Red Widow

THIRTY-SEVEN

There’s a courtyard outside the Agency cafeteria. It’s got a handful of tables, and benches under the scant trees. A huge sculpture stands in a corner, strips of metal with letters of the alphabet punched out in seemingly random placement, inviting further inspection. It’s meant to represent cryptography, and those letters encase a hidden message.

Lyndsey sits on a bench staring at the statue. The sun is filtered by trees but still glints brightly off the metal, making her squint. She left her desk because she couldn’t risk running into Eric in her current frame of mind.

What game is he playing? No matter how she twists and turns the facts, she can’t think of one scenario that makes sense. Why would Eric Newman bring her in to solve the case—or not solve the case—if he’s the one who had Popov killed?

He says he is on her side.

She looks at the metal sculpture, but her gaze goes right through it. The letters are a tangle. Like everything else, it seems.

She goes back to her own puzzle, trying to lace the pieces together in a way that tells a logical story. Eric hired Simon to kill Popov. No one knows why Popov was rushing to Washington, but the circumstances imply he had something to tell CIA but didn’t trust Moscow Station. What did he know?

That’s where she comes up blank. He had something to tell her, according to Masha. Something he didn’t think he could share with Moscow Station. Which could mean he didn’t trust his handler, Tom Cassidy, or didn’t trust the entire station.

All she can do is think about Eric. Why this charade when Popov was killed, when he was behind it all along? It couldn’t have been sanctioned, then.

He authorized it on his own.

She’s afraid of the emotions running through her right now like a raging river. At CIA, you’re trained to be wary of emotions. Emotions cloud your judgment and trick your mind, leave you susceptible to manipulation and error. So right now, she’s fighting with everything she has. She wants to go into Eric’s office and push him up against the wall and demand to know what he’s doing, damn the secrets within secrets, tell me. Why—of all the assets available to him, all the deadbeats and liars and drunks who’ve strung CIA along for years—he chose to sacrifice Yaromir Popov. But you don’t ask the fox to explain why he went into the henhouse when all the chickens are lying dead on the ground.

She feels eyes on her. She’s sure it’s paranoia, nothing more than an old friend who didn’t know she was back from Beirut, ready to walk over with a big “hello.” Lyndsey looks over her shoulder, expecting to find nothing there, no one—but it’s Theresa. Lyndsey would recognize her trademark red lipstick anywhere.

Theresa is looking at her quizzically. They haven’t been seeing as much of each other in the office of late, not like at first. Lyndsey realizes, cynically, that was because Theresa was looking for information about the investigation, not out of real friendship. This realization comes with a sting.

Yet, their friendship felt real.

Don’t be a chump: it’s all smoke and mirrors. And has been since day one.

Lyndsey suddenly remembers her first date with Davis. He brought her to Bourj Hammoud, the Armenian neighborhood in the city, for a dinner of sujuk shawarma. After dinner, they strolled back down Armenia Street and Davis told her stories from his various assignments, the safe stuff, no secrets, no names. The more she enjoyed herself, the more she worried because it couldn’t be. It wasn’t allowed. If she were smart, she would nip it in the bud, stop it before it began.

Davis picked up on her silence, and tucked her arm over his, drawing her close. “I know what you’re thinking—and don’t. Don’t listen to them. Don’t let them think for you, Lyndsey.”

“But, the rules—”

“Fuck their rules—no, really. If you follow their rules, you’re going to miss the important things. The things that are worth fighting for. You and I know we’re not doing anything wrong, so why should we give up the good thing we could have, just to obey some pointless rule? The thing is, they wouldn’t want you to, if they knew. They need rule breakers. You just need to know which rules to break.”

Theresa is still waiting across the courtyard. Lyndsey has only a second to decide what to do. She’s angry with Theresa and more than a little wary—she probably put a man in the hospital—but those dangerous emotions tell her to talk to her. It’s not too late to save her. And Theresa has the answer. She knows what’s really going on.

Yet, too, she knows what Raymond Murphy and the Counterintelligence guys and the people on the seventh floor would think: she’s lost her mind. Theresa Warner is a traitor. She’s crossed over.

Lyndsey’s heart squeezes. But they did this to her. The seventh floor, Eric, all the people who let her down. They made Theresa Warner into a bad guy.

At the heart of all this is a greater evil, she suspects. But she has to be able to prove it.

And Theresa Warner might be the only one who can do that.

Lyndsey rises from the bench and starts to walk to Theresa.

Theresa looks happy to see her. She holds something up as Lyndsey approaches: a cup of coffee.

Theresa laughs. “You look like you could use this. Two pumps of caramel, just like you like it.”

Lyndsey stares at the paper cup. Theresa’s hand is trembling ever so slightly. Confident Theresa, who would never let anyone see her sweat.

Lyndsey takes the cup to be friendly. But she doesn’t feel neighborly toward Theresa at this very moment. “There’s something we have to discuss. Where we won’t be overheard. Come with me.”

They sit in Lyndsey’s car in the parking lot. The seats smell strongly of vinyl baking in the sun, and of cleaner with a fruity perfume.

Theresa’s perfect eyebrow arches. Her breathing is shallow, a fox run to ground. She sips at her coffee, hands still trembling. It’s disconcerting. “What’s this about, Lyndsey? Why are we sitting in your car?”

Now or never. Once said, it can never be taken back. Theresa could run. The case could blow up, and the truth—the delicate truth, hidden deep within a tangle of conflicting clues—could be trampled in the ensuing investigation.

The Widow may be too hardened, too bitter, to agree to cooperate. Lyndsey senses that she isn’t.

But there’s only one way to find out. Only one way to save Theresa Warner.

She takes a deep breath. “I know, Theresa. I know what you’ve been up to with the Russians.”

The Widow tries to fake surprise and indignation. Her eyebrows shoot up, her mouth drops open in a perfect red O. But it only lasts a fraction of a second. “That’s insane. How can you accuse me of such a thing? My husband—”

“You can play it that way if you like, Theresa, but it won’t do you any good. I’m trying to help you. I know—we know, the FBI is involved now—the Russians are coming for you in a few days. We know that you’re planning to run.” Theresa takes a breath to speak, then stops. She presses her lips together. She wants to speak but she’s stopping herself. “I know everything—most everything,” Lyndsey corrects. “I know why you’re doing this. Eric lied to you and hid things from you. You made a deal with the Russians for Richard. It’s not too late, though. Think about what will happen if you go through with this. CIA knows, FBI knows. They’re not going to let you leave with the Russians. They have a dragnet set up and they’ll catch you. And then what happens? You’ll be disgraced. You’ll lose everything: your house, your bank accounts, your family, your friends. Your son. Everything.”

In the passenger seat, Theresa turns away from her. Her chin drops, and she closes her eyes. Doesn’t want to see the truth.

“There’s no turning back now. If you warn the Russians that we know, the FBI will still track you down and arrest you. We’ve got enough to do that, but we want your Russian handlers, too. I’m giving you a chance to help yourself,” Lyndsey continues. “Think about Brian. What will happen to him? Who will take care of him? The disgrace will ruin his life, haunt him forever. And Richard—”

Theresa laughs bitterly. “If I’m arrested, at least Richard’s story will come out. They’ll be forced to do something.”

“Is that what you were hoping for all along? To help Richard? You’re not a traitor.”

Another rueful chuckle, then a sigh. The resistance crumbles like a sand castle under the tide. “Of course not. The plan was to get him out of prison and for the three of us to find a quiet place to start a new life.” She brushes at the corners of her eyes. “I wasn’t asking so much. A normal life. That’s what other people get.”

For a moment, it’s not clear what Theresa will do next. The air between them is charged, electric. Anything is possible, even violence. Lyndsey is pretty sure she could physically stop Theresa from harming her—or herself. She seems so fragile at this moment.

“Were you out to get me all along?” Theresa asks. She is sad in that moment. Her mouth is grim. “Our friendship—was it an act, from the beginning?”

“I could ask the same of you.”

Theresa looks wounded. She stares out the windshield, something ticking in the back of her mind. “You might as well let me go. The damage is done. They have Nesterov… and you know what they did to Kulakov. There’s no taking it back. But Richard would be freed. Doesn’t he deserve that?”

This woman is not about to accept the fact that she’s lost. Sweat trickles down the back of Lyndsey’s neck. “It’s over, Theresa. I’m saying help me fix this, and I’ll help you.”

Theresa stares at her hands. “You don’t understand. I’ve done things… things you can’t help me with.”

“You mean Kyle Kincaid?”

A curt nod.

“You’re right—I can’t make any promises there. You better pray he doesn’t die.”

“He wanted to blackmail me.” That laugh again, brittle. “They’re wolves on the seventh floor, you know. They’ll never forgive me. They’ll never let me go.”

There is a flicker in Theresa’s eyes: she wants to trust me. “I’m asking you, Theresa, as your friend: don’t do this. Trust me. We’ll find a way.”

The seconds stretch long. There is no choice, not really. Theresa is taking a long time, Lyndsey knows, because it means admitting she will never see Richard again. It means giving up on him. She has to choose between her husband and her son.

Finally, she asks in a whisper, “What do you need me to do?”

“Let’s go somewhere else to talk. I don’t feel safe—even in the parking lot.” She turns the key in the ignition, puts the transmission in reverse.

And then, Theresa does a strange thing. She lowers the window, then grabs Lyndsey’s untouched coffee and throws it out. The cup hits the car parked next to it, coating the driver’s door in a wash of brown liquid.

“What was that about?” Lyndsey asks as she pulls away.

“Don’t doubt that I was ever your friend,” is all Theresa will say.

They drive into McLean, to a tiny coffee shop in a quiet shopping center. It is the middle of a weekday and Lyndsey is certain that they won’t be seen together by anyone from work. They sit in the back of a small, bright shop. It’s just the two of them and a middle-aged waitress in jeans.

As they settle at a table, Lyndsey thinks she sees a crack in Theresa’s flawless façade. She looks tired, like she’s been running for months.

“I’d like you to clear up a few things for me,” Lyndsey says. They both have their hands wrapped around thick ceramic mugs. “You had nothing to do with Yaromir Popov’s death, did you?”

Theresa’s head jerks up like a spooked horse. “No. I didn’t even know he was one of ours until the incident on the plane.”

Her expression and body language support that she’s telling the truth. Taking into account the data trail and what Evert Northrop said, Lyndsey is inclined to believe her.

“Nesterov and Kulakov—you gave the FSB those names.”

Theresa drops her chin. She can’t look at Lyndsey. “Yes.” Unsaid between them is that Kulakov’s death is on her head. Nesterov is still missing, and she’ll be responsible for whatever happens to this man, too. “But those were the only two.”

Lyndsey knows what Raymond Murphy would ask: how do I know you’re not lying? Prove it. All that will come soon enough, the interrogation, interviews, Theresa showing them every step she took, every file she touched.

It’s time for Lyndsey to share her real concern with Theresa and it’s impossible to predict how she’ll react. “I have a suspicion—with no way to prove it, at least not yet—that Eric is involved in this.”

For a moment, this seems to amuse Theresa. But if it’s true, she’s afraid to trust it. Theresa smiles sadly. “As much as I’d like to believe that, Eric had nothing to do with this. I—I let my anger get the best of me. I did it to myself.”

Lyndsey lets Theresa’s remorse play out before she lays out all the facts. Theresa is an experienced reports officer—she has a stellar reputation, as a matter of fact—and Lyndsey could use her perspective. If she’ll tell the truth.

Theresa listens as Lyndsey tells her about the poison, Simon, and—without going into too much detail—the strange digital fingerprints left all over Popov’s files. “It appears that Eric has something to do with Popov’s death, I agree with you on that. But all the things I’ve done… He has nothing to do with it. I went to Eric when I found out Richard was still alive. He was as surprised as I was by the news… I begged Eric to help me, but he refused. He told me to make my peace with it, that the seventh floor would never reopen the case…” Theresa shakes her head.

Lyndsey goes cold, like being plunged in an ice bath. “Eric told you he didn’t know about Richard? You’re sure of it?” She doesn’t know. She’s never seen the transcript… the damning transcript in the Razorbill file…

Lyndsey has to stop herself from grabbing Theresa by the shoulders and shaking her. “He lied to you, Theresa—”

“I don’t follow you. Lied about what?”

“Eric knew Richard was alive. He knew and never told you. He was the one who proposed it to the seventh floor. That you not be told…”

Theresa draws back, her face curdling like she’s bitten a poisoned apple. “What are you talking about? How do you know?”

Lyndsey can barely keep her eyes on Theresa’s face as she recounts the transcript for her. Sadness, hurt, anger pass over Theresa’s face in quick succession. Solidifying into anger, blind fury.

“So he did it to save himself. He insisted the seventh floor had already made up its mind. He swore they’d squash me like a bug if I tried to go to my congressman or the press. I had Brian to think about… He—he told me to trust him, that he would take care of me. It’s been an act, all this time. That he was Richard’s friend, that he cared for me… An act.”

She stops, silent. The two women exchange a knowing look. They’re in this together now. They will both succeed—or both fail. Together.