Red Widow

SEVEN

Back in her tiny office, Lyndsey closes the door. It’s time to put aside interruptions and get started with this investigation.

There had been an email earlier from Raymond Murphy. He’d started looking into Moscow Station for bad apples and hinted that he’d found a possible suspect. It wouldn’t be the Station Chief Hank Bremer, Lyndsey could anticipate that much. She hadn’t worked with him—Hank had come in as she’d been leaving—but he had a reputation for being rule-bound and old-school, and it is hard to picture a guy like that selling out to the enemy.

Raymond had only hinted at the cards in his hand, but it sounds like one of the case officers. Someone who was known to be having money problems and had been caught fudging about the situation in paperwork. Raymond wants to poke around a bit more before sharing a name with her, so that’s all she has for now. Enough to know that Moscow Station couldn’t be ruled out at this point.

It’s time to get started on the tasks Raymond outlined. The first step is to get the access records for Popov, Nesterov, and Kulakov. The information that an asset provides to the Agency might be widely reported, but those reports wouldn’t reveal the true identity of the source. To get on the access list, you would’ve had to prove a need to know the asset’s true identity—usually in order to validate the truthfulness or usefulness of the information. That access list would include policymakers, which means there’s a chance, albeit a slim one, that a U.S. diplomatic or military attaché could’ve accidentally let slip a true name during a negotiation or meeting. There are other ways the Russians might’ve found out, too, but it’s highly unlikely they would’ve found three assets on their own. And for Popov, a consummate professional, to trip himself up? It seems almost impossible. The most likely reason, far more likely than any other, is that someone on the access lists told the Russians.

She also needs to read all the reports issued by Popov’s new handler Tom Cassidy, the CIA officer who took over when Lyndsey left Moscow. It will be the first time she’s able to see them, since her access was taken away when she left Moscow Station, a standard security procedure. She no longer had need-to-know.

Her first move is to call Russia Division’s chief security officer. “I need to know who’s on the access list for Genghis, Skipjack, and Lighthouse.” The code names for Popov, Nesterov, and Kulakov. “And I need it asap.”

The security officer hems. “It’s going to take some time. I can’t promise that I’ll get back to you today.”

With this investigation her only responsibility, Lyndsey has time in abundance. “Let me into the files and I’ll go through the records myself and connect the dots.”

Ten minutes later, she’s got entry into the records she needs. She starts going through the access lists, beginning with Kulakov. The number of people who would need to know the true identity of a scientist would be small. Senior managers wouldn’t bother to be read in. The information that Kulakov provided might’ve been widely disseminated in classified reports, but most readers wouldn’t need to know the true name of the person who provided that information in order to understand it.

More people would be given access to Nesterov’s true identity because of the subject: every agency in the federal government seems to be working Russian cyber operations right now. Still, the list for Nesterov is shockingly long. Lyndsey makes a mental note to raise this with Eric. It seems an unnecessary risk.

She goes back and sifts through the list of names under Kulakov’s file, only about thirty. Then, she checks each one against Nesterov’s list, which numbers almost two hundred. After eliminating some false matches—common names that turn out to be different people—Lyndsey arrives at the conclusion she was afraid of: no single person appears on both Nesterov’s and Kulakov’s access lists. Which means, aside from a handful of senior managers who get included pro forma, no one person would know of both men’s true identities.

Whoever gave these names to the FSB—Federal Security Service of the Russian Federation—got them through other means.

Next, Lyndsey compares both Kulakov’s and Nesterov’s access lists with the third list, Popov’s. Just as she suspected, there are no matches against Kulakov’s list and only a handful of matches against Nesterov’s, and all are senior leaders at CIA—including Eric Newman. The idea that any of them could be an FSB mole is laughable.

Lyndsey starts on the next task she gave herself: going through all the reports featuring information that Popov provided to his new handler. On a yellow legal pad, she scribbles notes as she reads, a stream-of-consciousness grab bag of the things that have caught her attention. By now, she’s burned through the morning and her body rebels at being yoked to that chair for so long. But she keeps at it, plodding through cables one by one.

Lyndsey skims over her handwritten notes one more time. Popov slowed down after she left Moscow Station, no question. A turnover in handlers sometimes changes things. Sometimes the asset will feel abandoned, will only trust the first handler. Sometimes personalities don’t mesh. But Popov is a pro and he knew what to expect. There is nothing in Tom Cassidy’s reports to suggest there was a serious problem. Popov is being careful as usual, Cassidy wrote. But Russia Division took issue, felt there was a change in the quality and value of the intelligence he was passing. Had there been a problem brewing that escaped everyone’s notice?

She skips down to Cassidy’s last report on Genghis dated two months ago. No contact with Popov, or no record of any, for the past sixty days. It is a frightening gap: anything could’ve happened in those sixty days to send Popov skittering to Washington. It would be criminal negligence if something had happened, but Moscow Station missed it.

Tom Cassidy has a lot of explaining to do.

Then Lyndsey comes to a line in a report that hits her like a concrete wall.

Popov’s youngest daughter, Varya, is dead.

Lyndsey remembers the girl in the picture Popov had shared with her years ago. Elfin, twelve years old at the time the photo was taken, with flyaway sandy hair and a crooked smile. She knows what this would have meant to Popov: his daughters came late to him and his wife. They had been totally unexpected. He said it changed their lives, made him think about how the elites were robbing the common Russian blind, made him angry at the oligarchs for hollowing out the country to stockpile obscene amounts of money in offshore accounts.

Lyndsey feels like she’s going to be sick. Popov had often worried that his girls were being shortchanged by having such old parents. The world had changed so much and he and his wife had not kept up with it. Varya’s addiction would have been glaring proof of their failure. Her death would have gutted him. She wishes she could’ve spoken to him while he was still alive, to have consoled him.

And could this have had some bearing on what happened to him? In some way, she senses it could have. She just can’t see it yet.

There is a rap on the door. Eric Newman, looking incredibly well put together in a gray suit and burnished silk tie. He’s always tried to look polished, in her recollection, but this seems a new level of effort.

Eric follows Lyndsey’s eye, smiles. He shoots his cuffs, perhaps in self-deprecation. “I have a meeting on the seventh floor.” The Director’s suite. No wonder he wants to impress.

“Popov?”

“And a few other things.” He can’t tell her, of course. Instead, they use these veiled references, insinuating other intrigues, intrigues within intrigues. “If things go well, I’ll let you know. Meanwhile, do you have any good news for me?”

She tells him about the access lists. While she’ll need to double-check her findings before coming to any conclusions, that’s something she feels safe in sharing. But she doesn’t mention Varya’s death; she’s not sure what that means yet, and she wants to dig more deeply before bringing up Moscow Station’s drop in production.

Lyndsey takes a deep breath. There’s one thing they can do to protect themselves, and now’s her chance. “CI turned up something, too, on Moscow Station.” Eric’s brows shoot up; she hates to get his hopes up that Russia Division isn’t to blame—as fortuitous as that would be. “Too soon to tell… It may be nothing. But do you think it’s time to warn our other assets in Russia? Get them to go into hiding?” Two assets have disappeared in two weeks. Isn’t that enough cause for alarm?

He’s shaking his head before she’s finished speaking. “If there’s the possibility that the mole is in Moscow Station, we can’t tip them off that we know. And we can’t tell Moscow Station to stand down all operations without something concrete. Once you turn these things off, it’s hard to get them back on track. Assets lose their nerve. Things might never be the same again. We can’t look like we’re jumping to conclusions. I need proof—which is why I brought you in.”

He takes in her frown, her frustration. “I know you’ve only been on the case for a day, Lyndsey, but the Director is breathing down my neck. This meeting I’m going to? The Director has asked for an update every day until we have an answer. And he’s not a patient man. If he doesn’t like what he sees, he’ll start calling the shots himself. I don’t intend to be marginalized in my own office. Do whatever it takes to get answers, and if somebody stands in your way, you let me know. We need to figure out what’s going on before the Russians pick up one more of our assets. I know you can do this, Lyndsey—I’m counting on you.”