The Bigot List: (A J.J. McCall Novel) (2 page)

Saturday Morning…

T
he lashing FBI Special Agent J.J. McCall planned to deliver to her traitorous boss must not be tempered by common sense or conscience, and her mind churned over that thought as she arrived on the edge of the bourgeois Northern Virginia suburb. She couldn’t wait for her visit with Jack to end. For J.J., time crept by and the entire morning, dragged.
Why me?
she asked herself again and again like a tired, broken record. Her burgeoning anxiety was irritating at best, so she leaned on Belvedere despite her promise to Tony. Only a small sip, though. Just enough to soothe the nerves and loosen the tongue.

Except for the barbed wire and armed correctional officers, the state jail looked more like luxury condos than a place to imprison hardened criminals.
She took a deep breath, flashed her credentials and ambled inside the detention facility, dreading the moment she’d be forced to see his face, hear his voice. Her heart thanked Tony, the best co-case agent she could ask for. He was already inside waiting on her to arrive, refused to let her go it alone.

A sheriff led her through a series of security doors to the interrogation room where Jack awaited her arrival. The door buzzed, and the lock popped before she walked inside. Her teeth ground as she headed toward her seat, the one farthest from him and closest to the exit.

Jack sat solemn, pensive, shackled at the wrist. He rapped his hands on the table and waited for J.J. to sit down and speak. Seemed relieved, a feeling that no doubt dissipated when he realized the sentiment was in no way mutual.

“Jack,” she spat, unsmiling and cold. She fought the urge to tell him how well he looked in orange. She couldn’t force even a microscopic modicum of sympathy, not after he’d destroyed so many lives and treated her like shit for so many years.

“Didn’t think you’d show up,” he replied, in no position to spout his usual venomous remarks.

She pursed her lips and folded her arms across her chest, gave him “The Hand” with her hardened stare. “If Cartwright hadn’t asked me to come, trust me I wouldn’t have bothered. Now, can we please dispense with the idle pleasantries? Tell me whatever it is that you need to say so I can get the hell out of here. Confinement depresses me.”

Jack’s shame-filled gaze fell onto the table. He nodded and laced his fingers together. “The thing is...”

Then nothing. For seconds that seemed like hours, nothing.

Her patience had dwindled to non-existence, especially given that he’d done nothing but show her his ass over the years. She couldn’t wait to show him hers.

Karma’s a bitch.

J.J. had already decided to swiftly vacate the premises if she experienced even the slightest hint of an itch, any minor discomfort. He could spout his lies to someone stupid enough to believe him, find someone else with whom to share his sob story. She had a source to save and neither the time nor patience for his antics.

“You had every reason not to come here today. And now you have every reason to leave, but I’m asking you to please hear me out.” He rubbed his hands together in a rapid, nervous motion. “Nothing is what it seems.”

What’s this?
she thought. Jack’s shoulders slumped and red veins peppered his eyes. He appeared sleepless and pathetic—not a good look.

“I know I’ve been a prick.”

“Uhhh. . . correction,” she interrupted, wagging her index finger. “A racist prick.” Her hand began to tremble so she clasped both together under the table. She attributed the shaking to her welling anger toward Jack.

He nodded and hung his head in shame. “All right. I’ll accept that. I’m a lot of things, not all of them good. But God as my witness I’m not a spy.”

Please, Lord, bring on the itch
.

Anything.

She hoped, wished, and prayed. Just one little sign that he was lying. She’d dash out of the interrogation room so fast there’d be nothing left but skid marks and vapors.

She waited and waited. And waited and waited.

Nothing.

Son of a bitch!

He lifted his head and locked his eyes squarely onto hers, didn’t falter, didn’t back down, didn’t cower in the face of her evident doubt. “Somebody framed me, J.J. and I think it may be someone close to us.”

She shot him a skeptical glare and turned her head toward Tony,   certain he was standing behind the one-way glass listening to every word. He’d
never
believe Sabinski. J.J.’s only consolation was that Tony would stand behind her decision, whatever that may be. That was the nature of their relationship, something she could always depend on. “What about the poly? You failed miserably. Twice I might add.”

“I don’t know what to say. They hooked me up and my heart wouldn’t stop racing. Never happened to me before. I have no idea what could’ve caused me to experience such a reaction.”

J.J. wanted so desperately to tell him that being a mean bastard who pops Snickers bars like popcorn might have something to do with his condition, but she resisted the temptation. After all, her snide remarks would serve no useful purpose and certainly wouldn’t repair the damage he’d done to her career or her sources.

“Did you take any drugs, alcohol, or anything that might’ve caused a negative physiological reaction?” she asked.

“No, nothing that I didn’t report.”

Still no reaction,
she thought.
Damn!
He’d probably never been this honest in his life and, just as J.J.’s luck would have it, he batted a thousand at that moment.

“What about the money? I’m told your prints were all over the bag.”

He exhaled, cupped his reddened face in his hands. “I don’t know what to tell you except that I buy trash bags for the house. Maybe the person who framed me got a hold of one I touched and used it to hide the money. Trust me, if I had all that cash, I wouldn’t be living in that piece of shit house or driving my piece of shit Hyundai, that’s for certain.”

Even if he was lying to himself, he certainly believed he was telling the truth. Still no reaction, much to J.J.’s dismay.

“After everything you’ve said to me, put me through, do you really expect me to trust a word you say? To help
you
?”

Without hesitation, he nodded.

“Guard!” J.J. called out. “Could we get this man an ice pack, please?”

“Ice pack?” Jack asked.

“Yes,” she snapped. “Because you’ve bumped your head if you think for one moment I’m going to risk what’s left of my shitty little career—no small thanks to
you
—to help save yours!”

Jack wrung his hands together, desperation seeped through his pores.

“The FBI has a mole. And this one is even more dangerous than Hanssen.”

“Yes,
you
are.”

“It’s not me!”

She cut him a wicked sideways glance. “We’ve been trying to tell you about this problem for years. And you didn’t want to listen, at least not until the chicken came home to roost. Now it’s roosting like a motherfucker, huh?”

“J.J., he’s compromising every sensitive HUMINT operation we’re running. At this rate, all FBI assets will dry up. We’ll never get another well-placed recruitment. Human intelligence in the FBI, as we know it, will cease to exist. This is serious. It’s no game. And it’s because of our history that you’re the only one I can trust…if you agree to help me.”

Everything in J.J. wanted to smirk, but deep down she knew Jack had finally come to his good senses. He’d spoken a lot of hard truth. Nobody would trust working with FBI counterintelligence. The Bureau’s foreign partners would no longer share intelligence. The CIA was just looking for a reason to cut the Bureau off from their most sensitive human intelligence. The FBI would be isolated and unable to effectively conduct any kind of intelligence operation. And at the end of the day, the country would suffer. Even though J.J. knew her days at the Bureau were numbered and she fought every urge to give a damn, the truth could not be denied.

“Mhm-hmm. I see. So why’d you ask me to come here? What do you expect me to do? Run some rogue investigation to help free you
from the bondage of your own willful ignorance?”

“If you’re half the agent I think you are...then, yes. I do.”

A slight sensation emerged behind her eyes, causing her to blink. Of course, that would be the one answer he’d lie about. Made perfect sense, though. Why would he believe she’d trust him under these or any other circumstances?

“Flattery doesn’t suit you, Jack.”

Without another word spoken, she stood and raised her arm to signal the guard to open the door. She wanted his jaw to hit the floor; she wanted him to feel a fraction of the hopelessness and frustration she’d felt over the years.

When she turned to make her grand exit, Jack said, “Walk away if you want, but take this with you. If he set me up, do you think he’ll have any problem doing the same to you?”

J.J. froze where she stood. Jack’s remark, however desperate, got her attention. She returned to her seat so she could ask a few more questions. After all, he must’ve had some inkling or suspicion that drove him to believe the mole was in the FBI as opposed to the CIA or some other agency. “So, if you had to guess—”

“The bigot list,” he said. “It’s someone from the bigot list.”

Director Russell Freeman controlled a “bigot list” that contained the names of personnel with access to “the vault,” an ultra-secure Headquarters facility. Agents planned and executed the nation’s most complex and damaging espionage cases from this space. Only employees with “need-to-know” could enter. Inside, secure file safes locked in four secure breakout rooms held key intelligence from the most valuable counterintelligence sources. One compromise, one dead source, one slip of the tongue to a dimwitted congressman with no sense of national security, and hell would be paid—and the bigot list ensured the FBI knew exactly where to start the search.

An innocent man, prick as he was, had been unjustly arrested, and there was little she could do to spring him. Certainly couldn’t stroll over to the U.S. District Attorney’s Office and say, “Drop the charges. He’s not lying. How do I know? Well, my generational curse gave me the power to detect lies, and he didn’t make me itch. No, really.”

That idea was a non-starter. Taking on this mission meant  conducting an unsanctioned mole hunt for the man who made her work life a living hell. She shuddered when she thought about the vile comments he’d made about her and the McCall family name just days ago, and now he expected this? She’d be required to gamble with what was left of her career. Going rogue to help him? Not a chance she was willing to take.

Two days before…

Thursday Morning at FBI Headquarters, Washington, D.C.

J.J. searched for serenity in bottom of a Belvedere bottle. The wait for his sugar-coated lies had dragged on for too long; she’d lost patience. After glancing around the small reception area to ensure no one was watching, she removed from her purse a silver flask and smiled. It was filled to the brim with relief. One small gulp and the soothing burn slipped down her throat, calming her prickly nerves. Inside she felt on the brink of dissolution. The 10 am swallow was just a necessary evil. It would get her through the meeting, until time for her next dose of repose.

Another dead source.
She couldn’t stomach the thought of his demise. Two had been more than her fair share. The unceasing cycle of loss had worn her resolve thin. She’d refused to let another family suffer that pain if she could in any way prevent it. J.J. wanted to tell the FBI where to stick her badge and gun, but she had promises to keep. Promises to Viktor. Promises to herself. No matter what Cartwright said, she’d see her case through until the end. And the end was as near as nightfall because the op was simple and would go off without a hitch.

J.J. stiffened her back and squared her shoulders as the elixir took effect. Her posture mirrored that of the powerful yet graceful eagle perched atop her FBI badge. She’d eyed it, waiting for the carefully choreographed denial and deception ritual to begin.

Blur the truth. Fool the enemy. Protect the state—or the Bureau as it were.

From Naomi Jones McCall to Johnnie Mae Gibson to J.J. McCall, the long-practiced routine hadn’t changed much. Forty years and still the same old shit. For almost a decade, she’d operated under the blind faith of equal opportunity for all, but J.J. finally lost her last modicum of hope that positive change was inevitable.

“Agent McCall,” Assistant Director of Counterintelligence James Cartwright called from the door of his vast office. Only Director Freeman’s office was larger. A wave of apprehension gripped J.J. as she smoothed her hair down to the shoulder and stood to face him. She’d been twiddling her thumbs for twenty minutes, waiting for him to deliver the promotion board results.

Cartwright’s jaw tightened and his face contorted before he said “Please come in and have a seat.”

“Yes, sir.” Her tall slender frame towered over his as she offered a respectful nod and strode inside. She flipped her navy blue suit jacket backward before parking herself in the burgundy leather executive chair facing his desk.

Cartwright pressed his lips together and grimaced, expelling a long breath as he closed the door behind her. Once seated, he clasped his fingers together and tightened his lips. “You’re looking a little tired. When’s the last time you took some time off?”

J.J. didn’t understand why people had taken so much effort to tell her she looked like crap in recent weeks. A few sleepless nights had begun to take their toll. All she needed was a good night’s rest and she’d be better than her usual “okay.” But her appearance was not what she had been called in to discuss. He knew it. And she knew it. “Come on, Mr. Cartwright,” she smirked. “You didn’t call me in here to talk about planning my Disney vacation. I’m fine.”

“Listen, I’ve had a long discussion with Jack and the members of the board today. Even though you’re long overdue for a supervisor slot, they...
I
can’t recommend you during this cycle. However, you should know that your co-case agent, Antonio Donato, is still in the running.”

She leaned forward in her seat, her expression incredulous. She’d spent the last twenty-four hours mentally preparing for the inevitable, but an unexpected burst of rage rushed through her at the sound of his hollow words. “Tony? You mean the junior case agent that I’ve been training for the past year? The one who’s been shadowing
me
on
my
cases?”

Three class-action suits over the last 15 years. Tens of millions in discrimination settlements. Zero lessons learned. The FBI hadn’t changed one iota. The speech should’ve been old hat. After all, she’d heard the same one, almost verbatim, three times before. Somehow, the sting cut just as deep as the first.

“I see.” She shifted in her seat and braced herself. The tired and overdone “we need you on the street” portion of his speech was next.

“This decision in no way reflects on your performance. If I may speak frankly, you’re one of the best counterintelligence recruiters the Bureau’s ever had—no one disputes that.”

“With all due respect, sir, no one could. I think my record speaks for itself.”

He nodded and shifted his gaze toward the window. Then he turned toward her and dropped his head into the palms of his hands in. His frustration was apparent. “Summa cum Laude at Howard University. Top of your class at Quantico. Your mother would be proud of the woman, of the agent, you’ve become. But please understand, my hands are tied right now,” he implored. “With this mole situation, the Bureau...hell, the country can’t afford to lose you—or your sources. We need you on the street.”

“Ugh!” she grunted as her leg jutted out. He’d lied and the itch felt more like a stab…in the back.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Yeah, it’s nothing, the thing, you know,” she said, shifting in her seat, trying to brace for another untruth. “Anyway, you and I both know, if this was about the streets, I’d be working out of Washington Field, not Headquarters. I was really hoping for something a little more original this year.”

“So, Mr. Cartwright—”

“Please, Jim.”

“So, Mr. Cartwright, you’re implying that if I performed my job poorly, I’d be eligible for promotion?” J.J. eyed him with a skeptical gaze.

He leaned back in his seat, heaved a long sigh, and shook his head. “Really? That’s how you’re going to carry this? You know that’s not what I’m saying.”

“Then I’m confused,” she said snidely. Her eyebrows scrunched in feigned bewilderment.

“Honest to God, my hands are tied. I just
can’t
help you right now,” he pleaded, almost as frustrated as she. He clearly wanted to assist but couldn’t. “You wouldn’t believe the stress I’m under. I’m on my last leg here, J.J. I could crash and burn at any minute.”

She braced for the sensation, but none came.

“You’re right, sir. I wouldn’t believe it.” She looked at her watch and then at Jim. “I really hate to cut this short, but I’m running late. Donato and I are supervising an op today. Are we finished here?”

Cartwright’s face burned red with what appeared to be frustration as he nodded. “But before you go, hear me out. We’ve known each other for years. Don’t think I don’t understand what you’re going through. Jack is...well...
Jack
. I’ll make good on my promise to help you if it’s the last thing I do, but I’m certain you’re onto something major, maybe the biggest case of your career. You’ve got to promise me you’ll hang in there a little longer.”

She pursed her lips. He wouldn’t allow her to quit, and she didn’t understand why. She had a job to do, one he apparently needed her to finish. “You know me. I won’t leave until my job is done. But, frankly, you’ll never understand my predicament,” she said, standing to leave. “The core of your humanity will never endure this kind of challenge. We, as minority FBI agents spend every damn day defending rights that we are
still fighting
to fully enjoy right here at the F-B-One. Don’t you see? When all goes according to plan today, we will get the answers we need. And when this case is over, so is my career.”

He grunted as J.J. huffed and turned to leave.

“They won’t let you resign, J.J.”

His words stopped her cold. She turned back toward him. His face had turned pale. “Excuse me?
Let
me resign?”

“They need Viktor Plotnikov and he won’t work with anyone but you.”

“I beg your pardon, but I don’t need the Bureau’s permission to quit.”

“But you’ll need your reputation. The FBI’s reach is far and wide in the investigative community. You know what they’ll do. And let’s face facts, you don’t work well with rules. You’ve given them plenty of ammunition to leverage,” he said, his face now unnaturally colored as if he’d decided to hold his breath until she relented.

She whipped her head toward the door and willed her feet to follow.

“Ahhhhggggghhhh!” Mr. Cartwright yelled out.

Her head snapped back toward him. His entire body shook; his face turned a deep red and finally blue. He collapsed against the back of the chair then his body slid onto the floor.

“Mr. Cartwright!”

She dashed to his seat, watching his body thrash like a caught fish. White foam formed on the edges of his lips, and the veins in his crimson-colored neck bulged above his collar.

J.J. kicked his chair toward the wall, dragged his desk across the floor. Another inch closer and he’d have a concussion. She forced her hands under his back and flipped him onto his side. If he was going to choke, it’d be by her hand and hers alone.

“Mrs. Slater! Call the nurse!” J.J. yelled to Mr. Cartwright’s secretary praying she’d returned. “It’s Mr. Cartwright! He’s having a seizure!”

She heard a faint reply. Fortunately, FBI Headquarters had a small medical facility for such emergencies.

J.J.’s heart thumped through her chest as she watched his hopeless flail subside. She knelt down beside him and put his head on her lap, felt as if a million minutes had passed. The faint sound of harried footsteps padded closer.

“It’s gonna be okay, Mr. Cartwright. Help is on the way.” She wiped the sweat from his brow. Her hands trembled more than usual, but she attributed that to the moment’s intensity not the more likely cause. “And the next time I don’t believe you, Jim, you can just swear on the Bible. This was overkill.”

A weak grin struggled to part his lips.

Time had changed nothing in the FBI. And J.J. had a double dose of the Bureau’s glass-ceiling blues. She was a minority to the second power—black and a woman. Every single day she’d begin at square one, proving herself the next day as if she’d done nothing the day before. Work twice as hard, be twice as good, to earn half the respect. The stodgy old white males who ruled Russian counterintelligence in the FBI? They didn’t give a damn about equality. And the youthful ones were too naive to perceive the lack of it.

Her stellar record was mandatory.

Mistakes a liability.

In a long, slow, faith-shaking siege, she buckled under the weight everyone’s expectations, as well as her own misguided belief that she must achieve perfection at all personal costs. She could not fail her sources. She could not fail her co-case agent. She could not fail her mother’s legacy. She could not fail the hundreds of agents who might someday like to walk on the ground she’d broken. And on the many days, like this one, when she felt like utter shit, she could not afford to feel anything other than “okay.”

J.J. and Tony would soon nail the bastard. The next in an infamous line of treacherous snakes—Aldrich Ames, Earl Pitts, Robert Hanssen, and the new son of a bitch—ICE Phantom. Three years’ worth of investigation rode on Karat making the drop. If he delivered as promised, J.J. would draft her last and final resignation letter—and this one she fully intended deliver. She’d free herself from the stifling space beneath the glass ceiling and lift off to soar on untested wings to a destination unknown.