The Seven Year Itch (20 page)

Chapter 31

Later
Tuesday…

C
hris busied himself
around the office through the early afternoon, passing the time, collecting his
thoughts. His mind whirred with fear after eavesdropping on J.J. and Tony. If
they had indeed recruited a Russian counterintelligence officer at the Embassy,
Chris’s days were numbered, life as he knew it was over. Unless he could somehow
rid himself of the source first.

The office walls bore down on him. His mind clouded, and he
couldn’t think straight. He decided to get some air to soothe his angst. He
pulled open the door to leave and literally bumped into Lana on the way out.

Her hand covered her mouth as she sniffed repeatedly. Streaks
of black mascara tracked down her cheeks. She dabbed a tissue under her eyes as
Chris placed his hand on her shoulder and eased her backward into a corner so
they could speak in private.

“What’s wrong with you, Lana? What happened?”

Distraught, she could barely compose herself to speak.
Instead of words, she released sobs. “You...you didn’t hear what happened?”
         

Chris let out a long breath. His patience had vanished before
she spoke. He didn’t care what happened. Nothing could be more important than
the mole in the Russian Embassy. “I’ve got a bunch of shit on my mind right
now, Lana. Hear what?”

“It’s Cartwright. He’s dead!”

Chris froze in shock as his knees gave way. Struggling to
catch his breath, he nearly stumbled toward the floor. He pressed his hand
against the wall, trying to prevent his free fall, but he was six years too
late. His descent had begun long ago, when he met
her
. He started to ask why but he knew the reason for Cartwright’s death
before Lana uttered a syllable.

“He killed himself. Virginia state police found him….at an
overlook . . . off the GW parkway,” she managed to say between heaves.

He fought to fill his lungs but the guilt strangled him. Darkness
and evil gripped his heart. Had anything he’d done or any of his sorry reasons
been worth ending a good man’s life? He grasped for the strength to not just to
look at Lana, but to see her…for the first time.

“Shot himself in the he―” she cut herself off. “Are you
okay, Chris?”

“But...but h-h-he’s got two kids! I...I can’t...breathe,” he
stammered, each word labored. He pressed his back flush against the wall as he
slid to the floor.

Lana knelt down beside him, wrapped him in her arms.

“What have I done? What have I done?” he cried in a whisper.

“Chris, listen to me, now. Listen to me!” she urged,
clenching her teeth together, angry at his weak display. “You’ve got to pull
yourself together. How can you blame yourself?”

He peered at her, glared with contempt, pulled his body back
as if disgusted by the threat of her touch. “How can you, of all people, say
that to me?” He propped his elbows on his thigh and dropped his face into the
palms of his hands.

“I can say it because it’s the truth,” she replied, her voice
suddenly cooler, more callous. “Now be a
man
!”
she scorned through gritted teeth.

Lana shifted her emotions like flipping a switch, too busy
playing hardened agent to express any genuine emotion. He marveled at her
disaffection. Relations between them had chilled. With every day that passed he
wondered if he really knew her at all. He longed to be in the arms of his
Koshechka, only she could make his hurt go away.

“No one could have predicted Cartwright would go this far.
Not you. Not me. Not anyone. Rumors have been flying around the Bureau for
years. You know that better than I do. He should’ve been forthright.”

Chris drew in a shallow breath, his head fell back against
the wall. “Hmph,” he said. “Maybe that’s the real lesson here—honesty.”

“Look, I won’t let you fall apart over this,” she snapped.
“We all liked Cartwright, but
you’re
an
agent,
you’re
still here, and
you
still have a job to do.”

He raised his head, ran his fingers through his hair, grabbed
the back of his neck and arched his back before working his way to his feet.

“You okay, now?” Lana said, patting his back. “Please, don’t
do this to yourself.”

His stood and traced the grout lines in the floor tile with
the tip of his shoe. “I’m done talking about this,” he continued. “You’ve
advised me of the situation. It’s over,” he said. “Now, I need to get out of
here for a few minutes and clear my head.”

“Look, I’m here for you. Really. Anything I can help with?”
she asked.

“You haven’t done enough?”

What he needed she could clearly no longer give. Perhaps she
could shed light on upcoming embassy events instead.

“On second thought, maybe you can,” he said. “Listen, I need
to know. Have you received any reports indicating something unusual’s going on
at the Russian embassy in the next few days? More specifically in the next
three days?”

She combed her fingers through her hair, tapping her heel at
a rapid pace. Finally, she shook her head. “Nothing springs to mind why?”

“Damn! I was hop—”

“Oh! Wait a minute,” she interrupted, “Vorobyev! The security
officer is scheduled to depart on Friday,” she said. “I haven’t seen a visa
notice for his replacement though. Still keeping an eye out for it.”

“Vorobyev?” he said, the sound of his heart pounding a
panicked rhythm. “Shit!”

Chris threw his head back and expelled a frustrated breath.
Of course. It must be Vorobyev. He’d have access to the asset files and would
probably know the mole’s identity.

His body core burned like fire, sweat beads forced from his
pores. Scared, confused, he didn’t know his next move. He’d grown so tired.
Cartwright was dead, and Chris had blood on his hands, as if he’d pulled the
trigger himself. And the light at the end of the tunnel was attached to the
barbed-wire fence that secured Supermax.

Spending the rest of his life in prison was a chilling
prospect, but paled in comparison to his present misery. The boat, the cars,
the houses, probably worth a few million. But none worth the price of honor or
peace of mind. He’d become a prisoner of his own lust. And with one path
leading to execution, only one escape remained.

Vorobyev.

Chris couldn’t allow him to pass the mole’s identity to J.J.
and Tony. His life would be over and his dearest Koshechka would be embroiled in
the biggest counterintelligence scandal in the history of the United States.

“And?” Lana asked, still baffled by his concerned expression.

“He’s the highest ranking counterintelligence officer in the
residency...and he’s leaving in
three
days!”

Lana shrugged. “I’m turning grey here.”

He lowered his head and whispered. “I think there is a very
real possibility J.J. and Tony recruited Vorobyev.”

“What…what makes you say this? Vorobyev is declared—he can’t
engage in operational activity.”

“I, uhhh,
overheard
them talking in Jack’s office earlier today. J.J. mentioned that on Friday
she’d have all the information she’d need to nail the mole—
ICE Phantom
—on Friday. She specifically
said ‘her friend’ only had three days left.”

She shook her head, her expression more urgent, tense. “No.
This can’t be right. If J.J. recruited him, we’d have a record of it. I’ve
reviewed all the active case files.”

“I know what I heard. Too bad your precious Jack is locked up
and can’t get you access,” Chris growled. “I’m sure you’d love to get your
hands on that one.”

She spat in his direction and then spun around sharply to
walk away. He grabbed Lana’s shoulder to stop her, faced her, and then placed a
gentle finger beneath her chin.
 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean what I said. I’m just…the
pressure’s getting to me. And I’m taking my frustration out on you,” he said.
“I need to get out of here.”

“Where are you going?”

He shrugged. There were few places he and his pregnant Koshechka could
hide from the FBI.
The escape plan
,
he thought.
Now is the time
. They had
passports, a flat awaiting them, and a hero’s welcome. Just one more financial
boost, courtesy of Vorobyev, would give them the cash they needed to ensure
their security for years to come.

Chapter 32

Tuesday
Night…

C
hris visited his
Koshechka’s house, a small cape cod in the Van Ness area of Washington, D.C.
She turned the fixer-upper into an updated masterpiece; it was modest enough to
suit her cover. And for Chris, it was home, the place where he could wrap
Koshechka in his arms and confide to her his deepest fears. She soothed his
mind; her soft body warmed and blanketed him in security. Her touch triggered a
passion he never wanted to end.

“Listen, my dear,” he said basking in their post-coital glow,
“In light of this Cartwright’s death...and not to mention the Vorobyev
information—”

“Stop!” she interrupted. “Are you
positive?
He’s very well respected. I’ve known him for years. He
and my father worked together in Washington.”

“And?”

“And we must verify what you believe you overheard before we
act. I forbid you to report this without my approval. And furthermore, I’ll see
to it that you receive no payment.”

“
Forbid?
Don’t you
understand?” He propped up his left elbow and rested his head in his hand. “We have
no time to verify. We work in intel. There are no absolutes. We base our decisions
on the best information available at the moment. This is what we’ve got.”

“We’re talking about a man’s life here. Not to mention the fact
that I have no diplomatic immunity. I’m a citizen now. Don’t
you
understand? I’m subject to Title 18,
with no diplomatic immunity, just like you!” she said. “Besides we’re talking
about a man’s life …a father’s life.”

“A father’s life? What about Cartwright?”
 

In silence he stared at her in the eerie calm.
 

Her tone still urgent, she continued, “If you’re wrong,
they’ll intensify the search for the mole. Relations between Russian and the
West are deteriorating because of that fucking missile shield. If the security
officer is arrested for cooperating with the FBI and the resident lodges a
complaint with the State Department, this could have international
implications.”

Chris remained defiant, refused to concede. “If Vorobyev
passes that information to J.J.
You and I
may both die
. I can’t take any chances. We have an emergency plan to defect
so let’s execute it.”

“Only as a last resort.”

“Can’t you see, my love? This is the last resort.” He lowered
his voice to a heavy whisper. “Do you want to give birth to our baby in prison
before you die?
Is that how this ends?”

“No...” she said. “But—”

“But what? This is game over. If we don’t give up Vorobyev,
he’ll give up you and me,” Chris implored. “Even if we sacrifice Vorobyev,
we’ll be on an even shorter list of mole suspects, especially with Jack in jail
and Cartwright dead. We must defect.”

“There’s got to be another way. I’ll think of something.”

“Are you kidding me? Why is this still under discussion?” he
pleaded. “Now, either you’re with me or you’re against me.
I’ve made
my move.”

He bolted out of bed, feeling through the darkness for the
lamp. She gripped his arm firmly, yanked him toward her. Although small in
stature, she was government trained in hand-to-hand combat. She could take
Chris on her worst day. And unlike him, she had the balls to follow through on
any threat.

She lowered her voice, her tone angry and stern. “Cross me
and you’ll be making the mistake of your life. Allow me to come up with another
solution,” Koshechka urged, desperate to change his mind. She pulled the covers
back to expose her negligee and distract him, but Chris would not be deterred.

His glare sliced through her as he snatched his arm from her
grip. His lips flattened as he snarled, “I’m afraid it’s already too late for
that!”

Chris dressed himself as she handed him his clothes to hasten
his exit. He charged through the living room, his feet padding hard against the
pristine wood floors. A moment later the door slammed, rattling the windows.
For the first time he exerted his will, strengthened his backbone. The deed was
done, and there was nothing to left to do except wait.

•
 
•
 
•

Koshechka grunted in anger as she lifted her
cell phone from the mahogany antique dresser, the one for which she haggled
during an antiquing jaunt in Williamsburg, Virginia. Raking her fingers through
her hair, she scanned the room, caught her glance in the mirror, and
immediately looked away. She’d underestimated her control over Chris, a
critical mistake. Now, Chris had backed her into a corner and her mission was
incomplete.

She dialed the phone to call him. She hadn’t planned to fall
in love but...his smile. He flashed it during a training class. She couldn’t
resist it, nor his chiseled frame and cocky charm. She was drawn to confident
men. And unlike Chris and Jack, he possessed an inner strength neither of them
could fathom.

He answered after the first ring.

“I should’ve known he couldn’t be trusted but I thought I
could contain him. He’s such a fuck up!” she said. “All these years. All this
work.”

“Calm down, baby. Calm down. What’s going on?” his sweet
voice trilled in her ear.

“There’s no time to explain right now. But what’s that thing
you always say? When all hell breaks loose, only the devil survives?”

He smiled. “Yeah. Made that up myself.”

 
“Well, we need to make
arrangements to defect—this week—or we won’t survive.”

•
 
•
 
•

Early
Wednesday Night…

Freeman lay in bed, sleep-deprived, restless.
Cartwright’s death stirred up a tornado of conflicting emotion. Anger. Confusion.
Resentment. Sadness. They’d been friends for years, since Freeman’s prosecutor
days. They were golf buddies. He’d attended Jim’s daughters’ christening, and
now he was gone, a single gunshot to the head. Rita had pressed him to go to
bed and attempt to sleep but not even three Hennessey cocktails could settle
him down. He crept downstairs to his office, thought he’d catch up on some
reports in his favorite recliner and leave his Rayna undisturbed. Nothing like
a stack of National Security Letters to knock him out for the count. As sleep
skulked in an hour later, soft footsteps padded on the staircase and an angel’s
voice sounded from the study threshold.

“Baby,” Rita said, “I know you’re sick about Jim, but you
really need to come to bed. Let’s go. It’s almost two in the morning, and
you’ve got to wake up for work in a couple of hours.”

He smiled, laid his eyeglasses on the side table, and turned
out the lamp. “I just was on my way upstairs when I heard you tiptoeing in
here.”

“Good,” she said. “Had to make sure you weren’t down here
making 1-900 calls again.”

Russell laughed. He hadn’t had much occasion to do that in
recent days. The stress was stifling but Rayna was his balance personified.
Thankfully, for his sake, she’d forgiven him for the birthday debacle.

“How about I give you a little back rub to help you relax?”

He smiled. Tonight he was in the mood to accept and
reciprocate; he needed the comfort of her touch. “All right, now. That’s what
I’m talking about,” he said, following her to the staircase.

The second he placed his foot on the first riser, the secure
phone rang, the one the Bureau had installed in his home for emergencies.
This damn well better be important
, he
thought, anxious to receive what his wife had waiting for him.

He let out a hard frustrated sigh. “Let me get this and I’ll
be up shortly. Must be urgent for them to call me at this time of night.”

“You want me to wait for you?”

“No, no,” he said with a wink. “I’ll see you upstairs in a
few minutes.”

He paced to his desk and placed his hand on the receiver. It
stopped ringing. Just as he turned to leave, it rang again.

“Freeman.”

“Uhhh...yes, sir. This is John,” said John Nixon, the Acting
Deputy Assistant Director for Counterintelligence until Cartwright’s replacement
could be identified. “Sorry to call you so early but we’ve had a few
developments, and I thought you should be aware of the situation before you
arrived at headquarters in the morning.”

“Uhh...no problem. I couldn’t sleep anyway,” Freeman said.
“What’s going on?”

“Well, sir, we received a call from the chief of Russia House
at the CIA,” John said, referring to the CIA’s center for Russian operations.
“He’s received very reliable information indicating Stanislav Vorobyev, the
security officer at the Russian Embassy, has been detained and interrogated for
cooperating with the FBI. As you know, targeting a declared officer violates
long-standing diplomatic protocols. Now, the SVR Resident, through the Russian
Ambassador, is planning to lodge a protest with the State Department first
thing tomorrow.”

“What?!” Freeman said, folded over, barely still on his feet.
He gripped his forehead. “Vorobyev is not working with us, and my agents would
never target a declared officer.”

“Well, the Russians seem to think they have it on pretty good
authority that he’s indeed cooperating with the FBI.”

“Lord, have mercy,” Freeman said.

“There’s more, sir.”

“More?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” John said. “According to Russia House, Moscow’s
planning to expel the CIA security officer from Moscow station in retaliation.”

“You’re shitting me!” said Freeman. “Always tit-for-tat with
these guys.”

“And the Chief of Station.”

“What!”

“And every operations officer they can identify, which according
to the list is all of them except three NOC officers operating under commercial
cover,” John said. “This will decimate the station and it will take the Agency
years to refill those slots.”

“Jesus H. Christ.”

“They’ll all be expelled, possibly PNG’d, and forced to leave
their posts within days unless by some miracle we can somehow prove the
accusations are false.”

He collapsed into his chair. The ramifications would be
disastrous. An expulsion only meant they’d have to leave the country. Officers
declared persona non grata had to leave and could never return. Ever. It was a
career-ending diplomatic sanction that would no doubt further endanger the
already tenuous cooperation between the FBI and CIA.

“What the hell is this Cold War?” Freeman said. “Did Scottie
beam me back into the 1970s without my knowledge? The CIA has got to be livid.”

“I believe that should win the prize for understatement of
the decade, sir,” John said. “And they want Agent McCall’s head roasted on a
spike and her operations shut down. Unless we do some real damage control and
find out who’s at the root of all these compromises, we are going to be the
scorn of the intelligence community...more so than we already are.”

Freeman exhaled. “I refuse to throw my agent under the bus and
they don’t tell me how to run my agency. Agent McCall is doing her job. I won’t
suspend her unless she’s broken the law,” he said. “With that in mind, we’re
not going to take this on the chin.”

“What do you need, sir?”

“Pull together a list of all Russian intelligence officers
operating in the United States,
including
their NOCs. Let the State Department know we are prepared to reciprocate, officer
for officer, if a single CIA employee is expelled,” Freeman ordered. “If it
takes us years to recoup, it’ll take them decades. That should shut down this
noise until we can figure out a long-term solution.”

“Yes, sir.”

“We’ll discuss this further in the morning. Bright and early.
Will that be all for now?”
     

“Isn’t that enough?”

“I should say so.”

What a fucking
nightmare!
Freeman thought to himself. He hung up the phone and stood to
head upstairs to his bedroom. His chest tightened and his left arm went numb,
just for a moment. The feeling subsided with a few deep breaths. His job had
already taken an emotional toll on him and his marriage. Now it was gunning for
his body.

Whatever the blood-pumping organ inside his chest had
planned, it would have to wait. He simply did not have time for the heart
attack and nervous breakdown he so richly deserved. No, there were far more
important things on his agenda.

And at the top of the list, he had a mole to catch.