The Seven Year Itch (5 page)

“My Papa,” he said, his voice trembling, “was a former KGB
Colonel who’d been falsely accused of working with the CIA and committing
treason in the 1970s. Golikov’s father orchestrated his execution, tortured
him, shot him in the back of the head with a high-caliber pistol. The
penetration so powerful it blew off his face, so I’m told.”

J.J. gasped as she choked down her own tears. With her own mother’s
death still looming heavily on in the fabric of her life, she could relate to
the pain spilling from his eyes.

“Dear Papa. We never got a chance to say goodbye or visit his
burial place. Golikov’s father and his thugs threw my father into an unmarked
grave, face down, so his soul would go straight to hell. Our family was
shunned, stripped of everything we owned, isolated from everyone we loved,
betrayed by everyone we trusted. From a very young age, I vowed to one day make
the KGB pay, avenge our destitution.”

His eyes tightened with contempt. He was a Predator drone,
pre-programmed to strike in perfect time.

“Twenty years later, the report was released. An American
mole, one of the senior FBI or CIA officers controlled by our service, passed
information that would set me on course to exact my revenge. Although, one
source was executed as a result of the intelligence, my father was exonerated,
cleared of all charges.”

“So you decided to work for the Russian intelligence?”

“Yes, it was still the KGB at the time, in 1993, just before
the break-up of the Soviet Union. They recruited me and a colleague from the
Foreign Language Institute, gave me a dead-end government job with a promise of
foreign travel to assuage my wounds. It was the KGB way. Keep your enemies even
closer than your friends.”

Nothing he confessed sparked a backlash from her gift. His
hunger to avenge his father’s death seeped through his pores, loomed heavily on
the conviction in his expression and the acid in his voice. His account of his
family turmoil was remarkable, compelling, and surreal. The FBI powers that be
wouldn’t doubt for a second his motivation when they learned of his
cooperation.

Confident of his intent, J.J. set up a communications plan
and gave him the code name
Karat
because encryption codes were as good as gold. They would make periodic phone
calls for updates and mark signals for emergencies. She also provided him with
a throw-away cell phone to be used in only the most catastrophic situations. He
concealed it inside the crumpled piece of paper stuffed in his new tennis
shoes. After asking the mall cops to apologize to the embassy personnel for the
misunderstanding, she called Tony, told him about the potential coup, but one
question nagged.

Who had recruited whom?

Plotnikov served as a code clerk, one of two to three embassy
personnel responsible for transmitting and receiving every classified and
unclassified communication to and from Moscow Center, Russian intelligence
headquarters. He owned the proverbial keys to the kingdom—encryption keys as it
were. If he passed those codes to U.S. Intelligence, the FBI could decrypt
intercepted Russian classified communications.

In his first dead drop, he identified every intelligence
officer he’d ever contacted in the residency and Moscow Center, many of whom
the FBI knew nothing about. The Agency helped run a few name checks, unaware of
the source’s true identity, and the consensus was clear that whoever passed the
intelligence was “the business.” His second drop contained even better
intelligence, the names of SVR officers involved in operational activity. He
gleaned them from reports he transmitted through secure channels to the Center,
as the diplomatic reports from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs didn’t require
the same security.

Even then
Karat
had only given the Bureau a few gold nuggets. To seal up the leak and identify
the mole, the FBI needed Fort Knox, the identities of American government and
military employees cooperating with Russian intelligence service. If he passed
the codes used to transmit counterintelligence message traffic, they‘d find
ICE Phantom
. She had no doubt. So J.J.
pressed for the intel. And pressed hard.

 
Karat
hemmed and hawed, suggested he’d
see what he could do. Weeks later, during a pre-scheduled phone call, he came
through, or so he intimated.

Karat
told J.J.
he had compiled the information she needed and he’d soon make the drop that
would provide a trove of information, some of which would identify the mole.
He’d schedule the drop as soon as he could do so without alerting internal
security.

Per Director Freeman’s orders, only five people in the Bureau
maintained access to
Karat’s “
duplicate”
file—J.J., Tony, AD Cartwright, Director Freeman, and their boss, Jack
Sabinski. And still that number was too high.

She’d compromised herself and her career, overstayed her
long-vanished welcome in the FBI in order to protect
Karat
and his family. If anyone—Jack or, God forbid, the
Director—ever found out the depth of her deception, she wouldn’t have to worry about
quitting. She’d be fired on the spot.

 
“I understand how
important family is to you, Viktor,” she remembered saying to him as their
first meeting drew to an end. “I’ll do everything in my power to protect you
and your family. You
will not
meet
your father’s fate, not on my watch. That’s a promise.”

It all seemed so easy at the time. Like every other agency in
the Intelligence Community that was aware of the breaches, she believed the
mole to be CIA, not FBI. She’d made a promise she thought she could keep. All
she had to do was conceal his debriefings within the safety of FBI
Headquarters, beyond the bounds of Langley, and keep Plotnikov in the United
States so she could help him defect if Golikov threatened a recall. But one
false slip and her source would find himself buried face down in an unmarked
grave. She refused to allow her conscience to bear that guilt. And the line
between sobriety and the edge of no return was too thin to tread.

Her ability to fulfill her promise had been hampered by one
thing.

One person.

And the time had finally come to find out who the hell he
was.

Chapter 5

Thursday
Afternoon…

“U
hhh, heads up everybody. Plotnikov has departed the main
building,” Jake said. “But he’s not alone—and his hands are full.”

“I don’t even understand why J.J.’s so pressed over this guy.
He’s a nobody,” Jiggy complained, speaking freely because J.J. and Tony were in
the vault. “I could be at home catching up on the
Young and the Restless
.”

Jake let out a strained chuckled and hopelessly watched his
mark. The counterintelligence operational line chief for Washington’s Russian
intelligence residency escorted Plotnikov from the residential wing to his
diplomatic vehicle and jumped into the driver’s seat. “Well, J.J. doesn’t have
to worry about Golikov’s people or counterintelligence
following
him. Aleksey Dmitriyev is his fucking chauffer.”
 

“What the hell?” Jiggy said. “Plotnikov can’t meet our guy
with a counterintelligence guy in the car. I mean, aren’t these the guys who
tortured and shot spies working for the FBI?”
 

“Correct,” Jake said. “And it looks like they’re carrying
luggage.”

Dmitriyev had two jobs in the residency: recruit American
intelligence personnel to collect information on behalf of the Russians; and
prevent Russian embassy personnel from cooperating with American intelligence.
With Dmitriyev at his side, Plotnikov could do nothing except buckle his seat
belt and enjoy the ride.

When the words “leaving with luggage” finally processed
through the team, murmurings bubbled across the air waves.

“Wait a minute,” Jiggy said, interrupting the chatter. “You
said luggage. As in suitcases?”

“No. As in suitcases,” Jake replied. “Something wrong with
your English today?”

“Could be comms equipment.” Jiggy avoided any thought of the
worst case scenario.

 
“I doubt it,” Jake said. “Shit! J.J. and
Tony are in the vault and I don’t have the number to the bat phone. Should I
stay with them or abort?” Jake hoped Jiggy would suggest aborting the op. What
purpose would going through the motions serve?

“We should be asking you—Obi Wan,” Jiggy replied.

“I’m thinking no way he’s gonna make the meet with a security
officer in the car.”

“That may be true, but I say we stick to Plotnikov like honey
to a bee’s ass no matter what,” Jiggy said. “I refuse to be one to tell J.J. we
dropped coverage and don’t know what happened to the mark.”

“Good point,” Jake said.

The gates opened. Jake peered into his targets’ car through
his Steiner binoculars. Embroiled in a heated discussion, Dmitriyev didn’t
bother scanning for surveillance which meant he didn’t give a damn about the G
presence or he knew he could evade them.

Jake made a mental note and prepared for the ride as he
watched them pull through the exit gate. “Okay, team, they’re out. I’ve got the
eye.”

Time to rock
, Jake
thought.

Dmitriyev’s vehicle approached a stop sign at the corner of
Tunlaw and Calvert Road, a few blocks from the embassy grounds. Jake pulled in
behind them, using the three civilian cars he allowed to pull in front of him
as cover.

“Traffic’s heavy,” Jake advised his team. “We shouldn’t be
crappin’ our clothes during hairpin turns today. I’m heading east on Calvert.
You in position, Jiggy? If I should lose him, you gotta pick him up.”

The team decided to use leapfrog surveillance, switching the
eye among multiple cars posted in positions ahead of the lead eye—in this case
Jake. The Russians would never see the same face, the same car. But Dmitriyev,
a seasoned counterintelligence officer, would expect the Gs to be there whether
he spotted the team or not.

“Copy that, Jake. I’m locked and loaded. Ready to roll,”
Jiggy responded.

Minutes into the surveillance, Plotnikov’s arm pointed out
the window, toward a Starbuck’s on Wisconsin Avenue. He motioned Dmitriyev to
pull over to the right. Once at the curb, Dmitriyev stopped and got out. When
Jake radioed the status, everyone scratched their heads.

“Since when do counterintelligence guys hop out
for coffee? Something’s not right,” Jake
said. “Get a shadow on him, so we can find out what the hell is going on in
there. He knows we’re watching. Any other units nearby?”

“This may be a stretch, but any of y’all ever think he might
be going in for a Caramel Macchiato?” Jiggy joked. “I’d pimp my sister for one
right now. I’m just sayin’.”

They had no time for jokes but everybody laughed.

“Jumping out! I’ve got this one,” Cham’s voice called out.
She always took control when the boys lost focus.

Jake watched in his side-view mirror as she exited her
vehicle and approached the store entrance.

By the time she reached the door, Dmitriyev returned to the
entrance with two steaming coffee cups in hand. He bowed his head at Jake
before getting into the car, a provocation if he’d ever seen one.

Jake slammed his hand against his thigh, infuriated by
Dmitriyev’s blatant smugness. With that, Jake authorized himself to cover more
aggressively. He’d hug their bumper no matter what J.J. said.

Dmitriyev waited for a break in traffic and eased out, then
exploded down Wisconsin Avenue. The Daytona 500 had slower starts. Jake reacted
too late.

He’d been duped.

Dmitriyev made the stop as a ploy to draw out surveillance,
and it worked.

Zigzagging in an out of traffic, Dmitriyev weaved through the
streets like a fucking nutcase. Jake’s Charger engine roared, tires hugging the
road as if on train rails. He tried to stay on Dmitriyev without breaking cover
or killing an innocent bystander, but the pockets of stopped traffic and
wayward pedestrians proved too much to avoid. As they approached the
intersection at Wisconsin and R Streets, he saw her. A grandmother with a
rolling walker and two kids at her side stepped into the crosswalk against the
light.

“Noooo, get out the way!” he yelled, leaning forward on his
steering wheel.

 
They moved onto the
road. Only twenty feet ahead. Jake was going too fast.

Too fast.

SCREECH!

 
He slammed his brakes,
fishtailed to a stop, and banged his hand against the steering wheel. Dmitriyev
disappeared and left nothing in his wake except smoke and exhaust fumes.

Jake snatched his radio from the passenger seat. “I’ve lost
him. I’ve lost him! He’s on fire. Headed down Wisconsin. Here we go people!
Jiggy he’s less than two minutes away. Don’t lose him!”

“Dude, already? He beat you in the paint!”

Jiggy idled at the intersection of Wisconsin and O Street, a
one-way street a few blocks down from where Dmitriyev smoked Jake. Jiggy’s
itchy foot hovered over the gas pedal, waiting to slam and roll the minute his
target appeared. No sooner than Jiggy spotted him, Dmitriyev careened over the
horizon and hook a right barely avoiding a head-on collision with Jiggy’s
vehicle.

“Shiiiiiit!” Jiggy yelled. “He turned! He turned!”

Dmitriyev’s car tilted as it spun onto the street. His
hair-trigger move put the fear of God in Jiggy.

“Idiot! You almost side-swiped my door!” he yelled. Dmitriyev
was long gone. “Damn! Too much traffic coming.”

He jerked his head left and right, looking for an out.
Nothing opened up. Couldn’t make a U-turn fast enough. Change of plans. Jiggy
decided to hook a right on Wisconsin Avenue. He’d catch him a block down, off P
Street.

“Jiggy you got him? You got him? What’s goin’ on?” Jake
yelled. He’d begun to sweat from his armpits, nervous.

Jiggy fumbled for his radio.
Damn, he was supposed to go straight
! he thought. He had selected
the position on the one-way street explicitly so Dmitriyev couldn’t turn into
him from Wisconsin Avenue. And that bastard did it anyway.

It’s almost as if he
knew where I’d be sitting,
he thought.

“Damn! He’s in the wind! Gone.” Jiggy said, after wrapping
his sweaty palms around his radio. “I think he’s headed south toward M Street.
I’m gonna try to get turned around and catch up with him! Cham? Money T?
Anybody else got eyes on?”

“Negative,” Cham replied. “We’re stuck at S Street. Dmitriyev
ran the light and MPD rolled up behind us. If we pursued, we’d have gotten
pulled over and lost him anyway. But I’ve got a hunch about where he may be
headed. Money T and I going south.”

Once traffic cleared, Jiggy circled back on the next block,
accidentally blowing a stop sign. Dmitriyev’s car was nowhere in sight…but
another was. Not two seconds later—
Whoop!
Whoop!
The melodic styling of the D.C. police sirens.

Son of a bitch!

Jiggy grabbed his radio. “Jake, what’s your twenty? I’ve got
a big negatory on his location.”

Jake blew out a long hard breath. “I’m heading back to
headquarters.”

“Don’t know what to tell you dude. I’ve got no idea in which direction
he’s driving, and MPD just pulled me over. Dmitriyev drives like freakin’ Dale
Earnhardt on crack and
I
get popped.”