The Seven Year Itch (4 page)

His Charger cut through the wind as he hot-dogged it to
Tunlaw Road, double-fisting his wheel like a gray-haired grandmother. He
steered tightly and carefully though; another accident would set him back.

His chronic distractions might cost him more than a few
traffic tickets if he didn’t pull it together. Two electric poles and a marked
Secret Service police car sideswiped in the heat of surveillance, the list of
damaged vehicles had expanded as fast as his personnel file.

Jake glanced at his watch and exhaled. He’d arrived before
schedule. He scanned the area to ensure he couldn’t be seen, and then shook his
head in dismay. Why in hell would the State Department give the Russians land
on the highest peak in the Nation’s Capital? He had no clue. The location was a
signal collector’s dream. They could tap into communications from every U.S.
government agency east of the Mississippi.

Jake slipped on his sunglasses, and then flipped the switch
on his secure radio. Everyone would be expecting an update by now.

“Breaker
breaker
one-nine. This is
J. Swiff behind the wheel of steel. I’m in position. Let’s keep it short guys.
Our friends are listening,” Jake reminded the crew. Russian Impulse officers
monitored the area for FBI radio traffic. The Gs’ radio signals were encrypted
so the Russians couldn’t hear conversations. But increased activity put them on
alert.

His stomach growled as he rifled through the remnants of his
food bag with his free hand. “Waiting for Plotnikov to exit the building. Jiggy,
what’s your twenty?”

“Copy that Swiff. I’m at the corner of Wisconsin and O
Street. Cham and Money T are about a few blocks south of you at Calvert. Jazz
and the rest are running a picket near the choke point. Over,” Jiggy responded.

“Roger that, everybody! Sounds good.” J.J. said. Her long
range radio had decent reception. She gave a thumbs-up to Tony who stood over
her with a watchful eye. “Tony and I are headed into the vault and won’t have
any reception for a few minutes. But this is just a simple routine coverage.
Stay loose and keep an eye out for Golikov’s people. Piece of cake. We’ll see
you back here in a couple of hours.”

Jake swallowed hard, bit a hunk out of his burger.
Anticipating the trouble ahead, he braced himself for long afternoon. “When all
hell breaks loose,” he mumbled to himself, “only the devil survives.”

Moments later, Plotnikov, dressed in a black suit cloaked
beneath a cliché trench coat, stepped outside the embassy doors as scheduled.

Jake exhaled. The op should go down as planned. What could go
wrong? A second later he was sorry he asked.

His heart thumped, he grabbed the radio.
Fuck!
“Houston, we have a problem.”

•
 
•
 
•

Maps of the Washington, D.C. area poked with
colored thumbtacks adorned the walls in J.J.’s and Tony’s tight compartment
inside the vault. At a small round table, they scanned through each file,
frantically flipping pages to ensure Jack would find no information that could
damage their cases if it got into the wrong hands. And there were only three
files for Russian intelligence officers operating in Washington that they
needed to be concerned about, the most important of which belonged to
Karat
.

Documents relating to Aleksey Dmitriyev, a
counterintelligence officer linked to
Karat
since the day he arrived, must also be scrubbed. If any FD-302s mentioning him
and
Karat
(as Plotnikov) didn’t
reflect the information from the fake file, the jig was up. The file of
Aleksandr Mikhaylov was last. The lookouts had spotted him in the company of
both Dmitriyev and Plotnikov on multiple occasions. J.J. had been tailing him
since he’d stepped on U.S. soil. She didn’t know if any pertinent information
existed but she’d scrub the file just in case.

Call it a hunch. Perhaps an intuition. But Mikhaylov made her
skin crawl. He ran the most insidious and evasive cadre of Russian
spies—illegals. They assumed the identities of American citizens to gain access
to classified information. Almost impossible to catch because the Bureau had
little success in identifying them until the 2010 New York bust.

“Tony, I haven’t seen the most recent volume of
Karat
’s file. You don’t have it do
you?” J.J. asked.

“No,” he said as he checked through his stack. “It’s not in
my stuff. Maybe we left back in the breakout room.”

“Hmmm. Maybe. I’m gonna check as soon as we get out of here.”

They studied each case file, lookout log, surveillance
report, and photo and prepared to tuck the real files inside the jacket folders
of long dead sources. As J.J. placed her hand on Plotnikov’s photo and prepared
to stash it away, she recollected the moment she dug the hole into her present
predicament, her promises to Viktor. Promises she wished she hadn’t made.
Promises she wished didn’t have to keep.

Chapter 4

Two Years
Ago…

B
efore Polyakov’s hand
arrived at Moscow station, there was
ICE
Phantom
’s second victim and J.J.’s second source—Kostya Belikov. He
disappeared, vanished like billowing smoke in the night air. J.J. slept for
what felt to her like five minutes a day in the following months. She was
consumed to the point of obsession, determined to identify a replacement asset,
one who could not only provide information on Belikov’s fate, but help her
identify the FBI scourge who had all but delivered the fatal bullet to his
head. When she wasn’t thinking and planning, she drank. Not guzzles, but little
sips, every couple of hours, every day.

Her barely conscious hours were spent at Dulles airport
monitoring Russian diplomatic arrivals and departures, hoping to spot a new
mark.

And there he appeared.

A diminutive schlep of a man in a slightly oversized
navy-blue business suit. His shiny dome and silver-framed spectacles,
unimposing and unremarkable, clashed with the more dapper attire of the counterintelligence
officer accompanying him—Aleksey Dmitriyev.

Dmitriyev was a Second Secretary and fairly high ranking for
an intelligence officer. The schlep was an administrative officer, at least
according to the visa J.J. had received from the State Department in advance of
his arrival.

A Second Secretary
picking up an admin guy?
she asked herself.
Doesn’t quite add up.
New arrivals were usually met my men of their
own ilk. A schlep for a schlep. A high-ranking official for a high-ranking official.

After a quick inquiry to the customs officials, she left with
his full name and birthdate. Back at the vault, she searched Viktor Sergeyevich
Plotnikov’s patronymic in the Mitrokhin Archives. It was a long shot, but
J.J.’s every instinct told her she was onto something big, particularly if he
had an ax to grind. The notion haunted her…and for good reason.

Moments later, she came across the father’s name in the
database—Sergey Plotnikov. And Sergey had a child, Viktor. But there was no
birthdate for Viktor. Still, they must be one and the same. She drew a sharp
breath when she read the subsequent reporting. If she’d identified the father
correctly, indeed his son might be willing to spill a few Russian secrets.

After what they did to his father, she couldn’t imagine any
reason Viktor would he work for the SVR, the child of the KGB. He couldn’t have
any other agenda except revenge, but she needed to verify her suspicions.
 

Jack told her she was wasting her time. Plotnikov’s a nobody
he said of the little administrative guy who de-planed his Aeroflot flight from
Moscow with no fanfare, drove a cheap Corolla, and had no real rank to speak
of.

But J.J. followed her instinct.

Months of surveillance revealed he wanted things, American
things. He glimmered like a kid in the candy store at the sight of expensive
goods. Watches. Clothes. Electronics. He wanted whatever he couldn’t afford and
developed a nasty case of the sticky fingers. J.J. supposed he enjoyed the rush
of common criminality, and she was glad. It was a vulnerability ripe for compromise.

She and Tony quietly arranged to pay off his debts at half
the high-end stores in the D.C. area to help keep him in the country.

Finally an opportunity presented itself.

Her big chance.

The embassy submitted a travel request thanks to the rule
mandating the Russians file notifications every time they traveled more than 25
miles beyond the embassy. They sponsored a day trip to the outlet malls in
Hagerstown, Maryland. The location—perfect. High end stores galore. She’d
corner him the moment he separated from his group. Given his shoplifting habit,
a solo activity, he’d split at the first opportunity.

About an hour into her surveillance, she followed him into
the cesspool that was the men’s room. The location was ideal, as the bathroom
sat in a remote section of the outlet center. Few visitors would find their way
there. There she waited. Listened. Smelled. Gagged. Her stomach convulsed. The
odor permeating the room would make a Marine cry foul. When he emerged from the
stall, her tall frame blocked the exit.

He froze.

“Who are you? What are you doing in here?” He appeared
startled at first, but a moment later the tension in his shoulders released.
Now
his
expression alarmed
her.

J.J. paused before speaking. His colleagues might be searching
for him. She had to be careful. Looking downward with her hand covering the
visible side of her face, she poked her head outside.

No passersby. All clear.

She closed the door and moved toward the nearest stall. In it
she could conceal her presence if someone walked in.

 
“I’m Special Agent
J.J. McCall with the FBI. Please. Feel free to go ahead and wash your hands.”

She eyed the large shopping bag he carried, wondered how much
loot he’d lifted. Regardless, it might come in handy later. Then the bling
caught her eye.

There it is
.

The stainless steel band on his familiar watch glimmered in
the bathroom’s light. It was government-owned. Courtesy of Tony Donato and the
lead case agent.

Plotnikov eased over to the sink, pressed his hand against the
soap dispenser. He sucked in a deep frustrated breath as he thrust his hands
under the stream of water. “Yes. Agent McCall,” he said. “You are quite
legendary in the Embassy—or perhaps a better term would be infamous? What pray
tell brings you to the men’s room on this glorious afternoon?”

His comment told her the one thing she hadn’t been sure of
until he spoke—he was an intelligence officer. A clean administrative officer
would have no concerns about the FBI. Perhaps he’d revealed more than he
intended. Or if her instincts were correct, he may have shared exactly what he
wanted her to know.

“Well, if you’ve heard the legend of
me
,” she fought the urge to roll her eyes,
“
then I think we both know why I’m here.”

He silently walked over to the hand drier, rubbed his hands
beneath, and looked down at his expensive watch. “I’m a diplomat and have no
interest in speaking with the FBI. Leave immediately or I’ll file a complaint
with the State Department.”

He balked. Standard procedure. Although she’d expected him to
be a little more original. If his comrades knew her at all, he’d understand
that reporting her to the State Department wouldn’t expedite her departure.
They had a department with her name on it—The Secretary of Foreign Intelligence
Officer Recruitment.

“Shit!” Her skin prickled, and she flinched. She gasped,
pressed her knees together, and tried to brace herself. If he lied again, the
sensation would be even worse.

She hated the crotch itch the worst. Only occurred when
people told the most unconvincing lies. The realization brought an ironic sense
of relief. J.J. inhaled deeply and strained to stay composed until the wave
subsided.

She had him.

She just needed to close him.

 
“A-are you okay?” He
stared in an awkward confusion. “I could stand watch while you use the
bathroom.”

“I’m...fine,” she said, her voice tense. “I, uhhh, it’s a
condition. It’ll pass, just give me a minute.”

“Oh, I see. I see.”

She straightened her gait as the feeling dissipated. “Listen,
you don’t have to lie to me. I’m not your security officer. Consider me more
like family. I know what you’ve done wrong and want to build a relationship
with you anyway.” He stood motionless, jarred by her abnormal behavior.

She continued. “I had a lot to discuss with you today. Your
recent acquisitions from Lord & Taylor and Macy’s—nice Movado. The fact
that Vorobyev would send you back to Moscow yesterday if he knew the truth. I
could talk your ear off…but I won’t.”

He looked down at his watch again. An ill-timed wince
betrayed his stoic expression.

“Instead, I think it would be more productive to our
relationship if you’d permit me to share some information with you…
about your father
,” she offered, opting
to take a more sensitive approach. He mattered, and J.J. wanted him to trust
her. Sources who believed they mattered the most, divulged the most secrets.

“Don’t you dare speak of my father! Don’t
you
speak his name!” he said, his expression
gruff.

 
She froze. The sound
of footsteps neared. She watched the door and waited, prepared to conceal
herself in a stall. Within seconds, they passed.

“Sergey Plotnikov,
right?”
she asked, eager to glimpse his reaction. If he was angry, well...anger was a
good sign. “I know what the KGB did to him.”

His face reddened as he moved toward the exit. He grew more
agitated by the second. “Who in this business doesn’t?”

“And I know
what he did
.”
She said, poking the bear to get a reaction.

He breathed heavily and growled, “He was innocent!” His stark
expression hardened, knowing and cold. The scars from his memories were still
fresh and soul-deep. At that moment, she believed he’d secretly willed her to
show up. Somewhere. Anywhere. She would be the vessel he used to exact his
revenge.

 
“They used him as a
pawn. As if they really needed another excuse to justify the Cold War,” she
said. “He never worked for us. We targeted him but he honored your family,
refused to cooperate,” she said, referring to U.S. intelligence services, the
CIA in particular. “Can we talk?”

 
“But I—I have to . . .
we’re returning to the embassy in a short time. I must leave.”

J.J.’s eyebrow rose. A plan. She needed a plan. She expected
to cast the bait. She didn’t expect the big fish to bite on the first try. His
concession came a bit too easy for her tastes. Either he was trying to set up
J.J. or...he’d been waiting for her all along. She didn’t know which but
second-guessing herself would need to wait. She had more pressing matters.
“Listen, they can’t leave the outlet without you. And I can make you disappear
for a short while without drawing undue suspicion.”

“How?”

Her world had been irrevocably changed by one word. He didn’t
answer “no” rather “how.” He’d been waiting. “Meet me at Spencer’s Gifts in
five minutes. I’ll take it from there.”

He nodded yes, still nervous. Cautious.

A short discussion with her informant, a security guard she’d
developed into a willing snitch, and she entered the store moments later. She
scanned the store for other Embassy personnel. Front. Back. Nobody important.
Just a handful of patrons selecting greeting card from the rack in the rear of
the store where she needed them to be. But they probably wouldn’t stay put for
long. She glanced at her watch.

Where is he?

Had he changed his mind? Had embassy security spotted him
before he walked inside? As she started toward the door, he entered,
acknowledged her with a split-second nod, still carrying his bag.

She fixed her gaze on him, followed his every move. She
placed her hands on the shelf beside her, and without looking, grabbed the soft
plastic package beneath her fingers. Didn’t look at it. Didn’t matter what it
was.

In one seamless motion, she swept by him, bumped his bag and
dropped the item inside. The brush pass was over as fast as it began. “Meet me
outside,” she whispered.

He jerked his head toward her then continued perusing the
novelty tees until she reached the exit. Plotnikov picked up his bag, started
out behind her. As soon as his foot crossed the threshold, an alarm blared. The
slovenly security guard was already en route. He slogged toward Plotnikov, at
J.J.’s request with his hand outstretched.

“Sir?” the guard called out.

“Me?” Plotnikov replied. He was oblivious, just as J.J.
needed him to be. His reaction must be genuine if anyone from the embassy asked
about him.

“Yes, you,” the guard said. He gripped the corner of Viktor’s
bag. “I’ll need to check this, please.”

Plotnikov’s brow crinkled. A three-hole Jenna Jameson blow-up
sex doll? His jaw dropped.

“That’s not mine!” Plotnikov insisted.

“Sir, I’ll need you to come with me.”

“But...but...” Plotnikov said.

The officer tugged his arm at the elbow and led him outside.
The nearest security checkpoint was roughly the distance equivalent to a city
block away.

J.J. waited in front of the neighboring tennis shoe outlet
until they passed her. Plotnikov appeared embarrassed. She glimpsed the package
in the guard’s hand. Collateral damage. She did what she needed to do. Getting
him to a safe place was more important than a few strangers believing he had a
perversion for latex dolls.

J.J. arrived in the small holding area and found Viktor
seated and sipping on a Coke. Now, he and she could have a tête-à-tête before
Vorobyev, the embassy security officer, suspected Viktor had uttered so much as
a cordial hello to an FBI special agent. Otherwise, he’d have been scuttled
back to Moscow on the first thing smoking to spend the rest of his career
serving cabbage soup in the SVR cafeteria. That is, if he managed to avoid
Golikov’s wrath.

“Agent McCall. An inflatable doll?” Plotnikov asked, half
humored, half annoyed. “I’m a diplomat for goodness sakes.”

“Sorry about that. I grabbed it without paying attention.”
She occupied the seat opposite him. “The security officer is on his way to tell
Vorobyev you’ve been detained. We’ll tell him this was all a big misunderstanding
once you’re released.”

He nodded and smiled.

To J.J.’s surprise, they fell into easy conversation. The SVR
gave Plotnikov shit work. Stuck him in a low-level position, assumed he’d never
do any harm. But Viktor was sharp. Smarter than they gave him credit for. And
he had loyal friends in the right places. The more they conversed, the more the
deep-seated pain from his past bubbled to the surface. Plotnikov’s eyes flooded
and he crumbled with emotion.