The Seven Year Itch (16 page)

Chapter 23

Late
Sunday Afternoon…

J.J.
stood in line at the Starbuck’s, biting down on her lip
as her pulsed blitzed.
Will he confess
sending Plotnikov to his death? And how in hell will I cover his ass if he
cooperates?
Without a strategy, a pitch would be useless. She wouldn’t be
able to offer him the thing he needed most, the ability to return to the
Embassy without the threat of a recall to Moscow. The pressure was on.
Dmitriyev would be a major score if she got him. No harm, no foul if she
didn’t. After all, no one at Headquarters knew about the opportunity except her
and Tony.

Of all the intelligence officers at the embassy, he had the
fewest vulnerabilities to exploit, up until his arrest. He’d kept his nose
clean, stayed out of trouble, didn’t stand out for any negative reason. Other
than his apparent taste for black prostitutes, his only vice seemed to be a
three-cup a day Venti cafe habit. Prostitute trouble and a recall to Moscow
could not guarantee his cooperation. He might opt to take the hit on the chin,
suffer the humiliation, and accept a desk job at the Center. But the occasion
felt too ripe with opportunity not to give a pitch a shot.

“Venti dark roast, extra hot, please,” J.J. said to the
barista. “Oh, and can I have two small cups with that?”

“Sure, ma’am. Coming right up.”

Piping hot coffee. A necessity. The only things Russians
liked cold were beer and Borscht. Cold coffee wouldn’t tempt this spy,
particularly one trained not to accept food or drink from the likes of the FBI
or CIA. Russian intelligence officers still suffered from Cold War paranoia.
They wouldn’t eat or drink anything for fear they might be drugged with
mind-altering narcotics, truth serum...or French vodka. A refusal of such
offerings was akin flipping an agent the bird, as if to say, “Fuck you, and
your weak American coffee.”

She bought it anyway. If he drank it, she’d know, the way you
know about a good cognac, whether Dmitriyev would trust her enough to
cooperate. Without a single word spoken, he’d offer his services to the FBI.

J.J. grabbed a few sugar packets, jammed them into her
pocket, and high-tailed it over to 3-D. By the time she arrived, Tony would be
finished. Then J.J. would step in and make magic happen.

As soon as she slipped inside her car, it hit her. An idea. A
way to cover Dmitriyev’s ass, an offer he couldn’t refuse. She phoned one of
her reliable U.S. Park Police contacts. Rice McPherson, an auto technician, was
the color of a Chai latte and his hair rice white. She had to cash in on yet
another favor. Thankfully he accepted payments in Redskins’ club seats. She
only hoped he’d be able to come through in such a short time period. It’d be
worth the trouble if Dmitriyev gave her pitch even half of a second thought.

“Mr. Rice, it’s Agent McCall.”

“Well, young lady! Haven’t heard from you in a month of
Sundays. What can I do for you?” he asked.

“I’ve got a big
big
favor to ask. I
need to get a car towed from MPD
 
to the
Russian Embassy. And before it reaches the gate, it
must
be mechanically challenged. Can you get over to 3-D within the
hour?”

“3-D? A little bit out of your jurisdiction, don’t you
think?” he asked. “What kind of seats are we talking about?”

“Front row. Club section. Platinum parking.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so before? Anything for my favorite
FBI Agent. I’m on the way!”

•
 
•
 
•

Tony sauntered out of the interrogation room,
appearing full of himself,
 
overstuffed
with sanctimony. J.J. felt assured all had gone as orchestrated. She peered
inside the interrogation room. Aleksey was inches from death—or at least very
much
wished
he was. He’d devolved
from hung over to dangling on the edge of life by a half a shoestring. “I presume
that look on your face means you got him warmed up for me?”

“Yep. Standard procedure.”

“Listen, before I go inside I need you to do me a favor.”

“What’s ‘at?” Tony asked.

“Tell Malcolm to get a hold of Dmitriyev’s cell phone. We
need to drain the battery. If we’re lucky it’ll be an iPhone, and it won’t take
too long.”

Tony’s eyebrows scrunched together leaving deep creases in
his forehead. “Okay,” he said, noticeably confused. “If you say so.”

“Trust me.”

J.J. strolled in the interrogation room, smiling her usual
smile.
 
Dmitriyev eyed the steam rising from
the lid of the Venti Starbuck’s cup. She placed the cup holder on the table,
alongside the two extra cups the barista kindly supplied. J.J. eyed him as she
turned the cups’ opening toward Dmitriyev to allow him to inspect inside. Then
she sat the two cups on the table and poured coffee into both. After resorting
to an infantile game of
Eenie
Meenie
Miney
Moe
to select her cup, she took a short sip of
the steaming java, just to reassure him his drink was safe. On edge, she
watched for any gesture, motion, or sign that the cup would meet his lips.
There were none. Of course he’d make the visit harder than it had to be. It was
the Russian way.

She pushed the second cup toward him, careful to maintain a
respectful distance. “Thought you could use this. I brought you some cream and
sugar, but based on your newly discovered preferences, I thought you’d prefer
it
black
.” A slight smile lifted the
corners of her lips.

His face scrunched, perhaps her joke was ill-timed. He
responded with defiant silence.

“Okay. Don’t say I didn’t ask.”

J.J. waited, stared at his face. It was six shades of green,
propped up by a shaky hand on the table's edge, his body slightly bowled over.
She tilted her head in empathy. “Umph. Perhaps you’d prefer a cyanide capsule.”

He managed a slight grin but his silence remained unbroken.
A
 
window of opportunity? Now it was time
to convince him that she was there for him, on his side. And what better foe to
unite against than Tony.

“So. I heard Agent Donato gave you a hard time,” she said,
her voice thick with Guido. “Sorry about that. Fucking Italians. Whadaya gonna
do?”

Aleksey chuckled again but still refused the coffee. J.J. was
on notice. She hadn’t charmed him quite yet. Although she wasn’t ready to start
the routine, his insolence forced her hand. She pulled her credentials from her
jacket pocket and flipped them open.

“Do you know who I am?”

He nodded. “No introduction necessary. I know you who you
are. And I know what you’ve been doing.”

J.J. grew uneasy. She drew back and tugged at her shirt
sleeve when her thoughts turned to Plotnikov. Dmitriyev was
counterintelligence. Had he turned over Viktor to Golikov? Even more
troublesome was the fact that his statement failed to make her skin prickle. He
knew something she wasn’t aware of. At the same time, she knew Malcolm found
her card was in his wallet; he was still unaware of that little fact.

She gazed at him curiously. “Is that so? May I ask how you
think
you know me?”

“You may ask,” he responded calmly, too cool for someone in
his predicament. His was not the behavior of a man facing a humiliating recall
to Moscow and an inevitable grilling by Golikov’s people. No, he was crazy or
fearless. J.J. suspected the latter. She only needed to figure out from where
he’d derived his courage.

They sat in silence, stared at one another, the way you look
at a lottery ticket before the numbers are called, each hoping the other would
pay off. The difference was she was on her own turf. She hadn’t disappeared
from her residency the day before. And she wouldn’t have to face the security
officer...and potentially Golikov. J.J. had the upper hand no matter what game
he played. Still, the stalemate could go on all day. J.J. decided to feign
impatience in order to force his hand, throw him off his game.

She sat forward and folded her arms on the table. The time
had come to cut out the small talk and get down to brass tacks. “Listen, my
time is valuable, and I’ve got more important work to do. I’m here to offer you
some assistance with your, shall we say . . .
predicament
?”

“Oh, so this is what you Americans call it? Assistance? In
Russia, we call it blackmail.”

“I beg to differ. In Russia, you call it standard business
practice.”

“Is there a point to this, Agent McCall?” he said, his voice
short, terse.

She chuckled and wagged her finger. “I know what you must
think. But unlike some in my profession, I don’t believe in blackmailing those
whom I hope to someday call friend. Somehow seems counterproductive to
developing a trusting relationship,” she said, intently watching his
expression. “So we’re clear, I’m offering my assistance whether or not you
choose to cooperate with me.”

J.J.’s remark stunned Dmitriyev. His face contorted briefly
but he regained his composure almost as fast.

“What’s in it for you? Sounds like
bad business
to me.”

“If you choose not to speak with me? Nothing. It’s never bad
business to treat people with decency and respect,” she said. “Now, according
to my watch, you should’ve returned to the embassy...ohhhhhh, about
fifteen hours
ago. I’m sure Stan and
Golikov’s people will be anxious to speak with you when you return. On the
other hand, I’ve got all day. It’s your ball to play, Mr. Dmitriyev.”

He leaned back and folded his arms across his chest, studied
her
 
expression, and waited for a flinch.
In fact, she yawned. Little did he know,
flinch
was not in J.J.’s vocabulary.

Her expression didn’t crack. She maintained her stance a few
seconds longer and then prepared to concede for the moment. If he wanted to
cooperate with her later, he had her business card.

“Okay. Well. While Agent Donato was speaking with you, I
arranged for a U.S. Park Police tow truck to take your now malfunctioning
vehicle back to your embassy, and we’ve drained your cell phone battery. Now,
you have an excuse for not returning or checking in.”

Dmitriyev sat forward in his seat, appearing intrigued and
mildly impressed...or amused. She couldn’t quite discern which.

J.J. continued. “Just tell your security officer you were doing
whatever Russian officers do in the middle of the woods—checking a signal or
something—and you had car trouble, after your cell phone died of course.
They’ll see the park police, and my buddy Rice will make it all legit.”

She twice patted her hand on the table and stood to leave.
“Well, since it appears we’re finished here, I’ll be in on my way. I’d wish you
good luck on the rest of your tour but that would be bad for Bureau business.
So, I’ll just bid you adieu.”

She looked into the one-way glass and signaled Malcolm to
open the door. When she placed her hand on the doorknob, Dmitriyev called out,
“Agent McCall.”

J.J. turned toward him and huffed impatiently. “Yes, sir?”

Dmitriyev smiled and grabbed the coffee cup. Before she
could
 
inhale her next breath, he took a
sip from the cup she’d poured earlier, and returned it to the table.

She shot him a sidelong glance, her lips parted slightly. Was
he toying with her or signaling his readiness to cooperate? She remained
silent, waiting on him to say more. When her diminished patience was met with
silence, she again turned to leave. His voice rumbled. “By the way, did you
enjoy your reading the night before last?”

“My reading?” she asked, realizing seconds later he was
referring to the day she and Tony retrieved
Karat
’s
drop.

Before she could temper her reaction, she turned to him, her
eyes and mouth opened wide and she hissed,
 
“
You,”

“We have a saying in my country,” Dmitriyev said. “The enemy
of my enemy is my friend. Hello, friend.”

Chapter 24

F
or the second time in
almost as many years, J.J. had slipped and fallen into a Russian intelligence
treasure trove. It made perfect sense. The embassy would never suspect a code
clerk of working with American intelligence. As the counterintelligence
operational line chief, Dmitriyev had some, if not limited, access to American
sources. Plotnikov wasn’t passing the documents,
Dmitriyev
was. Plotnikov was merely a cut-out.

But still, the pairing was highly unusual. There was more to
their story than the surface revealed. The truth was hers to find.

Her only plan for the day had been to pitch him. All of a
sudden, she was conducting an initial debrief. No time to get him to a safe
house. She’d need to elicit as much information from him as possible—in less
than an hour—so he could return and avoid more suspicion regarding his
whereabouts.

J.J. excused herself from the interrogation room before the
briefing began.

Strategy. What’s my
strategy?

As a counterintelligence officer, his bona fides were solid,
and he had a year left on his visa, a visa that could be extended if the FBI
could help him appear productive. His cooperation would deal a significant blow
to his service’s operations in Washington D.C., New York, and perhaps even San
Francisco. But she must find out the source of his motivation, and eliciting
personal information from counterintelligence officers was akin to milking a
cow for peanut butter.

Tony would know what to do. He greeted her in the hall with
Malcolm just a few steps behind.

“Hey Bro, I need a favor. Find me a digital recorder. You
guys must have one around here somewhere,” she requested.

“Hmmm...yeah, I think so. I’ll check with one of the duty
officers,” he said, trotting down the hall. She and Tony watched him until he
was out of earshot.

 
“Well, this is an
amazing turn of events, wouldn’t you say?” J.J. said.

“I know, right? Certainly explains how
Karat
got the intel and made the drop
before he left.”

“He had help from the line chief.”

“Yeah,” she said, heading for the door, waiting for Tony to
follow behind. “You don’t want to sit in on the debriefing? I mean, even though
your heart’s not in this one, this is
our
case.”

“No, no. You got this. Besides, I don’t want to spook him.
He’s got to be pretty concerned about his security,” Tony said. “I’m just gonna
run out and get more coffee and cigarettes. They help loosen the tongue.”

She flashed a comforted smile. “You’re the best. By the way,
I need a portable bat phone from the backpack. Just in case.”

“You got it,” he said. “And if I could offer one piece of
advice, don’t over think this one J.J. He wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t ready
to talk. Just let him talk.”

•
 
•
 
•

Malcolm switched J.J. and Dmitriyev from the
interrogation area to a small, more comfortable conference space with a
circular table, a few chairs, and a view. Dmitriyev’s eyes brightened when he
saw the gifts J.J. bore. Now, a dense smoke filtered the sun rays that shone
through the window. Welling with anticipation, she sat down and rested a
digital recorder in the center of the table, as he chain smoked cigarettes. She
could feel the cancer building on her lungs. The smokeless ashtray she had
purchased years ago for such purposes had been rendered all but completely useless.
No more time to get ready. It was time to get done. She had dispensed with the
pleasantries and eased him into the conversation about
Karat
.

“So, my brother Malcolm tells me you’ve been formally
introduced to Leona.”

He smirked, inhaled a long drag from his cigarette, the smoke
swirling about his lips and the wisps vanishing into air.

“You mean
Leon
? It
was like scene from
Crying Game
,” he
joked, exaggerating his Russian accent. “There’s not enough vodka in Russia to
force the memory of that godforsaken moment from my mind.”

J.J. laughed, surprised at Dmitriyev’s sense of humor. She
glanced at her watch. Time was passing by too quickly and the longer they
talked, the more she feared for his security.

“So back to Plotnikov. Earlier you mentioned you and he are
very close.”

“Viktor’s and my father served in the KGB together. First
Department, First Chief Directorate. They were both stationed in London until
an MI-6 officer defected and falsely claimed Sergey, Viktor’s father, was
passing information to them. After a show trial, he was tortured and killed.
Then my own father came under heavy scrutiny. Our lives were never again the
same.”

“Ahhhh, so this is the reason you both decided work with the
Bureau. But how did you both come to work for Russian intelligence, especially
after what happened to your parents?” She knew the answer of course, but she
wanted to ensure their stories matched up.

“In another ironic turn of events, our fathers were
exonerated by the one of two big U.S. spies. I can’t be certain which but the
information was credible. Both had collaborated with the MI-6 defector and
confirmed that our fathers had not been recruited by the American or British
security services,” he said. “The KGB would never admit such a mistake. Ever.
But when we applied to the Foreign Language Institute we were accepted
immediately. Exemplary students, we were recruited by the KGB just before the
break-up and offered premier assignments.”

“I see. Is Viktor okay? I mean, they didn’t—”

“I don’t know,” he said with a shrug. “Haven’t heard from him
since he left. According to the rumors, Golikov thought the FBI was
blackmailing him over the shoplifting and feared he was prepared to pass
codes.”

J.J. shuddered inside but tried to maintain her cool
exterior.

“He’s been detained. And if we don’t clear his name, and I
mean soon, Golikov will murder him with or without sufficient evidence,”
Dmitriyev urged, his forehead creased with worry. “He’s my brother and the only
family I have left. He said he could count on you, that you keep your promises.
And I know that if you were the mole, he would already be dead.”

“I made promises, yes, but he’s in Moscow now and I have no
power outside of the United States. None. And requesting the Agency to
exfiltrate him means a shit load of bureaucratic red tape that will expose him
to even more insider threats...and I suspect it will take a lot of time that we
don’t have.”

“Is there no one at the Agency you can trust?”

J.J. immediately thought of Six, but he answered to the
powers that be and there was no telling who was dirty.

“I don’t—” she shook her head no.

“Then you have to find a way to help him from here. You
must.” Dmitriyev peered out the window into the distance, then turned to J.J.
as he tapped his cigarette in the ashtray. “I do not mean to rush you but we
really must hurry. I’ve got to get back.”

She glanced down at her watch again. The window of
opportunity had drawn to a close. “My hands are tied, but I’ll see what I can do.
Just a few more questions and we’ll get you out of here,” she said, running her
finger across her notes, checking for critical gaps. “What do you know about a
‘
Juliet Charles’
? The individual from
the letter you provided in the drop.”

“He’s a well-placed asset. Based on the information he’s
provided, I believe he’s FBI. I’ve been told he’s made drops two to three times
a year the past four or five years, but I’m not aware of his true identity. We
only communicate through dead drops and signals. No phone calls, no electronic
communication, no personal meetings whatsoever. Classic tradecraft. It is my
understanding he slipped a note in Aleksandr Mikhaylov’s car some years ago
when the window was cracked.”

She hesitated. “Wait. We thought Mikhaylov was Line N, an
illegals support officer not counterintelligence.”

“Seems you know our
rezidentura
quite well,” Dmitriyev said, somewhat taken aback. “Yes, Mikhaylov does support
illegals and deep cover operations, but if your mole was seeking to volunteer,
he’d only need to see a diplomatic license plate on the vehicle. Doesn’t matter
whether he knew Mikhaylov was a illegals support officer.”

She nodded in agreement. “One thing I notice. You keep saying
‘he’
. . . but Juliet Charles is a
woman’s name.”

“Ahhhhh. Very good observation. When I cleared the drops,
I
     
noticed a man’s shoe print in the
mud. I’ve no doubt it’s a man.”

“So you’re his handler?”

“Yes,
one
of them.
Since there are no personal meetings, he has
    
several.”

Dmitriyev handled
ICE
Phantom
himself. Good to know, but the SVR had mastered the art of
compartmenting information and assets so that any counterintelligence officer
could service the source but only a handful—maybe fewer—might be privy to the
source’s true identity. Even worse, as a counterintelligence special agent, the
mole would be skilled in burying his tracks.

“So, does anyone else in the residency have access to his
true identity or files?”

“Well, normally such information is maintained at
headquarters, but I believe Stanislav Vorobyev, the security officer, maintains
a special file which contains his identity. It’s in a safe that only the
security officer can access.”

J.J.’s stomach hardened. She propped her elbow on the table
and let her head fall into her hand. “Damn! He’s scheduled to depart on
Friday,” she said, throwing her hands in the air, defeated. A breakthrough was
imminent. She could taste it. But recruiting Vorobyev? Impossible. She
certainly couldn’t do it in such a short period of time if she could at all.
And she had nothing on which to pin her hopes, nothing except the possibility
that the mole would pass a document that would reveal his identity...someday.
But they’d have to wait months, perhaps even years for that to happen. Unless
by some miracle from heaven they could recruit the next security officer.

“Do you know who his replacement will be? We haven’t received
notification from the State Department about any new arrivals.”

“In this case you would not,” he said, “because Vorobyev’s
next replacement is already in the embassy.”

“In the embassy?”

“Yes,” he answered.

“Well…who is it?”

A smile parted his lips. “Me.”

J.J. heard him but couldn’t quite bring herself believe what
he’d said.
Me? s
he thought. What did
he mean by
me
? His words zapped
through her spine and hit the Hallelujah nerve. She glanced down at her notes,
then snapped her head back toward him.

“I’m sorry. I must’ve been imagining things. Did you say that
you are
Vorobyev’s replacement?”

He nodded.

“You mean on Friday―
this coming Friday―you
might be in a position to identify the mole?”
           

“It’s very possible. Trust me, no one wants the mole caught
more than I do. As long as he’s out there neither Viktor nor I are safe. But
you must keep do everything you can to keep him from finding out that I’m
cooperating with the FBI. And I’ve got to find a way to keep Golikov’s people
in check,” he said, his expression strained. “Of course, I’m sure you
understand that even though Russia has initiated a moratorium on the death
penalty, the Russian mafia, thieves in law from the
Soltnsevskaya
organized crime group, are serving as guns for hire for their friends at the
Center. Golikov will kill me if I’m caught.”

“Golikov and his henchman are no strangers to me,” J.J. said,
thinking of Polyakov’s hand.

“They’re here in Washington under the guise of conducting
inspections. His people have been assigned to all Western embassies including
here in the United States,” he said. “I trust you because the man I called
brother trusted you. However, until I find out the mole’s identity,
you
cannot trust
anyone
.”

Shit.
Every step
forward ended in one step back. The answer was close, but not quite close
enough. “I will do everything in my power to protect you,” she said, remembering
her promises are what held her prisoner in her current predicament. She reached
into her purse and pulled out a cell phone specially fitted with a transmitter
to provide him with a means of emergency communication. She also handed him a
sheet of paper with dead drop instructions.

“Mark a signal if you need to contact me. Only use the
throwaway phone in life-threatening situations. Now, we’ll get you back to the
embassy.”

Keeping Dmitriyev alive wouldn’t be easy, not with Golikov’s goons
looming and
ICE Phantom
still
deeply concealed.