Алма Катсу - Red Widow

But now, he was dead.

She had been his recruiter, his handler. Yaromir Popov wouldn’t have been a target if it wasn’t for her.

Eric has the office manager bring coffee, dark as pitch from sitting too long on the burner. It unblocks her ears and focuses her eyes.

Her hands are unsteady on the cup, making the coffee tremble. “How did it happen?”

“It looks like a heart attack. He was on the last leg of the Moscow trip, JFK to Reagan National. It departed JFK at eleven p.m., arrived at Reagan about midnight. The attendant said he started showing signs of distress shortly after he boarded. That’s all we know. No surprise, the Russians are demanding the body back right away. We got the D.C. health department to hold on to it, saying he might’ve died of some communicable disease, but they could only do so much. It’s got to go back today. We’re waiting on the report.”

How did they kill him? Russian intelligence is known to love its poisons. They have a long history of political assassination by poison, quirky and cruel at once. Something about the delayed effects and painful drama at the end that appeals to the Russian nature. Lyndsey thinks of Popov dying alone on the plane, panicking as his airways swell shut. Realizing that help is 33,000 feet below. Recognizing what is happening to him, knowing that his choices have caught up to him.

Was he running for his freedom? He wouldn’t flee without his wife, Masha, and daughters, Polina and Varya. She is sure of that—pretty sure. Even though the Russia of today is not Cold War Russia. The spouses and children of traitors aren’t automatically thrown in prison. If he were running, then poisoning him on the plane would send a message to other would-be traitors—and the big middle finger to America at the same time. We knew he was your man and you were not able to save him.

Now that the shock has eased, she sees pain on Eric’s face. Of course, Eric must be taking Popov’s death hard, too. He knew the man—not as well as Lyndsey, but the Russian asset had been one of Eric’s coups. He owed much to Popov. Nearly as much as Lyndsey.

Eric won’t want consoling, however, so she presses on. “Do we think his cover was blown?”

“He should’ve gone to Moscow Station if that was the case. We have procedures for this.”

And, in this case, there is only one person for Popov to turn to. The person Popov was told to report to. “Who’s his handler now?” Lyndsey asks. When she left Moscow Station, there had been a near complete turnover in personnel. This is not uncommon; the bureaucratic changing of the guard had a rhythm to it. Popov’s new handler hadn’t been decided by the time she left for her next assignment. There had been no overlap, no handoff.

But Eric doesn’t answer her question. Instead, an eyebrow shoots up: don’t go there. “No one was going to have the same success with Popov that you did. You can’t blame the handler.” Things will undoubtedly get ugly, political. Moscow Station will feel threatened and defensive. His subtext is clear: don’t start attacking Moscow Station and turn this into a war between headquarters and the field.

Yaromir Popov. The thought of him pushes all other concerns out of her head. She will always be defined in part by the man. She never told him what he meant to her. That for two years, he was the mentor she never had at CIA. The one person, ironically, she felt she could trust.

Eric stands: this meeting is over. He starts to ease her to the door. “The Director told me to set up a task force to get to the bottom of this. It needs to be small, given the circumstances. We’re not lifting the compartment, for obvious reasons. I need you to work quickly on this. He would like an answer as soon as possible. If the Russians knew about Popov, all of our assets there could be in jeopardy. Lives are at stake.”

Lyndsey rests her hand on the doorknob and turns to him. “One last question… You’ve had some time to think about it… If there is a mole, chances are it’s either here or in Moscow Station. Do you have a sense…?”

“I’d rather it was in the Station, of course,” he says quickly. “And Moscow Station will insist that the mole is here. That’s another reason why I asked for you: both offices will see you as neutral. And for Popov’s sake, I knew you’d want to be involved. So you see, Lyndsey, it has to be you.”

Eric calls the office manager, Maggie Kimball, a tall, no-nonsense woman, and asks her to help Lyndsey get settled. To Lyndsey, he apologizes: she’ll need privacy for her work but it will take a day or two to clear one of the private offices. In the meantime, she must make do with one of the empty cubicles.

Every office at Langley, it seems, has a Maggie, a take-charge woman whom everyone turns to when they need something done. Organize the office holiday party, accommodate all the dietary restrictions to make sure that no one is offended or poisoned. Figure out a way to seat three summer interns and two new hires when there are only two empty desks. And, most important, wrangle the boss and make sure he gets his to-do list done each day. One look at Maggie and Lyndsey is sure the woman—a little younger than Lyndsey, highlighted hair piled on top of her head, dark green polish on her dragon-lady nails, tight smile—is more than up to the task.

Maggie finds Lyndsey a desk in a quiet corner of the floor, half-hidden behind a pillar and a row of safes, the reinforced file cabinets with combination locks that are as big as Sherman tanks. It feels like exile, though for the job Lyndsey is about to undertake, that’s not necessarily a bad thing.

The woman in the next cubicle looks strangely familiar. Lyndsey feels she might know her, though not in a personal way. More like someone you might recognize from a TV commercial. She is fortyish, a few years older than Lyndsey. She is elegant, with narrow shoulders and hips. Her russet-red hair is cut in an old-fashioned bob that goes perfectly with her chic black dress. She looks like the kind of woman you find in the New York Sunday society pages, very white and very thin, the product of one of those aristocratic families who believe in eugenics.

The woman shows no interest in Lyndsey, continuing to peck at her keyboard as though Lyndsey isn’t standing five feet behind her. It’s odd behavior, but Langley is full of odd ducks.

Lyndsey steps into the woman’s field of vision and sticks her hand out. “Hello. I’m Lyndsey Duncan.”

They shake. The woman’s hand is like doeskin wrapped around a mouse’s skeleton, small and soft and crushable. “Theresa Warner.”

Theresa Warner. Theresa Warner was a junior officer who’d already distinguished herself when Lyndsey first came to Russia Division. Five years ahead and she made the most of every one of them. She looks so different from how Lyndsey remembers her.

“I actually worked here previously. I think we met, briefly.”

Theresa’s head tilts like a terrier’s as she puts the pieces together. “Oh yes, Lyndsey. Of course, I remember you.” She must be pretending: there is no reason for Theresa Warner to remember her. They were in different circles then. Lyndsey, fresh out of training and Theresa part of the elite. Worlds apart. “Welcome back.”

Lyndsey checks out the desk as she waits for the computer to boot up. A steno pad with half the pages ripped out. Two old pens, tooth marks in the plastic shells. A handful of paper clips. Does anyone even use paper clips anymore? “I won’t be staying long. I’m here for the investigation,” she says absently.

A thin, perfect eyebrow arches. “The incident from last night, you mean? The Russian on the plane? They haven’t told us anything about it yet. It’s all close hold.”