by S. D. Skye
“Did he ask about me?”
She looked away from him, avoided his gaze. Her melancholy expression betrayed the answer before she could speak. “Your father loves you, you know. His life isn’t your life. You did the right thing. Don’t doubt yourself for a minute. Your family will always be your family whether you agree with each other or not. Always remember, you can’t choose family, so you can’t lose family. Besides, I couldn’t bear to see you in—”
She broke down. Not full-on waterworks, just a few streaks; this was significant for Mona. Tony walked over to her and let his arms console her. “It’s okay, Ma. It’s okay.”
She recovered quickly, her sleeve soaking up her tears. Then she pinched and, palm open, double patted his cheeks. “You go on to work and make sure you eat, you hear me? Your mama’s gonna be fine. I’m always fine, aren’t I?”
Tony grabbed his bag and headed for 4th District.
He hated to leave Mona in her sullen state, but it was time to shift gears. Dmitriyev could be a major score, and his performance would have to be convincing. Their routine was trite but effective. As long as J.J. was on her A-game she’d seal the deal. Dmitriyev would be singing canary-style before nightfall.
• • •
Tony arrived at 4-D thirty minutes later. J.J.’s brother met him at the door as expected. He smiled as Tony approached. Tony wondered whether J.J. had mentioned him outside the context of work. Malcolm was a tall guy, like his sister, and equally likable. His down-to-earth attitude was genuine, and he lacked the “fuck you” attitude cops often had toward FBI agents. His sister had no doubt made him Fed-friendly. Tony admired their closeness, even envied them at times, the way she spoke of him with such adoration. Could never be him and Dante, not as long as he served the nation. The possibility had all but vanished once Tony took his oath of office. No matter what, he’d still show up for any one of his siblings. If they ever needed him, he’d be there. Whenever. Wherever. Without hesitation.
Tony’s glance darted around the precinct. Only a skeletal staff remained on Sunday duty. They took a stairwell to the basement lockdown. Dmitriyev’s holding cell was located a few feet down a narrow hall on the left. The interrogation room, separated by two sets of alarmed steel doors and metal detectors, was on the right. Malcolm waved to the duty officer who buzzed them inside.
Tony followed Malcolm through another short hall and stopped when Malcolm peered inside a small window inside a door on the right. “He’s in here. We have someone monitoring you behind the one-way glass so just motion us when you’re ready to leave.” Malcolm turned to walk away. “His twenty-four hours is almost up. We’ll have to call State or send him to Central Cell Block soon.”
Tony took a deep breath, tapped into his inner asshole, and stepped inside. He understood his mission: Make Dmitriyev feel more miserable than he already looked.
And he looked like twice-hit road kill.
“Well, well, well, so we finally meet in person, Mr. Dmitriyev,” Tony said with a smug smile pasted on his face. He pulled his credentials from his back pocket and gave them a customary flip. “Special Agent Donato at your service. Been following your career for a while now.”
Dmitriyev nodded his head to acknowledge Tony’s presence. Then Tony handed Dmitriyev one of his business cards.
“You recognize this, don’t you?”
Dmitriyev pursed his lips and stiffened his frame.
“You sure?” Tony asked, fully expecting silence he met. Tony was just the warm-up act. “Man, you don’t look so good. Rough night, eh?” Tony rested himself in the empty chair directly across from him. “I’ve never seen a green Russian before. Can I get you something? Coffee? A little hair of the dog, maybe?”
Still nothing. Tony couldn’t blame the guy. After all, a rock and a hard place would’ve been heaven for Dmitriyev, especially given the humiliation facing him if he returned to the embassy without the veil of Bureau secrecy protecting him. Tony cringed on Dmitriyev’s behalf. Unless Aleksey spilled his guts about what happened to Plotnikov and cut a deal, his life would stink like twice-dead road kill too.
Dmitriyev sat stone-faced and shackled with his fingers locked together on the wooden table. The sweat beads surfacing on his forehead appeared to be hangover symptoms rather than a sign of nervousness. From what Tony had read, Dmitriyev’s long-time friend and colleague Stanislav Vorobyev, a First Secretary and the senior-most counterintelligence officer in the residency would choke Dmitriyev if he found out about this fiasco. He’d have no choice except to send him home. Stan-the-Man, as J.J. affectionately referred to him, was a declared member of Russian intelligence and his affiliation was known inside and outside embassy circles which meant he could never engage in operational activity—clandestine or otherwise. He was mostly an internal administrator who supervised the operations of other intelligence officers, such as Dmitriyev.
According to Russian reporting from another Embassy contact, Stan had privately warned Dmitriyev about some unspecified sketchy behavior but J.J. and Tony had no idea he had an appetite for prostitutes, especially black ones. Apparently, he didn’t listen. As a result, he was destined to find himself on an express flight back to Russia. Not to mention the fallout from his wife’s reaction.
Dmitriyev’s stakes were high and most intelligence officers deplored the idea of being forced into some mind-numbing desk job in the Center.
Tony continued, “Listen Aleksey. We both know you don’t want to go back to Moscow, especially not under these precarious circumstances. I mean, soliciting a prostitute? A black, transgender prostitute at that? Well, I can only imagine how that’s gonna go over at the embassy. And assaulting a police officer? It’d suck for you if that story somehow found its way to The Washington Post,” he said, tapping his index finger against his chin. “Which section do ya think that would make? Entertainment maybe? And Stan...he probably won’t look favorably on your extracurriculars, neither will the State Department. You might get PNG’d.”
Being declared persona non grata in the United States was tantamount to a death penalty for intelligence officers—a career death penalty. It virtually assured an intelligence officer would never work in a Western country again.
“If I have to call Stan, we both know where you’ll end up,” Tony said. “I’m not going to sit here and insult your intelligence because we’re both counterintelligence; we know how the game is played. I guess the only question you need to answer is...what do you want to do? You can work with the Bureau or declare immunity and, well, you know the rest. Just understand if you want to stay in the U.S. of A, and finish out your tour, all roads lead through me. So, ball’s in your court.”
“What do you want?” Aleksey asked flatly.
“You’re counterintelligence. If you can’t figure that out then this meeting’s over and my friend at the Post will enjoy an informative…” Tony looked down at his watch and glared at Dmitriyev, “brunch.”
They stared each other down and a muted tension seized the room. Each refused to give an inch. Dmitriyev had been threatened, blackmailed, disrespected, and insulted.
Mission accomplished, Tony thought. It’s J.J.’s turn.
Chapter 22
Late Sunday Afternoon…
J.J. stood in line at the Starbucks, biting down on her lip as her pulsed blitzed. Will he confess to 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 4-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 with such short notice. 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 4-D within the hour?”
“4-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 Starbucks 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 cup’s opening toward Dmitriyev, allowing 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 was 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, too soon. 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 her source 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.
“Sounds like bad business to me. What’s in it for you?”
“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...ohhhhh, 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?”