Spy Catcher: The J.J. McCall Novels (Books 1-3) (The FBI Espionage Series) (85 page)

“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.

Seconds after he was seated, a late-model BMW sedan pulled to screeching halt. Six exchanged a few words with the driver as the trunk hatch popped up; a gentleman dressed identical to Slayton emerged and slipped into the back seat of his Towncar, offering a salute before he disappeared.

Once belted in the driver seat, Bart announced, “It’s time to go. This should be over in ten or fifteen minutes. So just hold tight, sir.”

Six gave the thumbs up; the op commenced. Bart started the car and pulled onto M4 Highway, Moscow’s I-95, heading back to the Embassy.

“Game on,” Slayton said in a vain attempt to disguise his anxiety. “Bet you guys do things like this all of the time, huh?”

Bart shook his head as he maneuvered through the Moscow traffic. “No, this is a first. We’ve never attempted anything of this magnitude. There’s not another Station in the world insane enough to try this in such a hostile territory, let alone pull it off.”

Slayton scrunched his eyebrows and tilted his head. “Word of advice, Bart. Don’t ever volunteer for a suicide hotline.”

Bart chuckled. “It’ll be fine, sir. As long as you’ve got your passport and ID. Should be over in no time. If you’re caught without papers, they consider you a terrorist.”

Slayton froze with a bug-eyed stare, patted his jacket and pant pocket. “Oh, shit! They’re in my Towncar. I forgot them on the seat.”

“What!” Bart yelled. “Tell me you’re kidding.”

Slayton shook his head as his stomach plummeted.

“Jesus H. Christ!” Bart continued. “Well, I have mine. Let’s hope that enou— do you hear that?”

They both quieted to listen to the choir of sirens. Slayton pulled out his cellphone and tapped out a text to Six. Then he studied the rearview mirror and waited for the signal that Six had delivered the package safe and sound inside the Embassy walls. Instead, a message he never expected came through.

The package is not inside.

Stopped at checkpoint.

MVD and FSB.

Slayton fell back in his seat. Bart glanced over his shoulder and noticed Slayton’s sullen expression. “Oh, God. What happened?”

“The package. The Russians stopped them. FSB and MVD.”

The whir of flashing lights drew closer and closer. “This is it,” Bart said. “They’re coming for us, too. They’re onto us.”

Bart slowed until they forced him to a stop. Within seconds, a sea of security service cars and Russian press surrounded them. Black paddy wagons with windows blackened on all sides obstructed the road from behind. Police cars blocked them in front. Television vans emptied of pushy reporters, photographers. Cameramen swarmed the car and pressed against the windows. The Russian’s planned to make a media spectacle of the arrest.

They were trapped in every direction. The militia dressed in black paramilitary uniforms and wielding semiautomatic weapons, circled the car and aimed them so he and Bart were literally staring down the barrels.

With the camera flashing in his face, Slayton braced himself for the moments ahead.

Bart put his hands in the air and advised Slayton to do the same. But Slayton shrouded his face behind his scarf first.

“Play dumb as long as possible. We need to give Six time to get out of that jam.”

A gaunt gentleman in a starch-stiff military uniform approached the driver-side window. He wore no overcoat, just a dress jacket with three stars on each shoulder. His name tag read Golikov. “Identify yourself.”

“I’m Bart Russell, an American diplomat returning to the Embassy.”

“And your passenger?”

“What’s going on?” Bart asked. “Why are we being stopped?”

“Who is your passenger?” Golikov barked louder.

Again and again, Bart refused to answer.

The general raised his hand, snatched the back door open, and two burly men dragged Slayton out by his coat, slamming his head into the ground with cameras rolling. A couple of Golikov’s minions searched the car and patted him down for identification.

He never opened his mouth. Kept his face down and out of view until he saw the polished shoes and creased pant legs of a military uniform in his periphery. The man knelt, yanked the scarf off, and glared at Slayton’s face before barking in Russian. “This is not, Stanislav Ivanovich. Stop the other car. Now!”

Slayton tilted his head upward and leered at the old man. “No, I’m not,” Slayton said, the man’s name etched in his mind. “General Golikov. I’m the United States Ambassador to Russia, Slayton McCarthy and you have just committed a flagrant violation of diplomatic protocol. Is this how your security services treat American Embassy personnel?”

Golikov tightened his lips; his cheeks reddened as a uniformed minion ran to him and said in Russian, “They released the other vehicle. It’s already inside the embassy compound. He produced the passport for Slayton McCarthy and State Department credentials. We had to let them go.”

Golikov shook in anger and yelled, “You idiots!”

Slayton revealed a cocky grin. “I claim diplomatic immunity. Expect a call from your Foreign Minister in the morning.”

Slayton returned to the Siber. As Bart held the door open, his cell phone sounded. Six had sent a test message. Two simple words.

                                        
 
He’s i
n
.

Slayton and Bart smiled as they watched the parade of security cars clear the scene.

“Press headlines should be interesting tomorrow morning. ‘
Russian Security Services Arrest U.S. Ambassador in Colossal Diplomatic Blunder
’.”

Bart laughed. “I’m sure the President will use this to his advantage.”

“Oh, yes,” Slayton said. “From what I understand, he’s got some definite plans in mind.”

Chapter 44

Wednesday Morning
—
New York City

Injured and robbed J.J. managed to walk out alive even though the operational flash drive was a blunder for which she’d jibe Manny for the rest of his career. However, the turn of events was the answer to her prayers; another answer was sitting in the car in front of her.

“You okay?” Tony asked, his window already down. “Your radio’s not working. I couldn’t hear anything until you got outside.”

“I’m fine,” she said, happy he showed up but not enough to show it. He stretched across the passenger seat to open the door. “But I need stitches before I bleed to death,” she said as she slipped inside.

“Jesus, what happened?” he said, reaching to unwrap her finger and inspect it.

“I’m…I’m surprised to see you here.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not,” he said, looking into her eyes. “Whatever bullshit we go through, I’m always gonna have your back. I’m still not happy with you,” he snapped.

“Is that right? Well, pay your membership fee and join the freakin’ club because I’m not happy with you either.”

Inside the car, she explained everything, including Misha’s robbery. His emotions ranged from relieved to furious in a matter of seconds. “You kiddin’ me? I knew that douche bag was dirty.”

“Yeah, both our instincts were right about him.”

“So, we’re back to ground zero. You gave him the flash drive, right?”

“I gave him
a
flash drive…not
the
flash drive,” she reached into her bra and pulled out the money along with the stick Trifonov gave her. “The crap Manny gave me didn’t work. This is the real deal. Wonder what’s going to happen to Misha when he hands them a blank drive.”

“I wish I could be there to see it….on second thought…” Tony chuckled. “His stupidity does present a problem though—they’ll know you were inside. They’re gonna cover their tracks even more now, and then they’ll be out for blood…your blood.”

“If the evidence we need is on this, they’ll be locked up and by the time we head back to D.C. and the gates of hell open.”

Before J.J. had a moment to let the dramatic events sink in, Tony’s phone signaled. It was a text message from Santino. He read it then showed it to J.J.

                          
 
Dante’s condition has improved. He’s talking.

                            Get to the hospital right away!

•••

Santino stared at the ceiling as Nicky Mumbles roared in his ear over the phone, just moments after discovering someone broke into his stash house. Nicky’s voice was somewhere between furious and suspicious. Although Santino had reached the stage where he didn’t give two shits how Nicky felt about anything, he still needed to keep him close. Until he found out Mashkov’s location, he couldn’t make his next move.

“Had to be an inside job. Who would have a clue this shit’s even here unless it’s someone in the family did it?”

“You must be kiddin’?” Santino asked. “No way in hell anyone’s gonna rob from you. I mean, best case scenario, they catch a beat down, if you’re feeling charitable. And you don’t have a rep for being charitable.”

“I talked to a couple of people in the neighborhood. They said they saw a couple of guys from around the block. One of ‘em sounded like you from the description.”

Santino laughed. It was fake and strained. “Gimme a break. What do I look like breakin’ into your place…to take, what a TV and an old couch?” he asked. “Did they clean you out?”

“No, they left the most valuable stuff there. Just twenty-five Gs in cash and one of my guns. That’s a major concern. If the cocksucker uses it to rob, my prints are all over it; they could bring all kinds of heat from the Feds.”

“Listen, I know what kind of shit you keep in those houses. If it was the Feds, you’d have been arrested already. A professional thief woulda cleaned you out. Probably some kids who didn’t know what they were getting into. I’ll get my people on it. If we see twelve-year-old kid driving a Mustang we’ll have our man,” he said, rolling his eyes and pursing his lips. “Right now, I’m at the hospital with Dante.”

“Looks like he’s gonna pull through, eh?” Nicky said, his voice falling flat.

“Yeah,” Santino said. “Try not to sound so
disappointed
.”

“What the hell’s that s’posed to mean?”

Uncle Sal’s voice spoke to him,
Easy with the temper
.

“Forget what I said. I’m just exhausted. This has been the longest fuckin’ week of my life,” he offered.

“Well, rest up. Novikov wants to meet to deliver the rest of the cash Friday. Since you guys are bosom buddies now, he expects you to be there. I’ll call you back with the time.”

Santino turned around to enter Dante’s room and noticed Tony pacing down the hall toward him. His mouth drew downward, and the tenseness in his face made him look more like his father than himself. He recognized the same brooding from their childhood when Tony worried about his pops, every day wondering if he’d return home alive. He lived in agony, feared for his father’s safety more than any kid should have to. The reason he turned away from the life wasn’t a mystery to anyone. But he’d feel better when he saw how much Dante’s health improved.

“Hey!” Tony said, jutting his chin out. “My mother and sisters here yet?”

“Look what the cat drug in,” Santino said. He looked over Tony’s shoulder, with his eyebrows scrunched. “No, they’re not here yet. Where’s your better half?”

“She’s in emergency gettin’ stitches. Got injured in an op today.”

“Jesus. She okay?”

“Yeah, better than I am. The stress of all this bullshit is killin’ me.”

“What stress?”

“Dante. The family…” Tony leaned in toward Santino and whispered, “The Russians put out a two-million dollar contract on her head.”

His eyes bucked. “What Russians?”

“The Mashkovs. The brother arrived from Russia, the one that ordered the hit on Dante. Now he’s got a hard-on for her because she recruited his people to help us out. So, he’s gonna do it himself,” Tony said. “I’d love the chance to take down that piece of shit myself. I’ll never let him hurt her.”

The news took Santino aback. Now that he and his cousin were again on speaking terms, his concerns had become Santino’s concerns. And he’d never forget it was J.J. who convinced Tony to let him walk after he shot the Mikhaylova bitch.

His anger spiked. “The Mashkov’s, huh? What are you gonna do? Risk you entire career, everything you sacrificed so much for, just to hit him? Stop talkin’ crazy,” he said. He kept his face serious for Tony’s sake, but inside he smiled. Uncle Sal’s plan could move into the final stage. Mashkov was in the U.S. now. Santino only needed to find out where the son of a bitch was staying.

“What? I’m gonna sit around and wait on him to clip her?”

“No, I’ll tell you what you’re gonna do. You’re gonna stay close to her. Once word gets out you’re back in your father’s good graces, who’s gonna touch her? Nobody. Okay? So fuhgedaboudit. Go inside and see your brother.”

“How is he?” Tony asked.

“Better. He was up talkin’ like old times.”