Red Widow

TWO

^{TYSONS CORNER, VIRGINIA}

The phone rings, a jangle of notes that cuts through an Ambien-induced fog and drags Lyndsey Duncan up through the depths of sleep, near but not quite all the way to consciousness. As she fumbles for the cell phone, her hand runs up hard against a lamp, knocking it off the nightstand. In the dark, everything is a puzzle. She moved in two weeks ago, but the apartment still feels like a hotel. Maybe because it came furnished, an impersonal apartment for business travelers.

Large white numbers glow from the screen: 3:22. It’s tough to force yourself awake when you’ve only been asleep for a couple hours. Or maybe it’s jet lag—do you still get jet lag after two weeks?

Then again, she’s learned to expect calls in the middle of the night.

“This is Sergeant Mitchell from the SOC.” In the back of her mind, she remembers that SOC stands for Security Operations Center, the operational watch at CIA. “I’m calling for Lyndsey Duncan.”

“You’ve found her.” And woke her up.

“I’m sorry to be calling at this hour, but we need you to cut your leave short and report to work today.”

Lyndsey pushes back the bed things—the sheets stiff, blanket heavy, none of it hers, everything unfamiliar. “What?”

The voice remains patient. “I was told that you are currently on home leave and were not expected to report for work until”—a piece of paper rustles in the background—“January twentieth, but there’s been a situation and your presence has been requested.”

A situation. It could be only one thing, the reason she was put on administrative leave. Her throat is dry from the medication. A glass of ice-cold water would help her to wake up.

“You will need to report to room…” As he recites a short string of numbers and letters, Lyndsey has the presence of mind to reach for the cheap pen-and-pad set next to the phone and write it down in the dark. She’s been trained to remember things on the fly (telephone numbers, license plates, addresses) but with the Ambien, why risk it?

As she writes, her mind starts to clear. This is not good. There’s no reason for them to call her in unless a decision has been made, and a decision this quick is likely to not be in her favor. She came home hoping for a second chance, but apparently that’s not going to happen. We’ve reviewed the facts of your case and I’m afraid that we have no option but to revoke your clearance and terminate your employment with the Central Intelligence Agency.

For the millionth time, she thinks of the things she’d done for her job, things she didn’t think herself capable of as a young girl growing up fatherless in a small town in Pennsylvania. The Agency picked her up right out of college and changed the course of her life.

She can still remember the presentation that she gave to the recruiters. The slides she’d prepared based on her psychology studies in college, the index cards she’d held in her damp hands. Ninety percent of all people will lie consistently. The average person will tell three lies every ten minutes. I can predict when someone is lying with greater accuracy than a polygraph. Not that polygraphs were very accurate, but she knew that was what the Agency used. She thought they’d laugh at her, but the recruiter loved her research. Turned out CIA was very interested in knowing when someone was lying to them.

She thought she’d spend her days in a lab but the Agency had other plans for her.

But now her career is over. Ten years after it started.

“They’d like you to report by eight a.m., ma’am, if that would work for you,” the security officer goes on to say. She almost asks if there will be a hearing, if she’ll get a chance to tell her side of the story or if she’s only coming in to turn in her badge.

But then, the sergeant adds one last thing. One thing that stops the angry conversation in her head and brings her safely back down to earth.

“Oh, and one more thing: you’re to report to Eric Newman.”

There will be no going back to sleep now.

Lyndsey retrieves the lamp from the floor and clambers out of bed. She can’t find her bathrobe. It’s as though a spiteful servant packed her bags when she left Lebanon. She’s been living out of two suitcases filled with a crazy assortment of odds and ends. Unsuitable shoes, not one decent dress, mismatched jewelry. She is constantly reaching for something that isn’t there, a possession that’s in a box making its way to the United States on a very slow boat. Since she was the one who did the packing, she has no one to blame but herself.

Even though the apartment is fully furnished down to the sheets and towels, pots and pans, she can’t mentally adjust to the space. It’s like trying to ride a bicycle in high heels and an evening gown; she seems to constantly be running into things (an awkwardly placed coffee table, a wall where a door should be). Unable to find what she needs in any given moment, nothing ever at hand.

She rubs her face. She should have used the past couple weeks to search for a place to live. She was supposed to have two months of home leave, the term for annual leave you aren’t able to burn while you’re stationed overseas. Leave that piles up while you’re busy being invaluable to the nation’s security. Some people come back with six months of paid vacation. Lyndsey offered to forfeit hers if they would let her go right back to work. She wasn’t trying to be a hero; it would take her mind off her troubles. But they insisted she take the time.

Trust me, the OHESS doctor had said during the customary checkup on her return. She never liked dealing with the Occupational Heath, Environmental and Safety Services office, it seemed intrusive for your doctor to work for your employer. Everybody needs to de-stress after an overseas tour. You need to get used to being in the States again. He had been instructed to say that, she was pretty sure. They needed time to decide what to do with her.

Lyndsey wanders through the apartment in the oversized T-shirt she wears for sleeping, turning on lights as she goes. Because of the Ambien, she rules out another drink. Something hot? Herbal tea, cocoa? But there’s next to nothing in the place, only one-cup bags of ground coffee brought daily by the housekeeper, because she has been avoiding the grocery store. She really should go shopping.

She can hardly believe her luck. She hasn’t been fired; she knew as soon as she heard Eric Newman’s name. He was her first boss at the CIA. Their paths have crossed innumerable times since then, which is to be expected since they work the same target. He’d been made Chief of Russia Division a few years ago, a powerful position. Whatever’s happened, the reason for the call, has something to do with Russia. But CIA has lots of Russia hands, many of them with more years on target than her. It’s a little odd that he would ask for her by name. She wonders what he might know about her time in Lebanon—and her return.

She sits on the couch, tucking her cold, bare feet beneath her. She tries to remember how she left things with Eric the last time she’d seen him. She’d always thought him a good guy, a boss who wanted to do the right thing for his people, but there had been grumbles. Weren’t there always grumbles about the boss? Show me one manager who is loved by everyone.

Eric Newman asked for her by name.

She finds the remote and turns on the television, flipping quickly to CNN. The news is all reheated from earlier, not a clue as to what could be behind Eric’s request. Wrangling over financial reforms in Congress, another round of peace talks in the Middle East, and baseball’s team owners about to meet in Florida. The reality is that whatever is behind the SOC’s call, it hasn’t hit the news. It’s something bad that the rest of the world doesn’t know about yet.

But, in four hours, she’ll find out.