Spy Catcher: The J.J. McCall Novels (Books 1-3) (The FBI Espionage Series) (75 page)

Chapter 22

Saturday — Russian Embassy, Washington D.C.

Aleksey Dmitriyev had finished typing up a report when the daily thirst hit him. He glanced at his Invicta, the time said coffee, but he knew from the date that he needed to check the signal. J.J.’s communication instructions indicated he must mark it to let her know if he had an emergency and needed to meet. The embassy had been in a period of relative peace since the celebrations over Stanislav’s death ended. Komarov stood down most operations, except the RAPTURE operation at the White House, which they still monitored, even more so than usual. The intelligence they’d pulled from the listening device had begun to change in quality if not quantity, but Dmitriyev was careful not to say so, at least not until J.J. returned. Eventually, he’d be forced to identify the degradation in intelligence quality to Komarov—or Filthchenko. That snitch would no doubt fly into Komarov’s office like a sniveling tattle if he even for a moment suspected Dmitriyev had provided an inaccurate assessment regarding its value.

Aleksey locked his computer screen and strode down the stairwell to make his coffee run. No sooner than he put his hand on the doorknob did a hollow cold noise emanate from behind him.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Filthchenko snapped; his voice twisted like a knife in Aleksey’s spleen. He’d never held such deep-seated contempt for another human being in his life. Intensified in all likelihood by the fact that Filchenko served, honored, and obeyed the most despicable man in the Service—Anatoliy Golikov, whose father was responsible for the torture of his own. Filchenko, a parasite, latched onto Golikov, leeched the diabolic blood from his being and absorbed them into every crevice of his own cells until they became woven into his own DNA. Now the two were indistinguishable from one another, in almost every way. Standing in his presence was like being hosed from head to toe with pond sludge.

“Why? Would you care to take a ride with me? I have someplace where I’d like to drop you off,” Aleksey remarked, still pressing ahead down the steps toward his car while Filchenko followed behind.

“Ahhh, then you haven’t heard today’s news out of the Center,” he said.

Dmitriyev stopped midway down the flight and spun around toward his nemesis. “What news?”

“Stanislav Vorobyev—he’s still alive.”

Dmitriyev held his poker face as long as he could and then exploded with false laughter. He shook his index finger at Filchenko and said, “You are a funny man, Yuriy Vasilyevich. But don’t quit your day job.”

When he turned away, he concealed his bulged eyes and stunned expression, struggling to catch his breath. His face tightened along with his throat as he thought,
Mother of God. What has Stan done now?

“I’ve no doubt he’s holed up in Moscow.”

“By what evidence?” Aleksey said. “You expect me to believe a trained operative who is supposed to be dead would be seen strolling along Gorky Street? Give me a break. You’ve been watching too much television. Mistaken identity.”

“Oh, you think so, yes?” Filchenko asked. “Do you not find it odd the Americans have not turned over the body to the family? Our watchers in Vienna observed no signs of a grieving family.”

“We’re Russian. How can you tell? My mother didn’t laugh or cry until I graduated from the institute and then it was after four celebratory shots of vodka.”

Filchenko sucked his tongue and rolled his eyes as if Aleksey was a simpleton. “The watchers? They’ve seen someone who favors him in the company of an American.”

“An
American
intelligence officer?”

“Well…no.”

“Then what we are we discussing here? In poor lighting and with a little vodka in their systems, the watchers could walk the streets of Moscow and pluck fifteen people from the crowds who favor me and twenty who look like you.”

“I suppose time will tell.” Filchenko shrugged, still unconvinced. “The implications for you would be much greater if he is found alive, tried, and imprisoned, wouldn’t you say? It is fortunate the FSB won’t give up until they’ve verified one way or the other. And if what they suspect is true, heads will roll. I, for one, hope one belongs to you.”

As Filchenko stopped in his tracks, Aleksey continued down the steps to the bottom level and pressed the exit bar on the door. “The feeling is quite mutual. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Starbucks awaits.”

Aleksey high-tailed it to his car, glancing down at his watch. The time for leaving an emergency signal had passed. Even if he marked it today, they wouldn’t meet for two days which might be too late. If he was going to warn J.J., he had to do so now—and there was only one way to do so safely.

• • •

FBI Special Agent Hopper Mack was flying high and riding easy down Connecticut Avenue in Upper Northwest D.C., on his way to check Aleksey’s signal in J.J.’s absence. His supervisor at Washington Field had now trusted him with more responsibility. His addition to the bigot list afforded him access to the identity and reporting on J.J. McCall’s very trusted source in the Russian Embassy and now he must keep him alive for two weeks, which wouldn’t be an easy feat based on her briefing about him. According to J.J., he had a big mouth, quick temper, and a persistent enemy in the embassy looking for every opportunity to take advantage of both.

As Hopper approached the 4000 block where the signal mailbox was located and slowed his speed; some dumbass blocked the side where the mark was supposed to be placed and didn’t appear to ready to budge anytime soon. Hopper shifted his eyes back and forth to scan the area, looking for a bus stop or something to indicate why the slug was standing there, in that spot. Nothing came to mind. He craned his neck as he passed the man trying to see around him and, for some reason, his eyes drew up to the gentleman’s face.

Hopper gasped and did a double take. “What the hell?” Dmitriyev was the slug blocking the mark. When Hopper turned forward, a car had stopped in front of him. He slammed on the break and skidded within an inch of the bumper in front of him. His heart raced and not just because of the accident. Dmitriyev had shown up in person and hadn’t marked the signal as instructed. Something must be
very
wrong.

Hopper circled back at the next light, making an illegal U-turn when the coast cleared. By the time he arrived at the mailbox again, Dmitriyev had vanished.

“Damn!” he yelled. Then he noticed Dmitriyev padding down the sidewalk along Tilden street which was accessible by a one-way eastbound road. He made a left-hand turn onto the adjacent westbound lane and pushed his pedal to the floor, looking for a place to park. Anywhere. Four blocks down he found a spot. Hopper put on a skull cap and sunglasses, jumped out, and ran at top speed to catch up with Aleksey.

As he huffed and puffed, every breath fogged. He reached Aleksey a couple minutes later; he was leaning against a lamp post along a sleepy residential street. Hopper studied his expression, waiting with his guard up until Aleksey signaled it was okay to approach. Then he walked forward, with his hands in his pockets and, head down, trying to recall the parole J.J. told him to speak so Aleksey could verify Hopper’s identity as a friendly. Something about the Redskins. The words failed him, so he winged it.

Aleksey bowed his head forward, giving a nod to Hopper’s approach.

“Ummm…how about those Redskins?” he asked, his face crumpled with discomfort.

Aleksey gave him the side-eye.

“Sorry, I’m not prepared. Thought this was a drive-by.”

“It’s okay. I’ll be leaving soon. You must pass an urgent message to Agent McCall.”

“What’s going on?”

“Moscow. They remain unconvinced of the reports suggesting Stanislav Vorobyev is dead.”

Hopper stepped back, and his eyes widened. “Damn,” he said, catching himself. “Why? How?”

“His family is being watched. No remains have been turned over to the wife, and they don’t appear to be grieving. Although this is subjective. They are Russians, after all.”

Hopper exhaled and tightened his lips. “Well, it’s only been a few days. I’m certain the Agency has some logistics to work out. Anything else?”

“Watchers report seeing someone who resembles him in the company of an American. I sense they will intensify surveillance until they determine one way or the other whether their suspicions are valid. If the Agency is going to make a move, now is the time.”

“Okay. I’ll tell her right away,” Hopper said. “You all right otherwise?”

“Don’t worry about me. Get this information to her. The implications don’t only impact Stan. If they find out he’s alive, they will have no doubts
Rapture
has been compromised. With Golikov’s thugs lurking about, the time it takes to point the finger at me will take what you call…a New York minute.”

Chapter 23

Saturday — FBI New York Office

Saturday morning arrived on the heels of a heavy rain. Grayish wisps skipped across the morning sky as J.J. prepared for Sunnie’s briefing on the Troika phone records. She questioned whether the analysis would reveal information she needed to solve the case. Then her mind clouded with Misha’s reports about babies being delivered on Monday. What could that mean?

The office was as quiet as the city, J.J. noticed as she gazed out of the window and peered down to the street; she eyed workers fidgeting with festive holiday wreaths dangling from light posts. Somewhere in the Big Apple, she imagined there was a woman around her age rolling out of bed, thinking about shopping. Or the Christmas bauble that would adorn the tree-top. Or—Do
these shoes go with that dress?
Or—
Can Paulo squeeze me in for a Brazilian at the salon?

J.J. envied that woman wherever she was.

Most days she woke up from her slumber devising plans to keep sources from dying and putting bad guys in jail. All the while trying to stay alive in the midst of the conflict. The contrast was stark, jarring, part of her inner conflict. Was she the kind of woman who could ever think shoes and dresses before national security, even if she had the mental space to do so? Or was the fleeting moment of uncertainty a matter of the proverbial green grass in the neighbor’s yard?

Through the streams of thought, she heard a voice call. “J.J.? J.J.? Earth calling J.J.”

She shook loose the jealous thoughts and turned to spot Scott standing behind her; his demeanor was relaxed in an uncharacteristic way, which may be why she didn’t recognize him at first. She struck the heel of her palm against her forehead. “Scott…sorry. My mind drifted off again.” She grabbed her notebook and pen from the otherwise empty desk, leaving the room and her reflections behind. She glimpsed the time. “Sunnie on the VTC yet?”

“Yeah, she just called in, but the sound’s not working. The tech is working on it,” he said. “Listen, I gave you a hard time, but I figured, to be fair, I should tell you that you did all right yesterday, with Vanya—or Misha. Whatever the hell his name is.”

She bowed her head in acknowledgment. Took a lot of backbone to choke those words out given he’d been a douche bag toward her since the minute she arrived. “Thanks, but Misha’s not a hard ass…from what I can tell. If you understand his pressure points and when to push them, any agent could’ve made him talk…even you,” she said in jest with an accompanying smile. “With that said, Misha isn’t to be trusted. Ever.”

As J.J. looked around she couldn’t help but compare New York’s squad bay to Washington Field's which had undergone a major renovation and New York’s was in need of one with its tall, closed-in cubicles, ancient wooden desks, and carpeting that had seen better days.

He chuckled as they rounded the corner and approached the conference room door. “Only six days left. You think we can get this done?”

“I’ve got to tell you, Scott, this situation’s not looking good. Between Misha and Sunnie, I’m praying we get a breakthrough. If we don’t wrap this up before the deadline, we may never get the momentum or a shot at the evidence again,” she replied. “With that said, we’ve both been at the Bureau long enough to understand one thing about the FBI: You can count us down, but never out.”

They entered the conference room where the video teleconferencing equipment was installed and a picture of one of the VTC rooms at headquarters appeared on screen. Accompanied by and a twenty-something, studious looking Asian woman with long hair and a smart pantsuit, Sunnie was conservatively dressed. Even her hair was coiffed in a manner more consistent with the Bureau uniform. Walter sagged in his seat along with his suit. Looked a few cups of coffee short of alert. Must’ve been a long night.

J.J. scanned the room and noticed Tony eyeing her with a sheepish expression, no doubt because Gia had taken the lone seat to his right. He was posted at the table’s end. J.J. opted not to sweat it and sat on the side opposite him between Scott and Manny. “Good to see you, Sunnie,” J.J. said, making introductions around the room. “Who’s with you?”

“Thanks, J.J. This is Amie Chang, an Intelligence Operations Specialist from the Organized Crime/Drugs Section downstairs. She’s supporting a joint FBI, ATF, DEA task force and provided some intel that’s pretty vital to understanding the expansiveness of this network.”

“ATF and DEA? Sheesh. Sounds messy.”

“Believe me, it is, so we should probably get started,” Sunni began. “Yesterday, we received the phone records for six office lines at Troika technology—five business lines, one fax machine. We assess five are used by the executives and administrative staff.”

“Have you noted anything of interest?” Tony asked.

“Yes. What’s interesting is they rarely use the office lines to make calls. Classic criminal/intelligence tradecraft, a huge red flag given this is supposed to be a legitimate business. Most of the calls made were international, so we asked NSA to run the numbers through VECTOR. Ten minutes later we got a hit, several in fact. A fax machine linked to a company called VolgaTeK Investment Group, headed by Jov Rakov, a former FSB officer with ties to Rusvorzheny.”

Hmmm…a former FSB officer,
J.J. thought. The report came as no surprise her. After the fall of the Soviet Union and break-up of the KGB, many intelligence officers ditched public service for criminal enterprises, leveraging their international contacts, networks of networks, to support some of the most insidious mafia enterprises operating today. The line between Russian intelligence and organized crime was often a murky one, and Jov Rakov was but one example of that.

Gia sat at attention. “Wait, Rusvorzheny is the state arms company. All Russian arms transactions are conducted through this company, both above and under the table. The Russians have been engaging in major military upgrades over the past few years. Some get sold; some get stolen and then sold. That’s an interesting connection.” She folded her arm across her chest. “So NSA had already initiated a SIGINT op targeting VolgaTeK because of this drug investigation; it’s not intelligence related, correct?”

“Yes. A joint DEA-ATF investigation targeted Rakov’s narcotics and arms trade network operating throughout Russia and the Republics. DEA traced parts into Latin America. The reporting is languishing in NSA’s dissemination channels; they’ve not been released yet. Amie’s going to explain more about the network.”

“Thanks, Sunnie,” Amie began, her posture as stiff as her voice. “Based on available intelligence, we assess that Rakov leverages his ties with Rusvorzheny to illegally obtain and sell older military-grade Russian arms to South American drug cartels in exchange for narcotics, heroin and cocaine. Max Novikov’s people, we’ll get to him in a minute, sell the narcotics throughout Russia, the Republics, and inside the United States. They get top dollar for the drugs in the American market, amassing millions more in sales than if the cartels paid them in cash for the weapons’ value.”

“Arms for narcotics. Do we have proof?” Tony asked. “How strong is the intel?”

“Rock solid,” Amie said. “DEA has CIs who help move the arms and drugs between Russia to South America. A complex web of narcotics traffickers and Russian organized crime figures.”

“So, I don’t understand how Troika fits this equation,” J.J. said.

“Based on what Amie and I discussed,” Sunnie chimed in, “we assess Max Novikov from Troika is the New York
krysha
—a roof or cover for Russian mob narcotics operations on the east coast. He’s the big boss.”

“Exactly,” Amie added. “Drugs are transported from South America and into Miami using Russian-made Narco subs—DEA intercepted two off the coast of Bogotá in joint operations with the Colombians. Miami-based Russian mob networks pay for their cut of heroin and cocaine which they sell on the streets; the remaining cash proceeds and drugs are transported to the New York area where they are sold up and down the east coast. Huge market. Lots of cash.”

“And when the drugs are sold,” Sunnie said. “Troika launders the money. They pay big cash to live high on the hog so to speak—cars, money, women—the usual suspects. They convert the remaining proceeds into small bank deposits, less than 10K so they stay below Treasury’s radar and disperse them into multiple accounts. The remaining money is shipped overseas on pallets containing millions of dollars in hundred-dollar bills. One account belongs to Lana Michaels’ illegal network which we discovered last week; it’s now frozen. A second account is new and still active—we think this is the new account the SVR setup to pay off the Russian illegals. The third account is the unnamed Russian company I had identified last week—we’ve now determined it is VolgaTeK.”

Walter piped in. “If I may, NSA intercepted fax transmissions from Troika to VolgaTeK—phony purchase orders and requisitions for technologies and building supplies. Troika pays the fake invoices and transfers the cash to VolgaTeK. Rakov uses money from the money laundering account to buy the illegal arms…and the cycle begins again.”

“How is ATF involved in all of this?” Manny asked.

“The Latin American cartels are taking the guns they buy from the Russians and supplying them to their U.S.-based smuggling networks, putting some heavy firepower on American streets. It’s a problem at the border and for law enforcement. ATF confiscated several weapons from a cache used to hit U.S. Border Patrol agents in an attack last week. Three wounded in a shootout, but our agents got the best of them.”

“Jesus, this is bigger than I thought. There’s a lot at stake here.” J.J. expelled a hard breath. She stood up and paced to the back of the room, scribbling some boxes onto a small whiteboard. Once completed, she had arranged boxes representing the networks into a circle as Sunnie and her team had described. “Sorry, I needed to wrap my head around this. It’s the freakin’ Circle of Life…an organized crime syndicate operating in the shadows of the intelligence world. And it starts with Jov Rakov. Keeping in mind we’re on a tight deadline, we have few ways to penetrate this network. Either we get inside Troika, which is looking more and more impossible. Or somehow get our hands on a shipment—the money, the vehicle, or the driver with Troika. Or wait…Wasn’t MCM Construction a part of this network—Gary Mosin’s company?”

“Yes, MCM Construction bank accounts were linked to Lana’s accounts but now both are frozen,” Sunnie said. “If we had Mosin in custody, he might be able to provide the proof we need to demonstrate that Troika and the Mashkov’s are financing illegal arms deals, narcotics, and intelligence operations—the criminal trifecta. But what are the chances we could catch him, right? He’s hidden in Podunk, Moscow, by now.”

“You’re right,” J.J. said, once again deflated. The U.S. had as much hope of catching Mosin as she did in joining a convent.

“I’m glad you said that, J.J. because there’s more,” Sunnie said.

“Jesus, Sunnie. You trying to solve the case all by yourself?”

She chuckled and pulled out a short stack of papers. “In a few of these faxes, we found multiple references to the delivery of a baby. The next baby is coming on Defender of the Fatherland Day and Victory Day. I Googled the dates—the first is February 23
rd
, the latter is May 9
th
. What’s strange is the same days are mentioned in multiple months, including
this
month, and they’re discussing the deliveries as if they are urgent or imminent. We believe it’s code for something, maybe deliveries? We don’t have enough intel to confirm it at this time.”

J.J., Scott, and Manny exchanged knowing looks. Misha had just reported the same thing.

“This language is pretty typical in the criminal world,” Amie said. “We have information from validated sources across the criminal spectrum indicating terrorists discuss ‘weddings’ before operation or bombing. We feel certain this terminology is along the same vein.”

J.J. pulled out her cell phone and looked at her calendar. “Hmm. The 23
rd
is on Monday.” She turned to Manny and Scott. “The date is consistent with Misha’s information. If the discussions on these so-called baby deliveries have taken place in multiple months, I doubt they are referring to the actual holiday, rather they’re referencing a day of the month, time of day—or both.”

“I dunno,” Gia said as if someone asked her for her opinion. “Sounds too straightforward to me. Russian intel codes are much more complicated and require more math.”

“That statement may be true of Russian intelligence,” Sunnie said, “but for the Russian Mafiya? I doubt the low-level support network is as sophisticated or as well educated as intel officers.”

“I agree,” Amie said. “Troika’s leadership may have ties to Russian intel, but the guys in the trenches aren’t geniuses. They’d keep the schedules and terminology simple for couriers, smugglers, dealers and the like. They won’t trust just anyone with more complex codes because they don’t want botched shipments. People die for mistakes in the narcotics trade.”

“Without an address and time, we need 24-7 surveillance on the Troika execs. There’s no other way to find or intercept the shipment.”

Scott tightened his lips and shook his head. “No way will Fitzpatrick authorize those kinds of resources for this investigation. No way.”

“Why not? We’ve got two independent sources corroborating the possibility of a multimillion dollar shipment of drugs and cash, which may help shut down the Mashkovs. He’d be crazy not to.”