Documents relating to Aleksey Dmitriyev, a counterintelligence officer linked to Karat since the day he arrived, must also be scrubbed. If any FD-302s mentioning him and Karat (as Plotnikov) didn’t reflect the information from the fake file, the jig was up. The file of Aleksandr Mikhaylov was last. The lookouts had spotted him in the company of both Dmitriyev and Plotnikov on multiple occasions. J.J. had been tailing him since he’d stepped on U.S. soil. She didn’t know if any pertinent information existed but she’d scrub the file just in case.

  Call it a hunch. Perhaps an intuition. But Mikhaylov made her skin crawl. He ran the most insidious and evasive cadre of Russian spies—illegals. They assumed the identities of American citizens to gain access to classified information. Almost impossible to catch because the Bureau had little success in identifying them until the 2010 New York bust.

  “Tony, I haven’t seen the most recent volume of Karat’s file. You don’t have it do you?” J.J. asked.

  “No,” he said as he checked through his stack. “It’s not in my stuff. Maybe we left back in the breakout room.”

  “Hmmm. Maybe. I’m gonna check as soon as we get out of here.”

  They studied each case file, lookout log, surveillance report, and photo and prepared to tuck the real files inside the jacket folders of long dead sources. As J.J. placed her hand on Plotnikov’s photo and prepared to stash it away, she recollected the moment she dug the hole into her present predicament, her promises to Viktor. Promises she wished she hadn’t made. Promises she wished didn’t have to keep.

  Chapter 4

  Two Years Ago…

  Before Polyakov’s hand arrived at Moscow station, there was ICE Phantom’s second victim and J.J.’s second source—Kostya Belikov. He disappeared, vanished like billowing smoke in the night air. J.J. slept for what felt to her like five minutes a day in the following months. She was consumed to the point of obsession, determined to identify a replacement asset, one who could not only provide information on Belikov’s fate, but help her identify the FBI scourge who had all but delivered the fatal bullet to his head. When she wasn’t thinking and planning, she drank. Not guzzles, but little sips, every couple of hours, every day.

  Her barely conscious hours were spent at Dulles airport monitoring Russian diplomatic arrivals and departures, hoping to spot a new mark.

  And there he appeared.

  A diminutive schlep of a man in a slightly oversized navy-blue business suit. His shiny dome and silver-framed spectacles, unimposing and unremarkable, clashed with the more dapper attire of the counterintelligence officer accompanying him—Aleksey Dmitriyev.

  Dmitriyev was a Second Secretary and fairly high ranking for an intelligence officer. The schlep was an administrative officer, at least according to the visa J.J. had received from the State Department in advance of his arrival.

  A Second Secretary picking up an admin guy? she asked herself. Doesn’t quite add up. New arrivals were usually met my men of their own ilk. A schlep for a schlep. A high-ranking official for a high-ranking official.

  After a quick inquiry to the customs officials, she left with his full name and birthdate. Back at the vault, she searched Viktor Sergeyevich Plotnikov’s patronymic in the Mitrokhin Archives. It was a long shot, but J.J.’s every instinct told her she was onto something big, particularly if he had an ax to grind. The notion haunted her…and for good reason.

  Moments later, she came across the father’s name in the database—Sergey Plotnikov. And Sergey had a child, Viktor. But there was no birthdate for Viktor. Still, they must be one and the same. She drew a sharp breath when she read the subsequent reporting. If she’d identified the father correctly, indeed his son might be willing to spill a few Russian secrets.

  After what they did to his father, she couldn’t imagine any reason Viktor would he work for the SVR, the child of the KGB. He couldn’t have any other agenda except revenge, but she needed to verify her suspicions.

  Jack told her she was wasting her time. Plotnikov’s a nobody he said of the little administrative guy who de-planed his Aeroflot flight from Moscow with no fanfare, drove a cheap Corolla, and had no real rank to speak of.

  But J.J. followed her instinct.

  Months of surveillance revealed he wanted things, American things. He glimmered like a kid in the candy store at the sight of expensive goods. Watches. Clothes. Electronics. He wanted whatever he couldn’t afford and developed a nasty case of the sticky fingers. J.J. supposed he enjoyed the rush of common criminality, and she was glad. It was a vulnerability ripe for compromise.

  She and Tony quietly arranged to pay off his debts at half the high-end stores in the D.C. area to help keep him in the country.

  Finally an opportunity presented itself.

  Her big chance.

  The embassy submitted a travel request thanks to the rule mandating the Russians file notifications every time they traveled more than 25 miles beyond the embassy. They sponsored a day trip to the outlet malls in Hagerstown, Maryland. The location—perfect. High end stores galore. She’d corner him the moment he separated from his group. Given his shoplifting habit, a solo activity, he’d split at the first opportunity.

  About an hour into her surveillance, she followed him into the cesspool that was the men’s room. The location was ideal, as the bathroom sat in a remote section of the outlet center. Few visitors would find their way there. There she waited. Listened. Smelled. Gagged. Her stomach convulsed. The odor permeating the room would make a Marine cry foul. When he emerged from the stall, her tall frame blocked the exit.

  He froze.

  “Who are you? What are you doing in here?” He appeared startled at first, but a moment later the tension in his shoulders released. Now his expression alarmed her.

  J.J. paused before speaking. His colleagues might be searching for him. She had to be careful. Looking downward with her hand covering the visible side of her face, she poked her head outside.

  No passersby. All clear.

  She closed the door and moved toward the nearest stall. In it she could conceal her presence if someone walked in.

  “I’m Special Agent J.J. McCall with the FBI. Please. Feel free to go ahead and wash your hands.”

  She eyed the large shopping bag he carried, wondered how much loot he’d lifted. Regardless, it might come in handy later. Then the bling caught her eye.

  There it is.

  The stainless steel band on his familiar watch glimmered in the bathroom’s light. It was government-owned. Courtesy of Tony Donato and the lead case agent.

  Plotnikov eased over to the sink, pressed his hand against the soap dispenser. He sucked in a deep frustrated breath as he thrust his hands under the stream of water. “Yes. Agent McCall,” he said. “You are quite legendary in the Embassy—or perhaps a better term would be infamous? What pray tell brings you to the men’s room on this glorious afternoon?”

  His comment told her the one thing she hadn’t been sure of until he spoke—he was an intelligence officer. A clean administrative officer would have no concerns about the FBI. Perhaps he’d revealed more than he intended. Or if her instincts were correct, he may have shared exactly what he wanted her to know.

  “Well, if you’ve heard the legend of me,” she fought the urge to roll her eyes, “then I think we both know why I’m here.”

  He silently walked over to the hand drier, rubbed his hands beneath, and looked down at his expensive watch. “I’m a diplomat and have no interest in speaking with the FBI. Leave immediately or I’ll file a complaint with the State Department.”

  He balked. Standard procedure. Although she’d expected him to be a little more original. If his comrades knew her at all, he’d understand that reporting her to the State Department wouldn’t expedite her departure. They had a department with her name on it—The Secretary of Foreign Intelligence Officer Recruitment.

  “Shit!” Her skin prickled, and she flinched. She gasped, pressed her knees together, and tried to brace herself. If he lied again, the sensation would be even worse.

  She hated the crotch itch the worst. Only occurred when people told the most unconvincing lies. The realization brought an ironic sense of relief. J.J. inhaled deeply and strained to stay composed until the wave subsided.

  She had him.

  She just needed to close him.

  “A-are you okay?” He stared in an awkward confusion. “I could stand watch while you use the bathroom.”

  “I’m...fine,” she said, her voice tense. “I, uhhh, it’s a condition. It’ll pass, just give me a minute.”

  “Oh, I see. I see.”

  She straightened her gait as the feeling dissipated. “Listen, you don’t have to lie to me. I’m not your security officer. Consider me more like family. I know what you’ve done wrong and want to build a relationship with you anyway.” He stood motionless, jarred by her abnormal behavior.

  She continued. “I had a lot to discuss with you today. Your recent acquisitions from Lord & Taylor and Macy’s—nice Movado. The fact that Vorobyev would send you back to Moscow yesterday if he knew the truth. I could talk your ear off…but I won’t.”

  He looked down at his watch again. An ill-timed wince betrayed his stoic expression.

  “Instead, I think it would be more productive to our relationship if you’d permit me to share some information with you…about your father,” she offered, opting to take a more sensitive approach. He mattered, and J.J. wanted him to trust her. Sources who believed they mattered the most, divulged the most secrets.

  “Don’t you dare speak of my father! Don’t you speak his name!” he said, his expression gruff.

  She froze. The sound of footsteps neared. She watched the door and waited, prepared to conceal herself in a stall. Within seconds, they passed.

  “Sergey Plotnikov, right?” she asked, eager to glimpse his reaction. If he was angry, well...anger was a good sign. “I know what the KGB did to him.”

  His face reddened as he moved toward the exit. He grew more agitated by the second. “Who in this business doesn’t?”

  “And I know what he did.” She said, poking the bear to get a reaction.

  He breathed heavily and growled, “He was innocent!” His stark expression hardened, knowing and cold. The scars from his memories were still fresh and soul-deep. At that moment, she believed he’d secretly willed her to show up. Somewhere. Anywhere. She would be the vessel he used to exact his revenge.

  “They used him as a pawn. As if they really needed another excuse to justify the Cold War,” she said. “He never worked for us. We targeted him but he honored your family, refused to cooperate,” she said, referring to U.S. intelligence services, the CIA in particular. “Can we talk?”

  “But I—I have to . . . we’re returning to the embassy in a short time. I must leave.”

  J.J.’s eyebrow rose. A plan. She needed a plan. She expected to cast the bait. She didn’t expect the big fish to bite on the first try. His concession came a bit too easy for her tastes. Either he was trying to set up J.J. or...he’d been waiting for her all along. She didn’t know which but second-guessing herself would need to wait. She had more pressing matters. “Listen, they can’t leave the outlet without you. And I can make you disappear for a short while without drawing undue suspicion.”

  “How?”

  Her world had been irrevocably changed by one word. He didn’t answer “no” rather “how.” He’d been waiting. “Meet me at Spencer’s Gifts in five minutes. I’ll take it from there.”

  He nodded yes, still nervous. Cautious.

  A short discussion with her informant, a security guard she’d developed into a willing snitch, and she entered the store moments later. She scanned the store for other Embassy personnel. Front. Back. Nobody important. Just a handful of patrons selecting greeting card from the rack in the rear of the store where she needed them to be. But they probably wouldn’t stay put for long. She glanced at her watch.

  Where is he?

  Had he changed his mind? Had embassy security spotted him before he walked inside? As she started toward the door, he entered, acknowledged her with a split-second nod, still carrying his bag.

  She fixed her gaze on him, followed his every move. She placed her hands on the shelf beside her, and without looking, grabbed the soft plastic package beneath her fingers. Didn’t look at it. Didn’t matter what it was.

  In one seamless motion, she swept by him, bumped his bag and dropped the item inside. The brush pass was over as fast as it began. “Meet me outside,” she whispered.

  He jerked his head toward her then continued perusing the novelty tees until she reached the exit. Plotnikov picked up his bag, started out behind her. As soon as his foot crossed the threshold, an alarm blared. The slovenly security guard was already en route. He slogged toward Plotnikov, at J.J.’s request with his hand outstretched.

  “Sir?” the guard called out.

  “Me?” Plotnikov replied. He was oblivious, just as J.J. needed him to be. His reaction must be genuine if anyone from the embassy asked about him.

  “Yes, you,” the guard said. He gripped the corner of Viktor’s bag. “I’ll need to check this, please.”

  Plotnikov’s brow crinkled. A three-hole Jenna Jameson blow-up sex doll? His jaw dropped.

  “That’s not mine!” Plotnikov insisted.

  “Sir, I’ll need you to come with me.”

  “But...but...” Plotnikov said.

  The officer tugged his arm at the elbow and led him outside. The nearest security checkpoint was roughly the distance equivalent to a city block away.

  J.J. waited in front of the neighboring tennis shoe outlet until they passed her. Plotnikov appeared embarrassed. She glimpsed the package in the guard’s hand. Collateral damage. She did what she needed to do. Getting him to a safe place was more important than a few strangers believing he had a perversion for latex dolls.

  J.J. arrived in the small holding area and found Viktor seated and sipping on a Coke. Now, he and she could have a tête-à-tête before Vorobyev, the embassy security officer, suspected Viktor had uttered so much as a cordial hello to an FBI special agent. Otherwise, he’d have been scuttled back to Moscow on the first thing smoking to spend the rest of his career serving cabbage soup in the SVR cafeteria. That is, if he managed to avoid Golikov’s wrath.

  “Agent McCall. An inflatable doll?” Plotnikov asked, half humored, half annoyed. “I’m a diplomat for goodness sakes.”

  “Sorry about that. I grabbed it without paying attention.” She occupied the seat opposite him. “The security officer is on his way to tell Vorobyev you’ve been detained. We’ll tell him this was all a big misunderstanding once you’re released.”

  He nodded and smiled.

  To J.J.’s surprise, they fell into easy conversation. The SVR gave Plotnikov shit work. Stuck him in a low-level position, assumed he’d never do any harm. But Viktor was sharp. Smarter than they gave him credit for. And he had loyal friends in the right places. The more they conversed, the more the deep-seated pain from his past bubbled to the surface. Plotnikov’s eyes flooded and he crumbled with emotion.

  “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.