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

by Skye, S. D.

  Komarov squirmed in his seat, bit his lip, and his chin dipped to his chest.

  “This cant’ be good,” Dmitriyev said. “I haven’t seen you antsy since Golikov sent those two peons to watch over us like the bumbling snitches they are.”

  Komarov pulled back in his seat and kicked his feet up on the desk. “You mistake me, my friend. My discomfort comes not from what has happened to me, rather from what I must ask of you…again.”

  Aleksey braced himself. His gut told him why Komarov had called him into his office and what he’d be asked to do. The only question in his mind was why.

  “As you know, Operation RAPTURE has been a key source of valuable intelligence for years. We’ve increased our monitoring schedule from weekly to daily, so we may stay well informed during this period before the stand-down.”

  “So, what’s the problem?” Dmitriyev asked.

  “The quality of the intelligence. We are certain the device is still in place and operating as normal. But the quality of the intelligence—it’s diminishing. Not in an obvious way. The difference is subtle enough to be missed by someone less experienced. I want to find out why.”

  Dmitriyev’s stomach plummeted. He was supposed to bring the problem to Komarov’s attention before he figured it out on his own; he was too late. And probably now under suspicion. “What can I do? Do you want me to review the intelligence to determine its veracity?”

  “No,” Komarov said with a grimace. “I must once again order you to risk your cover. Run countersurveillance for Gusin. Look for any signs that the FBI compromised the operation. No other officer in the residency has the necessary experience or capability. And I cannot depend on that sorry excuse for a counterintelligence officer, Filchenko.”

  “You gave me your word,” Aleksey said. “This could jeopardize my entire career. If I’m expelled, I’ll never work overseas again.”

  “We don’t believe the FBI compromised the operation. And the likelihood that you’ll be caught is practically non-existent. But I’ll warn you about what lies ahead. If we don’t find a problem outside the residency, I must begin my search inside.”

  “So, the witch hunt begins.”

  “Let’s call it a precautionary measure, ordered by a wise man who’s worked in this business for too many years. Okay?”

  Aleksey clenched his jaw and stiffened his posture. “This is an order, correct?”

  “Complete this mission and I’ll submit you for a commendation.”

  Aleksey grunted and stomped off without speaking.

  He looked at his watch and calculated Moscow time. The President would be in the Sit Room by Eight A.M. delivering the report.

  The Moscow operation would take place at Four P.M. Eastern time. Midnight in Moscow.

  The timing couldn’t be better…or worse.

  Chapter 42

  Wednesday Evening — New York City

  New York nights were a different kind of cold from those in D.C. Maybe it was the proximity to the northern waters, but the chill set into her bones and locked her joints stiff, aging her thirty years in two minutes. J.J. hustled inside the service entrance at Troika past a half-drunken guard watching the door to the housekeeping storage area.

  Rather than go undercover inside the cleaning company, they decided to keep the company’s owner and Abigail out of harm’s way. Eventually, the Russians would learn J.J. was an FBI agent posing as cleaning staff; she didn’t want the company associated with her. So, she’d go in alone and claim she’d finished her previous job ahead of schedule and arrived before the rest of the crew. Abigail would have plausible deniability—the Russians had worked against the FBI long enough to recognize such a tactic was well within its bag of tricks.

  But Abigail did offer a few words of advice. “Yuh listen to mi,” she said, her accent as thick as buttermilk. “Windows, furniture, vacuum. Inna dat orda. They will step out when ah time to vacuum and yuh will ‘ave a few minutes alone. Kip yuh eyes down. Don’ speak. Do yuh job an’ git de hell outta deh. De Novikov’s don’ leave nuh witnesses. Yuh understand?”

  J.J. secured a gun into her ankle holster, just in case, fastened the ties on her smock, and tightened her wavy Chaka Khan wig on her head. Her stomach twisted in knots as she took the elevator up to the third floor of the four-level building; it was the location of Troika Technologies’ executive suites. She patted her pockets to check for the flash drive. It was in place and ready to go.

  When she pushed the cart into the lobby area, she was surprised the entire office area was so brightly lit, especially for a building Misha had told Tony would be empty. She suddenly wondered whether she’d chosen the wrong time to trust him. Something inside told her to reverse course, but she pressed on. The cleaning crew had done its job in keeping the spaces pristine. Not a speck of dust to be found on the contemporary office décor framed by bright walls, smoke-colored tinted glass and stainless steel. A smattering of beech wood shelves accented the furnishings. It wasn’t as ornate as she expected except in the darkish marble tiles gilded with gold flecks.

  As she jostled the cart through the glass doors and into the reception area, she was startled by the low rumble of Russian-accented basses and tenors emanating from the rear offices. The executives were still at work and the plan to clone the hard drives had gone to shit.

  With her head down, she skipped cleaning the lobby and headed straight for the offices. She peered down the hall and spotted every door open. J.J. pushed the cart down to the first doorway. If anyone recognized her, she was dead on sight. A vision of some Andre the Giant looking guy dragging her to the garage in a headlock, throwing her to her knees, and firing a bullet into the back of her head stopped her heart. For a moment, the whisper of a second, she wished she’d listened to Tony. More than that, she wanted him to have her back the way she had his. A sense of loneliness overcame her, but she settled down and proceeded with the plan.

  She entered the first office. It belonged Leonid Tenenbaum, Mr. Clean, the legit face of the company. They’d embossed his name on a gold nameplate outside the door, color coordinated with the flecks in the floors. She recognized his hardened mug from his surveillance photo. He had a grill that looked as if he ate steel with his teeth. She walked inside the expansive office, chin to chest, and swiped the duster across the furniture, keeping her distance as far as possible.

  “They always start with the windows,” he said, with a slight bark in his voice.

  “Ahhh, yes,” she said, drawing from her love of Bob Marley to produce some semblance of a Jamerican accent. Not perfect, but enough to be convincing and keep her alive. “Tanks,” she said.

  “You new?”

  “Ah, mi first time here,” she said, wiping the windows, leaving streaks. “De rest of de crew is runnin’ behind.”

  “Fine,” he grumbled. “Make sure you vacuum under the desk. Dropped my lunch on the floor today,” he ordered before walking out.

  J.J. quivered as she fumbled to remove the flash drive from her pocket. Just as she wrapped her fingers around it. He exploded back into the door. Her heart sank.

  “Forgot my bathroom key,” he said as he grabbed it from the drawer and paced out as if his bladder was about to burst.

  She let out a long breath and shoved the flash drive in the CPU resting on the lower desk shelf. She pressed the button and continued dusting. Shifted her head back and forth as she waited for the light to turn on. Nothing. She waited a little longer. Still nothing. She pressed the button again. And again. Then glanced down at her watch. One more minute and she’d pull it. The light still hadn’t come on. No sooner than the thought flitted through her mind, the door burst open again.

  Leonid returned too soon.

  If he sat down and noticed the flash drive, she was toast.

  “You finished yet?”

  She shook her head no, struggling to think of any excuse. As he stepped toward the desk, she looked at her savior and grabbed the vacuum. “Just one moment. I hafti run di vacuum c
leaner unda di desk.”

  He stopped in his tracks and backed up.

  She glanced down. The light sputtered and then disappeared again. Nothing. The fucking flash drive was a bust. Manny would die if she made it out alive.

  J.J. found a plug for the vacuum cleaner, shoved it in, and turned it on. As she glared at him from outside the door, she raised her hand, gesturing with her index finger that she’d be one minute. When she closed the door to vacuum behind it, she yanked the empty drive and stuffed it into her smock pocket. The entire op had gone to shit, and now she needed to get out before she got killed.

  She pushed the vacuum cleaner across the floor in rapid sweeps. Good thing she did.

  “Okay, okay. I have business to do.”

  “Sorry, sir. ‘ave a good evenin’.”

  She collected her equipment, exited out the door, and returned the vacuum cleaner to its spot. Then she turned to make her escape as fast as she arrived. Before she took a step, a voice called from behind her. “Hey, cleaning lady! I need you here. Now.”

  She cursed her misfortune, spun around, and followed the man into the office, pulling her cart in tow. It was Matvey Trifonov. He was a skinny, nervous looking man, with thick gray and black hair and had grown a thin mustache since his surveillance photo. He grabbed the phone, which was off the hook, and returned to his desk when J.J. appeared in the doorway.

  “Mi dehyah to clean.”

  “Come in!” He waved her inside and spoke in an urgent hush. “Close the door behind you.”

  She paced to the windows and started to clean, listening to his whispers as she wiped the glass to a shine.

  “He’s here,” he said. “And you damn well better bet he didn’t come all this way to watch them light the tree at Rockefeller Center. You heard what they did to Zory, didn’t you? If they could do that to him, who am I?”

  J.J. pretended to clean as she leaned in close to listen.

  “No, that Rakov son of a bitch is impulsive. Going off half-cocked because some bitch made him feel like the idiot he is. Max is pissed, but he’d never order that, he’d never support a contract. It’s bad for business. He’s all business.”

  Rakov—he was the narcotics courier who J.J. spat on after he fired the N-word. He’s the one who wanted her dead. He must’ve been very convincing when he went crying to the Mashkovs.

  Wimp.

  J.J.’s eyes met his as he glanced at her. “I can’t leave right now. But I have copies of everything. I’m going to send a courier. You put them into the safe deposit box. If anything happens, you follow the plan. I’ll call you later with the details.”

  He paused again and she grabbed the vacuum cleaner handle, waiting for him to end his conversation. He scribbled a note on a pad and told her to plug the vacuum cleaner in the wall. When the motor droned, he leaned forward and whispered in her ear. “Please. I need you to make a delivery for me,” he said, holding up the flash drive in his hand. “I’ll pay you.”

  He reached into his pocket and counted out twenty hundred-dollar bills. She shook her head no, filling her expression with fear.

  He counted out five-hundred dollars more. She still refused. He made one final offer, counting out ten more. She grabbed the money from his hand and tucked it inside her bra along with his flash drive. “All you need to do is deliver it to this address the second you leave here,” he said, holding a slip of paper with a Brooklyn address. “And leave here as soon as you can.”

  “Okay, okay,” she whispered. “I’ll do it.”

  He nodded his head before she let herself out. Her mind was frenzied. The moment was surreal. Had what happened, in fact, happened? Had he handed the computer records to her on a silver platter? She promised to go to mass on Sunday and light a candle for a prayer answered. She snapped out of her thoughts and collected her equipment.

  The second she pushed the vacuum into the hall, she bumped into an enormous mass of fat and muscle. Even at her 5-feet 10-inches, the man stood so tall she could practically press her nose into his belt buckle standing straight up. She couldn’t see past him to the left or right.

  She apologized, stepped back, and caught a glimpse of his face—Pavlov Mashkov. Golikov’s henchman, flesh and evil, blocking her view. The man who had executed her sources, killed them like animals, and mailed their body parts to the American Embassy. The man who’d ordered Dante’s shooting and who’d accepted the contract to carry out her own murder.

  A wickedness emanated from his narrowed eyes and dark manner.

  His gaze locked onto her face and hovered; he studied her like a scientist would a specimen, a moment too long for her comfort. The bad wig was her only cover.

  “Who are you?” he barked in a deep hollow mutter.

  She imagined snatching her gun from the ankle holster and unloading every round in his fat skull. Instead, she said, “Me done cleanin’ now.” She did an about-face and started up the hallway, sucking breath and swallowing hard the entire way.

  “Wait, I know you.”

  “Me no tink so.” She continued her pace up the hallway.

  J.J. couldn’t run. Not fast enough. She needed a way out…and she had to get out clean.

  Just as she reached the reception area, her mind flitted, trying devise an escape. Her mind turned to Abigail. The cleaning crew was on the way, and she couldn’t bolt without putting them under immediate suspicion.

  If J.J. disappeared, there’d be questions Abby couldn’t answer. No, J.J. needed a legitimate excuse, preferably within the next thirty seconds, before he connected the dots and put a name to her face. A distraction that would not only get her out of the office, but out of the building.

  Then she spotted it. A razor. Judging from the pink goo on the blade, they used it to scrape gum. She pretended to return a cleaning cloth to the caddy and held her breath.

  This is going to hurt a little bit.

  She sliced the blade deep into her finger.

  “Ahhh!” she screamed, holding her hand. “Oh no! Cut mi finger.” The slice was deep and painful. His eyes shifted from her face to her finger, the blood dripping on the pristine floors.

  “Wrap it….with that!” he said, thrusting his finger toward a white cleaning cloth. “You’re getting blood everywhere.”

  She grabbed it and pressed it against the gash in her finger, squeezing tight as blood stains seeped through. “I needa go to duh bawtroom.”

  “You need a doctor.”

  “Mi car’s outside. Be fasta to drive.”

  “Then go,” he said. “Hurry. I’ll have someone take care of the cart.”

  The closer J.J. got to the main entrance, the more her smile widened. Her eyes searched for the team, but no one was there. The radio reception must’ve cut off while she was inside. She headed toward the parking lot when a voice called from behind her. A familiar voice.

  “J.J…. J.J.,” the man called in a low tone.

  She scanned the area until her eyes fixed on a figure in the passenger seat of a sparkling black Mercedes. It was Misha. He stepped out and rushed over to her.

  “Misha, what are you doing here?”

  “I figured you’d be here tonight. What happened to you?” he asked, looking at the bloody cloth.

  “It’s nothing. Just need a couple stitches,” she said, clasping her bloody finger, trying to stifle the flow.

  Misha moved close to her, as if trying to whisper in her ear, and in a lightning quick move, he jammed a gun into her gut.

  “Give it to me,” he growled through clenched teeth. “Give it to me now or I will kill you right here.”

  “Misha? Have you lost your mind?”

  After a second of thought, he said, “I’m a businessman. If I return their intelligence and save them from prosecution, I can get enough money to save my family and disappear forever.”

  J.J.’s eyes narrowed. “I always knew you were a slithery, two-faced, snake in the grass. Thanks for proving me right you son of a bitch.”

  Her first
instinct was to fight him with everything in her and make him wish he’d never seen a gun, let alone stuck the revolver into her stomach. But she thought better of it, decided to give him exactly what he asked for. She reached into the smock pocket and handed him the flash drive contained inside. “Here!” She shoved it toward him. “Why give him a flash drive when you could get much more money for turning me over. Sounds like bad business.”

  “You’re FBI,” he said. “I’m greedy, not crazy. Now don’t move.” He backed away, keeping the barrel trained on her as he ran inside the building. Her cover would be blown, but it didn’t matter. As long as Matvey’s drive contained the files from Troika’s computers, she had everything needed to take down those bastards. The only question was whether she’d make the deadline.

  Moments later a Ford that looked like a stock unmarked FBI vehicle skidded around the corner and stopped in front her with the precision of a race-car driver. She bent forward and peered inside, expecting Scott or Manny. Not him.

  Chapter 43

  Wednesday Morning — New York City

  Slayton McCarthy exited his diplomatic-plated Lincoln Towncar and prepared to enter the Volga Siber driven by Bart, the desk officer in the CIA station. The nervous look on Bart’s face gave Slayton little comfort. He’d never been in this situation…or this part of Moscow—a wooded area near the rail yard. The location, on the outskirts of Moscow’s large migrant population, was desolate and dark except for a single lamp beaming down. It flickered in sporadic fits as if about to putter out. He took a deep breath and surveyed the scene before approaching Bart, who stood outside the car.

  He rubbed his hands briskly and blew his fingers. “Jeez, it’s cold out here. What are we waiting for?”

  “The package. It’s en route. We’ll be leaving any minute.”

  Slayton nodded and slipped into the backseat after Bart opened the door.