta to drive.”

“Then go,” he said. “Hurry. I’ll have someone take care of the cart.”

The closer J.J. got to the main entrance, the more her smile widened. Her eyes searched for the team, but no one was there. The radio reception must’ve cut off while she was inside. She headed toward the parking lot when a voice called from behind her. A familiar voice.

“J.J…. J.J.,” the man called in a low tone.

She scanned the area until her eyes fixed on a figure in the passenger seat of a sparkling black Mercedes. It was Misha. He stepped out and rushed over to her.

“Misha, what are you doing here?”

“I figured you’d be here tonight. What happened to you?” he asked, looking at the bloody cloth.

“It’s nothing. Just need a couple stitches,” she said, clasping her bloody finger, trying to stifle the flow.

Misha moved close to her, as if trying to whisper in her ear, and in a lightning quick move, he jammed a gun into her gut.

“Give it to me,” he growled through clenched teeth. “Give it to me now or I will kill you right here.”

“Misha? Have you lost your mind?”

After a second of thought, he said, “I’m a businessman. If I return their intelligence and save them from prosecution, I can get enough money to save my family and disappear forever.”

J.J.’s eyes narrowed. “I always knew you were a slithery, two-faced, snake in the grass. Thanks for proving me right you son of a bitch.”

Her first instinct was to fight him with everything in her and make him wish he’d never seen a gun, let alone stuck the revolver into her stomach. But she thought better of it, decided to give him exactly what he asked for. She reached into the smock pocket and handed him the flash drive contained inside. “Here!” She shoved it toward him. “Why give him a flash drive when you could get much more money for turning me over. Sounds like bad business.”