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

by Skye, S. D.

  Hopper and Kyle introduced themselves and proceeded through the standard introductory procedures. Kyle couldn’t help but notice his facial features and build were familiar, but he couldn’t place the face.

  “What’s your name, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “I mind,” he said. “But you can call me Sonny.”

  “Thanks, Sonny. Listen, we don’t want to take up much of your time. Just wanted to ask you a few questions and we’ll be on our way,” Kyle said. “We stopped by earlier, but you didn’t answer the door.”

  “Oh, sorry. I was in the shower.”

  “Okay, that’s understandable.” Kyle nodded and gave him the once over thinking that if the disheveled man before him had truly taken a shower he missed a few spots. All over. “We understand from some of the neighbors that you and a female tenant are sharing this place right now.”

  “Yeah, I’ve been here since June. My roommate didn’t move in until last week sometime. She told me her apartment caught fire, but what do I know?”

  “I see.” Kyle pulled Lana’s photo from his breast pocket and handed it over. “We’re canvassing the neighborhood asking neighbors if they’ve seen this woman.”

  Santino carefully studied the photograph, his face remained expressionless as he twisted and turned the paper at multiple angles before handing it back to Kyle. “Nah. She don’t look familiar to me. Different hair, different eyes. The lips ain’t right eitha. But I gotta admit, I don’t spend much time checkin’ out her face, if you get my drift?” he said, shaking his hand and biting his lower lip.

  “Is she home now?”

  “Nah. Left a few hours ago. Asked me to feed her fish for a few days. I think she got a job or somethin’. May be lookin’ for a permanent place. I dunno. I mind my business; she minds hers. I’ll feed ‘em while I’m here.”

  “Any idea when she’s coming back?”

  He shook his head. “Most of her stuff is still up there so I know she’s coming. I dunno when. If you leave your card, I’ll give you a call when she shows up.”

  “We appreciate your cooperation.” Hopper handed him a card. “Thank you for your time.”

  “Eh. Just doing my civic duty,” Santino said before the door slammed.

  Half way back to Max’s place Hopper said, “At least he was cooperative.”

  Kyle smiled and shot back, “So was Benedict Arnold. Doesn’t mean he was helping our side.”

  • • •

  Friday—Irving Street

  “You think that’s her?” Hopper said, staring at the monitor behind the cashier counter at Max McCall’s corner store. Max pulled the video tapes from the day of the robbery and hovered behind him.

  He looked on as the woman disarmed and dropped the would-be robber flat to the ground in a matter of seconds. “She’s no civilian. The take-down was textbook Quantico,” Kyle said. “Even still I wouldn’t bank my check on this being Michaels yet.”

  “Yeah, I know a few female cops and Marines who could’ve done twice the damage in half the time,” Hopper said.

  “Between the hoodie, the hat, and the glasses, I can’t tell. Same height though,” Kyle said. “The build, on the other hand, is well concealed under the baggie clothes.” He turned to Hopper before saying, “Either it’s not her, or she’s doing a damn good job of hiding in plain sight.”

  Hopper stood up and walked around the store. "“If we only had a clean shot of her face, CJIS could run a facial recognition analysis. I’m gonna check and see if any place nearby has a camera outside. She had to get here somehow, right?”

  “Good thinking,” Kyle said. “I’ll review the footage again. See if there are any other clues.”

  After a few minutes, Hopper burst through the door. Breathless.

  “Mr. McCall…uh, Max,” Hopper said, his arms flailing. “Are you kidding me? You have another camera.” He marched over to a small storage closet along the wall opposite the checkout counter and twisted the doorknob. It was locked. “What’s in here?”

  “It’s just a storage closet. Nothing in there except a mop, broom, and the dust pan, you know, the supplies we use to clean the store,” he said, digging in his jingling pockets. He pulled out a ring bloated with keys and fished through until he found a small golden one. He walked over to Hopper and handed it to him. “Here you go.”

  Hopper nodded and proceeded to unlock the door.

  “Now that I think about it, my son did tell me he installed another camera,” he said. “But he didn’t connect it to a monitor. Made me hook up the hidden one in case someone tried to disable the main system or take the DVD.”

  Hopper entered the closet and stood on the tips of his toes. Two black boxes were perched in the corner. He traced electric and phone cords, adhered to the wall under white duct tape and plugged into two outlets concealed behind a small panel. “Score!” Hopper yelled.after taking a few minutes to examine the hardware. “Bad news is he doesn’t have DVD recording. Good news—it’s DVR with battery back-up.”

  “Fantastic. Bring it over. We’ll hook the box up to the monitor. And see what we’ve got.”

  Hopper slid the flat black box and remote control off the shelf and took it to the counter, letting the video cords drag along the floor. In no time, he hooked it up and pulled up the menu which allowed him to select last Saturday’s video.

  “A wide-angle version that captured the area outside the door. We can almost see to the end of the block.”

  They fast-forwarded and watched each move in double-time. “There’s you entering,” Kyle said. “How long after you got to work did it happen?”

  “About three hours. I opened early.”

  Hopper held the button down until a figure showed up at the corner. “Stop right there. That’s her. No sunglasses. Play it at regular speed.”

  They eyed the screen as she paced up the sidewalk. Outside the entrance door, she stopped. “Freeze it. Right there.”

  Kyle and Hopper studied her face. “What do you think?”

  Kyle nodded. “It’s tough, but looks like Lana.”

  “As much as I want to find her, I’m not ready to make the leap,” Hopper said. “Then again, I’ve never worked with her. You have. Before we storm the house, I say we let CJIS look at it. We’ll email it. Shouldn’t take more than a day to get some definitive results. With a positive ID we can get an expedited warrant.”

  “All right. I agree,” Kyle said. “Now let it play. Let’s see what’s going on when the perp walks in.”

  When Max spotted the robber approaching the entrance, he shouted, “That’s him! He’s the one who had the fake gun in his pocket!”

  “Fake gun? Hmmm. Rewind it,” Kyle said. “Stop it, right there. Look at the corner.”

  A car pulled up to the corner, a black Mustang. The perpetrator got out of the passenger side. He stopped at the driver window and bumped fists with dark-haired man. The man in the car stayed parked until he walked inside the store. He then looked both ways and made a right down 7th Street, in the opposite direction.

  “The face is too distorted to make out an ID.”

  “Yeah, but we’ve got a bigger problem here,” Kyle said. “A robber getting dropped off and fist-bumping his best bud before he commits a crime? That doesn’t make any sense. He wasn’t tense or nervous.”

  “My son told me the kid got bailed out the next day,” Max said.

  “By whom?” Kyle asked.

  “He didn’t say. We can ask though. I’m sure he could find out in a few minutes.”

  “Something tells me whoever dropped him off is the one who bailed him out,” Kyle said.

  “So let me get this straight,” Hopper said. “You think the robbery was staged?”

  Kyle nodded. “It’s possible, and a brilliant plan if indeed she planned it. What better way to draw suspicion from yourself than to save the life of the respected, long-time resident in the neighborhood. And the father of Michaels’ most hated rival, no less.” Kyle snapped his fingers and
punched his fist in the air. “People talk. Word gets around. Nobody would suspect she’s America’s Most Wanted. If the cops come asking questions, she’s the last person anybody thinks of, even if she fits the description. Couldn’t have planned it more perfectly myself. And what better way to get close to her target. Did you ever talk with her about your personal life?”

  “No, nothing I can think of,” Max said. “I did invite her to my birthday dinner on Saturday. Told her my daughter would be visiting, and I wanted to introduce her to a nice guy. Tony. J.J.’s partner.”

  Hopper and Kyle exchanged glances. “You’re kidding,” Hopper said. “Did she accept?”

  “Yeah,” Max responded. “She did.”

  “So she knows you, J.J. and Tony are expected here this Saturday.” The expression on Kyle’s face grew urgent. “We need to get that plate enhanced. Pronto,” Kyle said. “Do you mind if we go to your house and burn a copy from the internet? We’ll talk to your son and be on our way.”

  “That’s fine,” Max said.

  Hopper disconnected the DVR and returned it to its place on the closet shelf. He set it back in place and closed the door behind him.

  “You stick close to your son, Mr. McCall. If my suspicions are correct, we’re going to have a lot of dead bodies on our hands if we don’t get some answers to these questions…and I mean yesterday.”

  Chapter 46

  Friday—Russian Embassy

  Aleksey dry-heaved and coughed over the cold whitish commode, gripping the seat with one hand while wiping the perspiration from his forehead with the back of the other. He’d slept like a Marine on night watch ever since his friend departed Washington. And with the nebulous tone of his chat with Vorobyev the night before, his stomach wound tight into knots of distress, boiling over with the acidic bile that had projected from his mouth only moments ago. One thing was clear—Vorobyev had found the phone and probably had turned it over to Golikov.

  Dmitriyev could feel the heat of death’s breath on his neck. Between the vodka and his inability to hold down anything resembling sustenance, his morning spent hurling into the porcelain god was as inevitable as his fate. The time bomb ticked louder and louder by the second. Golikov’s people were coming for him. He could almost hear the steps, pounding louder and louder toward him. Each step marking a moment closer to the end of his life. He was through with living in fear. It was finally time to walk away and never look back. Today’s trip to Starbucks would be his last…at least from the embassy. As soon as his stomach settled, he would make his way off the compound forever.

  As he rose to his feet, the bathroom door flung open and slammed against the wall, the thud resounding moments after his company tromped in. He snapped out of his fog and realized the footsteps were real.

  “Alek!” a voice yelled urgently. It sounded like that sniveling imp Filthchenko. “Alek! Are you in here?”

  He wondered for a moment if he should answer, but he could see the man’s shadow bending over through the slight crack in the door jamb. “I’ll be out in a second.” Dmitriyev adjusted his tie, straightened his clothes, and flushed the toilet.

  “Komarov wants to see you in the secure conference room,” he said. “Right this moment. You must hurry.”

  Aleksey stepped out of the stall and studied Filthchenko’s expression. His face was red, flush with distress, anger. The scurry of footsteps and waves of moans outside the bathroom signaled escalating confusion.

  The hour was finally forced upon him and he was not yet ready to meet it.

  He didn’t want to die.

  But what he wanted no longer mattered.

  “You can go ahead.” He held his hand up. He only needed a brief window of time to get away. “Need to wash my hands. I’ll be out in a sec.”

  The scum did not budge.

  “I assure you I don’t need an escort,” Dmitriyev demanded.

  “I was told not to return without you,” he said. “I’ll wait.”

  Aleksey patted his face with the towel before drying his hands. “What’s all the ruckus about? Somebody steal the vodka from the commissary?” he joked, chuckling uncomfortably. His nerves were like rip currents dragging beneath a calm surface.

  “You’ll find out soon enough,” Filchenko said. “Let’s go.”

  Filthchenko grumbled beneath his breath as he led Aleksey to the stairwell and down five darkened flights into the basement where the air was still damp from a burst pipe. He stopped cold before they entered the hall. The only possible meeting place was the room used to process walk-in volunteers from American and other foreign intelligence services. It was bugged with listening devices and cameras. More suitable for an interrogation than a gathering.

  “Wait. There’s no secure conference room down here,” Aleksey said. “You must be mistaken.”

  He stopped and shook his head before continuing on his way. “This is where Komarov told me to bring you.” He finally reached the door and pushed it open. He stepped inside first and held the door open to allow Dmitriyev to follow. “Have a seat. I’ll be right back.”

  “What’s this all about?” Dmitriyev said. “Do I have time to run and get my coffee?”

  Filchenko smirked and turned to leave. “Trust me. You won’t need it.”

  When the door slammed, a gust of air washed over his face. Although his stomach churned over, revolving in agitated spirals, he remained cucumber cool on the exterior in case the surveillance equipment was running. He might go down, but he refused to give in. He’d fight for every minute he had left.

  His stomach jerked at the sound of the doorknob twisting. The Crooked Twins were the first to arrive. He greeted them and they responded with only head nods. Neither took a seat, rather they remained standing, flanking the door on either side. Inside, his steeled will begin to falter but he kept his back straight and his shoulders square.

  “Ah. Back from New York, I see,” he said, eyeing them from head to toe. “You don’t look any worse for wear. I hear the Resident there is a real goat.”

  “We arrived this morning,” one Crooked Twin said. “And he’s more like a chicken running a coop full of foxes. That residency is shit.”

  “Bet that’s what they say about Washington,” he quipped. “I don’t suppose either one of you has a cup of coffee on you. You know I’m dying for my morning fix. I could be back here in ten minutes. Yes?”

  “No!” the other twin barked giving him the eye. His other half grinned.

  He wondered how long it would be before they beat him to a pulp.

  “Have a seat,” Dmitriyev said, gesturing his hand toward the chairs in front of him. “I think we’re going to be here for a while.”

  “I don’t think so,” Igor responded.

  “Where is everyone?” Dmitriyev asked.

  “Patience,” Igor said. “They’re on the way.”

  “Who is on the w—”

  Three taps sounded at the door and quickly Aleksey peered up at the door. One of the Crooked Twins, who was positioned at the rear, pulled it open. One by one his soon-to-be interrogators filed inside. Grim-faced operational line chiefs circled the table. The Resident, Lana’s father, and Filthchenko the scum, along with officers from the political, economic, science and technologies, and signals operational lines, took their seats and clasped their hands together, their glares burning through him like hot lasers. By the time everyone was seated, they’d blocked him in. Escape was now an impossibility.

  Aleksey looked from side to side. “What’s this? A staff meeting? Did I miss the announcement?” he asked Mikhaylov, who had filled the empty seat left open for him at the head of the table next to the Resident.

  “No, I’m afraid not. Where have you been all morning?”

  “I apologize for my tardiness. Bad stomach,” he said. “Must’ve been something I ate.”

  The Resident glanced at Filchenko who nodded as if to affirm Aleksey’s statement, stunning him motionless. At that moment, he was assured of his fate. The balan
ce of power in the counterintelligence line had shifted in Filchenko’s favor. It could only mean one thing.

  “Today,” the boss began, “is a disastrous day for the Service.”

  He paused leaving a thousand pounds of silence between them. Judging by the expressions on his colleagues’ faces, some knew what was wrong while others, like Aleksey, were still in the dark and waiting for the great revelation.

  “We’ve had a traitor in our midst for some time,” Komarov said. The corners of his mouth turned down as he growled with disdain. “Fucking pig has jeopardized our mission, our lives, indeed our very existence in this country!”

  Aleksey’s stomach plummeted and his feet began to quake beneath the table as the Resident narrowed his eyes in Aleksey’s direction. With guilt practically bursting through his pores, he traced the grain of the wood with his eyes to avoid the expressions bearing down on him. He couldn’t look any of them in the face any longer.

  “One of our own has indeed betrayed us. Someone in whom we’ve all trusted. Someone on whom we’ve relied. Someone we’ve all respected.”

  Aleksey feigned a disgusted expression. “Who is it!” he demanded. “We will take care of him the way men deal with pigs. The slaughter.”

  “Will you?” Komarov snapped. “I somehow seriously doubt that in this matter. It’s why I’ve called you here today.”

  Chapter 47

  Friday Morning—The West Wing

  J.J., Tony, and Six stood impatiently in the West Wing foyer entrance waiting on Kendel to escort them to their temporary office. After three days of interviews, Kendel’s moment of truth had arrived. Attention had finally turned to the White House Chief of Security. J.J. tried to mentally prepare herself for Kendel’s wrath. Six had just finished telling the crew he’d heard all kinds of attitude in Kendel’s voice when he told her she’d be interviewed today. She accused him of concealing their planned interrogation. But she understood full well that failing to participate would be a direct indictment of her guilt.

  J.J. took no pleasure in doing this part of her job. Interviewing law enforcement officers of any kind prompted a rare feeling of angst before questioning the suspect. They’d all made the identical pledge to one country. The dishonor of suspicion, the mere suggestion that an agent had broken his (or her) oath, was the worst kind of disgrace.