The Seven Year Itch (26 page)

Tony took the driver’s seat and started the ignition. “Let’s just hope
time doesn’t run out.”

Chapter 41

C
hris’s gut wrenched. Part
of him felt relieved the operation was over, yet deep in the conscience he’d
longed suppressed, he’d almost wished J.J. was as smart as her reputation
purported, that she could’ve rolled him up and freed him from his hell. He’d
grown tired of always looking over his shoulder waiting for his colleagues in
raid jackets to corner and arrest him. But he’d gotten away. He’d made another
drop. His fear shifted to the hope that the information was valuable, some of
the most damaging he’d ever provided. The Russians would pay him
handsomely,
 
enough to set up him and
Koshechka for a long time.

He pulled into the parking lot adjacent to the FBI’s offsite
polygraph location off Pennsylvania Avenue, stepped onto the cobbled sidewalk.
The jitters kicked in. He couldn’t pull his nerves together. Sweat poured as
from a hooker in church on communion Sunday. Too late to confess his sins now.
His throat tightened. But he swallowed hard and proceeded with the plan. They
told him he could beat it, evidenced by the test runs he passed with flying
colors. But he started to talk himself out of success, told himself he couldn’t
beat the polygraph unless Jesus himself sat in the chair and took the test in
his place.

The closer he got to the entrance door, the more his pores
rained. He appeared as if he’d just stepped out of hell’s sauna—the fiery
furnace in which his conscienceless soul may be destined to rest by the time
the day was over. But his Koshechka depended on him, and the new baby too. So
he dug somewhere down deep in his core and scrounged the courage to man up and
move forward with the plan. She was right, they had a lot of money, but not
nearly enough. Certainly too little to last them the rest of their lives and
they’d be on the run for at least that long. Another cool million and they
could sever their ties to the area, move to where they could live modestly,
without fear of arrest.

He checked in at the receptionist’s desk, and asked for the
bathroom key. At the sink moments later, he splashed cool water on his reddened
face to reduce his temperature and glared at himself in the mirror. The
reflection sickened him. He’d sacrificed his life, his entire being for the
love of Koshechka. After all was said and done, he wondered if she’d ever be
worth the steep price he’d paid.

Chris yanked a paper towel from the dispenser and dabbed it
under each arm. It soaked in seconds. He was desperate for a shot of something
80-proof or higher. But ingesting anything except water would all but ensure
his failure. He wouldn’t make it past the pretest questioning. No, if he was
going to fail, he wanted to do so going down in a blaze of duplicitous fire.

“Mr. Johnson?” Mike said as he re-entered the reception area.

Chris nodded his head and offered his damp hand. “Yes. I’m
Chris. I’m here for the test this morning.”

Mike clasped and shook hands with Chris, then wiped the
dampness on his pant leg. “Everybody’s always nervous, but this should go
smoothly. You’ve got nothing to be worried about, unless of course you’ve been
spying for the Russians. In that case, this will feel just south of hell,” he
joked.

Chris longingly eyed the exit as his mouth exposed a sheepish
grin. “Ha, ha!” he chuckled. “That’s a good one.”

“Polygraph humor,” Mike said. “Right this way.”

•
 
•
 
•

During the hour-long pretest interview, Chris
answered everything as Koshechka taught him. Then Mike escorted him into a
small room. Beside the table with the polygraph laptop sat a disturbing chair,
the electric chair’s baby cousin. Once seated, Mike strapped the larger of the
white belts around Chris’s torso to monitor his heart rate. The blood pressure
monitor placed on his arm tightened moments later. A pair metal sensors resting
on the table’s edge were attached to his fingers. They monitored his
perspiration levels. Soaked from the start, Chris
 
thanked the heavens that sweat alone did not
determine one’s guilt or innocence. He would’ve failed the test before they
flipped the switch. A second polygrapher, an observer, sat cloaked behind
one-way glass. Chris stared at his reflection and allowed his mind to drift
off, which relaxed him for a few moments. Then he shook his head to bring
himself back to reality.

After taking a moment to explain testing procedures, Mike
stepped out of the room, warning Chris that the exam would begin when he
returned. His hands trembled on the chair arms as he stared blankly, trying to
calm himself, clear his mind. Eventually, he fixed his mind on the vision of
his Koshechka, imagined laying his head against her round belly as the baby
pressed his little feet against Chris’s cheek.

When Mike re-entered the room, Chris faced the ceiling as if
waiting for the answer to his prayers to drop out of the light fixture.

“Are you ready?” Mike asked.

Chris was too tense to speak, so he nodded.

“Great. Let’s get started.”

•
 
•
 
•

Don and Mike sat in a state of utter
confusion. They examined the result charts, four hours’ worth, periodically
glancing at Chris through the one-way glass, and then again at one another.

“I’m curious to hear your thoughts, Mike,” Don said. “I don’t
mind telling you, something isn’t adding up.”

“I agree,” Mike said, scanning the readings. “Look here at
the control questions. These are the readings for all of the
counterintelligence issues,” he said pointing to the specific areas of concern.
“But look at him,” Mike said as they watched Chris crumble over the edge of his
seat. “And did you see his heart rate? It was almost off the charts...but
consistently so.”

“I know,” Don said. “I mean, the results are obvious.”

“Yes, they are,” Mike added. “He passed. His readings are
high but he passed.”

“But something’s definitely off.”

“Before we give him his results, I say we just talk to him
for a minute and see what he has to say.”

“Yeah...that’s a good idea. And if I were you, I’d take the
minimalist approach,” Don said. “The less said, the better.”

They returned to the room, solemn and bearing emotionless
expressions. Each had perfected the poker face. Don leaned against the wall
while Mike returned to his seat behind the laptop.

Overheated, Chris’s gaze ping-ponged, shifting back and forth
between the two. His face reddened as he stared down at his feet. He grew
quiet, lost in his guilt. Their expressions told him everything he needed to
know. He’d nailed his coffin. He rubbed his hands up and down his pant legs and
broke eye contact.

“Is there anything you’d like to tell us before we provide
you some feedback on your results?”

“I failed, right?” He grabbed his forehead, hunched his
shoulders and mumbled, “I told her it wouldn’t work.”

Don folded his arms across his chest and shot a glance at
Mike,
 
acknowledging both of their
suspicions. “Uhhh...you told
who what
wouldn’t work?”

Chapter 42

Early
Thursday Morning…

“C
omrade Aleksey!” Igor barked. “Come with us!”

Dmitriyev stayed close to his desk the entire
morning, waiting for Golikov’s people to return with the drop. As the line
chief, he knew they’d need his assistance in verifying the information as they
were more thug than sophisticated operatives. They’d have little idea how to
gauge the value of the source’s intelligence. But their stark, cold expressions
concerned him. Perhaps, J.J. had not made the drop. Maybe the operation had
been compromised.

Even though he feared he was walking to his death, he gravely
followed them down the long darkened corridor which led to the secure facility,
thinking of all the people he wished he could say goodbye to, wondering what
his final words would be. They occupied “interview” room, the same room where
they had only days ago interrogated Vorobyev, the floor was still stained with
the remnants of Stan’s beating. They allowed Dmitriyev to enter first.

He balled his fists tight, prepared to defend himself if
attacked from behind and determined to go down fighting until the end. The
sound of blood coursing through his veins loudened. He quickly scuttled to the
back of the room and took a seat within close proximity to a fire extinguisher
hanging in the corner.

The door slammed shut. Igor and Aleksey took their seats.
They stared at him, malice colored every expression.

“You understand why we’ve asked you here today, right?”
Vasiliy asked, his scowl unflinching.

Dmitriyev nodded and said nothing.

Igor reached beneath the table.

This is it!
Dmitriyev thought to himself. The faint sound of plastic rumbled beneath. Maybe
they’d planned to suffocate him. That was well within the KGB’s stable of execution
methods.

Dmitriyev watched and prayed, bracing himself for their
wrath.
 

 
Igor’s hand emerged,
finally. Dmitriyev gasped before he noticed the duct taped package in his hand.
Igor stripped the tape from the edges
 
and removed the contents, a stack of papers.

 
“We need you to take a
look at this information and assess its worth,” Igor said, as he pushed the
papers across the table.

Aleksey steadied his trembling hand as he reached across the
table to grab the contents. He slowly and deliberately thumbed through each
page, examining each page for
 
information
that would save his brother and friend. Several minutes passed before he spoke.

“Hmph. A wide variety of material, similar to what the source
usually provides, but this
Karat
case is interesting. If I’m not mistaken, he has provided the entire FBI file
from the case’s inception until a few days ago—this is rare, very rare. Based on
the latest communication, it appears as if the FBI was unaware that Plotnikov
was a code clerk. They thought he was a clean diplomat working the missile
defense problem.”

“Stupid Americans!” Igor said, laughing from his belly.

Vasiliy sat pensively and listened.

“And you see the dates on these cables?” he said, holding
them up to face his colleagues. “These cannot be falsified. They are system
generated, so these appear to be valid documents.”

Igor looked at Vasiliy who frowned.

On the underside of the stack he found an envelope, a
letter…the letter.

“Did you see this?” Dmitriyev said, holding the typewritten
envelope up for both to view. “This appears to be some kind of communication
from
the asset
.”

Aleksey carefully slipped his thumb into the gap at the
opening and tore through the seam. He removed the lone sheet of paper and read
it to himself.

After a moment passed, he cocked his head to the side as he
handed the envelope’s contents to Vasiliy. “It seems we have two new
developments,” Aleksey said.

Vasiliy quickly reviewed the letter, which indicated the mole
had in fact been mistaken in implicating Vorobyev. He scratched his head, as
his brow furrowed. “This is indeed a...
developmen
t
as you say. Could this be true?”

“I don’t know,” Aleksey said, trying not to oversell. “What I
can offer is that this letter is written in a manner consistent with the others
we’ve received from him in the past.”

“I see.” Vasiliy passed the contents to Igor who glazed over
the document. Then they eyed each other as the significance sunk in.

“I can’t tell you how to act in this situation, as that is
between you and your boss,” Aleksey said. “But it seems to me, if we had enough
confidence in the source to condemn Comrades Vorobyev and Plotnikov, we must be
equally resolute in exonerating them. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Igor and Vasiliy glanced at each other again, both knowing.

“Go.” Vasiliy said to Igor. “I will call Golikov and inform
him of this
Karat
case. He will
be anxious to know.”

Dmitriyev’s gaze followed Igor out the door, the tension
released in his shoulders. He could finally relax, at least for the moment. He
only hoped J.J. would be successful in identifying the mole before he himself
became the next victim of Golikov’s heavy handed justice.

•
 
•
 
•

“That’s the last one,” Vorobyev said to
himself as he sealed the envelope containing his final letter to his wife and
children. He hoped someday they would understand why such drastic measures were
necessary.

He’d spent the entire night reviewing his personal papers to
ensure there was nothing Golikov’s people could twist into their sadistic lies
or exploit in a smear campaign to damage his post mortem reputation. His family
would suffer enough. He couldn’t bear to leave any business unfinished that
might cause them additional pain.

Vorobyev dressed himself in his favorite black suit, the one
his wife had picked out for him during his tour in Italy many years ago. Told
him he was too good for the cheap suits he usually bought for work, his
position required a proper suit fit for a man representing his country. And he
felt like a king every time he dressed in her gift to him. His life, his love,
his dearest, his Marina.

He meandered around until he reached his bedroom, then
collapsed onto his mattress back first and stared at the ceiling.

Within seconds he realized he didn’t want a cold blank wall
to be his last memory.

On his dresser stood the photos of all his family and friends
in happier times. He collected each, arranged them on his nightstand, and then
reached under the pillow and wrapped his hand around the cool steel grip. He
fixed his finger on the trigger and rolled his feet onto the bed, facing
everyone he held near and dear. Tears trickled down his cheeks as he pressed
the barrel hard against his temple. He took one last look and slowly pulled the
trigger.

“God . . . have mercy on my soul.”

Bam! Bam! Bam!

The loud knock startled him. He bolted upright, slipped the
gun underneath his pillow, and eased toward the door. Had to be Golikov’s
people. No one else would be allowed to consort with an accused and, for all
intents and purposes, convicted spy.

“Yeeees?” Vorobyev called out from the end of the hall.

“It’s Igor. Open the door!”

“Just a moment,” Vorobyev yelled, scrambling to get out of
his suit.
 
“One minute. I’m not properly
dressed.”

He dashed back into the bedroom and threw off his clothes
until down to his T-shirt and slacks. Pulling the sheets back, he messed up the
bed as if he’d been sleeping, just in case Igor decided to nose around. Then he
paced to the door and turned the doorknob.

“Igor?” Vorobyev asked, leaving only a slight opening.

“I need to speak with you for a moment. It’s urgent. Let me
inside.”

Vorobyev nodded, stepped back, and allowed Igor to push his
way through. He could do nothing but shake his head in disgust at the
disrespect from this younger generation.

“What is it? What have you to accuse me of now? Or is high
treason insufficient?”

Igor made himself comfortable on the couch. “Well, it seems
today is your lucky day.”

“My lucky day? What do you mean?” he said, his mind flashing
back to moments ago when he held a gun to his head, preparing to pull the
trigger.

“Turns out our source was fed some bad information. It was a
provocation. As a result, you have been cleared of all charges.”

“What? I...I don’t understand.” Vorobyev gasped and his knees
wavered as the reality set in. He’d lost all hope for any kind of miracle. He
caught his balance and then stood erect.

“You will return home a free man,” Igor said as if he had any
idea about what freedom was.

Vorobyev smirked. “Free you say? You falsely accuse me. You
beat me like a dog. You imprison me in my own home,” he growled, jabbing his
fist into the air. “After everything you have put me through. What is free? No.
I’m
innocent.
I’m not
free
.”

Igor, stunned by Vorobyev’s insolence, could not find the
words to retort, so he stood to leave. “I’ve said what I came to say,” he said
as he made his way to the door and gripped the doorknob. He and Vorobyev never
broke eye contact.

“Mhm hmm. You be careful,” Vorobyev offered as his final
word. “If Golikov did this to me, he could do it to anyone, including you.”

•
 
•
 
•

Back at
FBI Headquarters

“Hey Sam, where’s Sunnie?” J.J. asked
Samantha Monroe, one of the newer agents in her office and the only other
female apart from Lana. She certainly looked the agent part in her pin-sharp
pantsuits, but J.J. hadn’t worked with her long enough to form any real opinion
of her professionalism.

“She was just here a minute ago,” she said craning her neck
around Sunnie’s partition which was adjacent to her own. “She may have run up
to the cafeteria. I think it’s snack time.”

J.J. glanced at her watch and then turned to Tony. “Yeah,
she’s right. We should probably head upstairs.”

Sunnie, one of the best analysts in the Bureau’s cadre, was
the color of a milk chocolate Lyndor truffle, and short crop, silky weave, or
swaying braids, every day was a hair adventure. Her flamboyant, colorful dress
was equally creative. She fed her not quite plus-sized curves frequently, never
met a snack she didn’t like. Neither J.J. nor Tony had ever seen her eat a full
meal; she just grazed all day.

They entered Sunnie’s happy place and saw her hovering around
the salad bar, scrutinizing carefully every piece of fruit before loading them
into her Styrofoam container. Sunnie peered up in time to see J.J. and Tony
approaching and appeared none too pleased.

“Is it too late to run?” she deadpanned. “What do you two
want?”

“There’s our favorite analyst!” Tony said with almost too
much enthusiasm. Sunnie’s bullshit detector rivaled J.J.’s and she could spot
it coming a mile away.

“Save it for your partner,” Sunnie said. “Now what can I do
you for?”

J.J. eyed Tony askance. “Anyway. We need you to run some
information down for us.”

“What information?” she asked, holding up a piece of fruit in
tongs. “Does this pineapple look okay to you? I think I saw it here last week.”
She threw it back into the container and continued to dig.

“We need you to work your magic and get us access to the
personnel files for everyone on the bigot list...except us and Lana.”

“Personnel files, huh? You know you aren’t allowed to review
such information without AD authorization. For me to do so would be breaking
Bureau regulations.”

“Bella!” Tony said, laying on the Italian as thick as frozen
molasses. The lilt in his voice nearly lulled Sunnie into a hypnotic state. “Ho
bisogno di andare in bagna prego,” he pleaded, batting his lashes as he begged
like a puppy dog.

Sunnie’s mouth fell open. She nearly salivated, while J.J.
stared blankly at them both.

“What did he say?” she asked, still swooning, dazed by the
sound of his voice.

J.J. cranked her neck. “Does it matter?”

Tony narrowed his eyes at J.J. then shifted them toward
Sunnie. He needed her help, not her attitude.

 
“I said you are so
beautiful and begged for your help. We thought you could . . . you know, pull
some strings with Wendell.” Wendell was the pocket-protector wearing Chief of
Filedom—better known as the senior file clerk. He defended his turf as if he
was guarding the crown jewels. A recent graduate of Brigham Young University,
Wendell was a black Mormon and still a virgin, a regretful state he hoped
Sunnie would save him from. “You know he’s got a ‘thing’ for you,” Tony said,
creating air quotes with his fingers.

She rolled her eyes and resumed her quest. “So, what are you
now, my pimp?” Her face was void of expression.

“No . . . no, it’s not even like that. I just—”

“I’m kidding.” She laughed. “Had you going, didn’t I?”

Tony exhaled as J.J. got a chuckle at his expense.

“Of course I’ll help my favorite agent. You too, Tony,” she
said. “You’re the only ones in this place who don’t treat me as if I put my
brain on layaway.”

“We owe you big time,” J.J. said.

“Yes, you do. And I’ll need a full briefing so I’ll know what
the hell I’m looking for,” she said. “But for starters, who’s paying for my
snack?”

She jammed her hand in Tony’s face, palm side up.

Tony pulled a twenty dollar bill from his wallet. Before he
could hand it to her, Sunnie snatched it and headed to the cashier line.