The Bigot List: (A J.J. McCall Novel) (24 page)

“Guess they gave up waiting,” J.J. said, scanning the lot. “But Jake’s still here. We should go get him.”

“Just let it go,” Tony said to J.J. “We’ll see him back at H-Q in a few minutes. Let’s get outta here.”

J.J. grabbed her cell phone from the glove compartment and checked for Dmitriyev’s text.

“Anything yet?”

“Nothing,” she glanced at her watch, “but we’ve still got a little time.” She slipped into the passenger seat.

Tony took the driver’s seat and started the ignition. “Let’s just hope time doesn’t run out.”

C
hris’s gut wrenched. Part of him felt relieved the operation was over, yet deep in the conscience he’d longed suppressed, he’d almost wished J.J. was as smart as her reputation purported, that she could’ve rolled him up and freed him from his hell. He’d grown tired of always looking over his shoulder waiting for his colleagues in raid jackets to corner and arrest him. But he’d gotten away. He’d made another drop. His fear shifted to the hope that the information was valuable, some of the most damaging he’d ever provided. The Russians would pay him handsomely enough to set up him and Koshechka for a long time.

He pulled into the parking lot adjacent to the FBI’s offsite polygraph location off Pennsylvania Avenue, stepped onto the cobbled sidewalk. The jitters kicked in. He couldn’t pull his nerves together. Sweat poured as from a hooker in church on communion Sunday. Too late to confess his sins now. His throat tightened. But he swallowed hard and proceeded with the plan. They told him he could beat it, evidenced by the test runs he passed with flying colors. But he started to talk himself out of success, told himself he couldn’t beat the polygraph unless Jesus himself sat in the chair and took the test in his place.

The closer he got to the entrance door, the more his pores rained. He appeared as if he’d just stepped out of hell’s sauna—the fiery furnace in which his conscienceless soul may be destined to rest by the time the day was over. But his Koshechka depended on him, and the new baby too. So he dug somewhere down deep in his core and scrounged the courage to man up and move forward with the plan. She was right, they had a lot of money, but not nearly enough. Certainly too little to last them the rest of their lives and they’d be on the run for at least that long. Another cool million and they could sever their ties to the area, move to where they could live modestly, without fear of arrest.

He checked in at the receptionist’s desk and asked for the bathroom key. At the sink moments later, he splashed cool water on his reddened face to reduce his temperature and glared at himself in the mirror. The reflection sickened him. He’d sacrificed his life, his entire being, for the love of Koshechka. After all was said and done, he wondered if she’d ever be worth the steep price he’d paid.

Chris yanked a paper towel from the dispenser and dabbed it under each arm. It soaked in seconds. He was desperate for a shot of something 80-proof or higher. But ingesting anything except water would all but ensure his failure. He wouldn’t make it past the pretest questioning. No, if he was going to fail, he wanted to do so going down in a blaze of duplicitous fire.

“Mr. Johnson?” Mike said as he re-entered the reception area.

Chris nodded his head and offered his damp hand. “Yes. I’m Chris. I’m here for the test this morning.”

Mike clasped and shook hands with Chris, then wiped the dampness on his pant leg. “Everybody’s always nervous, but this should go smoothly. You’ve got nothing to be worried about, unless, of course, you’ve been spying for the Russians. In that case, this will feel just south of hell,” he joked.

Chris longingly eyed the exit as his mouth exposed a sheepish grin. “Ha, ha!” he chuckled. “That’s a good one.”

“Polygraph humor,” Mike said. “Right this way.”

During the hour-long pretest interview, Chris answered everything as Koshechka taught him. Then Mike escorted him into a small room. Beside the table with the polygraph laptop sat a disturbing chair, the electric chair’s baby cousin. Once seated, Mike strapped the larger of the white belts around Chris’s torso to monitor his heart rate. The blood pressure monitor placed on his arm tightened moments later. A pair metal sensors resting on the table’s edge were attached to his fingers. They monitored his perspiration levels. Soaked from the start, Chris  thanked the heavens that sweat alone did not determine one’s guilt or innocence. He would’ve failed the test before they flipped the switch. A second polygrapher, an observer, sat cloaked behind one-way glass. Chris stared at his reflection and allowed his mind to drift off, which relaxed him for a few moments. Then he shook his head to bring himself back to reality.

After taking a moment to explain testing procedures, Mike stepped out of the room, warning Chris that the exam would begin when he returned. His hands trembled on the chair arms as he stared blankly, trying to calm himself, clear his mind. Eventually, he fixed his mind on the vision of his Koshechka, imagined laying his head against her round belly as the baby pressed his little feet against Chris’s cheek.

When Mike re-entered the room, Chris faced the ceiling as if waiting for the answer to his prayers to drop out of the light fixture.

“Are you ready?” Mike asked.

Chris was too tense to speak, so he nodded.

“Great. Let’s get started.”

Don and Mike sat in a state of utter confusion. They examined the result charts, four hours’ worth, periodically glancing at Chris through the one-way glass and then again at one another.

“I’m curious to hear your thoughts, Mike,” Don said. “I don’t mind telling you, something isn’t adding up.”

“I agree,” Mike said, scanning the readings. “Look here at the control questions. These are the readings for all of the counterintelligence issues,” he said pointing to the specific areas of concern. “But look at him,” Mike said as they watched Chris crumble over the edge of his seat. “And did you see his heart rate? It was almost off the charts...but consistently so.”

“I know,” Don said. “I mean, the results are obvious.”

“Yes, they are,” Mike added. “He passed. His readings are high, but he passed.”

“But something’s definitely off.”

“Before we give him his results, I say we just talk to him for a minute and see what he has to say.”

“Yeah, that’s a good idea. And if I were you, I’d take the minimalist approach,” Don said. “The less said, the better.”

They returned to the room, solemn and bearing emotionless expressions. Each had perfected the poker face. Don leaned against the wall while Mike returned to his seat behind the laptop.

Overheated, Chris’s gaze ping-ponged, shifting back and forth between the two. His face reddened as he stared down at his feet. He grew quiet, lost in his guilt. Their expressions told him everything he needed to know. He’d nailed his coffin. He rubbed his hands up and down his pant legs and broke eye contact.

“Is there anything you’d like to tell us before we provide you some feedback on your results?”

“I failed, right?” He grabbed his forehead, hunched his shoulders and mumbled, “I told her it wouldn’t work.”

Don folded his arms across his chest and shot a glance at Mike,  acknowledging both of their suspicions. “Uhhh...you told
who what
wouldn’t work?”

Early Thursday Morning…

“C
omrade Aleksey!” Igor barked. “Come with us!”

Dmitriyev stayed close to his desk the entire morning, waiting for Golikov’s people to return with the drop. As the line chief, he knew they’d need his assistance in verifying the information as they were more thug than sophisticated operatives. They’d have little idea how to gauge the value of the source’s intelligence. But their stark, cold expressions concerned him. Perhaps, J.J. had not made the drop. Maybe the operation had been compromised.

Even though he feared he was walking to his death, he gravely followed them down the long darkened corridor which led to the secure facility, thinking of all the people he wished he could say goodbye to, wondering what his final words would be. They occupied the “interview” room, the same room where they had only days ago interrogated Vorobyev, the floor was still stained with the remnants of Stan’s beating. They allowed Dmitriyev to enter first.

He balled his fists tight, prepared to defend himself if attacked from behind and determined to go down fighting until the end. The sound of blood coursing through his veins loudened. He quickly scuttled to the back of the room and took a seat within close proximity to a fire extinguisher hanging in the corner.

The door slammed shut. Igor and Aleksey took their seats. They stared at him, malice colored every expression.

“You understand why we’ve asked you here today, right?” Vasiliy asked, his scowl unflinching.

Dmitriyev nodded and said nothing.

Igor reached beneath the table.

This is it!
Dmitriyev thought to himself. The faint sound of plastic rumbled beneath. Maybe they’d planned to suffocate him. That was well within the KGB’s stable of execution methods.

Dmitriyev watched and prayed, bracing himself for their wrath. 

Igor’s hand emerged, finally. Dmitriyev gasped before he noticed the duct taped package in his hand. Igor stripped the tape from the edges  and removed the contents, a stack of papers.

“We need you to take a look at this information and assess its worth,” Igor said as he pushed the papers across the table.

Aleksey steadied his trembling hand as he reached across the table to grab the contents. He slowly and deliberately thumbed through each page, examining each page for information that would save his brother and friend. Several minutes passed before he spoke.

“Hmph. A wide variety of material, similar to what the source usually provides, but this Karat case is interesting. If I’m not mistaken, he has provided the entire FBI file from the case’s inception until a few days ago—this is rare, very rare. Based on the latest communication, it appears as if the FBI was unaware that Plotnikov was a code clerk. They thought he was a clean diplomat working the missile defense problem.”

“Stupid Americans!” Igor said, laughing from his belly.

Vasiliy sat pensively and listened.

“And you see the dates on these cables?” he said, holding them up to face his colleagues. “These cannot be falsified. They are system generated, so these appear to be valid documents.”

Igor looked at Vasiliy who frowned.

On the underside of the stack he found an envelope, a letter…the letter.

“Did you see this?” Dmitriyev said, holding the typewritten envelope up for both to view. “This appears to be some kind of communication from
the asset
.”

Aleksey carefully slipped his thumb into the gap at the opening and tore through the seam. He removed the lone sheet of paper and read it to himself.

After a moment passed, he cocked his head to the side as he handed the envelope’s contents to Vasiliy. “It seems we have two new developments,” Aleksey said.

Vasiliy quickly reviewed the letter, which indicated the mole had, in fact, been mistaken in implicating Vorobyev. He scratched his head, as his brow furrowed. “This is indeed a...
developmen
t as you say. Could this be true?”

“I don’t know,” Aleksey said, trying not to oversell. “What I can offer is that this letter is written in a manner consistent with the others we’ve received from him in the past.”

“I see.” Vasiliy passed the contents to Igor, who glazed over the document. Then they eyed each other as the significance sunk in.

“I can’t tell you how to act in this situation, as that is between you and your boss,” Aleksey said. “But it seems to me, if we had enough confidence in the source to condemn Comrades Vorobyev and Plotnikov, we must be equally resolute in exonerating them. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Igor and Vasiliy glanced at each other again, both knowing.

“Go.” Vasiliy said to Igor. “I will call Golikov and inform him of this Karat case. He will be anxious to know.”

Dmitriyev’s gaze followed Igor out the door, the tension released in his shoulders. He could finally relax, at least for the moment. He only hoped J.J. would be successful in identifying the mole before he himself became the next victim of Golikov’s heavy-handed justice.

•  •  •

“That’s the last one,” Vorobyev said to himself, sealing the envelope containing his final letter to his wife and children. He hoped someday they would understand why such drastic measures were necessary.

He’d spent the entire night reviewing his personal papers to ensure there was nothing Golikov’s people could twist into their sadistic lies or exploit in a smear campaign to damage his post mortem reputation. His family would suffer enough. He couldn’t bear to leave any business unfinished that might cause them additional pain.

Vorobyev dressed himself in his favorite black suit, the one his wife had picked out for him during his tour in Italy many years ago. Told him he was too good for the cheap suits he usually bought for work; his position required a proper suit fit for a man representing his country. And he felt like a king every time he dressed in her gift to him. His life, his love, his dearest, his Marina.

He meandered around until he reached his bedroom, then collapsed onto his mattress back first and stared at the ceiling.

Within seconds, he realized he didn’t want a cold, blank wall to be his last memory.

On his dresser stood the photos of all his family and friends in happier times. He collected each, arranged them on his nightstand, and then reached under the pillow and wrapped his hand around the cool, steel grip. He fixed his finger on the trigger and rolled his feet onto the bed, facing everyone he held near and dear. Tears trickled down his cheeks as he pressed the barrel hard against his temple. He took one last look and slowly pulled the trigger.

“God . . . have mercy on my soul.”

Bam! Bam! Bam!

The loud knock startled him. He bolted upright, slipped the gun underneath his pillow, and eased toward the door. Had to be Golikov’s people. No one else would be allowed to consort with an accused and, for all intents and purposes, convicted spy.

“Yeeees?” Vorobyev called out from the end of the hall.

“It’s Igor. Open the door!”

“Just a moment,” Vorobyev yelled, scrambling to get out of his suit.  “One minute. I’m not properly dressed.”

He dashed back into the bedroom and threw off his clothes until down to his T-shirt and slacks. Pulling the sheets back, he messed up the bed as if he’d been sleeping, just in case Igor decided to nose around. Then he paced to the door and turned the doorknob.

“Igor?” Vorobyev asked, leaving only a slight opening.

“I need to speak with you for a moment. It’s urgent. Let me inside.”

Vorobyev nodded, stepped back, and allowed Igor to push his way through. He could do nothing but shake his head in disgust at the disrespect from this younger generation.

“What is it? What have you to accuse me of now? Or is high treason insufficient?”

Igor made himself comfortable on the couch. “Well, it seems today is your lucky day.”

“My lucky day? What do you mean?” he said, his mind flashing back to moments ago when he held a gun to his head, preparing to pull the trigger.

“Turns out our source was fed some bad information. It was a provocation. As a result, you have been cleared of all charges.”

“What? I...I don’t understand.” Vorobyev gasped and his knees wavered as the reality set in. He’d lost all hope for any kind of miracle. He caught his balance and then stood erect.

“You will return home a free man,” Igor said as if he had any idea about what freedom was.

Vorobyev smirked. “Free you say? You falsely accuse me. You beat me like a dog. You imprison me in my own home,” he growled, jabbing his fist into the air. “After everything you have put me through. What is free? No. I’m
innocent.
I’m not
free
.”

Igor, stunned by Vorobyev’s insolence, could not find the words to retort, so he stood to leave. “I’ve said what I came to say.” He made his way to the door and gripped the doorknob. He and Vorobyev never broke eye contact.

“Mhm hmm. You be careful.” Vorobyev offered his final words. “If Golikov did this to me, he could do it to anyone, including you.”

•  •  •

Back at FBI Headquarters

“Hey Sam, where’s Sunnie?” J.J. asked Samantha Monroe, one of the newer agents in her office and the only other female apart from Lana. She certainly looked the agent part in her pin-sharp pantsuits, but J.J. hadn’t worked with her long enough to form any real opinion of her professionalism.

“She was just here a minute ago,” she said, craning her neck around Sunnie’s partition which was adjacent to her own. “She may have run up to the cafeteria. I think it’s snack time.”

J.J. glanced at her watch and then turned to Tony. “Yeah, she’s right. We should probably head upstairs.”

Sunnie, one of the best analysts in the Bureau’s cadre, was the color of a milk chocolate Lindor truffle, and with her short crop, silky weave, or swaying braids, every day was a hair adventure. Her flamboyant, colorful dress was equally creative. She fed her not-quite-plus-sized curves frequently, never met a snack she didn’t like. Neither J.J. nor Tony had ever seen her eat a full meal; she just grazed all day.

They entered Sunnie’s happy place and saw her hovering around the salad bar, carefully scrutinizing every piece of fruit before loading them into her Styrofoam container. Sunnie peered up in time to see J.J. and Tony approaching and appeared none too pleased.

“Is it too late to run?” she deadpanned. “What do you two want?”

“There’s our favorite analyst!” Tony said with almost too much enthusiasm. Sunnie’s bullshit detector rivaled J.J.’s and she could spot it coming a mile away.

“Save it for your partner,” Sunnie said. “Now what can I do you for?”

J.J. eyed Tony askance. “Anyway. We need you to run down some information for us.”

“What information?” she asked, holding up a piece of fruit in tongs. “Does this pineapple look okay to you? I think I saw it here last week.” She threw it back into the container and continued to dig.

“We need you to work your magic and get us access to the personnel files for everyone on the bigot list...except us and Lana.”

“Personnel files, huh? You know you aren’t allowed to review such information without AD authorization. For me to do so would be breaking Bureau regulations.”

“Bella!” Tony said, laying on the Italian as thick as frozen molasses. The lilt in his voice nearly lulled Sunnie into a hypnotic state. “Ho bisogno di andare in bagna prego,” he pleaded, batting his lashes as he begged like a puppy dog.

Sunnie’s mouth fell open. She nearly salivated, while J.J. stared blankly at them both.

“What did he say?” she asked, still swooning, dazed by the sound of his voice.

J.J. cranked her neck. “Does it matter?”

Tony narrowed his eyes at J.J. then shifted them toward Sunnie. He needed her help, not her attitude.

“I said you are so beautiful and begged for your help. We thought you could . . . you know, pull some strings with Wendell.” Wendell was the pocket-protector wearing Chief of Filedom—better known as the senior file clerk. He defended his turf as if he was guarding the crown jewels. A recent graduate of Brigham Young University, Wendell was a black Mormon and still a virgin, a regretful state he hoped Sunnie would rescue him from. “You know he’s got a ‘thing’ for you,” Tony said, creating air quotes with his fingers.

She rolled her eyes and resumed her quest. “So, what are you now, my pimp?” Her face was void of expression.

“No . . . no, it’s not even like that. I just—”

“I’m kidding.” She laughed. “Had you going, didn’t I?”

Tony exhaled as J.J. got a chuckle at his expense.

“Of course I’ll help my favorite agent. You too, Tony,” she said. “You’re the only ones in this place who don’t treat me as if I put my brain on layaway.”

“We owe you big time,” J.J. said.

“Yes, you do. And I’ll need a full briefing so I’ll know what the hell I’m looking for,” she said. “But for starters, who’s paying for my snack?”

She jammed her hand in Tony’s face, palm side up.