Red Widow

TWENTY-SEVEN

The next few days are difficult for Lyndsey.

She tells Eric about the latest message from Masha, hoping he’ll agree it’s their duty to help.

“I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do for her right now,” he says flatly.

Lyndsey’s blood pressure spikes. “How can you say that? Her husband is dead and it’s our fault—”

That seems to touch a nerve with Eric, and his face goes red. “We’ll do something as soon as we can, but you’ve got to stall her. With my other operation about to go off, Moscow Station is stretched thin. I can’t put anything else on their plate right now.”

She doesn’t know how to argue against that. She knows how important Morozov is to Eric, to the Agency.

“Keep her at the dacha. We’ll come for her as soon as we can,” he promises. It’s not the answer she wanted, but it’s the best she’ll get at the moment. She bites her tongue. Sometimes the job is like juggling knives.

That afternoon, Lyndsey sits in on a briefing being done especially for Eric. It’s in the big, fancy conference room down the hall. It has tiers of seats along three of its walls, like an operating theater. In the center, on the floor, is the big conference table, overpowering the room like something out of Dr. Strangelove. People pick random seats as they drift in, looking first to see who has already arrived.

Eric is the last one, everyone else shifting restlessly in their seats as they’re made to wait for him. His eyes lock onto hers momentarily as he enters the conference room but then he takes his chair at the head of the table, his back to her.

The briefers tell a fascinating story: analysts found a huge spike in FSB activity after the recent deaths and disappearances. “On the day of Genghis’s death, all senior FSB staff out of the Moscow area were recalled back to headquarters,” the briefer says as a fresh PowerPoint slide pops up showing a map of Russia dotted with thumbnails of various officials. “Communications between Moscow, Washington, D.C., and other world capitals—the channels we’re aware of—have been noticeably higher than is usual for this time of year,” the briefer says. Another map, this time of the world, with graphs over various cities showing rates of increase.

“Meaning what, exactly?” Eric twitches in his chair, trying to hide his impatience.

The briefer coolly adjusts her eyeglasses on the bridge of her nose. “They wouldn’t break op sec”—operational security—“if it wasn’t important. The increase in unanticipated communications shows that they were caught off guard.”

“By Popov’s death?” Eric forgets to use the cover term; Evert Northrop, sitting in a shadowy corner, winces.

“It’s impossible to know the reason for the increase by the timing alone. As you know, we don’t have access to these communications. Most are encrypted.”

Eric nods as she speaks, processing. “Were there no other notable events on those days? Something else the Russians might’ve been talking about?”

“Only routine activity. Nothing that we judged likely to be the reason for the increase.” Lyndsey leaves the room turning this over in her mind. Moscow was surprised. They hadn’t expected Popov’s death.

She has little time to think about it, however, as today there was an important visitor.

Shortly after Lyndsey told Eric of her suspicions about Theresa, he decided they had reached the limit of what they could learn from the resources they had at hand, computer logs and access lists and what coworkers were willing to say. They had a suspect now. CIA cannot run surveillance on U.S. persons. For that, you have to turn to the FBI.

The move rattled Lyndsey. Was it too soon? Will it turn out The Widow was innocent all along and make her look like a fool? But she will give this much to Eric: he knew how to make things happen. By the end of the day, the court order was ready to go before a FISA judge. They caught up with the judge at a dinner party in Georgetown, briefed him in the butler’s pantry, and by midnight had authority to wiretap Theresa’s phones.

Maggie swings by Lyndsey’s tiny office, giving her a quick nod. It’s time for the meeting. Everything is hush-hush, because no one in the office can know what the meeting is about. It still seems incredible to Lyndsey that they are meeting with the FBI when Theresa’s desk is only a hundred feet away.

The woman at the table in Eric’s office looks like she stepped right out of the Texas Hill Country. She’s tall and lanky with an aw-shucks friendly smile but an undeniable quiet confidence in her gray eyes, just the kind of person you’d feel good about entrusting with the civil liberties of your friends and neighbors. She wears a navy pants suit and no jewelry except a wristwatch with a plain black band, and her hair is cut in a short, no-nonsense style. “Special Agent Sally Herbert,” the woman says as she rises and extends a hand. She explains that she’s a squad supervisor in the Washington Field Office and will be leading the team working on this case. “We’ve set up a joint task force with Foreign Counterintelligence Division Five in the National Security Branch. They’re pulling in people from the U.S. Attorneys office to start work on the warrants for your Russian agent’s arrest. Don’t worry; we’re pulling in the absolute minimum to work this case. We all appreciate the sensitivity.” Herbert addresses Eric. “We executed the wiretaps and put a team on her house the morning after the court order was signed. She’s under coverage twenty-four seven.”

Lyndsey feels a twinge. It’s hard to see this happen to someone you know and once liked, for a once-respected colleague to be treated like a criminal. To have law enforcement watching your house through binoculars and taping your phone calls. She fights to remember that Theresa has brought this on herself.

“Have you gotten anything yet?” Eric asks.

One curt nod. “That’s why I’m here. We got extremely lucky. She got a suspicious call early this morning. We think it was in a code of some kind.”

“And the caller?” Lyndsey asks.

“In the U.S. but it wasn’t a number we’ve seen before. We’re still tracking it down.” Herbert takes a piece of paper out of her portfolio and pushes it across the table at them. “This is the transcript.”

Newman pushes the paper back at Herbert with an undercurrent of irritation. “Doesn’t look like anything to me. What makes you think it’s the Russians?”

“We couldn’t find any business listed as North Star Realtors in this area,” Herbert says, her voice level and calm, “and the Marriott says there’s no such seminar booked for that location at that time.”

“Did you catch a lucky break or do you research every call like that?” Lyndsey asks.

Herbert smiles. “I’d like to say yes, but we’ve seen the Russians use this technique in other cases. One of our agents remembered hearing the FSB use North Star Realtors before.”

Lazy tradecraft. It’s the little things that trip you up and give you away. “Does that mean they’re going to rendezvous next Thursday evening?” Lyndsey asks.

“I’d say something’s going to happen, though it might just be a dead drop with information about the real meeting. You can be sure we’ll be watching Warner on Thursday night,” Herbert says.

Eric perks up considerably. “This is a great catch. The sooner we can get this wrapped up, the better.” As he walks Herbert to the door, Eric adds, “I want you to contact me the minute you get anything else. I want to be kept in the loop.”

Herbert gives him a patient smile. “I appreciate your enthusiasm Mr. Newman, but from here out, the FBI is in control. We require your cooperation, but we are talking about a criminal investigation. I expect you to keep me informed of any changes in Warner’s behavior. Anything—no matter how small.” She hands them each a business card.

After Herbert leaves, Eric closes the door before Lyndsey can follow. “This is bothering you. I can tell by the look on your face,” he says.

“Well, of course. I’d have to be an ogre not to feel bad about it.”

“You were the one to figure this out. You should be pleased,” he says.

“I’d be more pleased to be wrong.”

“Look, if she’s innocent, surveillance will exonerate her.” A grin slips over his face. Is he the one who’s pleased? “Though it doesn’t sound like that’s going to happen, does it?”

As Lyndsey heads back to her office, she realizes that she’s shaking. After talking to Herbert, it suddenly feels very real. And yet, despite all the evidence she’s found, the way the clues point… She doesn’t know what it is, but something doesn’t feel right.