Red Widow

FORTY-TWO

Lyndsey stands in the observation room, looking through a one-way mirror. On the other side, Tarasenko sits in an armchair, chatting easily with a CIA tech ops officer as though they were old friends. He snorts cigarette smoke through his nose like a cartoon bull while they go over a piece of covert equipment Tarasenko will use once he’s back in Russia.

They’re in a safe house in the verdant Virginia countryside, not far from a covert CIA facility. They’re not going to bring Tarasenko into the facility, where he would get the opportunity to see the faces of CIA employees and learn more about the workings under the cover. Not yet. Such privilege only comes with trust. He has to prove his trustworthiness.

The safe house is small, an old farmhouse surrounded by acres of overgrown fruit trees, gone half-wild and impenetrable. Tarasenko sleeps upstairs, and there’s someone on duty in the house—half housekeeper, half truant officer—around the clock. Outside, a security team patrols the grounds to make sure no unwelcome visitors come at night but it’s unlikely the Russians have made up their mind about him yet, let alone know where the safe house is. Tarasenko has been here for three days. The first two, he was evaluated by psychologists. By the end of the second day, they concluded that he was probably making the offer in good faith. “He’s not motivated by ideology—obviously,” one of the psychologists said when she presented the team’s decision to Lyndsey and Kim Claiborne, now returned from overseas. “He’s an egoist, so he’ll respond well to flattery. That will only go so far, however. Our best chance to control him is through incentives.”

That evening, there had been a tense negotiation with Tarasenko. Claiborne, Lyndsey, and a few old Russia hands, guys who had worked the target their entire lives. They sat around the dining room table, intent on making a deal.

Claiborne is with Lyndsey now, watching Tarasenko recite the tech ops officer’s instructions back to him. It was clear from Claiborne’s behavior and the way she led the meetings last night that she’d been appointed acting Chief of Russia Division. Whether or not she’d keep the top post remained to be seen.

“He’s a smooth one,” Claiborne says. She’d come to the deputy position after tours in Iraq. She’d worked the Russia target early in her career but then took assignments in other offices—it was clear, at that point, that she was looking at upper management one day, and needed to broaden her experience. There would be others vying for Eric Newman’s old job, now that he’d been forced out. Men who’d been eyeing the plum position, biding their time. “Can we trust him?”

He’d asked for a lot of money: a hefty down payment, deposited in an offshore account, and the balance to be paid after Morozov was delivered. He didn’t want to stay in place, working for CIA: he would give them one thing, and one thing only: Evgeni Morozov. Once Morozov was captured, his future in the FSB was over. It wouldn’t take them long to figure out who had helped the Americans. There’d been some debate whether it was better to keep an asset in place this high in the FSB versus getting a juicy but ultimately symbolic target like Morozov, but they’d decided to get Morozov. With a snake as slippery as Tarasenko, there was no telling when he’d turn on them. It was only a matter of time and the right circumstance.

The dollar signs lit up in Tarasenko’s eyes as CIA made its offer: the payment, plus resettlement in the U.S., and more money as an “advisor” to CIA. Teaching Langley all about FSB techniques, recalling as much as he could about Russia’s spies in the U.S. It was lucrative, but he would have to look over his shoulder for the rest of his life, or at least as long as Putin remained in power which, at this point, is looking like a lifetime appointment.

They are being careful with Tarasenko, not exposing him to too much of their tradecraft and methods. Still, it is hard to predict what will happen once he’s back in Moscow, especially when he returns to work. A technical team is in Tarasenko’s apartment right now, not far from Lubyanka Square. Tarasenko knows, of course. CIA’s strategically placed microphones and cameras will pick up his every conversation, see who’s coming to his door, who passes outside his windows. It’s part of the dark bargain. If he wants to burn his American handlers, it will happen when he passes through the doors of FSB headquarters.

“We’ll see if he passes his first test,” Lyndsey replies, arms crossed over her chest. There’s always a first test, low-hanging fruit. A sign that he’s willing to do what’s needed. He’s been given initial requirements: Morozov’s schedule for the next three months. The address of this secret hideaway Tarasenko alluded to, which he swears he doesn’t know—yet.

Claiborne lifts an eyebrow. “I’m glad to hear you say that. It sounds like you’re emotionally invested in this case—”

“Of course I am.”

“Then I hope you’ll consider what I’m about to say next: Tarasenko wants you to be his handler.”

It’s a great opportunity and she should be elated; she’s anything but. The whispered word—kukla—echoes in her mind.

Lyndsey looks through the glass at the Russian. The relationship between handler and asset is close and often tempestuous. It demands clear thinking and emotions kept under control. Tarasenko seems to push others emotionally, hoping they’ll make a mistake that he can capitalize on. Plus, she knows his background: he is violent, highly dangerous. It would be a challenge. And she has always liked a challenge.

But then there’s the look he gave her at FBI headquarters. Chilling.

“You’re probably sick of this case and want nothing more than to step away. I get it. But, Lyndsey—he’s asking for you,” Claiborne says.

“He wants me as his handler because he thinks he can play me.”

“Maybe. There could be other reasons. Maybe he’s attracted to you. Maybe he doesn’t see young women as a threat. I don’t mean to belittle you or your abilities—you’re obviously very capable.” Claiborne begins pacing, eyes directed at the floor. Something she doesn’t want me to see. “You won’t have to go it alone. We’ll pull together a team of the best Russia hands to work this case. They’ll be there to advise you. And at least you wouldn’t be looking at an open-ended assignment: Tarasenko is going to help us get Morozov and then it’s over. In the confusion after the snatch, we help Tarasenko slip out of the country. We give him his money and his new identity and then you’re done.”

Claiborne makes it sound so easy. Then why does she look so worried? What is she hiding?

There’s one other thing bothering Lyndsey. She runs a hand along an empty shelf. “I can’t work in Russia Division if Eric comes back.”

“I don’t want to misspeak, Lyndsey. Eric’s situation isn’t settled, not definitively, but… I think it’s safe to say he’s not coming back. He’s going to be fired. It’s not just what he did here—though you’d think that would be enough—but there have been other cases. Just not as egregious. I think they’ve finally come to see that Eric shouldn’t have been put in a position of such high trust.” She hesitates. “I wish I could say that he’ll be punished for what he’s done, but that’s up to the Justice Department. It’s out of our hands.”

If Eric returns, there’s no way she can continue at CIA. He’ll hound her for the rest of her career, no matter where she goes or what she does. Still, she doesn’t want to be responsible for ending a man’s career. He’s certainly done good along with the questionable. Undoubtedly, there are people walking the halls at Langley who would swear Eric Newman was the best manager they ever had. Those people will come to resent Lyndsey, too. Her enemies list grows by the hour.

Staying means reporting to this woman, but Lyndsey thinks it might work. She can tell already that Kim Claiborne is not Eric Newman. That much is clear from the careful way she speaks. Though Lyndsey feels guilty here, too: does Claiborne know about Beirut? Maybe she won’t want Lyndsey to stay on the case after she finds out.

Lyndsey walks slowly across the small room, gaze directed at the tips of her shoes. “There’s something else you need to know. I was recalled from my last assignment. There’s an investigation—”

Claiborne waves her hand. “Davis Ranford, MI6?”

“Don’t tell me you know him, too.”

“Oh, I know him. So, I know there’s nothing for Security to worry about. Besides, after what you’ve done here—it’s water under the bridge. If you tell me it’s over, I believe you.”

Lyndsey hesitates. Does it have to be over? Is there a chance they will allow her to see him? It seems an impossible thing to ask… and she doesn’t know how Davis feels. Maybe he’s relieved it’s over. Those were the unspoken rules when they started.

But Claiborne is already moving on. “You’ll be happy to know that we’ve convinced State Department to offer to swap Tarasenko for Richard Warner.”

It takes a moment for the words to process. All the heartache and treachery of the past two years might have been avoided if this had been done in the first place—or maybe that’s not true, maybe nothing could’ve been done then to persuade the Russians to listen.

“The seventh floor changed its mind?”

“This is a different director. Chesterfield wants to do the right thing. What’s more, they have someone to trade who’s important to the Russians. And it will get our new asset back to Moscow at the same time. What’s not to like?” Claiborne’s shrug is playful. “So, let’s not look a gift horse in the mouth. We’ll see if it works.”

“What about Theresa? Has anyone told her?”

Claiborne shakes her head. “Not yet. They thought it was better not to get her hopes up until it’s official.”

There it is again, the paternal attitude that rubs the wrong way. As though Theresa Warner doesn’t know how capricious these things can be. Like Richard’s return should be a gift. You don’t want to spoil the surprise. “Wouldn’t it be better if she knew the Agency was trying to free her husband, rather than to keep her in the dark?”

Claiborne suppresses a grimace. “I see what you mean… Let’s put it this way: if someone were to tell her informally I don’t think that would be a problem. Understood?”

She will drive out there to deliver the news in person. “Thank you.”

“So… Should I take this to mean you’ll stay? You know, if you’re going to be Tarasenko’s handler, you might need to be stationed overseas. Maybe we can arrange for you to live in London. Would you like that?” Is that a wink Claiborne gives her? Her informal permission to see Davis.

Lyndsey looks back through the one-way glass. There sits the Butcher of Tskhinvali, laughing amicably with the tech ops officer, pretending that we’re all friends, that he is just another guy. Doesn’t think twice about all the blood on his hands.

He won’t be anything like Yaromir Popov. Not at all. He will be a test of all her abilities as a case officer.

But after everything she’s gone through with this case, she feels a powerful urge to see it through to the end.

She nods.