The Seven Year Itch (11 page)

Tony eyed a typewritten sheet of paper and scratched the
faint stubble on his chin. “Now, this one’s interesting. It’s a photocopy of a
typewritten note. Looks like it’s from the source. Check it out.”

He handed the paper to J.J. and she began to read it aloud.

The house we built was
strong but I’m beginning to detect a few cracks in the foundation. They must be
sealed before the entire structure collapses. My best to Mikhaylov. Juliet
Charles. (Solnyshko).

“Solnyshko? What the hell does that mean?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” he said, smirking. “But Lana’s a Russian
speaker. Why don’t we take this to her in the morning and ask? I’m sure she’d
be happy to help.”

J.J.’s expression hardened. “Yeah, right. Over my cold, dead,
maggot-eaten body. I think Sunnie’s a Russian speaker. I’ll ask her.” Sunnie
was one of only two black intelligence analysts within the headquarter-based
counterintelligence organization. Recruited from Howard University, J.J.’s alma
mater, she was the go-to-girl for all analysis. She’d made an art of creating
actionable intelligence, something they could use to build cases, make arrests.
She idolized Condolezza Rice, the only other African-American she knew (living
or dead) who also spoke fluent Russian.

J.J. leaned back in her chair, trying to calm her thoughts. “God
my head is spinning. I don’t think I can process anything else tonight.”

Tony examined the note again, and then looked at J.J. in
frustration. “I hate these cryptic fucking notes. Why can’t people just say,
‘My name is Joe Smith. I work for the FBI and I’m a traitor.”

“A little thing called the Supermax . . . and lethal
injection.”

She yawned long and deep, exhausted from the days
misadventures. Tony succumbed a few seconds later.

“It’s nearly 4 am. Let’s get some sleep and take the package
to the vault late tomorrow afternoon. Then we’ll report it,” J.J. suggested.

“That’s easier said than done,” Tony said. “If we’re right
and the mole has access to the vault, who can we trust?”

Chapter 13

Friday
Morning…

J
ack, blank-faced and disoriented, sat wired to the
computerized polygraph instrument, his pulse beating at an unusually high rate.
He attempted to clear his mind, stare at the white space on the wall in front
of him as his examiner had instructed, but his thoughts refused to be stilled.

Memories raced, replaying visions of the less-than honorable
moments of his life, as a film loop turning over and over again. Such as the
time he stole a candy bar from the local corner store when he was ten and Mr.
Sharma chased him for two blocks. And the times, three times to be exact, that
he cheated on his case studies during his 16 weeks of new agents’ training in
Quantico. And the dozens of times he’d concocted reasons to reassign J.J.’s
cases with no warning or justification in order to boost the subpar career of
the woman he loved. And why could he not shake the memory of the moment he
removed Plotnikov’s file from the cabinet safe without signing the log? Or the
countless nights he engaged in classified pillow talk with Lana, divulging
details of sensitive investigations of which she had no need to know?

The closet-sized room’s stark walls closed in around him. The
perspiration sensors on his digits pinched his fingertips as he gripped the
edge of the arm rest. He tapped the heel of his shoe against the floor tile in
rapid motion. The sound resonated like the timer of his life ticking down to
nothing. Why had his last polygraph been so much easier, so much less painful?
His heart didn’t ram through his chest the last time, not this fast. Not this
hard. Sweat didn’t rain through his pores as if he’d just run the Marine Corps
marathon.

There was only one difference between this day and the
morning of his last exam. A night with her.

Lana
.

He tried to free his mind of negative thoughts pushing their
way through. She adored him as much as he loved her. Perhaps he’d gotten too
excited during their tryst. After all, he could hardly control himself in her
presence. One glance at her supple breasts sent his nature in the fully loaded
and upright position. She’d always been more woman than he could handle. But,
even at his age, he’d welcomed the challenge, the intensity of his desire for
her. He sought to quench his thirst every chance he got, a thirst that could
never be satiated. He couldn’t let her go.

The irony of Jack’s predicament struck him. He was only two
years away from his 57
^th
birthday. Two years away from collecting
his hard-earned retirement and pension. Two more years and he wouldn’t be
subjected to these silly examinations ever again. But two minutes from that
moment, his career might still be over.

•
 
•
 
•

In an adjoining room of equal size and
blandness, they stood in front of the polygraph laptop, the primary and observing
testers, Mike Sullivan and Don Anderson. They were perplexed. The test results
from the four-hour long examination had stunned them into silence, and both of
their faces bore strained expressions.

“Check out his heart rate. The readings run clear off the
charts. His perspiration level is higher than I’ve seen on any human being. And
look at these readings here. He had an especially marked reaction on questions
related to his honesty and whether he’s working on behalf of a foreign
government.”

“Damn. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like this. All
of his ranges are above normal, even his control questions. But you’re right,
the two you noted are especially high. Did he have any kind of medication this
morning? Or take any kind of drugs whatsoever?” Mike tried to give his old
colleague every benefit of the doubt. He and Jack worked together back in the
day. He polygraphed a few of Jack’s sources.

“I reviewed the questionnaire and asked him outright. He said
he didn’t ingest any kind of drugs or vitamins today. Claims all he’s had is
his usual breakfast and coffee,” Don said.

Mike swept the palm of his hand over his face and grabbed his
chin. “I’ve known him for twelve years. Sabinski’s a career agent and only two
years from his retirement. We’d better make damn sure we get this one right.
Let’s look over the results one more time.”

They both examined the charts with microscopic intensity and
then turned to face each other.

“Hate to say it, but looks like we’ve found the mole,” Don
said as he stood to exit the room. Mike followed. “Let’s go talk to him.”

•
 
•
 
•

Jack’s fake smile appeared when Don and Mike
entered the room, put-on like the mouth of a Mr. Potato head. Mike disconnected
the blood pressure monitor and offered Jack a box of tissues to wipe his sweat.

“So, we all done? Feels like I’m in the ICU at Washington
Hospital Center with all these wires coming out of me.” Jack grabbed a couple
from the box and dabbed his brow. “I’d like to get out of here and go grab
something to eat. We’ve been in here a long time.”

Don and Mike stood stoic and expressionless for a moment.
Then each took a seat in his respective chair. “Jack, I’m not sure how to tell
you this,” Don began, “but there’s really no other way. You failed the
examination. I mean, you ‘do to not pass go, do not collect two hundred
dollars’ failed.”

“Me?” he said, each breath labored, his voice strained.
“That’s impossible!” he cried out. He knew. Before they entered the room he
knew. His bold-faced lies were equally ineffective on his conscience. Don had
only confirmed his own suspicions.

“Do you have any
issues
you’d like to discuss? What’s on your mind?”

Jack’s stomach sank; he shifted nervously in his chair and lowered
his gaze. He’d begun living his worst nightmare. Without question, there was a
problem with his polygraph results. Hell, he could feel the surge of anxiety as
he began taking the test.

Even so, Jack’s expression was incredulous. “Do I have any
issues I need to talk about? What the hell could I possibly have to say? Mike’s
here. He and I have known each other for years. Ask him! He knows I’m not
capable of committing treason against my country.”

“Yes, Jack,” Don said, “he told me you’ve known each other
for years, but we’ve got a job to do. Whatever he or I might
believe
is irrelevant in this matter.
You’re having some statistically significant reactions when you answer
questions relating to whether or not you’re working on behalf of a foreign
government.”

“Impossible.”

“Afraid not. Listen, you’ve worked counterintelligence for
thirty-three years. If you were standing here and I was sitting in that seat,
what would you think?”

“I demand a retest!” he barked.

Don let out a long, labored breath. “We can’t test you again
today. We’ve been at this for too long. You need to get some rest, meet with
security, and we can try again in a few days.”

Jack’s eyes widened; his bravado disintegrated as his voice
shriveled. “A few days? No! You have to retest me, tonight,” Jack pleaded.
“Mike, please don’t let me walk outta here with that monkey on my back. How am
I gonna face my unit, my colleagues, with this kind of suspicion? This is my
career we’re talking about. I’m not leaving until you test me again.”

Don stared into Jack’s eyes, studied his expression. “All
right. All right. We’ll go over the questions again and conduct a retest. Just
give me a few minutes to set up the equipment.”

 
Mike led Don out the
door and waited just outside.

“I’ll go ahead and retest him,” Don whispered. “You call Cartwright and
tell him we’ve got a problem. A big one.”

Chapter 14

Friday
Afternoon…

C
hris forked his salad and
glared at her, wondering how he arrived at this place in his life where he
simultaneously dwelled at the gates of heaven and the depths of hell. In his
wildest imaginings he hadn’t planned for his path to take such a dark turn. His
family had money, and he never wanted for anything . . . except love. He
attended the best boarding schools and scored an easy admission to Stanford
University. For years, he’d worked his way into the perfect pedigree, even
though his hard work left him disconnected from those whom he needed most.

When he graduated from college, he flailed in the wind for a
short time, attempted to find his
own
direction. Eventually, he gave in to the burden of his legacy. He followed in
the footsteps of his father and grandfather before him. Both had served as
agents under J. Edgar Hoover in different eras. They could’ve made millions as
attorneys in the private sector, but instead chose to answer a higher calling,
a call to keep this country safe from all enemies, foreign and domestic. Of
course, they couldn’t have been prouder when Chris made his announcement. Three
generations of Johnson G-men—he’d finally started living up to everyone’s
expectations.

But had it really been the life
he
wanted?

Every day, he droned through the motions, accomplished the
minimally acceptable for ten passionless hours a day. Until, that is, he met
his lovely Koshechka. In and out of bed, she loved him with fervor and an
abandon he’d never before known. He’d fallen under her spell and willingly
succumbed. She dominated his thoughts, controlled his mind, and he indulged her
every whim. Chris fulfilled her every demand and then asked what more he could
do, anything to ensure he held onto the love he’d longed for since the day he
could conceive that love existed.

It all began quite innocently. She passed him every now and
again during his lunch breaks downtown. Sometimes she’d smile; once she winked.
He’d been working in the Interstate Theft Unit and wore his boredom and
dissatisfaction like a mask. Her beautiful blue eyes entranced him as he
ordered his daily dark roast at the Au Bon Pain counter, the coffee shop just
across the street from Headquarters. They talked for hours and hours on the
phone that night.

Well, he did most of the talking.

She listened. She supported. She was the first woman truly
interested in him as a person, not “the Agent.” He shared his desires,
thoughts, feelings, and she soaked it in, like an emotional sponge. She empathized
with his every concern, understood him in depths no one had ever explored. When
he told her he’d grown bored of his mind-numbing theft cases, it was she who
suggested he make a career change, pursue something more exciting, like
terrorism or counterintelligence.

“Yes, counterintelligence, you are perfectly suited,” she
said.

And when she purred in his ear a few nights later, he took it
as a sign, a sign that the Russian program might be the right fit. His darling
Koshechka was pleased, and he so loved pleasing her.

Once assigned to the Russian Espionage Unit, he clashed with
Lana, who was nothing like his Koshechka, except for the sex exuded in their
appearances. Lana’s tightly wound brunette bun and conservative spectacles
contradicted her short skirts and revealing silk blouses. Everything above her
neck said business. Everything below, anything but.

He questioned how he could feel like two different people in
their presences. One changed him into the man he’d always dreamed he’d become,
and the other had devolved him into a man he despised. With each passing day,
he realized how deeply into the abyss his life had spiraled.

The bullshit he endured for his Koshechka would make lesser
men insane. In the back of his mind, he realized she’d have to play the same
game with other men of his ilk. Still he hoped he had her heart as she vowed.
His only consolation was the promise of a long life together after the game
ended.

And end soon it would.

After the long morning he’d had with Lana, his heart smiled
with Koshechka. She made angels spread wings, and the sun rise and set around
her. He loved the way her silky blond locks flowed across her shoulders and
into the curve of her back, like a soft, shimmering blanket. Really, he loved
all of her hair colors, like the pink she wore when they played maid and
master, and the red she wore when they played actress and director, and even
the brown she wore when they played agent and spy. But her naturally blond hair
was his favorite.

“I called you last night after I left work. You didn’t
answer,” Chris said with his chest thrust out and a vein protruding through his
forehead. He held his glare steady until she looked up from her salad and
caught his expression.

“No,” she replied, barely blinking. “I didn’t.”

He laid down his fork and clasped his fingers together. This
was no time for mind games. What he wanted, no what he
needed
, was to be reassured. If nothing between them had changed,
he wished to hear the words from her lips.

“Don’t look at me that way. You know I would never do
anything to hurt you if I didn’t have to,” she said. “Jealousy does not become
you my dearest. We should live the rest of our lives stuck in our dead-end jobs
because of your insecurities?” She made no effort to conceal the fact that his
impatience wore thin on her nerves.
   

“No,” he replied. “But you don’t have to enjoy it.”

“You think I enjoy this?” she exclaimed, insulted by the
accusation and annoyed by his insecurity.
“
I
hate it. I hate every second. But if this plan is going to work then I have to
put inconsequential concerns aside and do what I have to do. Otherwise my cover
will be blown and I’ll go to jail. Is that what you want?”

He studied her expression. He just needed one sign, any sign
that she might be lying, but he couldn’t detect any. Maybe he was going crazy,
wouldn’t be the first time. “I’m just glad it’s almost over.”

“Over? What do you mean when you say ‘over’?” she asked.

“Nothing. Nothing at all.” Chris’s voice trailed off, as he
stared at the many tourists passing along Pennsylvania Avenue. He eyed the
fountains encircling the Navy Memorial, his gaze drawn to the American flags
billowing in the wind. He wondered how he could dare set his unworthy feet in
such an honorable place. How could he? Especially when he’d betrayed everything
it stood for. “Since meeting you, I’ve become someone I don’t even recognize
anymore. And when I call and you don’t answer... I—I just had to see you, I
guess.” He reached across the table and ran his finger along the silhouette of
her cheekbone. “I need to know that you and I are okay.”

She grabbed his hand, laid a soft peck into his palm, and
placed it against her cheek. “Don’t you realize how much I love you? I’d do
anything for you, Chris. Anything for our future. Can’t you see that?”

“Sometimes I think I’ve seen too much,” he said, his voice
flat as he recalled her office visits with Jack. “I’m sure I have.”

“Haven’t we all?” She smiled and reached across the table to
stroke his cheek then looked down at her watch. “We really must return to work,
but first let’s discuss a little business. Who’s next? J.J. must’ve identified
her next target by now. Have you heard anything?”

Chris shrugged. “I don’t know anything you don’t already
know, except Jack pulled the plug on her next promotion.”

A satisfied smile seized her expression. Then she noticed
Chris appeared disturbed, distracted. “What’s wrong, my love?”

 
“Guess I’m still
anxious about taking this polygraph on Thursday. No way in hell I’ll pass.”
Chris glanced at his watch then sunk deep into his own thoughts.

“You scared?” she asked.

He didn’t hear her. He couldn’t. For the first time fear
distracted him more than her charms. “Sabinski still hadn’t returned to the
office when I left.” The vacant, far off expression vanished a moment later.
“His poly is probably going as well as mine will.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

He shrugged.

“Look at me,” she waited for him to turn to her. “You can do
it. You have to.”

He turned away, dragged his gaze across the room and locked
in on an older gentleman with a square jaw and weathered skin who reminded him
so much of his grandfather. A sudden wave of guilt tugged at his conscience.
What would he say if he knew?
Chris
thought. “I don’t know if I can do this anymore. Maybe I should―”

“No!” she cut him off abruptly. “You must an end to this weak
thinking. I-I couldn’t let you do it.”

“Maybe
you
don’t have
a choice anymore,” he warned.

She couldn’t sway him, so she sunk into her own thoughts for
a few moments before saying, “I can help you if you let me. There’s a better
way.”

Emotionally defeated, he shook his head. “A better way?
Better than what? More…of this?” he asked, doubt still clouding his expression.

“We can teach you simple techniques so that you can beat the
exam. Or at least get an inconclusive finding. We’ve done it before, we can do
it again.”

“In three days?”

“Two,” she replied.

“I see.” His eyebrow rose. He appeared more skeptical than
assured.

“Dearest, I love you, and I want to spend the rest of my life
with you. Trust me, okay. Just trust me. If you go down, I go down. You don’t
want that for me, do you? Or for…
our baby
?”

He appeared dazed and his voice rose an octave. “Baby? You
mean you’re...”

She nodded yes, her cheeks flush with happy tears. “That’s
why I asked you here today.”

Chris forced a half smile, part elated and part doubting the
baby was even his.

•
 
•
 
•

Early
Friday Afternoon…

Neighbors peered out their windows, watching
seven black, unmarked sedans screech around the corner a short distance from
Jack’s house. Moments later, the passengers padded across the driveway, a dozen
Agents wearing navy blue raid jackets with “FBI” emblazoned in golden yellow
letters. Plastic gloves and evidence kits filled their hands.

The front door was locked so they broke out a window panel
and entered Sabinski’s house on orders from Cartwright. “If an ant shit in
Sabinski’s house, you better find it!” Thanks to Freeman, who, on Cartwright’s
request, called in a favor with a judge, they received an expedited warrant.
The agents scattered throughout the house, carefully examined every crack and
crevice for evidence, anything indicating Jack cooperated with the Russians.
The allegations were incontrovertible. The assumptions of guilt evident. But
their mere presence at his home, not even a two hours after he’d miserably
failed his poly, was a clear indictment.

A new agent on the evidence team trekked down a darkened
staircase to the basement, the air musky and humid. He reached up for a pull
cord hanging at the base of the stairs and yanked, shook his head when the
lights revealed the disheveled chaos brewing in the bowels of his house. Jack,
an extreme packrat, had saved dusty boxes overflowing with old magazines,
including an extensive collection of
Playboy
.
Judging from the sheer volume, he’d probably been saving them since his teenage
jerk-off days. Just beyond one stack of boxes he noticed a light in a back
room. He waded through the mounds of junk until he arrived at the security
door. The pad lock was open, hadn’t been returned to the secure position. He
pushed the door forward to find a neatly organized office area.

Metal shelves loaded with old paint cans lined the walls, the
labels had been alphabetized and were perfectly aligned. The paneled floor felt
spongy beneath his feet. But the space was too tidy, not a thing out of place,
not a speck of dust. With the OCD-like organization, the room was a stark
contrast to the rest of his home. The agent grew suspicious. What was so
special about this room? Especially when the rest of the basement was a pit? He
walked over to the large wooden desk, opened the drawer with his gloved hand,
and grabbed an assortment of items as his mind flashed back to his
counterintelligence instructor at the Quantico.

Bingo!

He pulled his radio from the pristine leather holder on his belt and
yelled, “Get down here in the basement. I’ve got something.”