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

by Skye, S. D.

  “All right, Jiggy,” Hopper said. “I'll discuss it with Kyle and see what we can do. We'll call you back.” He hung up the phone and his face crumpled; he pulled out his guest chair. “You may want to sit down for this.”

  “Uh oh. The expression on your face says it all.”

  Kyle grimaced as Hopper recounted Jiggy's bleak report from the Gs. Not only had the Russian not stood down operations—they’d ramped them up a notch. After more than 15 years in the field, Kyle learned most intelligence officers avoided antagonizing surveillance; they strove to stay under the radar and off the Gs’ shit list. Only a critical operation would make them reverse this policy intentionally. With only two officers making runs, it was clear the rest of the residency was standing down operations. So why take the chance and send out Lana’s father and the new counterintelligence officer…to drive in circles during one of the most contentious periods in U.S.-Russian relations? There was only one reason worth that level of risk: Saving Lana Michaels.

  “Your thoughts?” Kyle asked.

  Hopper shrugged. “I dunno. It’s obvious they are establishing a pattern. Maybe they’re trying to gauge how many surveillance personnel we’ve got posted on the streets. At a minimum, they are going out of their way to make us believe they’re just fucking with us.”

  “You nailed it. That’s what they want us to believe. The question is why? I'll tell you this...if an FBI agent went on the run after a sanctioned op went bad, we'd stop at nothing to get them home...even provoke the local security service.”

  “Yeah, I agree,” he said. “But we support counterintelligence—how do we neutralize this activity.”

  “I think it's pretty obvious.”

  “Obvious?”

  “Yeah. We need to fight fire with fire. They think they've faked us out. So we need to use that to our advantage. We need to use these fake runs to get the information we need to disrupt their operation.”

  “Hmm. I was going to suggest backing off, but it sounds like that's the last thing we want to do.”

  Kyle shook his head, then scraped his fingers through his grey infused strands of blond. “No, can't back off now. But we need to find a way to make them believe they’ve successfully evaded our coverage and are operating in the black when, in fact, we still have eyes on them.”

  “Problem is, we have no way of letting them get in the black...without letting them get in the black.”

  “Ahhh, not necessarily,” he said. “We could go through air, a plane or a drone, but we don’t have time to get the authorization.”

  Hopper jerked his head back and popped his right eyebrow up.

  “They’ve timed their stops perfectly, you say?” Kyle asked.

  Hopper nodded. “That's what Jiggy said. Each stop's predictable almost to the second. Leave the same time, stop the same time, return to the embassy at the same time. Like clockwork. About forty-five minutes for the longest phase.”

  “That means we’ve got a forty-five minute window. That’s plenty of time,” Kyle said, rubbing his hands together sinisterly. “I’ve got an idea for the next run.”

  “What is it?”

  “Weeeellll,” Kyle began, “it’s a complicated operation and you’ll play a critical part. The Gs have done it before. It’s old hat for them,” Kyle said. “First things first. We need to get SAC authorization. Then we’ve got to go to Special Projects to get some toys.”

  “Toys?” Hopper said, rubbing his hands together eagerly. “Okay, I’ll start the paperwork now.”

  “No, no. I’ll get a verbal and we can do the paperwork later. It's been a long day and we've got a tough few days ahead of us,” Kyle said. “Why don’t we grab a beer and discuss your upcoming meeting with Filchenko?”

  “Filchenko?” Hopper froze and locked a confused glared on Kyle, his eyes wide. He shrugged and said, “Okaaaaay.” Just as he stood to leave, his phone buzzed. He checked the caller ID, opened the line, and mouthed the word. “Metro.”

  “Mack,” he answered. “How can I help you?”

  Kyle twiddled his thumbs as he waited for Hopper to wrap up his conversation.

  “Okay, thanks.” Hopper hung up the phone and turned to Kyle. “They think they’ve got footage of Lana leaving a D.C. metro station. We’ll have it first thing in the morning.”

  “Great. Another good reason for a beer. Let’s go.”

  As Kyle led Hopper to the Capitol Grille, he questioned whether he could pull off the op he’d conceived, especially given the current climate. Such operations were simple in theory but much harder to execute on the streets. Things could go very right or very wrong—and very wrong would be very ugly for the FBI and the country. Kyle wanted no part of The Washington Post headlines.

  He resolved not to spin his wheels for too long. At the end of the day, the move would get him closer to finding Lana. She’d already taken down his best friend and had set her sights set on another agent. Any op designed to put a stranglehold on support for her escape was worth a shot.

  • • •

  Back at Irving Street…

  With the drop contents resting on the passenger seat of Santino’s Mustang, Lana pressed the gas pedal through the floor, the tires screeching on every turn back to Irving Street. There was no time to open the package and ensure everything she needed had been provided, but with her father at the helm she trusted with blind faith. It’s thickness suggested it contained the cash, passport, and travel tickets. She’d stopped at a drive-through carwash to quell Santino’s inevitable anger and ease his suspicions. The cash she’d pay him, now that she had the resources to do so, would ensure his expedient forgiveness. She didn't much concern herself with the potential blowback from her brief pilfering; after all, he was just another silly little man. She'd tangled with men much more foreboding than an Italian thug and always came out on top…so to speak.

  Once home, she crept upstairs to the landing, slipped the key beneath the mat, and approached her bedroom. Before she could grip the knob, the door had flung open and Santino's large hand tightened around her neck. He yanked her inside and jammed her back against the wall. She could feel the rush of blood turn her face plum red as she gasped for air. Thickened veins popped out of his arms as she struggled to release his stone hands from her neck, but his limbs felt as solid as concrete.

  “What the fuck are you playin' at Katherine?!” he growled through clenched teeth. “You take my car without askin’! You tryin' to get me pinched? I could break the bones in your neck with one squeeze!”

  She shook her head feverishly, her face beyond purple as she tried to respond. “Money. Mo-ney,” she gurgled and mouthed, desperately yanking at his fingers.

  He loosened his grip and she sucked in a breath through the eased constriction. “Please. Please. I can explain,” she gurgled as tears streamed down her face. She’d underestimated him for the last time whether she died in his grip or changed tactics. “I promise,” Katherine squelched. “Just listen.”

  He released her from his chokehold, stepped back, and pulled a pistol with a silenced tip from the small of his back. He dug it into her temple. “You fuck with me, you make one wrong move, and your brains will be sliding down this shitty wallpaper!”

  She grasped the nape of her neck as she sucked in deep breaths, her appreciation for air increased exponentially. Holding one open palm up and facing him to reassure him her movement was non-threatening, she bent her knees slowly and descended toward the floor. “Please, I needed to pick up my package. I'll show you.”

  He backed up, only a half-step, and turned his gun toward the bed.

  She grabbed the bag, sat down, and ripped out her words out in rapid succession as if each syllable cost might cost her something more precious than the money she planned to sacrifice. “I've got to leave the country. I was going to pay you,” she explained as she ripped off the mounds of duct tape and pulled out the contents.

  An envelope thick with cash. A ticket. And a note.

  No passport.<
br />
  She fanned the cash on the comforter beside her. “See? I'd planned to give you half.”

  Santino pursed his lips and returned the barrel to her head. “What would stop me from putting a bullet in your head and taking the whole thing?”

  “Because, if you help me,” she said, dividing up the money up and tossing his share at the end of the bed, “I can get you triple this amount. You'll have enough to pay off your debt and pocket the rest.”

  His eyebrow popped up. “Triple, huh? You got my attention. I'm listening.”

  “First, I need to check something.” She pulled the ticket from the envelope and reviewed the travel plans. “Maris Freighter Cruises. Le Havre, France. This Sunday,” she looked up toward the ceiling and remembered France had no extradition treaty with the United States, and she’d always wanted to visit Paris. She smiled and turned to Santino. “I’m going to need a ride to Baltimore.”

  “Hell, I can handle that.”

  She opened the note.

  We will drop your new passport at the emergency location on Thursday. Once you retrieve the package and mark the signal indicating receipt, we will sever communications until you return to Moscow. Safe travels and your courageous service shall be

  rewarded.

  Andrei Komarov

  “Is that all?” he asked.

  She shook her head no and hesitated before speaking. “What would you say if I told you I needed...to take care of someone?”

  “Take care of?” He jerked his head back. “Who?”

  She smiled and rolled her eyes. Dumbass, she thought. It wasn't his fault she was the only one between the two of them who knew precisely with whom they were dealing. “Does it matter, mudak?” she sang sweetly as if using a term of endearment. “It means darling one,” she lied.

  “Hmph, Sounds like a sissy name. If you’re gonna give me a nickname, at least make it something with balls.”

  She let out a hearty laugh at his expense. Dare she tell him the name had more balls than he knew? “I’m sorry, Santino Santino, but you didn’t answer my question.”

  He shrugged. “Nah, what do I care? As long as your people aren’t my people, we’re good.” He smiled. “So, is this about your husband? You want to get revenge on the person who off'ed him?”

  “Please. Revenge is for children bullied out of their lunch money. I want justice,” she said, her voice flat and cold. “If I can’t kill the one responsible. I’ll kill someone she loves. Let her live with that pain, as I have to, for the rest of her miserable days.”

  Chapter 25

  Tuesday—The Situation Room

  “How this could’ve happened?” Kendel asked, staring at her reflection in the glossy mahogany conference table anchored in the center of the Situation Room. On it laid one of the square removable panels concealing the wires and telecommunications and video equipment installed along the perimeter walls.

  Burrowed into the rear of the panel were two circular inserts containing the devices.

  With gloved hands, Walter and Tony carefully examined each component, while Six and J.J. stared at Kendel’s stupefied expression. “The space underwent renovations in 2007 and has undergone a few sporadically since. I mean, it had to be somebody on the security or construction teams. Had to be.”

  “Tony, J.J., you see this?” Six asked. “I’m not a betting man, but I’d say this looks almost identical...”

  “To the device found in the State Department?” J.J. asked.

  “Yeah, even down to the precision-cuts. This panel isn’t removable like the others that cover the cabling. They cut this panel especially to plant the bug. Look, you can’t even tell the difference. Whoever did it had expert carpentry skills,” Tony interjected. “At best the White House has a mole. At worst…”

  “A sleeper,” Six said.

  They each exchanged glances and turned to Kendel, whose scrunched brow served as a clear indication that her mind was spinning.

  From the midst of her haze, she continued speaking as if she hadn’t heard anything but the sound of her own thoughts. “But we conduct sweeps regularly,” she urged, her shock apparent in her eyes which shifted nervously.

  J.J. waited for a reaction, but none came.

  “We installed electronics sensors during the last renovation. Why didn’t our equipment pick them up?”

  Walter looked up with his glasses low on his nose and his eyes peering above the rim. “The sensors installed in this room scan for high-frequency devices like cell phones. This device operates,” Walter said, holding up the panel, “on a low frequency. The sensors wouldn’t detect it,” he said. “But there’s another possibility to consider. If I’m right, you may have a much bigger problem. Can I take a look at your equipment?”

  Kendel froze as if momentarily paralyzed. Then she picked up a phone and made a call, mumbling something indiscernible under her breath. After hanging up, she said, “They’re on the way. Hawk will be here in just a few minutes. He’s fully cleared.”

  “So, what’s next?” Six asked.

  J.J. turned to Kendel. “Do employees badge both in and out of this space?” she asked.

  Kendel nodded. “In, not out. The system maintains a log which goes back to 2003 when we installed it.”

  “Are there hours in which the room is regularly not in use?” J.J. asked.

  “Most nights, unless there’s a major operation going on. We run a 24-7 watch desk, but that’s located in the space next door.”

  “Okay, we’ll need a printout of the log. All entry records from the date of the last renovation.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Kendel said. “You have no idea how much paper you’re talking about, but let me give you a clue. With the volume of information in this system, we could build a bridge from here Moscow.”

  Walter shook his head. “If you can download it to a drive, our VECTOR program can conduct the analysis and identify patterns. You’d need an intel analyst to run down the leads, though.”

  The face of Sunnie Richardson, her favorite go-to intelligence analyst, popped into a J.J.’s head. “No problem. I’ve got someone who can handle the job.”

  A click sounded and the door opened. A well-groomed, middle-aged Caucasian man in blue coveralls pushed in a cart with an array of handheld frequency scanners. With eyes narrowed and his mouth twisted into a smirk, he scanned the room before staring down J.J. and Tony in a scornful glare. He had prominent European features, a strong jaw-line, cleft chin, and the worn skin of a man familiar with alcoholic beverages.

  “Thanks, Hawk,” Kendel said, pointing out the visitors in the room. “Please meet FBI Special Agents McCall, Donato. That’s Grayson Chance, a career officer at the Agency.”

  “Six, please,” he responded.

  Kendel looked at Hawk askance. “Everything okay?”

  “Couldn’t be better,” he answered. “I’ll be over here if you need anything.”

  He stood with his back against the wall, monitoring as if he was on watch.

  J.J. frowned in confusion. “Excuse me? What’s his deal?” she asked Kendel. She couldn’t help but notice the obvious disdain and look-that-kills sneer from this man who didn’t know her from a can of paint. While she understood “F-B-I” didn’t always engender feelings of light and love given it’s long and often tumultuous history, his attitude was over the top by all standards. This was going to be a long investigation.

  “Technical security contractor. FBI made him jump a bunch of hoops to get his clearances,” Kendel whispered to J.J. “He got them but I don’t think he’s over it.”

  J.J. smiled warmly and turned to Hawk. “The line for people holding grudges against the FBI could wrap around the Earth twice. You’ve got a long wait,” she said with a chuckle, trying to break the ice.

  He forced a fake chuckle before baring a sliver of his teeth like a rabid dog. “Perhaps.”

  Hawk’s attitude took up more space than he did as Walter stood up, rolled his eyes, and walked over to the car
t. He palmed a few of the devices and examined them closely. After removing a jackknife from his pant pocket, he slipped the blade into the scanner’s seam to crack it open.

  “No, you can’t do that!” Hawk said, loud enough to draw Kendel’s attention.

  “Are you nuts?” she said. “That’s a $500.00 device.”

  “Just as I suspected,” Walter said, facing the circuit board toward her and pointing to a small grouping of wires. “You see this?”

  She nodded as everyone nearby turned their attention to Walter.

  “Someone disabled the sensor. This $500 scanner isn’t worth 5 cents. It’d make a better Christmas decoration,” he said, pointing at the blinking light. “And if my suspicions are correct the others aren’t worth a nickel either. Someone’s been tampering with your equipment. That’s why you never detected the bug during your sweeps.”

  “Jesus!” Kendel braced her hand on the table before taking a seat. “Who would… There’s no telling how many bugs are in the building, or how long they’ve been here.”

  “Unfortunately, we don’t have time to think,” J.J. said. “Let’s check for other devices so we can determine the magnitude of the breach.”

  “Use our equipment,” Tony said to Kendel. “Your officers can conduct sweeps throughout the entire residence to determine whether we need to expand the crime scene.”

  “Yeah, meanwhile, the first thing we need to do is get the ERT in here,” J.J. said, slightly uncomfortable with Hawk staring down her throat. “They may find prints or anything else we’ve overlooked. Although, if the spy is shrewd enough to pull this off, I doubt we’ll find much.”

  “ERT can’t show up with the van or raid jackets or the Press Corps will be all over the story like stink on shit. We’ve still got to keep this under wraps, remember?” Tony said.

  “We don’t want to risk tipping off the Russians either,” Six added, before continuing, “which begs the question, what are you going to do with the bug? The minute you remove it, the Russians will shut down the op and begin an internal investigation.”