Spy Catcher: The J.J. McCall Novels (Books 1-3) (The FBI Espionage Series) (67 page)

Chapter 7

Tuesday Afternoon — Russian Embassy

“Where do you think you’re going?” Yuriy Filchenko barked as Aleksey Dmitriyev made his way to the door. “Our meeting begins in twenty minutes. At such a delicate time, our comrades will question your absence.”

Filchenko was the new Counterintelligence operations chief in the Washington Residency and Dmitriyev was his superior in rank and moral fiber. Their entire relationship had been built on mistrust and resentment: Yuriy’s for the treacherous turncoat he believed Aleksey to be, and Aleksey for the backstabbing snitch Yuriy had proven himself to be.

Aleksey growled under his breath and rolled his eyes. Filchenko nosed around him and dished heaping servings of grief at every opportunity. Aleksey’s saving grace came in the form of the leverage he’d gained from Yuriy revealing his major fuck up to Aleksey. If Aleksey played his trump and revealed the junior officer had, by accident, led the FBI straight into the White House operation, the disclosure would deal a crippling blow to Filchenko’s career.

“Tread lightly, little boy,” Aleksey snarled. “You don’t want to push me too far, not whilst my grip is so firm around the weak bones in your neck.”

Filchenko paused and reconsidered his stance before waving Aleksey off.

Dmitriyev exited the main building and headed out for his daily Starbucks run, now more aware of the time. As he pulled out of the gate and neared Wisconsin Avenue, he scanned his rearview and side mirrors for familiar faces from the FBI’s surveillance team. He recognized the one he’d met in the park and tipped his hat. They kept their coverage loose, as he expected they would. Aleksey was meeting one of their own.

Distancing himself from the residency liberated his mind, allowing him for the first time in days to absorb the gravity of recent events and his own looming peril. He clenched his eyes shut for a brief moment and shook his head at the disbelief at Svetlana Mikhaylova’s death. Her father’s grief, which had transformed from sorrow to rage, set him on a path of revenge and destruction, steeled his determination to avenge her murder. Aleksey himself had sunken to the pit of all moral lows—pretending to celebrate the death of his dear friend Stanislav Vorobyev in order to protect his cover and guarantee his future by spying on behalf of the FBI. After defecting from the service, he could leave the duplicitous life behind and live out the rest of his days in peace. Until then, he’d be forced to work in place; he’d crossed over the line too far to turn back now.

With this sobering realization, Aleksey understood he must muddle through his days and sidestep Filchenko’s attempts to out him. Mikhaylov’s impetuous gaffe in turning over the identity of Svetlana’s killer to Golikov might cost the residency dearly. He ordered Mashkov’s people to gun down the Italian in New York and may have set in motion the chain of events that’d prove to be Aleksey’s and the Residency’s undoing. The faster J.J. McCall shut down Svetlana’s band of spies and neutralized Mashkov’s people, the sooner their lives would return to semblance of normal.

Aleksey grabbed his coffee and made two quick cover stops on the bustling stretch of Wisconsin Avenue to verify that his own colleagues hadn’t followed him. Then he made his way down Van Ness Street to Connecticut Avenue where he’d connect with J.J.

He drove into the parking garage adjacent to the University of the District of Columbia, an ideal location. McCall was nothing if not smart and security conscious. The location was one of the few with one entrance and two exits, the second just off of residential side street leading to a cut-through route to Wisconsin. He’d leave from one side, and she from the other. The interlude must be kept brief because the longer he stayed away, the more Filthchenko would scrutinize his every move. Despite his disdain for the cretin, Yuriy had made a valid point. Any activity out of the ordinary would be examined through a skeptical, microscopic lens.

When Aleksey reached the lower level, he spotted J.J.’s black Challenger with tinted windows parked near the stairway exit. He parked in a spot adjacent to hers and slipped into her passenger seat. She refused to sit in his vehicle, insisting Filthchenko or someone else from the counterintelligence line would dust for fingerprints and identify hers if suspicions of a mole in the Embassy reached critical mass.

“Long time no see,” J.J. said facetiously. She extended a hand to him. “We’ve got a pretty big mess on our hands.”

“It’s good to see you well, Agent McCall,” he began, “however, I must cut this meeting short. They’ve scheduled a conference this morning. I’ll draw suspicion if I don’t return in time.”

“Filchenko and the rest of the Golikov’s crew still giving you a difficult time?”

“
Filthchenko
is an asshole, but I can keep him contained,” he said. “Golikov ordered Vasiliy and Igor to New York. They’re supporting Mashkov’s people. In what capacity, I’m not certain. They left on the heels of Mikhaylova’s death... at her father’s request.”

“Mashkov? You aren’t suggesting the residency orchestrated the Bonanno hit?” she asked.

“Orchestrate? No. Involved? Yes. Mikhaylov begged Golikov to avenge his daughter’s death. Now he’s in bed with the devil.” Aleksey glanced at his wrist to check the time. “Idiots. They shot the wrong man, a mistake egregious enough to not only implicate the Residency but cripple the younger brother’s organized crime operations; the elder is furious, flying into New York to deal with the fallout himself. No telling how he’ll punish those who made the mistake.”

J.J. gave him the side-eye. “Pavlov Mashkov? He’s on our No-Fly list.”

“And? He’s got the best counterfeit passport money can buy and  uses it to travel to the United States once a year. He comes to oversee operations but, with the increased potential for conflict between his people and the Italians, you can be certain the reason for this visit is not to make peace.”

“I’d love to roll him up, but more important than eliminating Mashkov is finding a way to penetrate Troika. I’m convinced that’s the key to neutralizing the network. Money is the root of all Mikhaylova’s evil. Kill the root; kill the weed.”

“I must implore you to keep your distance. Mashkov will kill you and throw your dismembered body into the river. Then he’ll fly back to Russia on his fake passport like a ghost who was never here,” Aleksey warned, his expression grim, his voice urgent. “Troika Technologies is almost impossible to breach. Mashkov relies on a small cadre of trusted associates; only they have access to the facility and information you would need to shut them down—and those people are not only well controlled under threats of violence, but also well-paid to keep them quiet.”

J.J. shook her head in disbelief. “I don’t buy it. The Mashkov’s are assholes. Anytime assholes run anything, unhappy people with axes to grind almost always lay low until they’re positioned to strike. Someone in Troika wants out. Any ideas? Who’s the weakest link?”

Aleksey bit his bottom lip and rubbed the fuzz on his chin. “There’s one person I’ve heard rumors about, and that’s the accountant. They refer to him as The Sparrow. No one in the Washington Residency knows his true name. The only reason he’s working with Mashkov is because he’s afraid not to. Elicit his support, and you may have a chance at dismantling the organization. All roads to taking down Troika lead through the money. But getting to him will be next to impossible.”

“Believe it or not, I find comfort in that statement,” J.J. said.

He appeared confused. “What do you mean?”

“Impossible situations are my specialty…if you hadn’t figured that out by now.”

He chuckled and nodded in respect.

“I’m leaving for New York in the morning,” J.J. said, “but I’m placing your safety in the capable hands of a most trusted colleague. Hopper Mack.” Trusted yes. Most trusted? If Aleksey survived until she returned, then yes. “Usually, there’d be a formal hand-off during which I’d introduce you two, but we don’t have time for formalities.”

“Name sounds familiar. He’s the young agent who met with Mikhaylov in the sandwich shop, if my memory serves me correctly?” Aleksey asked. Hopper had pulled off a gutsy operation which allowed the FBI to get a GPS on Mikhaylov’s car and track him to his daughter.

She nodded with a chuckle. “Infamous already, huh? I believe it was his debut.”

“I never forget a name. Sounds like quite the character.” He checked his watch again. “Shit. I must hurry back. If I’m late…” he sliced his index finger across his throat.

She handed him a slip of paper. “These are your communication instructions. He will monitor our signal sites until I return. To report problems or pass vital information, reach out to him, and he will contact me.”

“One thing before I leave,” Aleksey said. “The Italian, the one who shot Svetlana… a reliable source informed me that the Mashkovs put a bounty on his head. If they catch him, he’s dead.”

J.J.’s thoughts shifted to the love of her life; she let out a hard breath. Santino was Tony’s family and had saved both from an executioner’s bullet. She’d warn him and press Santino to lay low until this conflict blew over. Another hit on the Donatos at this critical juncture would heat the simmering tensions between the organized crime factions to a quick boil, with mayhem spilling into the streets of New York.

As Aleksey exited, and she pulled away, her cell rang. She looked down the lit screen. Sunnie again. Something was going on. Must be very right…or very wrong.

Chapter 8

Tuesday Afternoon — New York City

Santino Castellano’s eyes dampened as he peered into the hospital room and watched his uncle grieve for his son’s condition. “Shoulda been me,” he repeated in his mind over and again, as if his thoughts could turn back time and change the bullet’s course. In his mind, enduring the wound would’ve been more bearable than suffering the guilt of knowing the two shots fired had his name etched in them.

Sal stood next to Dante’s bed, flanked by “family” soldiers packing enough heat to arm a police precinct. Usually lion-like with his tall, thick frame, prowling stride, strong jaw, and thick mane of gray-streaked hair, he looked permeable, vulnerable somehow, as he gazed upon his son’s weakened body. Some New York Feds had warned them that the Russians wanted a do-over on the Santino job and to finish off Dante for good measure. So the family upped the level of protection and planned to punish the Russians for entertaining the thought. The family rejected support from the cops; they never offered anything without a bunch of strings attached. And after an FBI mole came close to destroying the Bonanno family, which took years to rebuild, Sal refused to risk even the slightest chance the Feds would ever infiltrate them again, at least not under his watchful eye.

Santino and his cousin Dante partnered in crime way back before they could comprehend the lives of wise guys, before either realized their genetic lineage had set them on a course veering toward death and dysfunction. He chuckled as he remembered their first criminal enterprise, selling stolen candy bars out of the elementary school lockers at PS 102. Dante was always the more fearless of the two. He wasn’t so tall, but he had the kind of presence that drew respect at the mere sight of him. Took after his father, for sure. To see him connected to these wires with tubes running in and out of him, Santino slumped over as if he’d just taken an unguarded uppercut which left him gasping for air.

Santino glanced at the U.S. Marshalls escorting his Uncle and offered a nod. They were on the Bonanno payroll and gave him  and Uncle Sal the space they needed to discuss family business before he returned to the federal corrections half-way house in Scranton. Santino drifted over to Dante’s bed and with all his might resisted the urge to pat Uncle Sal on the back. Unc had never been a touchy feely guy. Santino motioned his head toward the other side of the room, and Sal followed him there.

Sal pulled a handkerchief from his pant pocket and wiped his eyes and nose. “Find out who’s responsible for doing this to my son.”

“Feds say the Russians did it. Somebody hooked up with the mafia,” he said and lowered his head. “Dante wasn’t the intended target.”

Sal’s brow furrowed. “Is ‘at right? Then who did they mistake him for?”

Santino’s downcast eyes told Sal everything he needed to know.

“You? Why would they come after—what’d you do?”

“Unc, this ain’t got nothin’ to do with family business. I was layin’ low in D.C., tryin’ to earn enough money to pay back Nicky Mumbles and I started messin’ with this broad. Turned out she was Russian, but you couldn’t even tell. No accent. She was planning to make me take the rap for killing a couple of Feds...one of which was Tony.”

“What?”

“She paid me to hit somebody. I refused to go through with it when I found out he was the target. Did what I had to do. She musta found out who I was, snoopin’ around in my shit. I dunno.”

“Ummm, hmmm. You dunno,” Sal said with a raised eyebrow and pursed lips.

“I didn’t tell her much. The Russians ordered a hit, came after me, and the cocksucker had a bad aim.”

He nodded and patted Santino on the shoulder. “You and Nicky talk to Swifty and arrange a sit-down with those Russian fucks. Swifty’s hooked up tight with them in some money laundering shit. He’ll arrange everything.”

“Sure thing, Unc. I’ll take care of that tomorrow.”

“No, you’ll call tonight.” Sal jabbed Santino’s chest with his index finger. “Listen, you also need to call Stevie Pics.” Sal considered Stevie a loyal member of the family, and he had more sources on the street than the
New York Times
. “Tell him to find out the name of the shooter the minute I’m outta here, you unda’stand? You better have a name and a location for the son of a bitch who did this tomorrow. You don’t get the information, and I’m takin’ it out on botha yous! Whoever he is, he’s gonna die in excruciating agony if it’s the last thing I do. I’ll fill his body with a piece of hot lead for every day my son lies in this fucking hospital bed. We clear?” 

Santino threw his hands up in the air. “We’re clear, Unc; we’re clear. But, uh, there’s somethin’ else I should tell you.”

“What now?”

“Ton’s on the way to New York. He’s working the Russian thing for the Feds. Spoke with him a couple days ago.”

He snatched up Santino by the shirt, snorting hard breaths through his nose. “I told you never to speak to that fucking rat. Now, you disobey my orders?”

“I know...I know.” He tried to loosen his uncle’s fist from his shirt. “But there’s something you gotta unda’stand.”

Sal tightened his grip. “What’s he comin’ here for? I warned him to stay away from me and my family. The only reason he’s still walking this earth is because I ordered it. But I can rescind that order if he thinks he gonna come around snitching to his bosses about my business. So what do I need to understand!”

“On my mother’s grave, the only reason that I’m standing in front of you right now is because of Tony; he saved my life. Kept me from takin’ a bullet.” Sal jerked his head back; the surprise was visible. “And get this—after I whacked the Russian cunt who tried to turn on me, he let me walk. Scot-free.”

Sal’s eyes widened, and his shoulders relaxed. He released Santino’s shirt, confused for a moment. He took a step back and leaned his hand on a nearby chair.

“Yeah, my sentiments exactly. The family’s been through a lot, and things went to shit before he skipped town. But here’s what my gut tells me—what he did for me
is not
the act of a rat.”

Sal pinched his lips and rubbed his chin. Santino could almost see the gears in his head churning; he recognized the look, felt the same sense of confusion when he left Irving Street, his place in D.C.

“Think about this. Why would a man who ratted out his family compromise his entire career by letting me walk? For all he knew, I coulda called the Feds and told them he let me walk,” Santino said. “When Dante got shot, he had every reason to stay in D.C. You already issued the order. Nobody can hit him. He ain’t working no cases associated with the family. Hasn’t so much as
flown over
New York in almost ten years. So why come here? Why not turn his back on me and let me get pinched?”

“He nodded you off, huh?”

“Yeah…no strings. Didn’t ask for nothing. Didn’t even ask what I was doing. And there was some fine mooley with ‘im too. Another agent. She made the suggestion. It was her idea as I think about it. But he went along with it.”

Sal nodded and half-smiled. “Okay, I’m convinced but the next obvious problem becomes—if Tony didn’t drop the dime on Jimmy Toots, we still got a rat in the family.”

“Yeah…so who do you suppose had the most to gain from Jimmy Toots gettin’ pinched?”

Sal thought about it and narrowed his eyes. “Get Stevie on this one, too. When he gets back to me with the information, we’ll make our next move. Until, then—nothing. You understand me? As far as our little friend is concerned, we got no problem with him. That cocksucker will
mumble
no more if he set up my son to make a power play on me.”