by Skye, S. D.
J.J. nodded and smiled. “I catch the news on occasion.”
Freeman cleared his throat. “Everyone agrees we must shift the tide of mistrust and resentment to one of cooperation and goodwill.”
She rolled her eyes. “I think I just threw up in my mouth.”
Director Freeman smirked. “Since the Lana Michaels investigation and Stanislav Vorobyev’s death,’” he made quote gestures with his fingers, “they’ve stonewalled us on terrorism intelligence of vital importance to stopping another Boston attack. So, to cool flared tempers, both sides have agreed to expand counterterrorism cooperation between our two countries. In exchange for critical intel on Chechen terrorist cells operating here and in Russia, each side will observe an operational stand-down, subject to a binding agreement this time. And it applies to their residencies in the U.S. and the CIA stations in Moscow and the Republics.”
“Never thought I’d hear those words come from your mouth, sir. Guess the price of U.S. national security is cheaper than I thought.”
“That’s patently unfair, J.J. We’re all under orders. The FSB and FBI, we all must cease offensive operations for a term they’re calling a ‘cooling off’ period. If either side breaks the agreement, all bets are off, the intelligence exchange stops, leaving too many lives at risk. We can’t afford to disobey these orders. Not right now.”
J.J. sat dumbfounded; she blinked through a blank stare.
“The gears turning in your head are starting to smoke. Consider this an olive branch.”
“No, consider this the dagger they’re going to jam into our backs the second we give them the benefit of the doubt. I mean…am I the only one who’s been working this target for the last decade? You can be certain if they hand us a branch, it’s because they’re planning to beat us with the rest of the tree.”
“I understand your frustration, but the President’s decision is final. Now, we must abide by the agreement.”
“You agreed with this?”
“J.J., I’m not just the FBI Director of Counterintelligence. I’m in charge of the entire Bureau, and the terrorism information is also within my jurisdiction. I’ll take one on the chin to save American lives.”
J.J. muffled her grumbles. He’d spoken the truth. She often had to remind herself that the world didn’t revolve around her—not yet.
“Don’t cut your eye at me, Agent McCall. The President has no misgivings about Putin or his government, okay? He trusts Putin as far as he can throw him. And if he’s agreeing to this, you better believe the United States will come out ahead on the tail end. Too many people underestimate him, you know. Just because he accepts a branch doesn’t mean he’s not wielding a tree of his own.”
She let out a long sigh and nodded. “So what does this mean for our cases? The trip to New York? Six’s mission in Moscow? Do we abandon plans to take down the financial hub and allow the Russians to catch and kill Stan? We give Gary Mosin a pass and stand by as he hands over the damaging intel to the FSB?”
“Absolutely not. The President bought you ten days—starting today. I don’t care if you are in the middle of speaking a sentence. When the whistle blows, whatever you’re involved in comes to a screeching halt, case closed or not. Are we clear?”
“Yeah, yeah,” she said as she collected her purse and coat. “How long will the stand-down last once the clock starts?”
“Unless otherwise directed – ninety days. Desk duty for all.”
No two words made her cringe more—desk duty. Even worse, the FBI would be the only agency abiding by the agreement. The Russians never held up their end of the deal.
Powerless, she wondered why she’d fought so hard to stay. Maybe this stand-down presented a fortuitous opportunity to explore her next move, dip her toe in “life” after the Bureau and find out what the world had to offer beyond the halls of the J. Edgar Hoover building. Just before she reached the door, she remembered the reason she came and turned to speak again.
“Uhhh…one last thing. You were a bit delirious during the ambulance ride, but you started to tell me something of great concern to me, to say the least…about Nixon.”
Freeman’s expression hardened, and he expelled a long hard breath. “I’ll handle Nixon…until you can handle Nixon. You’re concerned, and you should be. But I need you focused on New York. The Bureau needs you to bring this one home. Many lives and key operations are at stake, and you don’t have much time to wrap it up.”
“But what if…”
“No ifs. You contact my secretary if you run into walls you can't get around on your own. I’ll help where I can…and I have a pretty good record, wouldn’t you say? Don't worry about problems outside of your control. Focus on the mission; let me take care of the rest.”
“Yes, sir,” J.J. said with a salute as she turned to leave. She swung back around and locked her gaze on him. “Listen, about my mother…”
He held up his hand. “Focus on the mission, J.J.! The mission.”
She waved goodbye and skulked out of the room like a child shushed by a parent. At least he’d used more tact than her father. Still, she’d grown sick of everyone treating her with kid gloves. She carried a gun for crying out loud, shot people. What information contained in her mother’s case could be so volatile that everyone connected was hell bent on concealing it? Her mind began to ruminate on the little she’d been told. Perhaps no one wanted J.J. to discover the truth because her mother was part of the problem, had somehow failed. Maybe she’d gone rogue or broken the law. Doubts circled her mind threatening to destroy every good memory she held so dear. By the second, she grew more determined to discover the truth, and the reason so many sought to hide it.
Her phone rang again. Sunnie was nothing if not persistent. She answered, reluctant to talk while her mind was still fogged by negative thoughts.
“Sunnie! Gotta make it quick. I’m in a hurry. I’ll never get to New York on time for the Troika in-briefing if I don’t get on the road now.”
“Yeah, I’m so sorry to bug you but today in the mailroom. I discovered something.”
In the mailroom, she thought. Nothing critical ever happened there. She decided to let the discovery wait.
Chapter 10
Wednesday Morning — FBI New York
J.J.’s yellow cab pulled to the curb in front of Federal Plaza, and her stomach bound into a hardened knot. After handing her turbaned driver a twenty, she stepped out into the brisk late-fall breeze. She used her hand as a visor to shield her eyes from the sun’s glare as she inhaled a deep breath. The enormity of Federal Plaza, a towering mass of concrete, steel and reflective glass scraping the sky, was a lot to take in compared to the squat J. Edgar Hoover building which was less than half its height. The FBI New York Office building dwarfed even the tallest structure in D.C. Although she loved Manhattan, how the streets bustled with energy and breathed life into her weary, overworked body, her fears about what lay ahead stalked her.
She brought her gaze back to street level and spotted two dapper-suited G-men eyeing her. One had the caramel skin tone and curly hair of a man of Hispanic decent and the other was a blond-haired blue-eyed—a pretty boy by most standards. She stepped up her pace toward them and extended her hand and a smile.
The caramel-colored gentleman called out, “J.J. McCall?” as she neared them.
She got a positive vibe from this one. “Yes, I’m J.J. I presume you’re my escorts?”
“Glad you arrived in one piece. I’m Manuel Vasquez. Everyone calls me Manny. This is Scott Lewis.”
Scott gave her the once-over, in a dismissive sense, refusing to greet her or shake her hand. She looked him in the eye, but his gaze shifted left. He had no intention of returning the favor. “We should get going. The rest of the task force is upstairs waiting on you,” he said, his voice gruff and brutish. “We’ll begin the briefing in a few minutes.”
J.J. shot Manny a side-long glance, and he shrugged in response. Scott’s voice conveyed all the colors of his a
ttitude, but she dismissed the diss as yet another internal Washington versus New York field office turf battle. Agents became touchy when they perceived outside agents encroaching into their territory, especially when they didn’t believe they needed help. Truth was J.J. would take the same protective position if some agents had deigned to trespass on her case, so she didn’t take this cold reception to heart…at least not at first.
“So, you settled in? Where’d they put you up?” Manny asked, passing the time as they rode the elevator up twenty-four floors.
“The Plaza.”
“Hmph. Fancy digs for the government rate, huh?”
“Yeah. Tony Donato, my co-case agent, knows the head of security, a former agent. He hooked us up with the government rate. I’ve got a beautiful view of ice skating rink in Central Park.”
“How appropriate. Celebrity treatment for the TV star,” Scott piped in as the elevator door opened. “But if you’re rooming anywhere near Donato, I’d avoid the windows. I’m just sayin’.”
“Excuse me?” J.J. snapped her head toward him and growled, “You got something to say? Speak your mind. No better time than the present.”
“Don’t pay him any mind, J.J.,” Manny said, shaking his head. He allowed her to exit first. “He’s constipated. Didn’t eat his Wheaties this morning.”
“No,” she said. “If he’s got something to share, let’s get it on the table now. My English is good, and I know all the big words.”
“This is New York, not D.C.,” Scott barked. “We don’t need you or your antics screwing up our investigation, okay? We work by the book in this office. And no one here’s getting pimped by the media. You want to get anything accomplished in this office, you play by our rules.”
J.J. stopped square in her tracks and rested her hand on her hip. “Let’s get something straight.” She calmed her voice and leveled it just above a whisper. “You don’t have to like me, and my sun will continue to rise and set every day if I don’t earn your respect. But if you in any way obstruct, hinder, or otherwise get in the way of me doing my job, I’ll have you buried so deep in HR complaints, you’ll have to dig up thirty-feet just to get back to hell. Anything else?”
She waited for an answer but only received silence in response.
“Good. I believe we’re all on the same page now. Manny, you’ve got the con. You lead; I’ll follow.”
Manny stifled a laugh at his colleague’s expense while J.J. could feel the heat from Scott looking daggers into her back, hot enough to almost burn a hole through her chest.
Manny led them to the meeting room and opened the door for her to enter. Sitting at the large executive-sized conference room table were Gia and Tony. J.J. had thought it best to keep Walter in D.C. with Sunnie to support analysis. Scott made his way to the side of the room opposite J.J., getting as far away from her as possible, while Manny moved toward the whiteboard which ran the length of the front wall. In no surprise to J.J., Gia occupied one of the chairs on either side of Tony. So, J.J. grabbed an open seat in back of the room.
Taped to the wall hung pictures of five Russians written under the title “Troika Technologies,” each aligned in a hierarchical structure. She recognized the lone face on the top tier—Levi Mashkov. He was the brother of the infamous Pavlov Mashkov who was responsible for the deaths of at least two of her sources; Pavlov had more than likely masterminded the Dante Donato shooting.
She grabbed a pen from atop the legal pad in front of her and prepared to take notes. Reflecting on her talk with Aleksey before leaving D.C., she was most concerned with finding out about The Sparrow. After short introductions, during which Manny explained he was the lead agent on the case and Scott was supporting, the briefing got underway. From this point forward, the pressure was on, and every second counted. Ten days to solve the case was no time at all.
“We’ve been investigating Troika Technologies for several years. Their operations are wrapped up tight and we’ve had difficulty getting confidential informants to report on their activities. If they get caught talking to the Feds they’re dead, as evidenced by the mysterious disappearance of five CIs we sent to target them,” he said. “Troika is tied to the Russian Mafiya—no question.”
Scott added. “Yeah, these guys are ruthless, you hear me? They won’t just kill the informant. First, they will murder their wife, kids, the family dog, and make the informer watch as they cut their hearts out, and then they’ll torture them, maybe slice off an appendage or two. Then they’ll kill them. Unlike the Italian mafia, the Russians abide by no codes; there are no boundaries. You get in the way of their money, and you’re dead; collateral damage is not only tolerated, it’s encouraged.”
“So, what’ve we got on the Mashkov brothers and their New York operations?” Tony asked.
“The Gruesome Twosome,” Manny began. “Levi, who is also known as The Duke, is the brains of the operation—he’s the money man. Pavlov is the muscle; he’s in charge of his henchman. We estimate their criminal enterprises, which involve narcotics, extortion, money laundering, and other activities, rack up about a half a billion a year. They distribute the proceeds among a bunch of shell companies in the United States and across Europe. They may even own some interests in Israel and Southeastern Asia. Multiple reliable sources indicate they’re hooked into cocaine suppliers coming out of Afghanistan.”
“And it’s clear these guys are taking their cues from Russian intel, using some limited classic tradecraft,” Scott chirped in. “We don’t often observe them talking on office phones or any kind of land-based communication. They conduct business face-to-face, so they’re in and out of the country pretty often. We’ll catch ‘em using payphones in Brooklyn every now and then.”
“How are they communicating with their overseas networks?”
“Encrypted email and cell phone communications. Manny theorizes that they’ve procured some old Russian intel comms equipment from the New York residency in the consulate, but we don’t know. We’ve never been able to get inside the headquarters to check out the set up.”
“One other strange item of note. One of the guys we’ll discuss in a minute, Max Novikov, has been in frequent communication with a suspected Russian arms dealer, but we can’t make heads or tails of the reporting. The names don’t mean much to us.”
“I can help with the arms angle,” Gia said. “I’ve conducted extensive research into the subject.” As the DIA representative in the group, she promised to tap into intelligence from the military attaches posted in Moscow. She scanned the photos and asked, “Which one’s Novikov?”
Scott stood up. “This is Max, right here,” he said, pointing to a thirtyish Russian gentleman dressed in a pricey suit. He had an arched nose and roguish glare. “He’s into the narcotics side of the business as far we can tell. We’ve seen him meet with some high-ranking members of the Genovese family. We think Novikov is the supplier, and Genovese soldiers do the distributing. Move it on the streets.”
Manny pointed at the wall. “This one, Leonid Tenenbaum, serves as the Chief Operating Officer. Mr. Clean. He’s the legit face of the business. No criminal records…which doesn’t equal no criminal activity. He just doesn’t get caught.”
“Zory Kozlov is the Accountant.” Even with his slight frame and unimposing countenance, J.J. sensed an impish manner in his air, a thought codified by the menacing tattoo on his neck. “We’ve got one CI on this guy who says Kozlov tighter than a duck’s ass. Chatty until you mention business or anything involving his work. The CI’s had to use kid gloves with him because the minute he suspects anyone of working with the Feds, he cuts them off. So he remains a challenge.”
“This other guy, Matvey Trifonov, he’s quiet, low key. Always under the radar. Not often seen outside. We think he’s Levi’s assistant. He’s seen with him most often.” Matvey was a dead ringer for Wayne Gretzky with more gray hair and brown eyes.
Dmitriyev’s voice flashed through J.J.’s head. He told her the accountant was the key, but
she wasn’t yet ready to pass on the lead. Doing so would’ve sparked questions she couldn’t answer for Aleksey’s safety. As a counterintelligence officer, paranoia was not only standard it was necessary. Fearing Russian moles, even inside the FBI, was considered a healthy caution.
“Any other information on this Kozlov character?” J.J. asked. “He married? Got kids? What’s his deal?”
“Yeah, he’s married. Got three young kids, all under ten years of age. Wife’s a stay-at-home mom. They own a place out in Brooklyn in the Brighton Beach area. Nothing fancy, but not shabby by any means. He’s making some sweet cheese, so we think the understated choice is intentional, to avoid drawing attention.”
“Sounds reasonable,” she said, playing down her interest. “I’d like to get access to anything we’ve pulled from the wire so the team can conduct reviews and get acquainted with these characters.”
“Wire?” Scott laughed as if questioning her sanity. “Hate to break it to ya, but no wire’s been authorized.”
“What! No wires on the residences or the business?”
Manny shook his head. “Not for a lack of trying. The SAC rejected seven requests for insufficient justification,” Manny said. “The IG’s been clamping down with all this NSA oversight shit goin’ on,” he explained. The Justice Department’s Inspector General had been lodged in the FBI’s ass like Fleet since the Snowjob compromise. J.J. seethed at the notion. The information they’d presented should’ve been more than sufficient justification. Every time she thought of the piece of shit so-called whistleblower she wanted to scratch his eyes out.
She shook her head in disgust. “Wish I could say I’m surprised but let’s call the eighth time a charm. With the information we’ve collected from Lana Michaels’ investigation, the SAC will have to justify not approving the request. You got a free body to pull together the paperwork?”