Spy Catcher: The J.J. McCall Novels (Books 1-3) (The FBI Espionage Series)

by Skye, S. D.

  “I don't know. I expected something a little more exotic. Maybe Lola...or Giselle. Giselle’s good.”

  “Giselle. Hmm,” she said, crossing her legs Indian style. “You can call me Giselle. But only if I can call you…” she looked him up and down, “stud muffin.”

  He laughed. “You're funny. No, Katherine and Santino will do fine.”

  Lana studied him as he leaned against the wall wearing his tailored slacks. She took particular note of his long-sleeved silk shirt, how the pomade stiffened his perfectly sculptured hair, the gaudy gold chain around his neck, and the pinky ring glimmering on his left finger. “So, what do you do?”

  “For a living?” he replied, clearly hesitant to answer.

  She nodded.

  He paused before unbuttoning his cuffs at the wrist. He rolled up his sleeves as he considered his response. She’d clearly made him uncomfortable. “I guess you could say . . . I do favors for my family and our associates.”

  “Favors? You going for sainthood?” she asked.

  “Not even close,” he said with a slight grin.

  “Where would I fit in…in this scenario?”

  He glanced down at his lap. “I could think of a few places where would you fit quite nicely.”

  She chuckled. “So what brings you to D.C.?”

  “Let's say I owe someone a few favors,” he said. “Twenty-five thousand of them.”

  “That’s a lot of favors,” she said, the discomfort looming between them.

  “So, what's a nice lady like you doing in a place like this?”

  She exposed a flirtatious grin and purred, “What makes you think I'm nice?”

  He smiled. “Touché. So what's an evil bitch like you doing in a place like this?”

  Her smiled disappeared and she turned away. “My husband died. I lost my job and my house. I needed a place to stay...to take care of some unfinished business before I return home.”

  She looked around the room nervously.

  “Wow. Don't I feel like a piece of shit? You've been through hell, huh?” he asked. His expression was nervous, uneasy.

  “The depths of which you can’t imagine,” she said with a strained chuckle. She waved him over. “You look tired. You should come have a seat. I don't bite...much.”

  He made his way to the bed and took his rest at a respectful distance. When he drew in a sip of his beer, she glimpsed the artwork on his forearm and leaned forward to examine it more closely. With that she’d gathered all she needed to know about the kind of man he was, the company he kept, and how she could use him. “Nice tattoo.”

  “Yeah,” he said as he pushed up the sleeve to expose the full view. It was small and easy to keep concealed—the picture of a flaming cross with an Italian flag draped around the full length. Beneath, in an old-world cursive script, the words “Morte Prima di Disonore” were written.

  “Hmm. Death before dishonor.” Her eyes locked on his. “Where I come from, tattoos can tell you a lot about someone. Where they've been. The kind of company they keep. All sorts of interesting things.”

  “Why do I feel naked all of a sudden?” Santino joked.

  “Because I see you. Don't worry, though, we're all thieves-in-law, right?” she said with a wink.

  He smiled and lifted his bottle to her in toast.

  “Do you outsource…your favors, I mean?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “Occasionally. Depends on what my customer requires.”

  “I suspect you can handle my all of my needs…and I’d certainly be willing to make it worth your while.”

  Chapter 19

  Friday Night—Washington Field Office

  Kyle sat back hard in his seat, glanced at the red bricked façade of the National Building Museum across 4th Street, and chewed on Greg’s order to hunt down his former protégé. He wondered whether he should recuse himself from the case because his emotions ran so high. Mac was right in warning him. His actions were not subject to reason, but the investigation he needed to conduct must be restricted to reason and law. He drew in a deep breath and clenched his eyes shut until all doubt dissipated.

  The time for second-guessing had ended and the time to work had begun. A necessary evil to take Michaels off the street was schooling the rookie.

  Hopper Mack.

  He'd already shown his proclivity for counterintelligence work when he located the intelligence files and money cache in Jack Sabinski's basement. He was a natural, had the makings of an exceptional agent. Unfortunately, he also had the ego of a kid who might quickly find himself in Duluth taking squirrel bite reports if he didn't reign in the self-righteous attitude. Kyle decided to let Junior cut his teeth on this case. If he survived, he'd help groom him along as Mac had done for him so many years ago. If not, he'd get him transferred to Duluth.

  Kyle stuck his head out the door and scanned the office. “Hey Junior, you out here?” After waiting a few moments with no response, he called out again. “Anyone seen Hopper Mack?”

  “Yes, sir,” Hopper replied, running down the hall chewing on half a street dog with a fresh glob of mustard adorning his navy Polo shirt. Cheeks bubbled with beef franks, he mumbled, “Sorry, I was hungry.”

  He was always clean-cut and fired-up like a Marine fresh out of boot camp.

  “Who ordered you to eat?” Kyle barked, strutting back into his office. “Maybe I should start calling you Grey Poupon instead of Junior.”

  Hopper stood paralyzed, as if confused as to whether Kyle was pulling his leg again. His guesses were usually wrong.

  Kyle cast a glance over his shoulder. “What are you gonna do, stand there with your mouth hanging open and let the grass grow under your feet? Get your hungry ass in here. I've got a case for you.”

  Hopper dunked the remainder of his lunch into the trash can and slipped into the guest seat before Kyle could sit firmly in his. He sat forward, ready to listen.

  “MacDonald requested my help on the Michaels investigations, and I, ahem, need some assistance. You up for it?”

  His eyes widened. “Wait. You....picked me?”

  “You'd prefer me to select someone else?”

  “No...no,” he said, shaking his head. “I'm ready to go. How can I help?”

  “Our job is to locate Agent Michaels and bring her in,” he said. “You're familiar with the case, right?”

  “Yeah, who isn't?”

  “So, what are your thoughts? Where's a good place to start?”

  Hopper rubbed his face repeatedly, then cleared his throat. “Well, if I'm Lana Michaels, the one thing I want to do more than anything else in the world is get as far away from the United States as possible. I’m going someplace where I won't be extradited, so Mexico and Canada aren’t options.”

  “Where would you go?”

  He thought for a few seconds and scratched through the scruff on his chin. “Back to Moscow, especially if I was Russian. Maybe France. Any place where there’s no extradition treaty…which means I'll be trying to find some travel documents, a passport in Lana’s case because hers is in evidence.”

  “What do you do in the meantime?”

  “I’d lie low, except...”

  “You’re an attractive, high profile target. Probably have money stashed but not a lot...and law enforcement has blanketed every cheap or seedy hotel east of the Mississippi.”

  “Hmmm. I'm gonna find an empty house and break in. But if the neighbors see me they'll call the police. So if I've got any money at all I’ll find a room.”

  “Good thinking, Junior,” Kyle said. “You might make a halfway decent agent yet.”

  Hopper bowed his head in thanks. “You think she'll try to get to the embassy? If she makes it inside, she'll technically be on foreign soil. There'd be no arrest.”

  “No, she won't go there. We've got the embassy covered—Uniformed Secret Service, FBI lookouts, Gs, and agents. She couldn't fart without law enforcement smelling the stink. I don’t doubt the Russians will try to make a drop though.�
�

  “Money?”

  “And travel documents. They'd probably try to get her a new identity and book her on the first flight out of here. But the likelihood of her passing through the checkpoint with all this heightened security is pretty much non-existent.”

  “She won't cross any borders. The only other way for her to get out of here would be by ship.”

  “You think she's going to take a Caribbean cruise?”

  Hopper chuckled. “Doubt it, but the Counterterrorism Task Force issued an interesting report a few days ago. Lemme go grab it.”

  He dashed out and returned a minute later with a two-page document in hand. “Check this out. What do you think?”

  Kyle scanned the page from top to bottom, leaned back against his chair and clasped his fingers behind head. “Hmmmm. Passenger travel on cargo ships. This is interesting. We'll send a lead up to the Baltimore office and ask them to inquire.”

  Hopper smiled.

  “Don't get beside yourself. She's still on the streets, remember? Why don't you start working on a plan to investigate D.C. boarding rooms.”

  “Did Metro Police ever determine which subway station she exited?”

  “Do I look like Metro Police to you? You've got a few calls to make. Report back to me when you’ve got facts. First thing tomorrow morning, we hit the streets. I'm going to put a feeler out with some of my informants to see if we can get a lead on the travel docs.”

  Kyle grabbed his cell phone, the one he used for his more seedy contacts and scrolled through the numbers; Hopper watched his every move without budging.

  “Uhhh… private call, Junior. I’ll holler when I’m done.”

  Hopper nodded and disappeared out the door. Kyle pressed the name “D.C.” and pushed his door shut. The phone rang twice before he answered.

  “What's up, man?”

  “Well, well, well...long time, no speak. Thought you traded in your street clothes for a cushy desk job.”

  “I tried,” Kyle said. “But the Bureau’s got me on some Godfather shit. Every time I get out, they pull me back in.”

  D.C. chuckled. “You a funny motherfucker. What can I do for you, man?”

  “I need a favor. I'm sure you've seen reports about this agent on the run.”

  “Have I? The streets are hot. A few people wouldn't mind cashing in her location for seven figures.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Hey, she's a cop. Ain’t no loyalty, even if she did kill a fed.”

  “Do me a kindness. If you get word on a white chick trying to cop a passport, I need to be your first call.”

  “What's in it for me?”

  “The usual, of course.”

  “The usual? Try again. Do you really think my contact won’t suspect I’m asking for five-oh? He’ll charge me triple for that reason alone.”

  “Trust me, you get this done for me and you can name your price, but there’s one catch.”

  “Oh, here we go,” D.C. said. “Always a catch with y’all. What is it?”

  “I supply the docs and you only sell them with my okay.”

  “What do I care? Same price for me no matter who supplies the docs.”

  He glanced up in time to see Hopper’s frame moving closer to his office door.

  “I gotta go. Hit me up the minute you get wind of anything,” Kyle said as the phone clicked against the cradle.

  Hopper knocked and Kyle waved him in.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Metro police just called. Nothing yet on Lana’s location. Maybe early next week.”

  Chapter 20

  Saturday Morning, November 7th—J.J.’s House

  The heaviness of the down comforter surrounded J.J. as she eased out of her restful slumber. The rumbling tones of Tony’s snores jarred her back into an acute state of awareness—the long night behind her…and the long days ahead. While she would like to cover her head and bask in the here and now, between Nixon’s news about the stand-down and the pending visit with Cartwright’s wife, work was determined to yank them back into reality. With that thought, J.J. decided to roll out of bed and get her day started.

  “Where do you think you're going?” Tony said, gripping J.J.'s waist as she attempted to slip away unnoticed. He laid a soft kiss into her back and pulled her into his spoon; she loved to sink between the broadness of his shoulders, to feel the warmth of his body against hers. She wanted to him to live inside her. “Don't even think about getting dressed. It's Saturday and we've had a hellish week.”

  She turned to face him and planted the softest of kisses on his naturally cherry lips. “As much as I'd like to make this a lazy day, I got a call from Debbie Cartwright yesterday.”

  Tony's expression turned serious. He propped himself up on his elbow. “Oh, man. What did she have to say?”

  “She's holding a small memorial ceremony today for his family, but she wanted us to stop by afterward. Apparently, Jim left a letter addressed to me.”

  “Hmm. Did she say what's in it?”

  “I asked,” J.J. said. “But she didn't open it. Told me to stop by her house after the memorial around noon to pick it up. It's already 10:30.”

  Tony snuggled his cheek against J.J.'s and gave her a quick peck, then turned to get out of bed. “All right. Hate to do it, but work calls. Maybe he gave you something to help the task force…or an apology.”

  “Oh yeah…about the task force,” J.J. began. “I got a call from Nixon last night. Not only have I been barred from Lana’s investigation, Task Force Phantom Hunter is dead in the water…sort of. We’ve been ordered to stand down offensive operations.”

  “You’re freakin’ kidding me!” Tony yelled. “What genius came up with that bright idea? I’m sure Freeman’s not responsible.”

  “Nope. We can thank the President for this one,” J.J. said, explaining the complexities involved including Lebed’s visit and ongoing CIA operations. “I’m sure Freeman fought the good fight, but you know what they say about the needs of the many…”

  “Yeah, they’re ignored whenever the Agency cries source protection,” Tony said with a shrug. “It’s a shame this has become the rule more than the exception.”

  J.J. got quiet for a moment, lost in her thoughts, and experienced a bout of guilt over missing Jim’s memorial service. Without realizing it, her thoughts were still torn between her memory of the agent and father she admired and the traitor murdered while meeting his Russian handler. “Jim and I were supposed to meet the morning before he died. He'd planned to tell me something. I had always thought he'd confess, but maybe there's something more.”

  “You think?”

  She sat up and leaned her back against the headboard then shrugged. “I can’t say. But I always suspected Jim had more intel than he let on. Time will tell, I suppose. The sooner we get over there. The sooner we'll know.”

  • • •

  Two hours later, J.J. and Tony pulled up in front of Jim Cartwright's house in Burke, Virginia, which sat in a small cul-de-sac lined with perfectly maintained brick-front colonial homes. A slew of cars crowded the streets as they paced up the walkway and approached the entryway. They exchanged mischievous smiles before the door opened.

  “May I help you?” a stout matronly woman in a navy suit asked as she eyed them from head to toe.

  “Yes, ma'am,” J.J. said. “Mrs. Cartwright, Debbie is expecting us.”

  She gave J.J. the side-eye and stepped aside to allow them in. After closing the door behind them, she led them down the hall and said, “Right this way.”

  As she weaved through the crowd, J.J. looked for signs of a spy's extravagance, but she found none. His home was quaint, normal. The artwork, though complimentary to their décor, was comprised of simple landscapes one might find in an advanced art class. Not Winslow Homer’s, but nice nonetheless. The furniture had a modern country feel. The size was just large enough for a family of four. Although Jim's car would likely be held in evidence until the unlikely occasio
n that Lana was caught, an older model minivan parked in the driveway showed signs of wear. They lived modestly. He'd been getting paid by the Russians, but signs of how he spent the money were few and far between.

  As they rounded the corner of a small hallway and arrived at the kitchen, J.J. saw Debbie staring into the backyard amidst of what appeared to be a small grouping of close friends or family members, dabbing her eyes with a floral-embroidered handkerchief.

  “Deb,” their guide said, calling for her attention. “You have some visitors.”

  She turned toward the voice, her eyes red, the bags beneath betraying her sleepless nights. She attempted a slight smile. “J.J., Tony. Thank you for coming.”

  She excused herself and they exchanged hugs before she took them to the bedroom.

  “Follow me,” she said. “It's back here.”

  She entered the room and reached out for a jewelry box sitting on top of a dresser. She pulled out the bottom drawer and slipped the letter out from beneath a small pile of papers. “Here you are,” she said, placing the envelope in J.J.'s hand.

  J.J. observed the handwriting which appeared to be Jim's penmanship. “With the ongoing investigation, I’m not certain whether I can share the contents with you, Debbie.”

  Debbie shook her head. “Please, don't worry. Given what’s happened, that’s probably for the best.”

  J.J. stepped beside Tony, opened the envelope, and unfolded the paper inside. The short letter began:

  Dear J.J.

  I hoped you wouldn’t need this letter, but wrote it in case you did.

  As you probably know by now, Lana Michaels is an agent of the Russian Intelligence Service, an illegal. I helped her obtain her position in the FBI and, when asked, I've supported other tasks. It is because of that work that I can leave this letter to you.

  Lana is part of a network of moles who not only provide classified information but directly support Russian intelligence operations. Each operates a cutout, code named Bumazhnaya Kuklas—Paper Doll—who serve as go-between to make drops and pass materials. Chris Johnson was Lana’s paper doll. Find the paper dolls and you’ll find the spies.