Red Widow by Alma Katsu (good books to read for beginners txt) 📗

blow—the importance of the INF flaring up as both the U.S. and Russia hurl accusations of cheating on safeguards—and Kulakov’s death suddenly takes on greater meaning. Finally, Eric clears his throat. “See what else you can find out, but until we find proof otherwise, we have to assume the state is behind this. We don’t know how they found out about him, but they killed him.”

Popov and Kulakov killed, Nesterov missing. The grim truth settles over the four of them. The evidence seems undeniable: Moscow is rolling up CIA’s assets.

Eric clears his throat. The corners of his mouth twitch. What he’s about to say next pains him. “Hank, I want you to stand down all operations for the time being.” It’s the same advice Lyndsey gave him, only now he’s ready to act on it.

Bremer’s pink face goes red, like his shirt collar has suddenly gone too tight. “You can’t do that. We have things in the works—”

“It doesn’t matter, Hank. You know that. Shut it down, all of it. Tell your people”—the assets, Eric means, their Russian spies—“to lie low until we get things under control. We can’t afford to lose anyone else right now.”

Bremer is clearly upset, but he knows not to say anything more. Instead, he strikes the table with a closed fist.

“I know you don’t like it, Hank, but we have to think of our people.” Eric’s tone is more conciliatory but it’s too late. Station Chiefs don’t like to have their authority questioned in front of subordinates. He should’ve helped Hank come to this conclusion himself. “We’ll figure out what’s going on and stop it.”

“It’s not coming from here,” Bremer booms. “Whoever’s talking to the FSB, it’s not someone in the Station. I know my people.” He points a finger at the camera in accusation. “CI has been sniffing around lately—is that your doing? Trying to place the blame on us?”

“They’re just doing their job,” Eric says, pushing back from the table.

The finger jabs emphatically. “If there’s a mole, it’s in Langley. It’s one of your people, Eric.”

“We’ll see,” Eric says through gritted teeth.

“Yeah, we’ll see all right.” Big talk from Bremer; Lyndsey wonders if he knows something he’s not telling.

“You’d warned me that we’d have to do this to protect our remaining assets . . . Happy?” Eric says to Lyndsey after the video connection is shut down.

“That you’re shutting down the Station? It’s the right thing. And there’s something you should know: I heard from Popov’s widow.” It means admitting the backdoor channel, but Lyndsey tells Eric about the exchange with Masha.

“So, the problem is at Moscow Station,” Eric says slowly. Floored, maybe, by the news.

“I can get CI to look into Cassidy—”

“No,” Eric says. Too quickly. Lyndsey raises an eyebrow. “Let them conduct their own investigation. Let’s see if they can corroborate what Masha told you. We shouldn’t take anything at face value . . .”

Does he think there’s a chance Masha might be lying to them?

Lyndsey’s instincts tell her that’s not the case, but Eric is the boss. And he’s more experienced than she is. Lyndsey trusts Masha because she trusted her husband, but she’s never met Masha. It’s hard, but Lyndsey forces herself to see it from Eric’s perspective. They have to remain objective. She says nothing, nods, and heads out the door.

As Lyndsey heads back to her tiny office, she sees a small group gathered around a cubicle, low murmuring passed back and forth as they console someone. A young woman at the center of the group dabs her eyes with a tissue. As Lyndsey approaches, the gathered melt away. Given Lyndsey’s chumminess with Eric, they probably lump her in with management and don’t want to be seen gabbing, shirking their jobs. The teary-eyed woman looks up as Lyndsey approaches.

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to interrupt, but were you working on Lighthouse?” Lyndsey is careful to use Kulakov’s cover name. “I’m working on the investigation—you probably heard about it. You can talk to me.”

The nameplate reads jan westerling. The woman nods as she reaches for her eyeglasses on the desk. “I’m the reports officer. I’ve been on Lighthouse’s case for a couple years.”

Exactly the person Lyndsey needs to speak to: the reports officer acts as the liaison between Langley and Moscow Station. Lyndsey rests her shoulder against a pillar, blocking the desk off from view to the rest of the office. She needs to ask a few questions and it would be better if they had even a shred of privacy. “This has got to be tough.” You’re not supposed to let yourself get too close to an asset, but you do if you’re human. Even someone like this reports officer to whom Kulakov is little more than a name in a report. Who didn’t have the kind of relationship Lyndsey had with Yaromir Popov.

The young woman nods. Still shaky, she taps a couple keys and then turns the monitor toward Lyndsey. What she sees on the screen is a punch to the gut. The image is of a man’s face, but you’ll get nothing about him from this picture. His age, his likely ethnic background, nothing. His entire face is distorted by swelling. The eyes are crusted shut with dried blood and the mouth is an open pit of glistening black, all his teeth gone. It could be a hate crime: the victim has been obliterated.

Shock washes over Lyndsey as reality hits her. This is what they’re dealing with.

“That’s from the police report,” Westerling says, her voice thickening.

Lyndsey takes a deep breath before leaning over the keyboard to page through the rest of the images. There’s one of the body on asphalt, arms and legs twisted unnaturally, like he fell from a distance. He wears a shirt and tie and a beige trench coat, the kind of clothes he’d have worn to work. “Did the report say when he was last seen?”

“He didn’t return from work one evening, about three weeks ago.”

“And who reported him missing?”

“His wife.”

Lyndsey peers at the photos more closely, looking