Red Widow

THIRTY-ONE

Well, well, well.

A few weeks ago, from across the office, Theresa watched Lyndsey in conversation with Jan Westerling.

As everyone in the office knew, her asset was just found dead. Westerling was young, so this may well have been the first person she has known, personally, to die. And to die so horribly, so violently. She was shaken so badly that she burst into tears in the office, not a good place to display emotions, especially the weak, “female” kind. Someday she’ll rue it, realize it set her back in ways she couldn’t know.

Theresa remembers the incident now, and tries to tamp down the accompanying wave of panic. Who else might Lyndsey have spoken to? Theresa should’ve thought of this earlier, done something about it. What else is she forgetting?

It’s exhausting being on high alert all the time. When was the last time Theresa did her actual job? She should be going over the reports coming in from Moscow Station but it’s nothing but low-level assets, handled by bored case officers who have been going through the motions for years. She’s supposed to read these reports and put the pieces together, to see the bigger picture. Occasionally she is asked to translate, her Russian that good fifteen years after college. She hasn’t done any real work for days, maybe weeks, but it would be easy to catch up before anyone asks.

If something else doesn’t happen first.

All she can think about now is keeping two steps ahead of Lyndsey and the investigation. She listens for footsteps behind her, waits for the hand of an officer from Security to fall on her shoulder. You’re coming with us, ma’am.

But this hasn’t happened.

After a minute—checking her watch, pretending to be thinking of some important thing, a reason to be standing in the aisle like this—Theresa turns around and scoots through a little-used back door into the hall. Once outside the vault, she feels better. It’s less likely that she’ll be observed out here. People come and go up and down the hall, and no one takes note. She joins them, walking with just enough purpose to give the impression she’s on her way to a meeting.

Lyndsey was talking to Jan Westerling. It could be coincidence: maybe Lyndsey saw Westerling crying and wanted to comfort her, but Theresa senses that wasn’t it. Lyndsey isn’t integrated into the office yet. She’s not part of the team. She doesn’t know Westerling, and isn’t the den mother type. Lyndsey was talking to Westerling for a reason.

It’s obvious what she’s doing: she’s talking to the reports officers for the three Russian assets. She’s trying to put the pieces together. Theresa listens to the sound of her own heels echo off the walls. Loud and sharp and insistent, drawing attention to her. You’d better run away. They’re coming for you.

Don’t look guilty. Whatever you do, don’t look guilty.

Theresa is going to have to find out who else Lyndsey has spoken to. Without conscious thought, her feet have brought her to Kyle Kincaid’s office. To this domain of former military with their telltale clipped haircuts and their self-consciously unfashionable manner of dress, as though they’re not quite used to picking out shirts and ties. Wrong colors, cheapish synthetic fabrics. They joke with each other loudly, and their desks are messier than over in Russia Division, as though there is no one to tell them that appearances matter.

Kyle Kincaid sits at his desk with his back to her, unaware of her approach, even though the boyish chatter dies down as she walks into the bullpen, as the men stop and stare at her. They don’t know she’s The Widow; they only see an attractive woman.

She hasn’t thought of what to say to Kincaid but she’s not worried; it will come to her. It always does. She’s a cat who always lands on her velvet paws. He looks up when she stands beside him, and his face lights up. “I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d drop by,” she says. She hopes her smile looks genuine.

They leave the vault and meander to the end of the hall, walls of glass with a view of the parking lots. It is dead space where no one ventures unless they have come for the vending machines. They have privacy.

He seems at a loss. He sneaks glances in her direction like a schoolboy afraid to ask her to the dance. Like all popular girls, cheerleaders and prom queens, it will be Theresa who will have to do the leading, carefully shepherding him along to get him to say what she wants him to say.

“You heard what happened to the other missing asset?” she asks in a low voice. There are few secrets in the Agency. “I wasn’t sure if the news got out of Russia Division yet.”

“What? No,” he answers, quickly masking his surprise. He doesn’t want to look out of touch. She tells him about Kulakov’s messy end while at the same time tamping down her guilt. She’s almost managed to erase the pictures from her mind. It’s amazing how well she’s learned to compartmentalize. It’s survival: concentrate on putting one step after the other. “And your asset—any word on him yet?”

He shakes his head.

She wants to ask about Lyndsey. She wants to know if Kincaid has spoken to her yet, what Lyndsey may have told him, how much she knows. If she mentioned Theresa’s name. The problem is she can’t think how to do this without making Kincaid suspicious.

Before she can think of a way, however, Kincaid surprises her. He steps in closer than is proper in the workplace, so close that he can practically see down her cleavage. She can smell the dying scent of his deodorant and faint traces of the last thing he ate. Too intimate too fast.

“Would you like to go out to dinner with me? It’s hard to talk here at work, don’t you think? Someone always listening. It would be easier to speak freely out of the building.” This is a funny thing to say under the circumstances. There’s something about his tone and the hard glint in his frankly untrustworthy eyes that make her think there’s something he hasn’t told her.

She’s losing control. Like with Tarasenko and Morozov. Someone she thought was a pussycat might turn out to be a tiger.

She feels the knife edge of panic, but it’s not enough to keep her from accepting. After all, she has to know what he may have said to Lyndsey and he’s right, it will be easier to talk outside of work. She doesn’t want to have anything to do with Kyle Kincaid, socially or otherwise—but she has no choice. It’s a risk she has to take.

“Why Kyle, I thought you’d never ask.”

Theresa pulls into the parking lot of the restaurant and turns off her Volvo’s engine. She sits behind the wheel, not looking to see if she is being watched. A voice in her head tells her to turn around, that it’s not too late. She can send the sitter home early, wipe the makeup off her face, curl up on the couch to watch a Disney movie with Brian, and leave Kyle Kincaid sitting at his table alone, wondering what happened to her.

Her hands rest on the steering wheel, seemingly too heavy to lift. She didn’t want Kincaid to come to her house, for Brian to see her leave with a strange man. On this point, she is adamant: Brian will not know of Kyle Kincaid. Their lives will never intersect, not at any point.

Kincaid has chosen a nondescript restaurant a few towns over, one—she senses—that isn’t frequented by Agency employees. He doesn’t want them to be seen together, and while that’s fine with her, it also raises a faint alarm. He’s trying to hide what they’re doing. Why?

He hasn’t arrived yet, so she waits at the bar with a glass of wine, again fighting her desire to leave. A sinister air seems to hang overhead: nothing good can come of this evening. It’s like she’s deliberating courting disaster but can’t stop herself.

Finally, Kincaid shows up. He’s changed into a sports jacket and open-collared shirt. He seems more nervous than when she last saw him.

He compliments her on her appearance, even though she made sure to dress conservatively: a high neckline, low hem. He asks the maître d’ for a table in the back. Theresa doesn’t like it—it implies a certain intimacy—but she figures he wants it for privacy. She slides into the banquette, giving herself the best view of the restaurant. In case she needs to make a hasty exit.

“Let me get you another wine,” he says, lifting his hand for a waiter.

“I’m fine,” she says coolly, but his grin is cocky.

“Oh, you’re going to want another drink,” he assures her. And then he tells her about his conversation with Lyndsey. “She came to see me. Asking questions.” Kincaid has a whole new tone now. More confident. Mean, like a schoolyard bully’s voice. He slides closer, just a degree, but deliberately. He is trying to intimidate her. “It means you’re in trouble. The investigation.”

She wouldn’t think Kincaid capable of putting it together. He seems the kind of guy who needs problems explained to him by the smarter guys, the ones who figured it all out. She wonders, for a few fleeting seconds, how much he really knows. If there’s a way out of this.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says, her face frozen.

“I don’t believe that for a minute.” He toys with a tumbler of Scotch. “I didn’t tell her about you. I gave her another name. But I could always tell her I was mistaken. That I got confused.”

Cold sweat starts to trickle down her sides. She can’t ask him what he wants: it would be an admission of guilt. And she doesn’t doubt for a minute that he’d take it to Lyndsey, like he threatened. He’d like to be the hero.

How ridiculous is it that—of all the brilliant minds at CIA—she was caught by Kyle Kincaid? There must be a way to discourage him from making good on his threat. She racks her brain, trying to think how.

Meanwhile, Kincaid is still talking. “Look, I don’t know why you did it and I don’t care. That’s your business. But if you don’t want to go to jail, you’ve got to give me something. You got money—everybody knows it. That sports car, the house in McLean. So, you’re going to pay me to keep my mouth shut.” He smiles so broadly his face might crack. He puffs out his chest and leans back, arms over the banquette like a mobster. She’d like to pick up that slender, sturdy fork and drive the tines right in his chest.

He has no idea what she’s thinking. He looks at her like she’s a Popsicle and his eyes are licking her up and down. Revolting. He ducks his head close so he can whisper in her ear. “And there’s one more thing you’re going to give me. You’re coming with me to a hotel. Tonight.” His hand hovers close to her breast. “You’re a widow, right? Been alone for a while now? So, this will be as much a treat for you as it is for me. It’s a shame a pretty thing like you has been sitting on a shelf. What you been saving it for?”

He’s just been upgraded to the dinner knife. She’d plunge its dull blade deep into his heart and not feel the slightest glimmer of regret. It’s all she can do to keep her hands in her lap, to keep from reaching for it.

Oblivious, he takes a lock of her hair, fiddles it between his fingers, savoring the silkiness. “Ready to ditch this place?” he asks.

Somehow, she doesn’t scream. She manages to maintain control. Gives him a tight, icy smile. Smooths the hair he’s just mussed so not a strand is out of place. “Sure. Just give me a minute to get ready.” She rises from the banquette and walks deliberately to the restroom, feeling his eyes on her ass.

Thankfully, it’s empty. She staggers to the granite counter, which she hangs on to like a life preserver, and avoids looking into the mirror. She doesn’t want to see the face of defeat.

No, not defeat. Not by the likes of Kyle Kincaid, not when she’s come so far.

She reaches for her purse on the counter. She digs through it, looking for something buried beneath the tissues and loose breath mints and package of crushed Oreos that she carries for Brian. Considering what it is, she really should keep better track of it. It’s not the kind of thing you want to fall into the wrong hands…

Yes, it’s still there, a small battered Altoids tin (“curiously strong”) held closed with a rubber band doubled, tripled over. She opens it with trembling hands. There it is, one lone pill, large, white, chalky to the touch. A present from her Russian handler, totally unrequested. You’ll never need this, Kanareyka—but just in case. For your peace of mind. For their peace of mind, she’s no fool. They’d rather not have any loose ends if things go south, would rather not leave behind a CIA officer capable of telling them things. An officer with names, places, tradecraft.

She rolls the pill between her fingers. Not for herself, of course—she has Brian to think about. She’s not going to leave her son on his own, not when they’re so close to being a family again.

It’s for Kyle Kincaid. She can hardly believe her thoughts, they’re so hard, so calculating. But she can be hard because he’s a solitary man, with no one dependent on him. No one would miss him if something happened to him.

She looks down at the pill: how would she give it to him? It’s not like he’s going to take it voluntarily. He’s just threatened her: he’ll be on his guard. He won’t take a drink from her that he hasn’t watched her mix himself. And how else could she give it to him?

Her mind blanks, then blurs. It’s impossible. It can’t be done.

Impossible is not the answer. She’ll have to find a way.

She puts the pill back in the tin. She doesn’t know what’s in it, but you have to respect a Russian poison pill. Those Russians know their stuff. She rinses her hands, just in case.

For every second she’s away, Kincaid will grow more anxious. She doesn’t have all the time in the world. She doesn’t want to give him too much time to think. She dries her hands, reapplies her lipstick, and goes to face the music.

The hotel Kincaid has picked is not stylish, but neither is it a flea-ridden dump. It’s merely suburban and nondescript, stucco walls and garish, multicolored carpeting in the lobby to hide wear and tear. The clerk at the desk doesn’t raise an eyebrow as they wait without luggage, Kincaid tapping his credit card against the counter as the clerk works the keyboard. Theresa keeps her eyes trained on that horrible carpet, wishing she could disappear.

The room itself is smallish. She slips off her coat and sits on the bed, fighting claustrophobia. She insisted they pick up a bottle of whiskey on the way and he didn’t argue, sensing perhaps that she’ll need to get good and drunk to go through with what he wants. He pours shots into two thick, ugly hotel glasses.

She takes a sip, savoring the burn, before heading to the bathroom. It smells of cleanser in there, though not enough to mask the mildew. She runs the taps to cover noise as she takes the Altoids tin from her purse. She snaps the big, awkward pill in half and then, feeling a pang of conscience, breaks off a little more. The crumbs she brushes into the sink, letting the running water wash them away. She doesn’t want to kill Kyle Kincaid, she just wants to send him a message. Don’t mess with me. All she needs is to make him hesitate; it won’t be long before the Russians help her leave the country.

She tucks the remaining piece into her bra, where it sits like a rock pressed against her sternum.

When she comes out, Kincaid is sitting on the edge of the bed with his legs splayed wide like a careless man on the subway, already a little drunk and not caring what she thinks. His glass sits empty on a nearby dresser.

She sets her glass next to his. She reaches to her waist for the ties that hold her wrap dress closed and with one quick, deliberate motion—before she can think about it—she yanks the knot undone, so her dress falls open. She lets it slide over her shoulders and fall to the floor in a silky flutter. Kincaid smiles, a happy schoolboy. She stands before him in bra and panties and heels, a gold chain at her throat. She can practically feel Kincaid’s throat go dry.

Before he can say or do anything, she climbs onto the bed, straddling his lap. She peels off his jacket first, pulling it down over his shoulders. He watches, amazed. Maybe it plays into a fantasy he has, that a woman could want him so much she’d tear off his clothes. In any case, he lets her. He runs his hands over her body, and she tries not to think about the way he kneads her ass through the lace panties. She loosens his tie—his throat shouldn’t be constricted in any way—and unbuttons his shirt. He throws his head back, loving it, giving her full access, giving her whatever she wants.

“I knew you’d enjoy it, if you gave yourself a chance,” he says. Does he really believe this? His erection rises beneath her, pushes clumsily at her crotch as she undoes the buttons of his shirt.

“I want you to use your mouth,” he whispers in her ear.

She’d rather die first.

It’s now or never.

She pushes his shoulders back on the mattress. He doesn’t fight—why should he? It’s all going his way, his wildest dreams fulfilled. She turns, reaching for her glass on the dresser. And in that moment, he can’t see what she’s doing.

In the flurry of hands undoing his buttons and her twisting and gyrations, she has managed to slip the nugget of poison from her bra into her mouth. She doesn’t want to keep it there for long. Not for one second more than is necessary.

She leans over Kincaid, their faces so close that his five o’clock shadow grazes her cheek, and kisses him full on the lips. She anticipates the open mouth and the tongue rising up to meet hers.

In that instant, she uses her tongue to shove the poison into his mouth. Then follows with the glass, rim crashing into his teeth, and empties the whiskey down his throat.

He knows something is up and flounders beneath her, trying to sit upright, but she wills herself to be as heavy as an anchor. She sits like a banshee on his chest, a succubus. Her fingers pinch his nose closed, clamp his mouth shut. She doesn’t want him to be able to breathe. She waits for him to gulp for air. Swallow, you motherfucker. Swallow.

He’s thrashing, he’s flailing, but she only has to hold on a few seconds more. His face turns red. Tears well in his eyes. A little whiskey seeps at the corners of his mouth, but he’s on his back and gravity is on her side.

Finally, his Adam’s apple moves.

It’s done.

She springs off his chest like a cat and scrambles backward. Standing a safe distance away, she watches, anxious for what will happen next.

Russian poisons work quickly. Once the deed is done, you want it to be fast. The last thing the Russians want is for someone to have the time to tell a few secrets before they expire.

With the weight gone from his chest, Kincaid sits bolt upright, a strained expression on his face. His first thought is not of revenge. It’s pure self-preservation. He knows something terrible has happened. He knows he has been poisoned. Could he be feeling the effects already? What will she do if he yells for help, or tries to run away? She watches for the slightest twitch, any indication of what he’ll do next.

His hands search around him, as though he’s gone blind and needs his hands. He rifles his jacket, then stops: his cell phone. He pulls it out of a pocket and starts to jab desperately at the keyboard. She slaps it out of his hand, sending it spinning across the room.

He tries to yell but nothing comes out, only the hiss of air and a long, foamy string of bubbles, like a washing machine run amok. His eyes search her face—what have you done to me? He’s frightened as the truth starts to dawn on him. Frightened as a little boy.

Then his expression changes. Help me.

“Don’t worry. You’re not going to die,” she tells him as she reaches for the bottle of Scotch. She takes a big swig, swishing it around in her mouth, rinsing vigorously, while sprinting to the bathroom. Spits it all into the sink. Has she been quick enough, or could a minute amount of poison have gotten into her system?

Wiping her mouth on the back of her hand, she stands over him and starts to dress hurriedly. “I didn’t give you the full dose. It’ll just make you sick—really sick. Something for you to think about.”

But Kincaid isn’t listening. He’s fallen backward onto the bed. Pink-tinged foam pumps out of his mouth now like a bubble machine. He’s gone pasty white, except for his face, which is turning blue. His eyes are wide open and stark. She leans over and slaps his cheeks. Unresponsive. Feels his throat for a pulse and it’s wild, all over the place. He starts to vomit dribbles of yellow liquid.

She steps back from the bed, her heart going like a jackhammer. This is not what she expected. A quarter of the pill is apparently enough to kill him. She’ll call for an ambulance from the first pay phone she sees but from the looks of things, he’s going to die. The realization turns her ice-cold, makes her want to double over puking.

And she held that pill in her mouth for one, two seconds.

And now her thoughts turn to self-preservation. Brian. He’s her only concern.

Can she be linked to this room, to him? There was, undoubtedly, a camera in the lobby and she hung back when they were checking in, but there’s a chance it may have caught her face.

Well, it’s a chance she has to take. She puts on her coat, snatches up her handbag. With wadded up tissues, she wipes down every surface she remembers touching in the bedroom and the bathroom. Wipes the rim of her glass.

Taking one last look at the body convulsing on the bed, she averts her eyes and wipes the door handle as she leaves.

There’s a lone light burning in the rear of the house as Theresa pulls into the driveway. She collects herself before heading in, wishes there was a way to erase the smell of Scotch that seems to exude from her pores.

She gives the babysitter—an older woman who lives a few doors down—forty dollars and locks the door after ushering her out. A quick check on Brian—so trusting and innocent in his sleep, she almost bursts into tears—before heading to the bedroom. Pulling the codebook out of the shoebox.

Writing, with shaking hands, the numbers for the message she formed in her head on the drive home.