by S. D. Skye
Chris drew in a shallow breath, his head fell back against the wall. “Hmph,” he said. “Maybe that’s the real lesson here—honesty.”
“Look, I won’t let you fall apart over this,” she snapped. “We all liked Cartwright, but you’re an agent, you’re still here, and you still have a job to do.”
He raised his head, ran his fingers through his hair, grabbed the back of his neck, and arched his back before working his way to his feet.
“You okay, now?” Lana said, patting his back. “Please, don’t do this to yourself.”
His stood and traced the grout lines in the floor tile with the tip of his shoe. “I’m done talking about this,” he continued. “You’ve advised me of the situation. It’s over,” he said. “Now, I need to get out of here for a few minutes and clear my head.”
“Look, I’m here for you. Really. Anything I can help with?” she asked.
“You haven’t done enough?”
What he needed she could clearly no longer give. Perhaps she could shed light on upcoming embassy events instead.
“On second thought, maybe you can,” he said. “Listen, I need to know. Have you received any reports indicating something unusual’s going on at the Russian embassy in the next few days? More specifically in the next three days?”
She combed her fingers through her hair, tapping her heel at a rapid pace. Finally, she shook her head. “Nothing springs to mind why?”
“Damn! I was hop—”
“Oh! Wait a minute,” she interrupted, “Vorobyev! The security officer is scheduled to depart on Friday,” she said. “I haven’t seen a visa notice for his replacement though. Still keeping an eye out for it.”
“Vorobyev?” he said, the sound of his heart pounding a panicked rhythm. “Shit!”
Chris threw his head back and expelled a frustrated breath. Of course. It must be Vorobyev. He’d have access to the asset files and would probably know the mole’s identity.
His body core burned like fire, sweat beads forced from his pores. Scared, confused, he didn’t know his next move. He’d grown so tired. Cartwright was dead, and Chris had blood on his hands, as if he’d pulled the trigger himself. And the light at the end of the tunnel was attached to the barbed-wire fence that secured Supermax.
Spending the rest of his life in prison was a chilling prospect but paled in comparison to his present misery. The boat, the cars, the houses, probably worth a few million. But none worth the price of honor or peace of mind. He’d become a prisoner of his own lust. And with one path leading to execution, only one escape remained.
Vorobyev.
Chris couldn’t allow him to pass the mole’s identity to J.J. and Tony. His life would be over and his dearest Koshechka would be embroiled in the biggest counterintelligence scandal in the history of the United States.
“And?” Lana asked, still baffled by his concerned expression.
“He’s the highest ranking counterintelligence officer in the residency...and he’s leaving in three days!”
Lana shrugged. “I’m turning grey here.”
He lowered his head and whispered. “I think there is a very real possibility J.J. and Tony recruited Vorobyev.”
“What…what makes you say this? Vorobyev is declared—he can’t engage in operational activity.”
“I, uhhh, overheard them talking in Jack’s office earlier today. J.J. mentioned that on Friday she’d have all the information she needed to nail the mole—ICE Phantom. She specifically said ‘her friend’ only had three days left.”
She shook her head, her expression more urgent, tense. “No. This can’t be right. If J.J. recruited him, we’d have a record of it. I’ve reviewed all the active case files.”
“I know what I heard. Too bad your precious Jack is locked up and can’t get you access,” Chris growled. “I’m sure you’d love to get your hands on that one.”
She spat in his direction and then spun around sharply to walk away. He grabbed Lana’s shoulder to stop her, faced her, and then placed a gentle finger beneath her chin.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean what I said. I’m just…the pressure’s getting to me. And I’m taking my frustration out on you,” he said. “I need to get out of here.”
“Where are you going?”
He shrugged. There were few places he and his pregnant Koshechka could hide from the FBI. The escape plan, he thought. Now is the time. They had passports, a flat awaiting them, and a hero’s welcome. Just one more financial boost, courtesy of Vorobyev, would give them the cash they needed to ensure their security for years to come.
Chapter 31
Tuesday Night…
Chris visited his Koshechka’s house, a small cape cod in the Van Ness area of Washington, D.C. She turned the fixer-upper into an updated masterpiece; it was modest enough to suit her cover. And for Chris, it was home, the place where he could wrap Koshechka in his arms and confide to her his deepest fears. She soothed his mind; her soft body warmed and blanketed him in security. Her touch triggered a passion he never wanted to end.
“Listen, my dear,” he said basking in their post-coital glow. “In light of this Cartwright’s death...and not to mention the Vorobyev information—”
“Stop!” she interrupted. “Are you positive? He’s very well respected. I’ve known him for years. He and my father worked together in Washington.”
“And?”
“And we must verify what you believe you overheard before we act. I forbid you to report this without my approval. And furthermore, I’ll see to it that you receive no payment.”
“Forbid? Don’t you understand?” He propped up his left elbow and rested his head in his hand. “We have no time to verify. We work in intel. There are no absolutes. We base our decisions on the best information available at the moment. This is what we’ve got.”
“We’re talking about a man’s life here. Not to mention the fact that I have no diplomatic immunity. I’m a citizen now. Don’t you understand? I’m subject to Title 18, with no diplomatic immunity, just like you!” she said.
“A man’s life? What about Cartwright?”
In silence, he stared at her in the eerie calm.
Her tone still urgent, she continued, “If you’re wrong, they’ll intensify the search for the mole. Relations between Russian and the West are deteriorating because of that fucking missile shield. If the security officer is arrested for cooperating with the FBI and the resident lodges a complaint with the State Department, this could have international implications.”
Chris remained defiant, refused to concede. “If Vorobyev passes that information to J.J. You and I may both die. I can’t take any chances. We have an emergency plan to defect so let’s execute it.”
“Only as a last resort.”
“Can’t you see, my love? This is the last resort.” He lowered his voice to a heavy whisper. “Do you want to give birth to our baby in prison before you die? Is that how this ends?”
“No,” she said. “But—”
“But what? This is game over. If we don’t give up Vorobyev, he’ll give up you and me,” Chris implored. “Even if we sacrifice Vorobyev, we’ll be on an even shorter list of mole suspects, especially with Jack in jail and Cartwright dead. We must defect.”
“There’s got to be another way. I’ll think of something.”
“Are you kidding me? Why is this still under discussion?” he pleaded. “Now, either you’re with me or you’re against me. I’ve made my move.”
He bolted out of bed, feeling through the darkness for the lamp. She gripped his arm firmly, yanked him toward her. Although small in stature, she was government trained in hand-to-hand combat. She could take Chris on her worst day. And unlike him, she had the balls to follow through on any threat.
She lowered her voice, her tone angry and stern. “Cross me and you’ll be making the mistake of your life. Allow me to come up with another solution,” Koshechka urged, desperate to change his mind. She pulled the covers back to expose h
er negligee and distract him, but Chris would not be deterred.
His glare sliced through her as he snatched his arm from her grip. His lips flattened as he snarled, “I’m afraid it’s already too late for that!”
Chris dressed himself as she handed him his clothes to hasten his exit. He charged through the living room, his feet padding hard against the pristine wood floors. A moment later the door slammed, rattling the windows. For the first time he exerted his will, strengthened his backbone. The deed was done, and there was nothing to left to do except wait.
• • •
Koshechka grunted in anger as she lifted her cell phone from the mahogany antique dresser, the one for which she haggled during an antiquing jaunt in Williamsburg, Virginia. Raking her fingers through her hair, she scanned the room, caught her glance in the mirror, and immediately looked away. She’d underestimated her control over Chris, a critical mistake. Now, Chris had backed her into a corner and her mission was incomplete.
She dialed the phone to call him. She hadn’t planned to fall in love but...his smile. He flashed it during a training class. She couldn’t resist it, nor his chiseled frame and cocky charm. She was drawn to confident men. And unlike Chris and Jack, he possessed an inner strength neither of them could fathom.
He answered after the first ring.
“I should’ve known he couldn’t be trusted but I thought I could contain him. He’s such a fuck up!” she said. “All these years. All this work.”
“Calm down, baby. Calm down. What’s going on?” his sweet voice trilled in her ear.
“There’s no time to explain right now. But what’s that thing you always say? When all hell breaks loose, only the devil survives?”
He smiled. “Yeah. Made that up myself.”
“Well, we need to make arrangements to defect—this week—or we won’t survive.”
• • •
Early Wednesday Night…
Freeman lay in bed, sleep-deprived, restless. Cartwright’s death stirred up a tornado of conflicting emotion. Anger. Confusion. Resentment. Sadness. They’d been friends for years, since Freeman’s prosecutor days. They were golf buddies. He’d attended Jim’s daughters’ christening, and now he was gone, a single gunshot to the head. Rita had pressed him to go to bed and attempt to sleep, but not even three Hennessey cocktails could settle him down. He crept downstairs to his office, thought he’d catch up on some reports in his favorite recliner and leave his Rayna undisturbed. Nothing like a stack of National Security Letters to knock him out for the count. As sleep skulked in an hour later, soft footsteps padded on the staircase and an angel’s voice sounded from the study’s threshold.
“Baby,” Rita said, “I know you’re sick about Jim, but you really need to come to bed. Let’s go. It’s almost two in the morning, and you’ve got to wake up for work in a couple of hours.”
He smiled, laid his eyeglasses on the side table, and turned out the lamp. “I just was on my way upstairs when I heard you tiptoeing in here.”
“Good,” she said. “Had to make sure you weren’t down here making 1-900 calls again.”
Russell laughed. He hadn’t had many occasions to do that in recent days. The stress was stifling, but Rayna was his balance personified. Thankfully, for his sake, she’d forgiven him for the birthday debacle.
“How about I give you a little back rub to help you relax?”
He smiled. Tonight he was in the mood to accept and reciprocate; he needed the comfort of her touch. “All right, now. That’s what I’m talking about,” he said, following her to the staircase.
The second he placed his foot on the first riser, the secure phone rang, the one the Bureau had installed in his home for emergencies. This damn well better be important, he thought, anxious to receive what his wife had waiting for him.
He let out a hard frustrated sigh. “Let me get this and I’ll be up shortly. Must be urgent for them to call me at this time of night.”
“You want me to wait for you?”
“No, no,” he said with a wink. “I’ll see you upstairs in a few minutes.”
He paced to his desk and placed his hand on the receiver. It stopped ringing. Just as he turned to leave, it rang again.
“Freeman.”
“Uhhh...yes, sir. This is John,” said John Nixon, the Acting Deputy Assistant Director for Counterintelligence until Cartwright’s replacement could be identified. “Sorry to call you so early but we’ve had a few developments, and I thought you should be aware of the situation before you arrived at headquarters in the morning.”
“Uhh...no problem. I couldn’t sleep anyway,” Freeman said. “What’s going on?”
“Well, sir, we received a call from the chief of Russia House at the CIA,” John said, referring to the CIA’s center for Russian operations. “He’s received very reliable information indicating Stanislav Vorobyev, the security officer at the Russian Embassy, has been detained and interrogated for cooperating with the FBI. As you know, targeting a declared officer violates long-standing diplomatic protocols. Now, the SVR Resident, through the Russian Ambassador, is planning to lodge a protest with the State Department first thing tomorrow.”
“What?!” Freeman said, folded over, barely still on his feet. He gripped his forehead. “Vorobyev is not working with us, and my agents would never target a declared officer.”
“Well, the Russians seem to think they have it on pretty good authority that he’s indeed cooperating with the FBI.”
“Lord, have mercy,” Freeman said.
“There’s more, sir.”
“More?”
“Unfortunately, yes,” John said. “According to Russia House, Moscow’s planning to expel the CIA security officer from Moscow station in retaliation.”
“You’re shitting me!” said Freeman. “Always tit-for-tat with these guys.”
“And the Chief of Station.”
“What!”
“And every operations officer they can identify, which according to the list is all of them except three NOC officers operating under commercial cover,” John said. “This will decimate the station and it will take the Agency years to refill those slots.”
“Jesus H. Christ.”
“They’ll all be expelled, possibly PNG’d, and forced to leave their posts within days unless, by some miracle, we can somehow prove the accusations are false.”
He collapsed into his chair. The ramifications would be disastrous. An expulsion only meant they’d have to leave the country. Officers declared persona non grata had to leave and could never return. Ever. It was a career-ending diplomatic sanction that would no doubt further endanger the already tenuous cooperation between the FBI and CIA.
“What the hell is this, the Cold War?” Freeman said. “Did Scottie beam me back into the 1970s without my knowledge? The CIA has got to be livid.”
“I believe that should win the prize for understatement of the decade, sir,” John said. “And they want Agent McCall’s head roasted on a spike and her operations shut down. Unless we do some real damage control and find out who’s at the root of all these compromises, we are going to be the scorn of the intelligence community . . . more so than we already are.”
Freeman exhaled. “I refuse to throw my agent under the bus and they don’t tell me how to run my agency. Agent McCall is doing her job. I won’t suspend her unless she’s broken the law,” he said. “With that in mind, we’re not going to take this on the chin.”
“What do you need, sir?”
“Pull together a list of all Russian intelligence officers operating in the United States, including their NOCs. Let the State Department know we are prepared to reciprocate, officer for officer, if a single CIA employee is expelled,” Freeman ordered. “If it takes us years to recoup, it’ll take them decades. That should shut down this noise until we can figure out a long-term solution.”
“Yes, sir.”
“We’ll discuss this further in the morning. Bright and early. Will that be all for no
w?”
“Isn’t that enough?”
What a fucking nightmare! Freeman thought to himself. He hung up the phone and stood to head upstairs to his bedroom. His chest tightened and his left arm went numb, just for a moment. The feeling subsided with a few deep breaths. His job had already taken an emotional toll on him and his marriage. Now it was gunning for his body.
Whatever the blood-pumping organ inside his chest had planned, it would have to wait. He simply did not have time for the heart attack and nervous breakdown he so richly deserved. No, there were far more important things on his agenda.
And at the top of the list, he had a mole to catch.
Chapter 32
Wednesday Morning…
“Make them stop, Aleksey!” Vorobyev cried out, his body writhed in pain. “I know you’re watching. I am innocent! For God’s sake, make them stop!”
The linoleum tiles cooled Stanislav Vorobyev’s face, still stinging from the jarring strike that sent him crashing to the floor. The gash in his forehead, left by the ringed hand of Golikov’s goon, dripped the blood that trickled into and burned his eye. His vision blurred, and he could no longer distinguish facial features, only darkened shadows. Each attempt to push himself upright was met with a brutal shoe tip in his gut. The force of a heel in the core of his spine numbed his limbs. He was innocent of the trumped up charges, but reasoning with the insane proved a futile exercise. He had served his country with honor and so steeled his determination to rise from this undeserved hell.
“You pig!” Igor, Golikov’s junior officer, spat. “We have very reliable information from our source that you are spying for the Americans and passing critical information to the FBI. Tell us who you’re meeting with and what you’ve told them.”
Vorobyev pushed the palm of his hand against the floor, struggled to get his bearings. “I . . . am a man, not a dog, nor a pig! I will say nothing more until you allow me to sit up and speak to you like a man.”