by Skye, S. D.
“If this is some feeble attempt to help me eat my troubles away, well...you should’ve thought of it sooner.”
As he spun the steering wheel to the right, J.J. pressed her forehead against the window. The ice cream shop was just a few hundred feet away. In an act of sheer desperation, she eyed the box from her peripheral vision.
She gasped. “Wait a minute. Stop, Tony. Stop!”
“What is it?” he yelled.
“Back up to the box! I think I saw something.”
“Jesus! You scared the crap out of me,” he said.
She grabbed his arm, pulled him toward her.
“Look! Right there!”
Tony’s gaze shifted in circles. Then his chin collapsed into his lap. “How the hell did he pull that off?”
They’d spotted the faint but visible mark. Plotnikov had placed it on the wrong side of the mailbox. J.J. blinked a few times, believing her imagination had run wild.
How in hell could Plotnikov mark the signal with Dmitriyev in the car? Her mind churned. Maybe he slipped out in the middle of the night and made the drop? Hmmm. No, the lookouts would’ve seen him leaving and noted the incidents on the log. A piece of this puzzle was missing—something important. And she had no clue what it was.
But the package was there. Encryption codes. ICE Phantom’s identity. The unknowing, the stress was unbearable.
“We’ve got to check the dead drop location now. We’ll get ice cream after. The park’s about to close.”
Tony shook his head. “What happened to your priorities?”
Chapter 9
Thursday Evening…
Russell 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’d 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 accouterment. 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 complement the head-man-in-charge air. He scanned through his daily emails 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 58th 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 this: 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. Freeman could see the stress from his job had 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 gray. 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 from the file folder marked “SECRET” in red at the top and bottom 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 regained 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 wrong person at the right time, any one of us could turn.”
Sabinski and Cartwright stood almost in uniso
n 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.”
Chapter 10
The sun hung low in the horizon when Tony and J.J. wheeled into Rock Creek Park. The drop only steps away, the end to years of compromised cases and dead sources were finally coming to a close. And in the location where it all began for them mere months before. It was perfect for her, D.C.’s largest recreational area. The park contained many nooks and hidden places to suit her operational needs. Off-the-beaten path walking trails, rocks, and footbridges, it was replete with ideal locations. Dead drops could be easily concealed and signals marked without being disturbed for days, even months.
They pulled into a cul-de-sac, a semi-circle shaped parking lot right off Beech Drive, a main thoroughfare. Very little traffic passed through the spot in the late evenings because no lighting had been installed on the walking trails. J.J. reached in Tony’s back seat to find the operational backpack they stored in his car for those occasions they needed to retrieve drops at night. Inside was a flashlight, rubber gloves, and evidence kits. The rubber gloves ensured they wouldn’t contaminate any potential evidence with their own prints. Crime lab techs lifted prints on everything. The skull caps and black nylon windbreakers were reversible, gray and black, in case they needed to alter their appearances while on foot. But this night the lot was desolate, no one but them, the bats, the trees, and the chilling breeze. Concealing their identities was the least of their concerns.
“Listen, Tony, we need to step up the pace. Park Police will be making their rounds to lockup soon. I don’t want to have to explain that we’re FBI agents here to pick up the Top Secret documents that our Russian spy left for us in a dead tree stump.” She stuffed the gloves in her pocket. “They get just south of pissed when the FBI doesn’t advise them about ops on their turf.”
“True. True,” he said as he removed his seatbelt.
“The last thing we need is for some keystone cop to call Sabinski and rant about our failure to follow protocol.”
“You got that right,” he said, twisting his head toward the back seat.
“The flashlight’s still in there, right?”
“Uhhh, I think so.”
When she turned to dig in the bag, a blinding light obstructed her vision. Headlights. The car turned into the lot and eased closer toward their car. She blinked rapidly, suddenly felt as if she needed to use the bathroom. She could see nothing.
And time was working against them.
J.J. and Tony couldn’t afford to lose a single day. She couldn’t tell whether the car had takedown lights. The sky was blue-black.
“Please tell me that’s not Park Police,” J.J. said. “You know they’ll order us out.”
Tony craned his neck, but couldn’t discern. “Damn it’s dark out here. I can’t tell yet.”
The car pulled into a parking space a few feet away. The engine stopped.
“No, can’t be Park Police. They’d have rolled up behind the car to keep us from backing out,” Tony said. “Probably some kids up to no good.”
“Whew! Okay, let’s roll.”
J.J. opened her door, planted her foot onto the moist asphalt. A choir of crickets sounded as a light breeze swept across her face. Then a second set of headlights appeared. The take-down lights were visible this time. She glimpsed the faint shadow of an arm maneuvering a floodlight hanging on the driver-side mirror.
J.J. poked her head back in the car and lowered her voice. “Shit! This is Park Police! What are we gonna do?” She pulled her foot back inside and closed the door.
“Where’s your gun?” Tony asked, his breathing markedly faster.
“In the holster on my back,” she answered. She hoped his solution involved something other than flashing their credentials.
“Good. Mine too,” Tony said. “Now just play along.”
Before J.J. could inhale and process what he’d said, he grabbed her shoulder, yanked her to his chest, and kissed her deeply as if they’d just said “I do.” J.J.’s eyes opened wide when they should’ve closed, and drifted closed when she should’ve been pulling away. He cupped her cheeks; the heat from his hands warmed her. Her fingers roamed, found their way into his hair, onto his shoulders, and down to the small of his back. My God—his lips, she thought. She’d never felt such softness, such tenderness. Slowly he eased his mouth open, and hers followed. Their tongues intertwined in a beautiful dance. J.J. felt drugged with the purest form of Ecstasy. She lost track of time, of space. She’d been transported to a dream.
Bam! Bam! Bam!
And awakened by reality.
The officer banged on the window. His light shone directly in their faces. Then on the floor and in the back seat.
Tony turned down the window and placed his hands on the steering wheel so the officer could see them.
“Didn’t you read the sign when you drove in? The park is closed after dark. You’ll need to leave immediately so I can lock up.”
J.J. didn’t hear a word the officer said. Is he even speaking English? she wondered. Neither her body nor her mind had returned from wherever Tony had beamed her a few seconds before. The other car pulled off, distracting them all for a moment. The officer turned his attention back to them.
“Oh, sorry, sir,” Tony said. “But my wife, she dropped her wallet when we took a walk here earlier. It’s our anniversary and this is where we first met. Guess we, uhhh...got a little carried away. You know how it is.”
Did he just say wife?
J.J. tucked her left hand under her thigh so the cop couldn’t see her ringless finger. Tony words had whizzed her back to reality, caught her off guard. So did the itching sensation that ensued a few minutes later. Her leg jerked noticeably before she could compose herself.
“You all right, Miss?”
“Yes, it’s a condition. Forgot my medication.”
“So you dropped your wallet, huh?”
J.J. nodded sheepishly and balled her fist. She wanted to jab Tony in the arm.
“Women! Whadaya gonna do, right?” Tony added.
They shared a man laugh at her expense. J.J. frowned at Tony, cocked her head to one side and shook it. He’d pay for that remark later.
“I dunno,” the cop said, debating whether to let them go.
“Pleeeeaaase, officer?” J.J. begged. “If somebody steals it, I’ll have to replace my driver’s license, social security card, everything. And hubby here will never let me live it down.”
He paused. “All right. All right. I can’t even count how many times I’ve had to call out a search party to find my wife’s purses and crap. Sheesh!” the officer said. “You’ve got five minutes and then I’ve got to lock up. I’ll make another stop and come back. You got a flashlight?”
“Uhhh...yes, sir. Right here.” She reached her arm behind the seat into the duffle bag and pulled it into his view. “See? We’re good to go.”
“Okay. I’ll be back in a few. Good luck finding your wallet.”
Tony stepped out of the car, waved at the officer. When he pulled the cruiser onto the parkway, J.J. and Tony jumped out.
“That there was some fancy footwork, partner,” she said, sucking her teeth and speaking with a cheesy Yankee Texan accent. J.J. shifted her gaze to her watch, and then grabbed an evidence bag from the duffle. Time was ticking and they hadn’t reached the drop location.
As they padded down bike trail, a sliver of a moonbeam and a flashlight illuminated their path. Tony led the way, his pace swift and urgent, his body shielding her from whatever lay ahead. The sound of falling leaves set her nerves on edge.
Within minutes, they arrived at the footbridge, roughly forty meters in. She shone the light on the adjacent grassy area as Tony eased down the rocky slope, then tossed him the flashlight so he could see where Plotnikov had stuffed the bag.
Alone in the blue blackness, J.J. flinched, placed her hand on her holster every time noi
ses sounded in the trees. Birds, bats, whatever. Sunday dinner was but a shot away.
Wordlessly, Tony searched the crevice between the wooden planks and the slope.
“You see anything? The package may be small if he’s passing codes.” She looked at her watch again. “We’ve only got a couple minutes left.”
“No. Nothing. You sure this is the right location?”
“Uh yeah. Picked it myself.”
“Still don’t see...oh, here it is! Lemme see if I can grab it. He wedged it in here pretty good.”
Wedged? J.J. thought. How could a small package be wedged?
After a few grunts, he emerged. He followed the light up the jagged rocks embedded in the hill, climbed to the trail. The large, dark green trash bag sealed with duct tape along the seams was classic Russian tradecraft.
“This is the package?” J.J. questioned. The discovery wasn’t quite what she expected. “Rather large to contain codes, wouldn’t you say?”
“Yeah. Sure is,” Tony replied. “Feels like a stack of documents.”
They both shrugged off their concerns for the moment, grateful Karat made the drop at all. His recall to Moscow was unexpected and probably as shocking to him as to them. His cooperation may have prompted his own murder and that thought quelled their excitement.
J.J. shook her head, held the evidence bag open so Tony could drop the weighty package inside. Karat must’ve cleaned house knowing the opportunity might be his last. Seems he wanted to stick it to the SVR before he met his fate, and now J.J. would bring his desires through to fruition.
“He did it. He fuckin’ pulled it off.” Tony grabbed the evidence bag from J.J. and paced toward the parking lot.
Her initial elation subsided and sadness set in. “Yeah, but at what cost?” J.J. followed closely on his heels. “You think they’re gonna kill him...like the others?”
“Probably. But risk is the nature of this business. Everybody knows that. He understood the stakes. We paid him to take those chances. And he gave his family a better life. If this information is solid, whether he’s dead or alive, we’ll work with the CIA to get the money where it belongs. We’ve kept our end of the deal.”