The Seven Year Itch (3 page)

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 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.”

Her own private investigative agency where she could be her
own boss, that’s what J.J. wanted. But too many years had passed since the day
she chose to tread on the “right” side of that fine line between duty and
desire, between love of country and self-satisfaction. After ten-plus years,
she’d finally grown weary, sick, and tired. She’d allowed her “gift” to hold
her hostage long enough. She was through with her one-way commitment to the
Bureau.

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.

Chapter 3

Thursday
Afternoon…

H
er thoughts churned,
nerves constricted. The Cartwright episode shook her.

Everything’s
under control. Everything’s under control,
she told herself.

She didn’t
need
a
drink that second. She just
wanted
it. As far as she was concerned, until she needed it, she had no drinking
problem. She dug in her pant pocket and pulled out the half-eaten pack
.
  

Doublemint gum.

That would do the trick.

Tony didn’t buy her logic, but she did. He was a fine Jersey
Italian and his accent was as strong as his proclivity for beautiful women.
J.J. was no exception. His striking deep-set dark baby browns and toned,
rippled physique did little to help J.J. maintain her professionalism. And with
a nose like a bloodhound, Tony wouldn’t miss a beat.

She promised him she’d slow down too many times before. This
was no time to blow the appearance of propriety. She quickened her pace to the
office, each step heavy and purposeful. Then she drew in a few calming breaths
before placing her hand on the doorknob. Once the door opened, she’d step be
back in the fray. With the promotion board’s decision, she’d approach the day’s
mission with a new goal.

The Espionage Unit was half empty as most agents were out
running down leads. But her co-case agent Tony Donato was standing there
waiting for her, holding a steaming cup of java in his hand. He beamed a bright
smile, clearly deluding himself that life was fair.

It wasn’t.

When she didn’t reciprocate, Tony slipped into the empty
chair beside her desk. She eyed him briefly, and then avoided his gaze. She
hated the look of pity, didn’t need it either.

“So, uhhh, how’d it go?” Tony asked, his expression warm,
attentive. The wicked slant in her eyes and pasted on grin betrayed the put-on
bounce in her voice. “It seems congratulations are in order, for both of us.
You’re still in the running for the supervisor slot.”

He didn’t flinch, avoided eye contact.

She turned to him and didn’t budge until he faced her. “You
knew?”

“Well...I’d heard something from one of my boys while you
were gone.”

“What? What did you hear?”

“Uhhhhh…”

“Come on, Tony.”

“Well, uh, two things really. First, the board, they know
you’ve got heart, which makes you a great recruiter. But they...they think
you’re soft. In a life and death situation, they wonder if you’re strong enough
to pull the trigger. They want a supervisor who can make the tough choices, who
will pull the trigger.”

She sat blank-faced.

“I don’t think they mean it literally but...”

“I know exactly what they mean,” she said.

She rolled her eyes. Any excuse would do. Pull the trigger.
Make the tough choices. All buzz words for we’d prefer to have a white male in
the position instead of J.J. But she refused to play the race card. Filing a
complaint would only sully her stellar reputation in the too small and too
tight-knit federal law enforcement community. Those perceived as stirring up trouble
were ostracized. She’d need her contacts when she started her own firm.

“Will you accept the supervisor slot if they offer?” she
whispered.

“Me? No fuckin’ way. I’d rather take one in the head than be
a supervisor, especially in this place. Too many freakin’ headaches.”

“Well, as soon as this operation is over today, I’m done.
Finito. Finished.”

He caught his breath. Surprise didn’t quite convey his
reaction as far as J.J. could see. Perhaps it was disappointment. Or fear. Yes,
J.J. had been frustrated for some time; he probably assumed she’d take the hit
on the chin. She always did. Resigning obviously wasn’t the trigger he wanted
her to pull. “J.J., I’m not gonna let you quit. I know you’re pissed right now,
but if you quit that jerk-off Sabinski wins. Cartwright’s gotta make good on
his word.”

“Tony, you know as well as I that I’m playing this
tired
game with two sets of rules,
neither of which weigh in my favor. Whadaya gonna do?” She playfully mimicked
his Jersey accent. No emotional eruptions as usual, just dispassionate, flat,
didn’t give a damn. She had one foot out the door, and her sense of duty
couldn’t hold her hostage much longer. Not if she was determined to go.

He studied her face and leaned in, warmth emanating from his
body. “Are you...okay, J.J.?”

She locked her eyes on his. “I’m . . . Okay.”

He sniffed. “You didn’t take any—,”

“I’m fine!” she snapped, her first impulse. Then her gaze
softened. It always did when she looked at him. “I’m sorry, really, but we’ve more
important things to discuss.
Karat
is afraid Golikov’s people might be on to him, we need Jake on this op today. I
presume he’s in the conference room?”

Jake McGee was one of the best Gs in the Special Support
Group—the FBI’s eyes and ears. They kept a close eye on the Bureaus spies,
terrorists, and high value targets, lurking from the shadows. But when the
Bureau wanted the target to know they were there, they knew.

“Yeah, but...”

“Uh-uh,” she interrupted as she stood to leave, “B
uts
are for guns and strip clubs. Before
we go, you said there was something else.”

He leaned in closer. “Sabinski’s ordered random file
inspection specifically targeting
our
cases the vault.”

“Figures,” J.J. said. “He’s dirty. I can feel it.”

“Yeah, well, we’ve gotta double check our ‘duplicate’ file
for
Karat
and the other cases. Or
you and me might not be so employed come tomorrow.”

“Damn!” J.J. said, frustrated but unsurprised by Jack’s
action. After all she and Tony had long suspected he might have turned. “All
right, Jake can handle the op on his own. We’ll get him on the road and head
into vault. By the time we’re done squaring the files, the op will be over and
we can clear the drop. If Jack gets his hands on the real file, Plotnikov is as
good as dead.”

“Exactly,” Tony said as they started out the door.

A few minutes later Tony and J.J. arrived at the breakout
room inside the Strategic Information and Operations Command center—SIOC. J.J.
had no idea why Cartwright reserved it. They usually planned ops in the vault.
Then it struck her, what he said in their meeting. He said she was on to the
biggest case of her career and urged her to stay. Then he set up this room.
He must know more than he’s letting on.

When J.J. and Tony entered the breakout room, they startled
Jake, who quickly shut the lid on his laptop. Nervous, he ran his hands through
his dark, Ryan Seacrest-inspired locks.

“Flipping through pictures of your girl again, huh?” Tony
said to Jake, who answered with a sheepish grin and turned toward J.J.

She took a seat at the head of the table and flipped through
a case file, searching for the name of her NSA contact in case Plotnikov came
through with the encryption codes and frequencies.

“You alright, J.J.?” Jake asked. “Looks like you’re having a
rough day.”

She cut her eyes at him then grinned. “On the contrary. My
day is getting better by the minute.”

“So what’s the deal with this op again?” Jake asked.

J.J. glanced at Tony and answered. “Plotnikov is a clean
diplomat with access to information on Russia’s stance on the missile shield.
The J2 at the Pentagon would like to get that information, but Plotnikov has
suggested on numerous occasions that he’s afraid he’s under suspicion, scared
of Golikov’s people.” She lied well. Their cover story was elaborate but
necessary for her source’s protection.

“With good reason.” Jake nodded. “Okay, I’m with you.”

“So, we set up a meeting with an Army Intel cut out today to
help us assess him. We need your team to make sure that neither Golikov’s
people, nor Russian counterintelligence trails him. Otherwise, we might not get
another chance at him anytime soon.”

“Roger that.”

Only a handful of people knew about Plotnikov, that he and
Karat
were one in the same. To the Gs
and other agents in the vault, he was no different than any other diplomat in
an embassy. Outwardly, he received no exceptional treatment. Only two people
understood his value. Only two people knew
Karat
might solve the one mystery the Intelligence Community couldn’t in ten years’
worth of investigations.

Tony flipped through a notebook of handwritten notes. “Where
are the contact instructions? I swear I had my hand on ‘em yesterday.”

“I don’t know. Maybe you left them in the vault,” J.J. said. She
hoped the mole wasn’t responsible for the disappearance. The entire op could be
blown before it got started.

J.J. glanced down. Her watch read 1:00. Time was running out.
“Shouldn’t you be on the road already?” she asked Jake. “You’ve been slipping
on your job lately there, chief. Keep playing around, and I’ll make that
sparkly new Charger disappear like a hooker in a vice raid.”

Jake cringed. J.J. was notoriously passive aggressive. Her
jokes were usually veiled threats that she almost always made good on. It’d be
all fun and games at the start, right up until a Barbie Dream car occupied his
parking space.

Tony shot J.J. a wicked eye. “Yo, J.J., why you gotta be a
ball buster, eh?” He turned to Jake. “Don’t pay her no mind, ya hear me? She’s
just bustin’ your chops. I got your back.”

She folded her arms across her chest. “Oh I see. Two guys
against one girl? That’s okay, I can take both o’ yous. Square up, let’s go.”
She erected herself into a boxing stance. The swift motion coupled with the
Belvedere’s effects threw her off balance. She wobbled and dropped her hands.

Tony stood in front of J.J. and eyed her from toes to ta-tas,
towering over her hourglass five-ten frame by an intimidating six inches. She
shriveled into a shy teen. “You might be many things but you ain’t a
girl
,” Tony oozed. The subtext knocked
J.J. unsteady again. His frequent overt-flirts disarmed her, raided her heart.
One by one he pilfered the chunks of wall she’d built to keep love safely at
bay.

“You’re a sexual harassment suit waiting to happen. You know
that, right? I can handle it though. Besides, mama needs new shoes,” J.J. said,
rubbing her thumb against her fingertips to signal the money Tony would need to
pay out. Then she laughed through her blush, hating the power he had to shift
her emotions at will, his ability to render unsuccessful her every attempt to
slough off his jibes. She glanced down at her watch again and then sneered at
Jake. “As for you,
think pink.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m quaking in my Timberlands. Whatever you get,
just make sure it’s convertible,” Jake scoffed putting on a little bravado for
Tony. Then he double-timed it to the unit entrance, concealing his newfound
urgency.

Jake grabbed the wrinkled Burger King bag containing the now
cold Whopper from office secretary’s desk. He’d scarf it down as he paced to
his Bureau-assigned beauty.

J.J.’s trust in Jake never wavered, but everyone knew his
technique was slipping, including Jake. She didn’t hesitate to chew him out for
it either. Coasting on those cowboyish, hotrod ways, the source of her
admiration for him, was no longer an option. J.J. realized that tracking
suspects all day with seven years at Princeton, two degrees, and the downgrade
from his broken dream to become an FBI agent hadn’t inspired him greatness.
Even still, his “G” status seemed to give him sufficient (if not equal)
satisfaction, half the paperwork, and a set of credentials nearly identical to
those issued to FBI agents. He’d developed a gift for anticipating his targets
next move, but now his success seemed more lucky than skillful. His teammates,
J.J., everyone joked that he was “whipped,” distracted by his new girlfriend.
J.J. believed he just quit caring. She had no idea why. She just wanted to the
old Jake back.

Jake’s team was always the first called, the most eager to
serve. True professionals, all of them. Never overstepped the bounds between
meddling and mission, and were all crazy enough to hell ride with the Russian
during their rip-roaring, piss-your-pants surveillance detection runs. They
lingered in the shadows when the Russians wanted them in the open and knew
precisely when to back off because aborted operations did little to help the
FBI identify dirty Russian intelligence officers.

And they knew it, they meaning Jake and the rest of the
motley crew.

His best friend Jiggy was a wisecracking Will Smith wannabe
who was long on swagger and short on height. Jiggy’s bald white head and limp
left leg made him too distinct too noticeable for foot surveillance. That’s
where Cham came in—the shadow. A black woman she looked like everyone and no
one, a chameleon. She always resembled someone you thought you knew and could
change her appearance in half a blink. Great on foot, she shined less behind
the wheel. That’s where Money T came in. He was the glue, the ghost, the wind.
He stuck close to his marks, but they never spotted him.

Of course, there were others on the team, many others, but
none were as good as the main crew.

The Gs were the FBI’s “gift with” purchase. Buy a diplomatic
visa, get a G-team. On the street. In the woods. Under footbridges. Their eyes
were watching. And the fate of J.J.’s sources depended on it. Her future
depended on it. The future of the FBI’s counterintelligence program depended on
it.

•
 
•
 
•

Upper Northwest, the location of the Russian
Embassy, was thirty minutes from FBI Headquarters in traffic. Jake turned down
his window and allowed the cool September air to wash away the ill-effects of
his ritual adrenaline rush, then mashed his gas pedal to the floor.