The Seven Year Itch (21 page)

Chapter 33

Wednesday
Morning…

“M
ake them stop, Aleksey!” Vorobyev cried out, his body writhed
in pain. “I know you’re watching. I am innocent! For God’s sake, make them
stop!”

The linoleum tiles cooled Stanislav Vorobyev’s face, still
stinging from the jarring strike that sent him crashing to the floor. The gash
in his forehead, left by the ringed hand of Golikov’s goon, dripped the blood
that trickled into and burned his eye. His vision blurred, and he could no
longer distinguish facial features, only darkened shadows. Each attempt to push
himself upright was met with a brutal shoe tip in his gut. The force of a heel
in the core of his spine numbed his limbs. He was innocent of the trumped up
charges, but reasoning with the insane proved a futile exercise. He had served
his country with honor and so steeled his determination to rise from this
undeserved hell.

“You pig!” Igor, Golikov’s junior officer, spat. “We have
very reliable information from our source that you are spying for the Americans
and passing critical information to the FBI. Tell us who you’re meeting with
and what you’ve told them.”

Vorobyev pushed the palm of his hand against the floor,
struggled to get his bearings. “I . . . am a man, not a dog, nor a pig! I will
say nothing more until you allow me to sit up and speak to you like a man.”

Vasiliy, a large man with an enforcer build and mentality,
stepped out of the room and returned a moment later. He and Igor wordlessly
glanced at each other before grabbing Vorobyev by his arms and pulling him up.
With his eyelids pressed together tightly, he braced himself. It was coming.
The fist would collide with his abdomen.

And then...the unexpected.

A chair pressed against the back of his legs. They sat him
down.

“Talk,” Vasiliy barked.

He folded his hands together, as if preparing to pray. “For
the last time, I have told you I am not working for the Americans,” Vorobyev
snarled. “
I am not
working for the
FBI.
I don’t know
who your so-called
reliable source is, but if this is the intelligence they have passed to you,
then you better re-evaluate the validity of all his information.”

The back of Vasiliy’s powerful hand collided with Vorobyev’s
jaw. He fell to the floor in a painful thud, blood spurted from his mouth.
Silence filled the room as Vorobyev anticipated the next swing. He couldn’t
see, but he knew who dealt the blow. Every sound and smell was magnified.
Vasiliy reeked of cigarette smoke, and Igor of cabbage and coffee. Suddenly,
the clack of the shoe heels shuffled toward the door. It opened and closed. The
two goons had exited the room, leaving Vorobyev sprawled in the floor.

He was alone, and heard nothing except the sound of his
heartbeat...and betrayal.

Vorobyev propped up his upper body with his forearm, turned
toward his blurred reflection in the one-way mirror, and cried out, “Aleksey! I
know you’re there! How could you let them do this? You know the truth. End this
madness . . . or be a man and kill me yourself!”

His cries were met with silence as his body wrenched and
curled into a fetal mass.
 

•
 
•
 
•

Dmitriyev could barely stomach the
mushrooming guilt. His mind took him to a cruel place when he imagined what his
and Plotnikov’s fathers must have endured at the hands of their own
interrogators. How they must’ve begged and pleaded for their own lives, with
each appeal landing on deaf ears. He could almost hear Uncle Sergey declare his
innocence until his very last breath echoing and alarming until the bullet
shattered the back of his skull.

The imaginings haunted Dmitriyev, obliterated his
self-denial. Retribution for a family wronged was no longer sufficient. The means
no longer justified the end, not in the wake of his own treachery.

Before watching Vorobyev’s thrashing, Dmitriyev had never
questioned whether cooperating with the FBI had been the right thing to do, for
him, for his family, for his country. His thirst for revenge seemed just for a
country that thrived on the backs of its citizens and governed with
intimidation and a dogged lust for economic and military supremacy. Even in the
new democracy there’d been little freedom. Voting rights were laughable. What
democracy could exist in this Russia where the communist KGB and the new
political elite were one and the same? The old guard had gone “legit” during
the break-up of the Soviet Union, but nothing had changed except the color of
the uniforms, the names on the buildings, and the effort expended to cover-up
the human rights realities. Democracy stood among the biggest frauds Russian
politicians perpetrated against its citizens in the 21
^st
Century.

Dissidents had been committed to Russian mental institutions
and drugged into comas for the audacity of independent thought. Such “traitors”
understood better than most citizenry that corruption and deceit had become so
deeply woven into the fabric of Russian society, its people could no longer
distinguish might from right.

Dmitriyev realized he loved Russia, not for what it had been,
rather for what it could be—but only if....

Still the unintended effect of his revenge glared down on him
like the eye of God. Innocent men would be tortured, their families made to
suffer for crimes they had not committed. He was no better than the state he
scorned.

Standing at the fork in the road, Dmitriyev could choose one
of two paths. On one side, he could turn himself in and confess. On the other
side, self-preservation. Dmitriyev’s path was clear and ungenerous. He could
barely muster the courage to watch, let alone make the confession necessary to
end Vorobyev’s suffering and initiate his own. And his fate was tied to his
brother’s. If he attempted to interfere in the interrogation, the suspicion
surrounding himself and Viktor would most certainly intensify. Even if he could
subject himself to such scrutiny, he refused to implicate his brother. No, he needed
a way to help Vorobyev without implicating himself. Agent McCall must agree to
help him clear Vorobyev’s name. If not, he would cease cooperation immediately
and provide no further information, including the name of the traitor they so
desperately desired. He had no choice.

Shoulders slumped, Dmitriyev stood stoically as he watched
Vorobyev endure strike after endless strike, each meant to weaken his resolve
and loosen his tongue. Only he knew Vorobyev had nothing to confess. He
thought, for one brief moment, that Vorobyev appeared ready to concede in order
to end his own suffering, but his comrade Stan was proud, a family man, and
even if a confession meant the end of his own suffering, it would certainly
spell the beginning of worse for his loved ones. So Vorobyev refused, willingly
accepting each blow, indignant and defiant, as an innocent man should be.

Vasiliy and Igor had meted out their worst and Vorobyev
survived bruised but not broken. They left the interrogation room to speak with
Dmitriyev.

“He refuses to talk,” Igor said, with sweat pouring from the
bulge protruding from his neck. “What should we do?”

“Perhaps it is time to consider that he has nothing to say.
Or, if he does, he will never speak it to us.” Dmitriyev turned toward the interrogators.
“Get him cleaned up and offer him something to eat. Sweep his room for any kind
of communications equipment, then we’ll hold him in his residence until it is
time for him to depart on Friday.”

“Ah, good idea,” Vasiliy said.

“I’m certain we’ll get nothing from him tonight and he must
be strong enough to stand trial,” Dmitriyev said.

“Trial? Ha!” Vasiliy interjected. “He should be so lucky.
Golikov has been informed and will certainly be awaiting his return on Friday.
He and that pig Plotnikov will die together.”

Dmitriyev shuttered at the chill in the Vasiliy’s voice. He
needed an excuse to leave so he could mark an emergency signal and request
Agent McCall’s assistance. He’d been diligent about establishing his daily
habits and routines. No one would be suspicious when he left for Starbuck’s.

“Listen, while you both inspect his room and help him get
cleaned up, I’m going to pick up my coffee and smokes. Looks like we are in for
a long day, and possibly an even longer night. I’ll be back shortly and then we
can draft our reports to Moscow.”

Igor and Vasiliy both chuckled, and then Vasiliy said, “What
ever would you do without your daily coffee fix, Comrade Dmitriyev? We’ll see
you when you return.”

Vorobyev jumped abruptly, his nerves stood on
edge as the distant footsteps closed in on him. Igor and Vasiliy re-entered the
room and a slight breeze wafted across Vorobyev’s bloody face.

“You’re finished for the day,” Vasiliy snapped. “We’re taking
you to get cleaned up and eat. You’ll need your strength for what awaits you
when you return Moscow,” he said with an evil grin as he turned to face Igor.
“He’s got bony wrists. Maskov will have fun with this one!”

Vorobyev yelled at Vasiliy. “I am innocent! You convict your
people without evidence, sentence them to death without trial! Take the words
of some ridiculous treacherous American over a loyal government servant without
a second thought.” Vorobyev lowered his voice and growled. “And you call
me
a traitor.”

The two men wordlessly stared at Vorobyev, stunned by his
defiance. He’d never revealed such strength in previous dealings. They mumbled
to one another as they carried him, one under each arm, to his residence.

•
 
•
 
•

Back inside his apartment, Vorobyev showered
as he waited for Golikov’s goons to finish conducting their searches. The warm
water washed over his head and face, soothing his wounds and renewing his
strength.

Vasiliy cracked opened the bathroom door. “We’re finished in
here. There is food on the table. Don’t try anything stupid, okay? Security
will be standing outside the door at all times.”

He poked his head out from behind the shower curtain, bowed
his head in acknowledgment, then listened for his the front door to shut.
Vorobyev hurried to finish bathing for he had much to do. He wrapped a towel
around his waist and wandered up the hall still dripping wet. His left eye had
swollen shut but he could partly see out of the right. He used his hands to
feel what he wasn’t visible in the periphery.

Vorobyev had much to do. Since they would never allow him to
make any phone calls, he decided letters would suffice. Letters to his wife and
children, to say goodbye and let them know how much he dearly loved them. They
must know, with every fiber of their beings, that the man to whom they’d
entrusted their lives, the man whom they’d kissed good morning every day and
goodnight every evening, would never betray them or his country. Even though he
wondered whether the letters would ever be delivered, he felt comforted in the
belief that his old friend Aleksey Dmitriyev would ensure they were provided to
his family. Dmitriyev was no doubt was subsumed in guilt over the day’s events,
events Vorobyev knew Aleksey was powerless to prevent.

He slipped into the kitchen area and ran his hand along the
cabinet until the handle felt cold in his hand. He pulled it and brushed his
fingers along the top shelf, pushing aside several cereal boxes. It was still
there. A large ceramic canister. He removed the lid, dug his fingers beneath a
layer of cotton balls until the metal from the small .22 caliber Smith &
Wesson cooled his fingertips.

He’d kept the gun for protection, as he had heard that parts
of the city were dangerous and refused to be the victim of some random street
crime. Little did he know, the biggest crimes against him would be committed by
his own people. He exhaled, relieved they did not find it during their search.
For what he bought for his protection would now become his savior.

He tucked it back inside and returned the canister to its
place. It was time to complete his unfinished business and end this travesty.

Vorobyev swore Golikov would never torture him for another
man’s crime, if indeed one had been committed at all. He vowed to die in his
own time, on his own terms, by his own hand.

Stanislav Vorobyev had lived in honor.

He refused to die in disgrace.

Chapter 34

Wednesday
Morning…

J.J.
was anxious, on edge. Only two days left before the
polygraph exam, and an arrest was no more imminent than when they started. The
ICE Phantom
still lurked about, and
J.J. had no idea whether the traitor knew she’d turned up the heat on the hunt.
How the following days would unfold, she didn’t know. The evidence wasn’t coming
together quickly enough.

Stay calm,
she
thought.
Avert disasters.

If she could keep Dmitriyev’s identity concealed for two more
days, meet with Cartwright to get what she suspected would be his confession,
then Dmitriyev would have no need to leave an emergency signal and the
nightmare would end.

She pulled next to the mailbox where Dmitriyev was directed
to leave a chalk mark, sucked in a deep breath, and held it until she glanced
at the spot.

Nothing
. She
exhaled and shrugged.

She had instructed him to mark the signal in catastrophic
situations only. The likelihood of such an event occurring in such a short time
period of time was highly unlikely—possible but unlikely. But her instincts,
they told her,
Turn the corner. Check the
other side. Just in case.
Plotnikov was prone to marking the wrong side.
Perhaps Dmitriyev would do the same.

She pulled around and carefully examined the other side.
“Damn, damn, damn!” she said out loud, relieved at first that she found
it...and then not. The mark portended bad news, and she didn’t want to face it.
But she needed to hear it. She did a double take to be certain. “What the hell
could have possibly gone wrong now?”

Strike number one
.
It was a blow but not deadly. J.J. still had the meeting with Cartwright. If he
turned himself in all other problems would be moot.

J.J. blew out a long hard breath and braced herself for
Dmitriyev’s news. No sooner than she pressed the accelerator and reached the
next stop light. Her phone rang.

“What’s up, Donato? I’m in a hurry.”

“We get anything?” Tony asked.

“Yeah. He left an emergency signal.”

“Already?” Tony said. “Shit that ain’t good.”

“I know, and if I don’t get to the other side of town in
twenty minutes I’m gonna miss the first call. Who had the bright idea to select
a phone booth in West-freakin’-Cucamonga anyway?”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to take the blame for that, Ms.
McCall.”

“Damn! Hate it when that happens. Anyway, what’s up?” she
asked. “I’m sure you didn’t call to chit chat.”

“You’re right, I didn’t. I’ve uhhhh...,” he began, “I’ve
actually got some bad news.”

“What?!” she replied almost expecting Tony to say Dmitriyev
was on his way to Dulles airport like all the others.

“Relax, it’s not Dmitriyev, but it still ain’t good,” Tony
said. “Rumor has it, Jim Cartwright off’ed himself early this morning.”

J.J. gasped, abruptly pulled over, and put on her flashers.
When the news settled in, her chest rose and fell in desperate sweeps as she
struggled to catch her breath.
Cartwright
is dead?
We were supposed to meet
this morning...and now he’s dead?
She didn’t believe Tony at first.

“What exactly happened?!” Her mind swirled in confusion. She
couldn’t speak to Dmitriyev in this mental state. She needed to shake off her
humanity and allow Agent McCall to take over. But the news cut deep. She fought
to stifle the tears pushing their way to the surface, dabbed the corner of her
eyes to dry the few that broke through. His wife, his beautiful girls, he loved
them so. Then without warning, her mind flashed back to their conversation, the
one they’d had the day she’d planned to quit.

“Park police found him in an overlook off the G.W. Parkway
with a bullet in his head.”

“My God, did he leave a note?”

“Yeah...apparently he left some cryptic note about betrayal
in his car, along with a goodbye to his wife and kids in his own handwriting.”

“You’re kidding me!” J.J. said. “Why would he do that?”

“Why indeed,” Tony said. “Looks like our list just got a
little bit shorter, huh?”

“I’d say so,” she said, holding her forehead. “Listen, let me
make this phone call and we’ll talk again when I get back to the office. Every
time I think things can’t get worse, they do.”

Cartwright killed
himself? Why? Was jail worse than the suffering he’d put his family through in
death?
J.J. wondered. The despair he must’ve been drowning in. Nothing else
would separate him from his girls. She couldn’t imagine sinking so low.
Strike fucking number two.

Her consternation over Jim’s death would need to wait. She
made tracks across town. Dmitriyev would be calling any moment.

In the advent of cell phones, few actual phone booths
remained in the city. Those on which one could receive phone calls were even
further and fewer between. After a week of searching, J.J. found two obscure
locations. She’d instructed Dmitriyev to mark the signal by 8 am and call the
first number at 11:00 am sharp, the same day. If she missed the call, he would
try the second number 30 minutes later. If she answered neither, he was to
return to the embassy and try again in two days. But two days would be too late
for J.J. and Tony.

She pulled into the small convenience store right off
Pennsylvania Avenue in the Southeast. The telephone booth on the outside corner
of the store’s exterior was only a few feet away. Her mind still distracted by
Cartwright’s death, she didn’t notice the handset was missing...along with the
rest of the phone. Panicked, she rushed inside.

 
“Can I help you?”
asked a slight Asian man protected behind bullet-proof glass.

“Yeah,” she said breathless. “What happened to the friggin’
phone. It was here two weeks ago.”

“They take day before yesterday. Nobody use anymore. They use
cell phone.”

“Shit!”

“Sorry...” he said, delivering his apology with all the
sympathy of a roll of paper towels.

J.J. grunted and made her way back to her car. She jammed her
key into the ignition, missing several times before it slipped inside.
The time. I’ve got to watch the time.
She glanced at her watch. Rush hour still hadn’t ended. She might not make the
next call. The next stop was twenty five minutes away and she had only 20
minutes before Dmitriyev made his last and final call for the day—and maybe
ever.

Horns blaring, swerving in and out of traffic, J.J. aggressively
maneuvered her way through the crowded lanes. Her destination was finally in
sight. Eddie’s Carryout. It was just across the Maryland-D.C. line. She sped
into the almost empty lot, nearly losing her balance as she stumbled out of the
car and scrambled to the phone booth. It rang. She was still steps away. She
extended her arm and grabbed the handset.

“Hello . . . hello!” She waited for a sound, any sound.
Nothing. Only the crackle of static.

“Hello?” she repeated. Nothing still.

Just as J.J. reached to return the handset, a voice broke
through.

“Hello?” the man’s voice said.

“I’m here,” she replied. Then she remembered the parole, the
script she crafted for operational security to ensure each the other was not an
impostor.

“Good afternoon,” Dmitriyev said, his voice strained, unsure.
“Did you watch the Redskins beat the Cowboys?”

“Yes,” she responded as written. “The game brought me much
pleasure.”

They both exhaled in relief.

“Agent McCall. It is good to hear your voice. I’m very glad
you received my message.”

“You too,” she said, equally reassured but still tense. His
life must be in danger. “Are you okay?”

“For the moment. But we have a problem. A significant
setback,” Dmitriyev said, his voice heavy, thick with angst. “Vorobyev has been
detained for committing treason.”

“Vorobyev? Why?”

“Your mole, he passed information in an emergency drop last
night which implicated Vorobyev…instead of me. Golikov plans to kill Vorobyev
when he returns to Moscow this Friday, along with Viktor. It’s all my fault.”
His voice trailed off. Knowing his past, she could sense the guilt. It was
almost palpable.

Son of a bitch!
She
screamed in her head. Just as she suspected, the mole was indeed getting
desperate, and his mistake was too close for comfort. Of all the intelligence
officers in the residency, he nailed the guy only one position away from her
source.

But why implicate a
declared officer who’d never cooperated with the FBI?

J.J. struggled to figure out why he fingered Dmitriyev. If
she could, it might lead her to his identity. J.J. shuddered at the thought of
the repercussions, the chaos, both inside the FBI and the Agency. Moscow
Station must be reeling.

“Agent McCall. Are you still there?”

“Oh...I’m sorry. Yes. Just trying to figure out why the mole
would implicate Vorobyev, that’s all. He’s never worked for us and he’s
declared. Doesn’t make sense. Have Golikov’s people gotten to him?” she asked
as her mind whirled. If her suspicions were accurate and the mole had access to
the vault, he had seen or overheard something.

“Yes, but he’s still alive. Barely. The mole offered no
proof, no additional information. He just provided a name, said you recruited
Vorobyev, and mentioned something about ‘three days.’ And of course Vorobyev
denied cooperation, but Golikov’s people are trained not to believe the truth.
He and Viktor will be killed together when Vorobyev returns to Moscow on
Friday. We have to do something before then. We simply must,” he implored.

“Hmmm. Three days?” J.J. asked. She half listened to
Dmitriyev as she wracked her brain. Who could’ve been in the position to snitch
on Vorobyev? She and Tony hadn’t spoken of Dmitriyev around anyone. Except in
J.J.’s apartment, her car and . . . Could he have overheard their conversation?
But as she recalled she purposely did not mention
 
Dmitriyev’s name, even in the privacy of
Jack’s office.
The privacy of Jack’s
office...

“I’ll. Be. Damned!” J.J. yelled.

“Excuse me?”

“I’m sorry. I just—I think I know what happened.” She slapped
her forehead.

“Agent McCall . . .”

“I’m sorry. Distracted for a moment.”

“I hate to complicate this situation further but you are well
aware of my past. I could not in good conscience continue to cooperate with you
if Vorobyev suffers or is killed because of my crimes. Besides, since Vorobyev
was detained, Golikov’s people have taken control of the case. It would be a
great risk to attempt to access it.”

“So what are you saying?”

“I’m saying I can’t assist you further. At least not you clear
my brother and Vorobyev and Golikov’s people stand down.”

On her list of shit she didn’t want to happen, she never
considered losing her key source as an option. One step forward, two steps
back.

“Obviously, your position is disappointing, but how could I
not understand with everything that happened to you and Plotnikov?” she said.
However calculated, her empathy was sincere. The more concern she expressed for
his personal safety, the more loyal he’d be over the long-term. But in the
moment, her patience had thinned. “I’ll figure out a way to make this right.”

Strikes fucking number
three
and
four.

Again, she nearly asked what more could go wrong. But the
universe always answered in exasperatingly troublesome ways. Now she not only
needed to identify and arrest the mole, but also clear Plotnikov and Vorobyev.
While she admired Dmitriyev’s concern for his comrade, he had seriously
monkey-wrenched an already impossible situation.

“Can you share any information that might help
me
help
you and them
? I gotta tell you, we’re running on empty and we can’t
do this without your help. We just can’t,” she said, exaggerating to milk from
him as much information possible.

“Well, I glimpsed two things in his file before I handed them
over this morning. One, the mole supposed to be making another drop Thursday
morning. He requested a payment immediately. Normally, we’d verify the
information before requesting authorization for such action, but because his
intelligence has been so invaluable, the Center agreed to pay him half.”

“What’s half?”

“Based on the information he usually provides, my guess is
the payment will probably be somewhere in the neighborhood of $100,000. But it
could be more, could be less.”

More than my salary,
she thought.
Perhaps I should consider a
change of
 
professions.

“Where’s the drop location?”

“Rock Creek Park. They took the file before I had time to
view the exact drop time and location. But one of Golikov’s people will be
retrieving the package to avoid any future compromises.”

“Sheesh, do you know how big that park is? We’ll need every G
east of the Mississippi to cover down on the location if we want to catch him,”
she said. Then another idea struck her. One that might get them they help they
needed. “If you overhear any information on the location at all, I need to you
text me from the throw away cell I gave you, and it’s critical that you throw
it away.”

“Okay, I will try my best.” He paused for a moment. “Listen,
I must hurry back to the embassy but there is one more piece of information
that might interest you.”