The Seven Year Itch (9 page)

Chapter 10

Thursday
Evening…

R
ussell Freeman, the first
African-American FBI director, took the weight of a nation on his shoulders. A
little more than a year before, he vowed to leave no stone unturned. The source
of the compromises in his department would be identified, and he promised to
protect those brave individuals who risked their lives to help the FBI
accomplish its mission. In the second of his ten-year term, he’d still failed
to deliver. Two men had been murdered for political defiance, one man had gone
missing and Freeman still had no idea who the culprit was. Aside from vague
references to some
ICE Phantom
,
blaming rogue CIA officers for intelligence failures had been the Bureau way
for years, evidenced by the initial botched handling of Robert Hanssen’s
investigation. The core of his gut told something he’d denied for too long, the
problem was close to home, much closer than he cared to admit.

Freeman sat behind the stately executive desk in his
expansive office. It was decorated with the obligatory accoutrement. An FBI
seal was mounted on the wall behind him. An array of state and government flags
flanked him on either side, all neatly arranged to compliment the
head-man-in-charge air. He scanned through his daily e-mails and replied to the
most important message, a note from the Director of National Intelligence. He’d
requested an urgent meeting with Director Freeman the following week because of
the brewing storm, a storm purportedly created by the
ICE Phantom
, or someone like him.

The DNI had recently become aware of potential compromises in
his own organization, so he asked Director Freeman to assign agents to support
initial inquiries. With tensions mounting between Russia and the United States
over the U.S. Missile Shield, and the economic downturn, too many vulnerable
government employees had begun to fold under the pressure, sought opportunities
to sell secrets for a quick buck to the highest bidder.

He glanced down at his watch in time for his five o’clock
appointment. He normally didn’t take meetings at the end of the day, especially
before a celebration his wife had planned for his 58
^th
birthday. But
he made an exception. No sooner than he turned to face the entrance, Jack
Sabinski and Jim Cartwright entered his office, greeting him with nods and
hellos.

“Jack, Jim, it’s good to see you both. Please, shut the door
and have a seat,” he said, his expression growing as grim as his tone. “Wish we
could be meeting under better circumstances.”

 
Sabinski and
Cartwright each sat in the two chairs directly opposite Freeman’s desk. Both
appeared nervous, uneasy.

“We do as well, sir,” Sabinski interjected, as he placed the
file on his lap.

Freeman clasped his fingers together. “In our last session, I
requested that you both intensify your efforts to identify the source of these
compromises. This
ICE Phantom
.
Are
we
the problem? Is CIA the
problem? Another agency? I’ve got a meeting with the DNI next week and I need
some answers. What’s the status of your preliminary inquiry?”

Cartwright exchanged awkward glances with Sabinski before he
conceded the floor.

Jack sat erect and tugged his suit jacket forward. His
excessive, rotund waistline could not be concealed and did not go unnoticed by
Freeman or Cartwright. Agents did, after all, have standing fitness requirements.
“Sir, we’re certain there’s a mole, but we’re much less confident about whether
the problem lies in the FBI or CIA...or even NSA. Almost every civilian agency
in the intelligence community has lost valuable Top Secret intel and HUMINT
sources. But based on an NSA assessment, our comms networks appear to be
secure. This is a HUMINT problem.”

Freeman rubbed his throbbing temple. “Listen, I don’t want
another Hanssen situation, not on my watch. The FBI can’t afford another
embarrassment. The nation can’t afford to lose such valuable sources and
intelligence. This is no time to play point the finger.”

“We understand this, sir.”

“If either of you has an ounce of suspicion that we’ve got a
problem, then I will do everything in my power to find this son of a bitch and
prosecute him to the fullest extent of the law,” he barked, agitated and nearly
losing his composure. He sat back hard in his seat; his tone grew calm and more
measured. “So, the question I’m posing to both of you is, what are we doing?
I’m not in the habit of launching accusatory stones from glass houses and I
won’t start now.”

Cartwright leaned forward, elbows to thigh, the stress from
his job has aged him in the four short years he’d been the AD. When he accepted
his position, his hair was coal black, now almost every strand had been
subsumed by grey. Bags of stress buckled beneath his eyes. Too many anxious
days and sleepless nights.

“Russell, we’re doing everything possible to secure our
remaining sources. As of today, we’ve revoked vault access to everyone on the
bigot list. Each and every agent and analyst will be required to undergo a
polygraph examination to regain their entry privileges.”

Jack pulled out a sheet of paper marked “SECRET” in red at
the top and bottom from the file folder and passed it to Freeman. It was titled
“REVOKE ACCESS” and contained a list of names, including J.J. McCall, Antonio
Donato, Lana Michaels,
Sunnie
Richardson, Christopher
Johnson, Jacob “Jake” McGee, and a few other unit colleagues.

Freeman grabbed the paper and scanned it carefully from
beginning to end. “Jack, this list should include
everyone
with vault access, including you.”

“Oh uh...an unintentional oversight, sir. Actually, my
polygraph exam is scheduled for first thing tomorrow. As the supervisor, I thought
it was important that I regain access immediately so I can properly supervise
my unit,” he said, puffing out his flabby chest.

Cartwright nodded in agreement. “Good thinking. We need you
back on this case as soon as possible. If anyone fails, call me first and I’ll
arrange to have their personnel files sent directly to Washington Field. I want
full investigations opened immediately. No preliminary inquiries.”

“Yes, sir,” Jack replied.

“Sounds good gentleman,” Freeman said to them. “Now, if you’ll
excuse me, I’ve got to get back to work. Who would’ve thought terrorists would
demand as much attention as Russian spies,” Freeman said. He stood and placed
his hands on the desk to brace himself as he leaned forward. “And don’t forget
the lessons learned from our last major internal investigation. We’re all
human. We all have vulnerabilities. Exploited by the right person at the right
time, any one of us could turn.”

Sabinski and Cartwright stood almost in unison and headed
toward the door. Freeman followed closely behind and shook their hands before
they exited. “Okay, our mission is clear, and time is of the essence.”

•
 
•
 
•

Thursday
night…

J.J. turned on the radio. The slow
romance-filled melodies of Quiet Storm show filled the silence. She and Tony
rode mostly in silence toward her “uptown” condo in D.C.’s Woodley Park area,
anticipating the moment she’d open the package and find it.

The smoking gun.

It had to be inside. Had to be. The one piece of evidence
that would help her lock up Sabinski up for the rest of his life. Her mind
churned, longing for the moment she could confront him.

Distracted by a familiar song, she all of a suddenly began to
sing. Her father said she had the voice of a nightingale. And a love song
transported her mind back to the intimate moment she and Tony had earlier
shared. The kiss felt too real. Tony had awakened a sleeping beast, and she
needed to knock it back to sleep fast. She’d pulled out her mental shovel and
prepared to bury the memory of what happened in the deep recesses of her mind
at the precise moment Tony’s brain succumbed to his ego.

“Look J.J., if you wanted to invite me over to your place,
you only had to ask. You didn’t have to pretend you didn’t want to go to
headquarters. I realize I can sometimes have that effect on women.
If
you know what I’m saying.”

She shook her head and blinked rapidly. His sweet moments
were touching, but, oh, that Italian machismo. “Earth calling Tony! Welcome
back to reality,” she said. “If
you
wanted to
kiss me
, you didn’t have to
put on that performance with the park police. You only had to ask. I realize I
can have that effect on men.
If
you
know what I’m saying.”

He winced, laughed uncomfortably as they approached the
stoplight. Tony locked on J.J.’s eyes and a sexy grin sliced between his lips.
She leaned into him and smiled, her face a reflection of his. Softly, she
traced her index finger along his jawline, down his neck, to his bicep. “Well,
since we’re here together, in this car, on this glorious moonlit night . . .
and we’re on the way to
my place
.
I’ve got an important question I’d like to ask you.”

He cleared his throat and then shot her a gloating
I-know-you-want-me glance. “Yeah?”

“Why don’t we pull over,” she paused, “at that McDonald’s up
the street. I still want ice cream.”

He shook his head. “That was cold.”

“No, the ice cream’s cold,” she said. “That was just funny.”

Despite their deep-seated desires to explore the “something”
between them, whatever it was, they never crossed the line. They treaded along
the edges with tight-rope walker precisions but never crossed it because both
had insurmountable familial obstacles to overcome.

Tony was supposed to fall in love with and marry a good
Sicilian woman, one who would stay home, cook, and birth male heirs.

As for J.J.?

Well, her father, a former Black Panther, would go ballistic,
melt out of his skin, if his only daughter waltzed through the door with Tony
on her arm. She and her father had grown close, almost inseparable since the
crippling loss of her mother’s death. Each week she ate Sunday brunches with
her brother and father; they helped keep the family together. She visited
without fail despite Max’s criticism of her career choice and the constant
chidings she took for not finding herself a good black man, as if they grew on
the “Brother Tree” and all she needed to do was pluck one from its ripe fruit
and marry him.

If only finding a good man was that easy.

Love had mostly evaded her for 32 years. Mostly. She’d almost
been taken once, but her gift saved her in the nick of time. With Tony, there
was a major difference between her past and present, one thing she couldn’t
deny: Tony was the only man in three decades of life who never made her itch.
With the exception of the wife comment in the park, her discomfort in his presence
emanated from only one source—her heart.

Chapter 11

W
hat the hell was I
smoking?
J.J. thought, wondering what possessed her to invite Tony to her cozy
slice of sanctity. It was a foreclosure she got for a steal. Inside the elevator,
she hit the number ten on the panel and watched the numbers light up as she
tried to dim her anxiety over Tony invading her space. The maid service had
been rescheduled for the following day, so she hadn’t had a chance to do the
ritual maid pre-arrival clean up.

Now she was afraid of what he would think of her.

When they finally entered her condo, a slow smile built on
his face. His lips parted slightly as his gaze roamed J.J.’s sparsely decorated
apartment, to the sectional sofa and naked dining room table, to the Crate
& Barrel wall shelf supporting her 51-inch flat screen and Bose stereo
system (she loved her toys). He halted abruptly at the photos of J.J. with her
father and brother. Another photo of J.J. as a child with her mother, aunt, and
grandmother.

Then J.J.’s heart stopped. Tony’s expression told her he’d
spotted the one she never meant for him to see.

“Nice place. Decorate much?” he said as he made a bee-line
toward the shelf.

She tried to intercept him but her reflexes were slow. She
couldn’t position herself ahead of him.

 
“Well, well, well, what have we here?” He
snickered at the photo of J.J. wrapped in the arms of her last relationship
faux pas. He grabbed the frame and held it up facing her. “Who the hell is this
douche bag
?”

He can tell from the
picture?

J.J. would never give Tony the satisfaction of knowing, but
he’d hit that nail on the head. At the age of thirty-two, she’d never suffered
a
severely
broken heart thanks to her
gift. It prevented her from dating liars for longer than an outing or two.
Well...except this one.

Grayson Chance was known as “Six” to his friends and the many
victims of his of smash-and-dash. Six could light a fire with the heat from the
sexual vibe he radiated. Tall, chiseled, his body was carved from a mass of
perfection. His face was sweet as sugar cane; he was Easter Bunny brown…and
equally hollow. He could donate a sliver of his ego to every living person on
the planet and still have enough left over to rate pompous asshole.

He’d been recruited by the CIA in college, became a
counterintelligence case officer when he graduated from The Farm, the CIA’s
training academy. For the last ten years, he’d been both a case officer and
security officer, mostly serving in overseas embassies and consulates. His job
was to catch CIA officers cooperating with foreign intelligence services such
as the Russians, thus a joint investigation at the Agency a few years ago
brought J.J. and Six together.

They shared a torrid on-again-off-again affair. She was drawn
to his mystery, his charm, his sense of humor. Nobody had ever made her laugh
more...except Tony perhaps. They shared moments when their souls connected on
heights she’d never before allowed herself to reach. And the sex! He did
sensuous things to her body that made her shiver at the mere thought. One or
two of his moves might be illegal in every state except California and
Kentucky. The problem with their relationship? He couldn’t stop living his
legend, always undercover. The real Grayson rarely stood up and the legend
always lied, so she always itched. Couldn’t stand to be around him except when
their time together didn’t involve speaking, which was often but not often
enough. His career and lifestyle forced them onto separate paths. Her path led
to sanity, his path led to the land of ill repute. Six’s career consumed him.
Somewhere along the line, he lost himself...and so he lost J.J. The break-up
was difficult, at least for J.J. Six, on the other hand, possessed an ice-cold
resilience when it came to failed relationships. But all in all, J.J.’s
decision to let go was probably the best for both of them. Probably.

She still battled moments of doubt, the instances of which
had nearly disappeared unnoticed until…

“His name is Six. And why’s he got to be a douche bag?” She
snatched the frame from his hand and replaced it on the shelf. For some time
now, she’d been planning to take the damn thing down. But with Tony Snoopers in
the house, she’d have to wait until he departed for the evening. She refused to
give him a second’s pleasure of thinking that his sneers had any effect on her
decision to remove it.

“What kind of name is Six, anyway? His folks hadda give him a
name he could spell?” Tony drew the number six in the air with his index
finger.

“Ha, ha, ha! You’re so funny. No. He graduated Summa Cum
Laude from Princeton. I assure you he has no problems with his spelling,” she
said, avoiding an explanation she didn’t want to provide.

“So what’s with the ‘Six’ already?”

“If you must know, Six is a nickname he received because he
can bounce a quarter on his six-pack,” she joked, patting her stomach.

Tony rolled his eyes and pretended to vomit. “Oh. I thought
it might be his rating in the sack.”

“No. If that’s what it stood for, they’d call him
Ten.
” A pregnant pause followed shortly
behind her quip, a testament to the jab’s effectiveness. J.J. kicked off her
shoes and squiggled her feet into the plush carpet. “What’s it to you anyway?”

 
“Hey, it’s your
business. I was just askin’.” He carried the trash bag toward the dining room
table, ran his finger across the surface, collecting dust along the way. Then
he shot her a “bad housekeeper” look, as if she didn’t already know.

“So, how long you been
dating
this. . .
Six
?” he asked, his tone
amusingly bitter.

“I’m not, not anymore.”

“Is ‘at right? So what’s his picture still doing on your
shelf then?”

“Haven’t had a
chance
to take it down yet.” She avoided his gaze, headed toward the bedroom. “Now, if
you’re done with your inquisition, I’m gonna change.”

J.J. closed her bedroom door and flopped back-first on the
bed. Her hands smothered her face as she cringed. She knew bringing him to her
place would be a mistake, one she realized too late.

She brooded over Six’s picture every day in the first few
months following the break-up. Finally, she’d forgotten it was there, that is,
until Tony dredged it up. He’d opened an old wound, picked the scab. How long
before it healed again? She rolled over, pulled a flask from her nightstand
drawer. Two gulps.
Just a little
something to take off the edge. That’s all. She glanced at her watch.
Scandal,
her usual evening indulgence,
would have to wait. They’d have a long night ahead of them.

She grabbed a can of lemon-fresh furniture spray and returned
to the living room. When she approached the table, J.J. could see Tony’s eyes
meander down her body, starting from her face and caressing each bend and curve
until he glimpsed the pink foot coverings resting on the plush beige carpet. He
stifled a chuckle and backed up his chair so she could spray and wipe the table
down. “About time you cleaned this place.”

“I’m an FBI agent, not Martha Stewart.”

 
She shot a puff of
lemon-scented spray wax in his direction. He coughed dramatically, and fanned
his face.

“Now, can I get you a beer before I sit down?”

“Sure,” he responded.

Tony was thirsty, but maybe not so much for the beer. Out of
the corner of her eye, she could see him. He drank her in with his eyes as she
opened the refrigerator door. After a lingering stare, he diverted his
attention to the work at hand. He laid the evidence bag on the table and pulled
rubber gloves from his pocket.

She arrived a few moments later. The two long-neck bottles of
Yeungling had begun to perspire. She opened the first with her teeth, stunning
Tony into silence. He gawked at J.J. as if he’d just witnessed her swinging
from a chandelier in a porn flick.

“What? You gotta be The Hulk to open a beer bottle? Get over
it.” She placed the bottle in his hand.

He bowed his head in gratitude and tapped the mouth of his
bottle against hers. “Salut!”

“Salut!” She smiled weakly. Her knees buckled.

Mmmm,
she mumbled.
The touch of Sicily in his voice danced in her ear, sent chills through her
body. Her emotions welled within. Suddenly, she was the one who needed to shake
him off.

She placed the mouth of the bottle to her lips and drew the
cold lager inside, allowing the cool fluid to wash across her tongue. She
wished his lips had met hers instead and longed to repeat that moment in the
park, but she was more than a little relieved they’d resisted the temptation.
“What are we toasting to?” she asked.

“Hmmm. Why don’t we make it to...a productive night.”

•
 
•
 
•

Thursday
night…

Russell Freeman devoured the dinner cooked by
his divine wife, Rayna. She tried to force him to take the night off. No work,
no phone calls. But all to no avail. His mind was on the job. He stared at the
remnants of his T-bone until his vision blurred.

“Honeeeeey, it’s time to blow out your candle and make a
wish,” Rayna sang. Her glowing latte-colored skin almost negated the need for
candlelight. Russell had been too distant, too consumed with his mystery case
to notice. “Honey? ... Honey? Rayna calling Russ. Is anyone home?”

He snapped out of his daze and forced a smile. He’d been
outted in the worst way. “Oh I’m sorry, baby. My mind was somewhere else.”

She shook her head. Her brilliant smile disappeared behind a look
of indifference. “As usual. Now, blow out your candle before I use it to set
you on fire.”

He gazed at her, his every expression pleading for her
forgiveness. But her unforgiving expression replied, “Go to hell!” Russell let
out an uneasy chuckle, smoothed her cheek with his fingertips. “Okay. Okay.
Here we go.” He closed his eyes just long enough to make a wish. Then puckered
his lips and blew out the candle.

She picked up the cake cutter from the linen table cloth and
sliced hard into the mango cake, his favorite. The little things mattered most,
and she showed him every day. Oh, he knew she loved him deeply. She was, after
all, his high school sweetheart. But after four years of college, three years
of law school, fifteen years serving as an FBI agent, 12 years as a federal
prosecutor, and 7 years as a judge, her patience had worn toilet-paper thin.
She’d made no secret of the fact that she longed for the day when he’d belong
to her, and only her, once again. Most days, she lived with a ghost, a man home
with her in spirit but his mind and body were someplace else.

She slipped a piece of cake on his plate. “It’s about work,
right?” she said, filling the empty seat beside him.

“Yeah...you know how it is,” he said, feeling the warmth of
her hand rub along his thigh, her signature move. Most days, it would be
sufficient to motivate him into the boudoir. In that moment, however, it felt
more irritating than stimulating.

“Care to talk about what’s going on?”

Her question was met with silence. Perhaps sensing his
reticence, she pulled back.

He exhaled in frustration. Certainly, he wanted to share the
details of his day with her but he couldn’t. Most husbands had license to
disclose the nine-to-five drudge. Russell’s job was nine-to-infinity, and the
specifics were mostly classified national security information.

“I—” he started, preparing to offer yet another excuse for
his silence. But she interrupted. He needn’t bother.

“Never mind! I know, I know. If you tell me, you’ll have to
kill me.” She shrugged and snapped. “That line’s getting old, Russ. Old and
tired like me. Or hadn’t you noticed?”

“Baby…,” He tried to put his arms around her shoulder, but
she jerked away and slipped out of the chair.

“I’m exhausted. It’s been a long day,” she said, heading toward
the staircase.

“I’m following right behind you.”

She stopped in her tracks and turned to him, her body stiff,
the lilt in her voice smothered in venom. “Do me a favor, Russ. Don’t!”

Sadly, Freeman felt more relief than guilt. Off the hook for
the night, he let out a frustrated sigh and dropped his face into the palm of
his hands. If he didn’t find out who’d been compromising these cases sooner
than later, his marriage might meet the same sticky end as the Bureau’s
sources.