Red Widow

TWENTY-ONE

^{SIX MONTHS EARLIER}

After Jack Clemens’s confession, every minute of Theresa’s day, it seemed, was an exercise in anger management. Seemingly every minute at work, she had to keep from breaking out in a screaming rage. Snapping at the neighbors or her mother on the phone, keep from bursting into tears in front of her son. (Tears were saved for evening, after she’d gone to bed and had closed the door on the world.)

She had to confirm what Jack had told her, to see with her own eyes how badly she’d been betrayed. Getting her hands on the report was out of the question, however. It would be highly compartmented. There wouldn’t be a copy in the office, not if even Eric wasn’t aware of its existence. The only place she could be sure of finding it would be a vault hidden away in the bowels of the building, a place where paper copies were kept of all sensitive reporting. Paper because many of these were historical records, written before the digital age. Paper, too, so they would survive an electromagnetic pulse or other type of twenty-first-century disaster.

The vault was a lonely little outpost manned during the day by a retiree hired back specifically for this assignment. She’d gotten to know him shortly after Richard’s disastrous operation, hoping to bully her way into seeing all the privileged records. The old man had proven impervious to her charms as well as her threats. His name was Jimmy Purvis, a case officer retired over twenty years now and had undoubtedly been well past retirement age when he was finally forced out. Unmarried and childless, with nothing to fill his days, he’d dunned the Agency into giving him a position so he’d be able to continue walking through the security turnstiles in the morning and getting lunch from the cafeteria.

When she came for him this time, however, he already knew her. And she knew him, had heard all his stories from the old days and knew that he liked the crumb cake they sold upstairs in the coffee shop. So, she brought a square with her, tidy in its cling wrap jacket, and watched him eat it with his cold coffee as she sat in the battered old chair next to his desk.

“You’re the only one around here who’s nice to an old man,” Purvis said as he chased the remaining clumps of sugar with his plastic fork. “Everyone else is too important.” Behind them were rows and rows of shelves, on each shelf archival boxes filled with reports. A label on each box bore the dates and subjects and cover terms of the reports inside. She had a good idea where the records for Richard’s case were, knew the general ballpark.

She smiled at him, but in the back of her mind, she was calculating. He had to be close to eighty. What could he possibly want, what could she offer him that would be worth fifteen minutes alone in the vault? Not her body: he barely looked at her. He might be insulted if she offered money. Or tried to trick him.

She leaned forward, touched a hand to his arm. He raised an eyebrow.

“Jimmy, I have a favor to ask of you—”

He drew back—but barely. “Not this again. You know I can’t—”

“This is different. I’m only interested in one report. Just one.” She slid a scrap of paper to him. On it was the date, cover terms—everything Jack Clemens could remember about the report. “I just want to see what it says. For my own peace of mind. Tell me what you want for it. Name your price.”

She was thankful that he didn’t erupt in fury, didn’t try to throw her out. It meant he was considering it. His mouth twitched, eyes narrowed. Silently, he pushed back from the desk, picked up the scrap of paper and read it as he shuffled to the shelves. She listened to the sound of heavy boxes being pulled down, put back. Papers rustled.

Finally, five minutes later he was back with a thin folder bearing a triple red stripe along its border. He held it up, showing it to her like a boy who’d captured the flag.

“You still got Richard’s car?”

The XKE. So beautiful, it was like the Mona Lisa on wheels. Purvis was a sports car nut and had long admired Richard’s vintage Jaguar, had pored over the photo she’d shown him once. But the car was worth a fortune. That was like an insurance policy for Brian. She couldn’t just give it to him, not in exchange for one single report.

She felt blood drain from her face. “You want me to give you the car?”

“What? No—I’m not greedy. Just a drive. Let me take it for a drive, someplace nice.”

This seemed like a terrible idea. Jimmy Purvis was an old man, so old that he had shrunk too small for his clothes. He wore Coke-bottle glasses and his hands shook. Should he even be driving at all? Did he still have his license?

Still, on the list of things he could’ve asked for, this was benign. What the hell—he was doing her a bigger favor than he could imagine, and… he was an old man. This might be his last thrill.

She nodded. “Sure. I’ll give you the keys for the whole weekend. Do we have a deal?”

He handed the report to her.

For two days after reading it, Theresa was in a fog. She managed to get by on autopilot, making sack lunches for her son and seeing him off at the bus stop. At work, she sat at her desk seething with resentment, her brain on fire. She wasn’t herself and she knew it. She was giddy in the company of others, dangerously so, the truth pressing from inside, desperate to be free. It was all she could do not to run down the halls, telling the whole bloody story to anyone who’d listen. You have no idea what your precious Agency is capable of. Our lives mean nothing to them, we’re nothing but pawns, and not one of us is safe.

As she sat at her desk, struggling with the urge to set the place on fire, to burn the whole house of cards to the ground, she began to grasp the terrible truth.

It had all been there in the few lines of that cable from Moscow, just like Jack had said. One of their assets, a most reliable one, had heard the FSB had captured an American agent in a botched exfiltration. The asset didn’t know that captured man’s name, but who else could it be? Everyone else involved in the mission had already been named dead.

Richard had been alive—and was still alive. She had to believe that.

And they’d kept it from her this whole time. Brought her back in to work—of course! So they could keep an eye on her, make sure she didn’t get any funny ideas, would be able to control her if she did.

Could they control her? They shouldn’t be too sure, she smirked.

She wasn’t dumb. Quite to the contrary. And she was resourceful.

If the seventh floor wasn’t going to help Richard, there was only one option open to her.

Russia.

Only the Russians could free her husband.

This went against everything she knew. Russia was the enemy, the target: this had been ingrained in her in eleven years of service. To go to them, hat in hand, and propose to work together—the very idea was heresy. Disdain roiled inside her like poison.

And yet, it was the only solution. Her last hope.

If Theresa was to become a traitor, it wasn’t her fault. No, this was all on the Agency. They’d left her no choice. They’d lied to her face for two years, kept her cocooned in ignorance, and now held her down, sought to keep her helpless. Well, she was helpless no more. The Agency was responsible for the hatred now coursing through her veins. She would have her revenge. The enemy of my enemy is my friend.

But how to approach them? This was the conundrum. She couldn’t stop thinking about it, turning it over and over in her mind as she went through the motions of a regular day. New employees were told during orientation about agents who’d turned traitor. Their cases were dissected in painful detail, the traitors’ mistakes paraded before their eyes. The upshot was that new hires were made to believe it was impossible to contact a foreign service. Usually, would-be traitors approached the enemy’s representatives closest to hand: foreign embassies. But Langley and the FBI had the embassies and consulates in D.C. covered, or so CIA officers were told. How they did this was never explained, but Theresa imagined they held stakeouts near the entrances. You could be fired for visiting a foreign embassy without express permission. Theresa was understandably nervous. She didn’t want to be found out, caught, and arrested, before she’d even begun.

She read up on the ways that spies before her—Aldrich Ames, Robert Hanssen, Ronald Pelton—had made contact. Disappointingly, most happened overseas, where security was weaker and it wasn’t possible for U.S. authorities to watch their people all the time. Luckily for Theresa, it would be easy for her to find out about the Russians working at the embassy: it was there in the office files, the information needed to surveil the adversary. It was all at her fingertips: where Russian embassy employees lived, which schools their children went to, the bars and restaurants they liked to frequent. She was careful not to spend too much time at file cabinets to avoid drawing attention. Nonetheless, her heart raced and her palms sweated the whole time, as if she expected to be discovered. For a security officer to appear at her desk any minute with a curt, “Please come with me, ma’am.” But each time she thought about stepping away and forgetting the whole thing, she was haunted by the thought of Richard in a Russian jail, wasting away. Anything he had suffered was a thousand times worse than what she faced. And she would return to the files.

Before long, her research led her time and again to the same man. Evgeni Constantinov seemed the best candidate; listed as a low-ranking officer in the embassy’s cultural section, there was no doubt he was really an SVR officer using the position as cover. He lived in a good-sized house in Great Falls—no low-ranking Russian diplomat could afford to live there—and the clincher was his proximity to McLean. Surveillance would be a breeze. Being closer to home, there’d be less traffic to deal with. Less time away from Brian.

Having picked her target, she moved on to the next step: learning his route. It meant leaving her son with a sitter in the evenings but a necessary sacrifice, she told herself as she kissed his head and climbed into a rental car she’d left in a church parking lot near her house. After driving an elaborate surveillance detection route through northern Virginia, she headed to the Russian embassy on Wisconsin Avenue. The location had been quite a coup for the Russians, not far from the Naval Observatory where the vice president and his family lived, a lovely part of town. Every night, she parked or circled the block until she saw Constantinov’s car leave the compound, then followed at a discreet distance as he drove home. The more she saw of him, the more she was convinced Constantinov was not just an attaché in the foreign ministry. He was a little too alert and attentive behind the wheel of a splashy SUV. A little too fit, he looked like Russian military. She followed him every night for a week until she was satisfied with his consistency. He left the building at approximately the same time each night, took the same route. Apparently, he didn’t think he was being tailed by the Americans or didn’t care. There would be times when he would work late or be called away on duty, but for her purposes, she felt pretty sure that he would fit the bill.

She found one spot in particular good for an approach: there was a bottleneck on Constantinov’s route, where he had to maneuver his car from MacArthur Boulevard to the Clara Barton Parkway, around Ericsson Road. It was still city there and pedestrians milled on the street corners, waiting at bus stops and popping in and out of shops. She could do a brush pass by his car and it wouldn’t be noticeable, if it turned out the FBI had someone watching him.

Another lucky break was that Constantinov smoked, a habit that was slow to die out among Russians. He often drove with his windows down, plumes of smoke rising above his car as he sat in traffic. He drove a massive SUV, surely an embassy vehicle, and it sat high on the road. She practiced making passes in her garage where no one would see her, walking by and aiming for a high shelf approximately the height of the SUV’s door, until they were perfectly smooth. Undetectable.

Her hands shook as she wrote the note: I am a CIA officer with information that will be of interest to you. Followed by instructions for a rendezvous if they wanted to meet. The chances of follow-through, she knew, were almost nil. They would suspect the whole thing was a trap, albeit a clumsy one. It meant the possibility of multiple attempts passing notes to Constantinov to persuade them. And even if they were intrigued, it might be a long time before they decided to act. They’d need to identify her and then they would follow her and study her, until they were satisfied that she wasn’t setting them up.

She folded the note so it would stay closed if she should somehow miss the window and it fell to the gutter or sidewalk, and kept it hidden in the rental car under a floor mat, but even this tenuous connection back to her made her nervous. It was proof of her perfidy in block lettering on yellow legal paper, tangible evidence of her intent to betray her country.

The country that had betrayed her first.

Every day, she did the same thing. She went home after work and made dinner for Brian, leaving him with the sitter. Then she drove the rental car to a sleepy branch library where she donned a wig and glasses, a different coat and handbag. After that, she went to MacArthur Boulevard, parked the car, and walked to the intersection where Constantinov would be in about an hour, stuck in traffic. She made many dry runs, practiced spotting his car and doing brushes. Calculating how far from the curb she’d need to be to slide the tightly folded note through the open window on the passenger’s side—without being noticed. An entire week passed before she was satisfied that he wasn’t being followed or watched by the FBI.

The second week, however, Constantinov disappeared. She watched the traffic at MacArthur Boulevard but didn’t see his SUV. Whether his absence was due to late nights in the office or a sudden trip out of town, she didn’t know. It was so maddening that, back in the office, she dared to check his file, but there were no updates, no new notes. While it meant she had no idea where he’d gone, the only upside was that he didn’t appear to be on anyone’s radar.

And then the third week, he reappeared, falling back into his normal routine. The amount of relief she felt was enormous, unexpectedly so. It was as though fate was reassuring her that this was meant to be. The plan was back on. She would proceed.

She did her run the first three days that week but chickened out at the last minute each time. She’d get the feeling she was being followed or didn’t like the look of a man lingering on the corner, afraid he might be FBI even though she knew that he wasn’t. Nobody cared about Constantinov, the out-of-date file in the office backed that fact up. She wasn’t being followed. It was jitters, pure and simple. Get a grip on yourself. Either you’re going to do this or you’re not. So, on Thursday, she steeled herself and walked toward Constantinov’s car as it idled in traffic. She veered to the curb. He had no idea what was happening, she could tell by the bored expression on his face, the way he looked through the windshield like a law enforcement officer, at nothing and everything at once. The effortless flick of ash from the end of his cigarette. She slid the folded note into his cab so efficiently that she almost could believe she hadn’t done it, walking away with blood pounding in her ears. No one on the street had noticed, not even the people beside her on the sidewalk. Maybe even Constantinov—either that or he’d had the presence of mind not to react. Either way, he wouldn’t do anything until he’d pulled into the two-car garage at home and leaned over for his briefcase and saw the yellow triangle of paper resting on the seat. A simple note waiting for him like a time bomb.

They were to meet at four p.m. on Sunday afternoon at the National Cathedral, three long days away. Theresa wasn’t sure how she’d get through work on Friday without breaking down and blurting it all out in one long confession. She considered calling in sick but if they suspected her in any way, she’d only confirm those suspicions by taking a day off. She spent the first half of the day in a cold sweat, listening for the sound of unfamiliar footsteps behind her as men from Security made their way to her desk. But it didn’t happen, and by lunchtime, she felt better. Mere hours to go before she was clear.

And after all this anxiety, she almost didn’t go to the rendezvous. Her mind worked up insidious schemes. After all the propaganda she’d been fed in CI classes, it seemed impossible that Constantinov wouldn’t have a tail on him, that the FBI hadn’t questioned him and knew what she was up to. It was too quiet, too easy. You are walking into a trap, her brain hissed. But then a funny thing happened a couple hours before the appointed meeting: she saw on the news that there was a bust at the Chinese embassy. She didn’t get the whole story—it had just broken and facts were scarce—but there, on the screen, FBI agents and police swarmed all over the Chinese compound. Blue lights, yellow tape, men in FBI windbreakers carrying out boxes of computers. Every FBI agent in D.C. had to be there. Minor routine duties, like routine surveillance of Russian officers, would be canceled for the day. She was sure of it.

She tried not to get her hopes up that Russians would actually be at the rendezvous. Even if they were curious, they would spend this first meeting playing it safe. They would go early to stake out the place. They would watch from afar to see if she showed up. They would look for FBI. They would give full rein to their suspicions. Offering yourself up for treason was inevitably a drawn-out affair. She’d have to be patient, play the long game.

She dropped Brian off at the house of a school friend, finally taking the woman up on her offer of a playdate, and spent the rest of the hour running a surveillance detection route. It was short, too short, but that was all she had time for.

She sat in the rental car two blocks from the National Cathedral and fought back the panic that now surged through her in waves. Am I really going to go through with this? What if run into someone I know? The wig wouldn’t fool anyone for more than a minute. This is madness. But she knew that if the Russians showed up and she didn’t, then it would be over. There would be no second chances. After the terror had subsided and she was awash in regret, she would wonder her entire life if she’d made a mistake. Every time she looked into Brian’s face, she’d wonder if she could’ve given him his father back.

She took a deep breath and opened the car door.

She walked into the cathedral’s gift shop prepared for disappointment, but there was Evgeni Constantinov by a rack of greeting cards. Up close, he looked just like his file picture, which was in itself a minor miracle, because spies never looked the same in person. The photos were usually years out of date, rarely updated. They always ended up looking older in real life than you expected, especially around the eyes. Exhausted and cynical.

A nervous-looking man in an ill-fitting suit on the other side of the shop was obviously with Constantinov, which meant there were undoubtedly several more she hadn’t spotted out on the grounds watching for FBI. Theresa’s brain crackled with conflicting emotions. Disbelief, that they had come as she’d asked, that they had taken her seriously. Worry, that despite her intense effort to lose any tail, she had been followed and FBI would swoop down on them any second. And, lastly, excitement, because she was doing something that had been long forbidden to her, like a schoolgirl finally trying her hand at shoplifting. It’s never as bad or scary as you think it will be.

She headed to the herb garden after making sure Constantinov was following. The hedges on the paths were shoulder height, providing good cover, and the thick foliage would absorb sound. They wouldn’t be overheard, accidentally or otherwise. The garden was usually popular with tourists but it was unseasonably chilly for June and the only other occupant was an elderly priest in a rumpled raincoat. He flicked a cigarette butt to the ground before disappearing into the main building.

It was important to set the tone, she knew, to let the Russians know that she could not be jerked around. They had to see that she wasn’t the usual turncoat, deep in trouble and desperate for money. What she wanted was very, very specific. “I’m glad you took my note seriously. I don’t have time to waste,” she said to Constantinov in a low, even voice.

He made a scoffing sound in his throat. “It doesn’t matter if you are in a hurry. There are still steps that must be taken, a protocol to follow.” The Russian obviously wanted to take control of the situation. That’s what any case officer would do, she knew, but she was through with letting someone else lead.

She turned to face him. “Let’s cut to the chase. Your superiors are going to want to talk to me. Do you know who I am?” Constantinov looked uncomfortable, which pleased her. He was losing control and didn’t like it, but at the same time he was afraid of making a mistake. “I’m Theresa Warner. Richard Warner’s wife. He’s a CIA officer sitting in one of your jails. You wouldn’t have heard of him. It’s a very sensitive case. There’s been a big cover-up, both here and in Russia. Richard Warner—give that name to your bosses. They’ll know who he is.”

Constantinov edged away from her slightly as though she were mad. Did he not believe her? That was okay: he’d believe her soon enough. “And if this is true, what is it you think I can do for you?”

“I’m prepared to provide your organization with secrets in exchange for his release.”

“You need to be more specific.”

“I’m a CIA officer. I can get my hands on anything. I’ll make it worthwhile. But this will be a one-time exchange. I will give you secrets, and you will release my husband, and then we’ll disappear. Moscow will leave us alone—that’s part of the bargain, too.”

He thought for a moment. “Moscow perhaps, but what about Washington? Your own people will come after you.”

“That’s my concern.” On this point, she’d be firm: she wanted nothing more to do with either side. She’d only trust herself from now on, her and Richard. “So, no disrespect to you, but I want to speak to someone high up at the next meeting, someone with authority.”

He crooked an eyebrow. He wanted to tell her she was in no position to be making demands. They would decide who would deal with her. The Russians didn’t run their assets like the Americans; they were more stick than carrot, a part of their authoritarian culture that ran through their psyches like a fat vein of ore. “I will see about setting up this meeting,” he said finally, grudgingly. “But you must show us what you have to offer. You must give us a sample, prove that you can deliver.” She nodded; she had expected this.

They set up a way for him to contact her when the meeting was set. He looked skeptical but now that they’d bitten, they’d follow through, she was sure of it. Chances like these didn’t fall in their laps every day. Theresa went back to her rental car, shaking, unable to believe what she had done. She had gone toe-to-toe with a Russian officer. There was something primitive about it, like two animals squaring off in the forest, fang and claw. He had wanted to snap her up and gobble her down like some small, weak creature, but she had stood her ground. She had withstood him, and was only starting to realize it, to feel better and stop shaking. She flexed her hands before placing them on the steering wheel of the rental car.

For the first time, she allowed herself to believe that this was going to turn out okay.