by Skye, S. D.
Tony rolled his eyes in frustration. “Fucking moron. He’s gonna get himself killed if he doesn’t follow instructions. Answer it and give him hell.”
J.J. allowed the phone to ring two more times before answering. “Speak.”
“Uhhh, please don’t hang up. This not a provocation and I’m in danger,” the man said. He had a Russian accent, but his English was crisp and vaguely familiar. But he was not Aleksey, which sparked a whole new round of questions…and problems.
“O-kay,” she answered tepidly.
Tony craned his body around in his seat and mouthed the words “Who is that?” She shrugged and held up her index finger to gesture him to wait.
“Go ahead. I’m listening.”
“Agent McCall.” He paused, giving her a moment to digest the fact that he knew her identity. “I’m an intelligence officer. I just finished my tour in Washington and returned to Moscow last week. I have information that is of the highest value to the FBI—the identities Russian spies operating under deep cover and American government employees working on behalf of the SVR and GRU.”
“Fascinating,” J.J. said. She swallowed hard. “How’d you get the phone?”
“A mutual friend of ours. He gifted a pair of shoes to my son and it was hidden inside. I assure you it was not intentional, but a fortuitous accident in this case, yes?”
A friend in Washington. Mutual? J.J. had only one Russian “friend” in Washington and that friend only had ONE friend. The one who boarded his Aeroflot flight to Moscow last Friday. The one who’d been beaten within an inch of death based on false accusations and would have more than sufficient justification to seek revenge against his service.
“You know with whom you are speaking, yes?”
“I do,” J.J. said. “Why are you contacting me? And what proof can you provide to demonstrate that you’re not a double agent?”
“Do you not keep abreast of current events?” he asked. “Google me.”
J.J. muted the phone long enough to say, “Tony, Google Russian security services. Check the news headlines.”
He nodded and starting typing into his phone.
“I’m safe for now but not for long. I need passage to America, for me and my family. A new life.”
“Where’s your family?”
“Vacationing in Prague.”
“Hmmm,” she said. “Perfect timing.”
Tony held up the phone screen and J.J.’s eyes bulged at the headline.
“Manhunt for Rogue Security Service Officer.” The subheading was even more explosive. “One Dead, Scores of Secret Documents Missing.”
“Holy Shit,” she said. Her mind raced, spinning with possibilities. This could be it—the mother lode. All the information they need to shut down Russian operations for years to come.
“Ahhhh, you’re up to date, I hear.”
“I’m not a position to make any promises. You understand bureaucracy. I’ll need director-level approval from multiple agencies to pull this off. How can we contact you?”
“You won’t. Notify your people. I’ll contact you.”
“I’m afraid that won’t—"
A click sounded.
He hung up leaving a dial tone buzzing in her ear.
J.J. threw her head back against the seat and palmed her face. Her head was about to explode. Depending on what and how much information he clipped from the Center, he could very well turn out be one of the most valuable Russian volunteers in U.S. history. Some way to end her career. “This could be huge for all of us.”
“Certainly sounds intriguing,” Six said as he backed into the lengthy driveway and turned off the ignition. “It’s not every day you get a Russian security officer to volunteer, but you can’t trust them. Ninety-nine percent of them are doubles.”
“Tony, show him your phone,” J.J. said, knowing Six would be chomping at the bit to get his mitts in this case. Among his many professional talents, he was one of the top exfiltration specialists in the CIA and J.J. wouldn’t trust anyone else.
Six grabbed the cell from Tony’s hand and rolled his finger down the screen. “Have you been sprinkled with magic fairy dust? A thousand agents and clandestine officers would kill for this lead, and it lands in your lap,” Six said.
“Yeah, only because I have a source who doesn’t follow instructions.”
“He’s still in Moscow?”
“Unfortunately, but his family’s in Prague,” J.J. said, scanning the other houses in the neighborhood. “Let’s table that discussion until later. Believe it or not, we’ve got even more pressing matters to attend to right this moment.”
“That’s debatable, but let’s go,” Tony said. “Six, you follow our lead.”
“Why do I need to follow?”
“If someone in there has a gun, would you rather be in front of two armed FBI agents or behind us?”
“Good point,” he replied. “Right behind you.”
J.J. was out the door and half way up the driveway. Everyone exited and followed behind her.
“Her car’s not out front,” J.J. said, envying the bed of jasmine lining the flower beds near the front door. Somewhere deep inside J.J. was a little jealous. This is the life she wanted, a life she wanted with Tony. Two and a half kids. Sundays mornings—breakfast in bed. Sunday afternoons—football. It was a life that felt close enough to imagine, yet was still too far away to attain. “You think she’s home?”
“She usually parks in the garage,” said Six. “Protects the paint.”
“A little habit she picked up from you, no doubt,” J.J. said, remembering Six’s fanatical habit of protecting the paint of his 911 Turbo. She stepped up to the entrance and rang the doorbell several times before noticing the door was already open. She immediately unstrapped her gun from the holster and gripped the handle with both hands. “It’s unlocked. Six, call her phone.”
He pulled an oversized Droid from his pocket and hit speed dial. Seconds later, J.J. heard a faint ringing. “Dragnet ringtone. Her phone’s inside, door’s open, and she’s not answering.”
“Kendel doesn’t go anywhere without that phone. Something’s wrong.”
“All right. Let’s check it out,” Tony said, holding his gun in hand. He looked at J.J. “Will you do the honors?”
J.J. and Tony flanked the door as she gently nudged it open with her foot. She jutted her gun across the threshold, then stepped into the foyer. An airy and contemporarily decorated living and dining room sat on either side of the open foyer. She marveled at the 16-foot ceilings…and the chaos. Broken glass, vases, coffee tables and dining room chairs turned over and blood spatters on the pristine white custom slip covers. “Clear,” J.J. said.
Six and Tony followed behind her and their eyes bulged at the destructions. “What the hell happened?” Six yelled.
“I’m gonna go out on a limb and say somebody had a disagreement.”
“No shit,” J.J. said. “I’ll take upstairs. You guys look around here and in the basement. I’m afraid the only thing we’re gonna find is a body.”
J.J. padded up their stairs and opened up every door along the hall. The guest bedroom, bathrooms, and closets had all been left untouched. There was only one room left at the end of the hall, the master bedroom, which was marked by the double doors. She eased up to them and heard a low hum and bumping as if something was slamming against the wall.
“Special Agent J.J. McCall with the FBI! Who’s in there? I can hear you.”
She waited for a response, but none came. The bumping continued, now harder. The moaning continued, only now it was louder. In the background, the sound of Tony yelling, “Clear!” resounded from downstairs. J.J. stepped back from the door with her gun pointed straight ahead as she kicked it in…after three tries.
“FBI!” she yelled, her Glock at the ready. Clothes dangled out of drawers as if the dresser puked. Somebody was looking for something. J.J. noticed a small empty Ziploc bag lying next to a powder-coated hand mirror and a small ra
zor.
“Cocaine!” J.J. mumbled under her breath. “I knew it.”
The bumping and moaning drew J.J. out of her thoughts and toward the closet. Was somebody having sex inside? Maybe that’s why they didn’t hear her. As she approached the door, a sliver of light shone through a crack. “J.J. McCall. FBI. I’m coming in, and I’m armed.”
“So am I,” a small voice called from inside.
It was Kendel.
When J.J. pressed pushed the door open, her eyes opened as wide as her bottom jaw plummeted and her heart collided against her rib cage. Her hands trembled. Not from booze this time, rather from fear. No words could escape; they locked in her throat. She shook her head so feverishly she nearly collapsed from dizziness.
Kendel was there, on the floor in a sea of shoes, dressed in a large t-shirt and underwear, her back literally and figuratively against the wall, probably bruised from the banging. Black mascara streaked the length of her brown cheeks. Purple bruises in the shapes of handprints colored her arms. Blood trickled from her head. And the tip of a government-issued Glock was pressed into the curve of her temple.
“It’s over,” she cried. “My life is over.”
J.J. eased toward her and in a whispery, gentle voice usually reserved for babies and angry dogs, she said, “Kendel, you don’t want to do this. Nothing is worth taking your life over. Nothing.”
She cocked the gun and put a bullet in the chamber.
“Stay there…or I swear I’ll pull this fucking trigger.”
“Ohhhkay.” J.J. slowly tipped back to the doorway as if maneuvering through a minefield and yelled. “Uh, guuuuys? I need you upstairs…in the master bedroom…now!”
Chapter 50
Friday—Russian Embassy
Aleksey played stunned at the Resident’s accusation. To suggest Aleksey was unable or unwilling to deal with a traitor in the service wasn’t true, at least to the Resident’s knowledge, unless…
“What do you mean this is why you’ve called us here today. I—I don’t understand your meaning?”
“You will in a moment,” the Resident said, staring at Aleksey for what seemed like an eternity. He sucked in a deep breath and rubbed his temples. “This morning I received an urgent cable from the Center. A Washington officer has betrayed us.”
“A Washington officer?” Mikhaylov said. “But who could possibly—”
Komarov peered at the Crooked Twins and then said, “Stanislav Vorobyev.”
Aleksey’s mouth fell open and his chest rose and fell in dramatic heaves. It couldn’t be. Why would he do such a thing? He was being framed. There was no other reasonable explanation. Aleksey had perhaps too hastily brushed off Vorobyev’s fears and concerns that he was being hassled, probably a vain attempt to assuage his own guilt. He never conceived even a remote possibility that Stan would take matters into his own hands and resort to such drastic measures. He still couldn’t. “No! Impossible! He would never betray his country. Never!”
“I thought you might react this way, but I’m afraid it’s true,” the Resident began. “He strangled one of our counterintelligence officers to death, General Stepanov, and took off with the crown jewels.”
“Killed an officer?” Aleksey said. “This is preposterous. The Center has been watching too many spy movies. I can’t make any sense of that.”
Filthchenko huffed and rolled his eyes. “What do we expect from a friend of that swine!” he barked and then glared at Dmitriyev. “I’ll be sure to convey your ridiculous sentiment to Stepanov’s family.”
“Wait, Stepanov?” he said. “You mean, Rasputin?” Aleksey said of Golikov’s chief tattletale. He alone was responsible for the torture and deaths of more officers than hostile foreign services in recent years. “Are we really going to sit here and pretend he wasn’t a piece of shit? He had more enemies in Moscow than Russia has citizens. Any one of a thousand officers would have done the same thing given the opportunity, including a few people sitting around this table!”
Aleksey had no doubt Vorobyev killed Stepanov in self-defense, a view he would hold alone judging from the expressions bearing down on him.
The Resident pounded his fist against the table. “Enough!” he said. “I want silence from all of you,” he growled, glaring at Aleksey and the scum Filchenko in particular. “We have far more urgent issues to discuss than whom between Vorobyev and Stepanov is the bigger dickhead. Okay? Beginning with the fact that every single American operation is in jeopardy. We have no idea how much information he stole before he ran away like a spineless snake—but if the intelligence is in the hands of the Americans, decades of work has just been flushed down the toilet.”
“Do we believe he got away?” Aleksey asked.
“It’s hard to say,” the Resident said. “We believe him to be hiding like a coward in the American Embassy, but right now he could be anywhere. Our watchers did not note any unusual activity or visitors last night. So, we simply cannot say.”
“What…what about his family?” Aleksey asked, holding a straight face. Inside, he dreaded the consequences if they were stuck in Moscow following such a brazen betrayal, having had first-hand knowledge of similar pain for most of his childhood and early adult years.
“He sent them to Prague on the pretense of vacationing. He’s now gone underground. The FSB has deployed every available resource to locate him. If he’s in Moscow, he will not leave under his own power.”
“I hope they bury him next to Osama Bin Laden,” Filchenko barked.
“He should be so lucky,” one of the Crooked Twins said, elbowing his sidekick with a chuckle. He stepped from the wall for the first time. “By the time Golikov and Mashkov get through with him, there won’t be enough of him left to feed a cat.”
The chill in their voices iced Aleksey’s veins. For everyone’s sake, he prayed Vorobyev was in the American Embassy. If he were anywhere on the streets of Moscow, he’d be a dead man before he could ever reach safe harbor. Putin would rain down a steel curtain of security so thick his only means of escape would be the wings of an angel or face down in an unmarked grave with his soul destined for hell.
Chapter 51
Friday Night—Kendel’s House
J.J. was relieved by the sound of footsteps padding quickly across the wood foyer as she tip-toed slowly back toward the door and peeked inside, watching from a safe distance as Kendel struggled with her demons in a fight for her life. The cavalry arrived in the hall outside the bedroom door and waited for J.J. to explain.
“Kendel’s inside, banging her back against wall with what looks like her service pistol dug into her temple,” J.J. spoke in a whispered tone, her somber expression speaking volumes above the tone in her voice. “And I think she’s coked out. Found an empty bag on the dresser.”
“Kendel? My Kendel?” Six said. “I knew that motherfucker was shady. Never thought he’d get her addicted to drugs.”
“She’s a big girl. Gotta take some of the blame,” J.J. grabbed his arm firmly and looked him dead in the eye. “But Six, this is DEFCON 1, situation critical, and her life is hanging in the balance. Please, please, please don’t go in there and be…”
His eyebrow scrunched. “Be what?”
“Yourself,” she said. “I mean, be yourself, just the version of you that has, you know, a heart, empathy…feelings.”
He snatched himself out of J.J.’s grip and started forward. J.J. snatched him up again, this time by the collar.
“Are you crazy?” Six barked in a loud whisper.
“No, I’m not. But clearly she is. And I have more experience with crazy women than you do. So give me a minute. When I signal, you come inside.” He nodded in agreement and gestured for her to walk ahead.
J.J. returned to Kendel, keeping a non-threatening distance. “I’m going to trust you, Kendel, and in return, Lord knows I pray you’ll trust me.” J.J. held her hands in the air, including the one holding her Glock. Then she brought them down in front of her where Kendel could see, un
loaded the clip, and rested both on either side of her after she sat Indian style on the floor. “I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me. Is this about the drugs? I saw the empty bag on the dresser.”
A slow sob erupted from Kendel’s mouth as her body trembled in anguish. “How did I get here?”
“I want to talk about it,” J.J. said. “But I gotta tell you, the sight of you with the, you know, pressed against your temple is seriously freaking me out. I’m not asking you to put it down or hand it to me. Just please, take it away from your head.”
Kendel turned to J.J. and glared, the life drained from her eyes.
“Please,” J.J. said.
With her hand still wrapped around the gun’s grip, she allowed her back and head to rest against the wall, and folded her arms across her body. Finally, the sobs began to subside; she rolled her face toward J.J. and spoke. “I blame you for this.”
J.J. jerked her head backward in surprise. “Me?”
Through her peripheral vision, J.J. could see Six move toward the door but she gave him the hand. He stopped cold and backed up.
“I would’ve had a different life with Six,” she said. “I never would’ve been susceptible to that low-life, degenerate, asshole Maddix Cooper. The fucking snake! Now, the life I’ve worked so hard to build, my career, my house…”
“For what it’s worth, I had no idea you existed until it was too late,” she said.
“I figured as much,” she said, “because I know Six.”
“Listen, I understand that—”
“No, no, you don’t understand. You will never understand!” Her aggravation intensified with every word. Instead of taking two steps forward, she’d taken three steps backward. “I’ve met kings, princes, heads of state from countless nations, and I was on a first-name basis with the President of the United States…now, I’m nothing but a broke, drug addict destined for an 8x8 cell next to some of the very people I’ve sent down.”
“He took your money?”
“Said he found an investment,” she began, “said he would triple my cash even before I realized it was missing. And my dumb ass believed him. Ha! But why wouldn’t I? We had the same security clearance. He was living the life I wanted…or so I thought. Nothing but window dressing.