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

and a website comes up on Theresa’s monitor that reminds Lyndsey of Facebook. It shows a wall of posts from an assortment of individuals, some with photographs next to the name, some with avatars. “In the last couple years, everyone’s started using collaborative tools more regularly. It really helps get things done. This is the latest. It makes it much easier to find who might be working on a target that’s similar to yours, or if you need someone with a particular expertise,” Theresa explains.

Lyndsey admires Theresa’s ease with the tool. Theresa types “medical analysis” in the search bar and hits Return. A number of links come up to posts where a robust dialogue goes on between analysts and officers: an outbreak of avian flu in Vietnam, prevalence of malaria in Australia.

“That was easy,” Lyndsey says. In the old days, it would take asking around until you found someone who could help you. This is much more efficient.

“Isn’t it, though? So . . . any of these what you’re looking for?”

Lyndsey hesitates. She shouldn’t get specific. Theresa doesn’t have need-to-know. “I’ve taken enough of your time. How about if I play around with it myself? What was the link again?”

Theresa scribbles it on a scrap of paper and hands it to Lyndsey.

Back in the privacy of her office, Lyndsey types “poison” into the search bar. She feels a twinge of guilt for not telling Theresa. It seems petty to hold her at arm’s length. Surely the toxicology report will be the talk of the office by quitting time. But given the task she’s been given, finding a potential double agent, Lyndsey of all people should obey the rules.

A handful of links come back and, after clicking through the first five, it’s readily apparent that there is only one expert on poisons at the Agency: Randy Detwiler. All she can make out from the tiny thumbnail is that he has wiry, light brown hair and wears glasses.

Lyndsey finds Detwiler on the internal system’s instant messaging service. Luckily, he’s at his desk. He asks her to send the toxicology report to him, and within fifteen minutes, he’s texted back. “Very interesting! But my response is too involved to type. Want to stop by my office?”

The trek to Randy Detwiler’s office takes less than ten minutes, but it feels like another world. Detwiler is part of the Agency’s collection of analysts who keep track of every matter of importance to policymakers. It’s home to a hodgepodge of skills—political scientists, researchers, historians, linguists, and economists, to name a few. Lyndsey, like many case officers, is secretly intimidated anytime she’s had to work with the specialists, but there’s no denying their usefulness, especially when it comes to esoteric matters like this.

The small team of medical analysts are kept in a sleepy hallway in the basement. The basement is a twisty maze of corridors, home to offices with strange needs, equipment that makes belching sounds or emits bad smells, or is too large or heavy to go in a conventional space. Detwiler’s office is in a lab, he’s warned her. She finds the entrance by its sign: laboratory of medical sciences.

She passes the lab itself, something out of a sci-fi series. Through windows in the double doors, stainless steel countertops support an array of equipment whose functions Lyndsey can only guess at. Shelves are filled with trays of mysterious vials. A few of the stools are occupied by researchers in protective gear hunched over microscopes, lost in whatever they’re examining: new strains of diseases, possible traces of nuclear material, blood samples from a crime scene? It seems wild to Lyndsey that something like this should exist in the Agency’s basement.

Beyond the lab, Lyndsey is confronted by a row of small private offices, no open floor plan here, like in other offices, as befits a team that’s made up of doctors and PhD researchers. She walks down the hall, checking the nameplates until she finds Detwiler. He towers over her when he stands to shake her hand. He must be at least six and a half feet, and looks to be in his mid-fifties. He has a benign, bookish appearance, like an accountant or librarian. His most distinctive feature, aside from his height, is a head of graying curls.

“That was quite an interesting report you sent,” he says. His tone is almost amused.

“Can you tell me what it means?”

“The short answer is that the cause of death was alkaloid poisoning. In and of itself, it’s not remarkable. It’s the source of the alkaloid that’s so interesting. Gelsemium. Have you heard of it?”

Lyndsey shakes her head. “Should I?”

“It’s commonly used as a homeopathic remedy. Used to treat colds, sleeplessness, that sort of thing. Do you know if the victim used homeopathic medicines?”

Like many Russians, Popov was a skeptic. In Lyndsey’s experience, he put his faith in very little. It might’ve been one reason why he enjoyed talking to her; he thought Americans were refreshing. “No, I don’t think so. The only thing he took for colds was vodka.”

“Compounds used in homeopathy can be tricky. Especially when the system isn’t flooded with the compound, like you’d see in a deliberate overdose.”

“So, you don’t think he was murdered?”

The man smiles at her question. “I might have thought that if I hadn’t been studying political assassinations for the past five years. Your run-of-the-mill police department would probably write this off as an accidental overdose. They might not even catch the exact chemical agent unless they had reason to look for it. Believe it or not, you sometimes see cases of alkaloid poisoning in people who’ve eaten too many green vegetables, though usually those people only get sick.”

Lyndsey nods, encouraging him to continue.

“When I see that someone has died from alkaloid poisoning, I think assassination. Both the Russians and the Chinese are known to use gelsemium in political murders. Let me show you.” Detwiler swivels the monitor around in Lyndsey’s direction so she can see the report up on the screen: a Russian name, a