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

a team that follows cyber targets. As they make the short walk, Maggie asks how Lyndsey is settling in.

“Oh, fine,” Lyndsey says, wary about saying too much about the investigation, not sure what Eric has told Maggie. Some managers treat their office managers like secretaries, but others include them in just about everything.

“Eric’s glad you’re here. I don’t know that there was anyone else he could turn to.”

It’s nice of Maggie to say, but could it be true? Lyndsey knows there are plenty of other former officers from Russia Division who could also handle the investigation—some more experienced. Then there’s Beirut hanging over her head. She wonders if Maggie knows anything about that. If anything, it’s Lyndsey who is indebted to Eric: this could go a long way toward making the problem go away.

Kyle Kincaid is found in another vast, open, dimly lit office. The men in the cubicles around him are all younger, and he holds court with a stream of chatter about a paintball outing this past weekend. From his buzz haircut to his erect posture and beefy build, Kyle Kincaid comes across as former military, most likely leaving the service as a junior officer to join the Agency. He wears a white shirt with the sleeves rolled haphazardly to his elbows, and an ugly tie, the kind picked by a man who hasn’t had to buy many. A battered canvas briefcase sits by his feet.

“Kyle?” She interrupts his chatter to introduce herself and tell him why she’s sought him out. “Is there somewhere private we can talk?”

They walk down the hall to a conference room. He slides into a chair. He doesn’t bother to try to hide his skepticism. It’s not that he doesn’t believe what she told him, but he clearly doesn’t like that she is going to be judging how he has done his job, if he might’ve done something that got his asset apprehended. “We’re just trying to figure out what happened,” she says even though she knows it won’t set his mind at ease.

“How did the Russians find out about Nesterov?” Kincaid asks.

“That’s what we hope to find out. I need you to answer a few questions.”

He smirks. “You sound like a cop. Do I need a lawyer?”

She should’ve brought Raymond Murphy with her, then at least they could play good cop, bad cop. “I’m not with CI. I’m sure they’ll talk to you soon enough. I’m trying to figure out if someone got access to Nesterov’s files who shouldn’t have. Have you noticed anything off lately? People asking questions who weren’t read into the access, asking to see his reports?”

“No . . . But there’s a lot of interest in Skipjack’s reports now. He’s been turning in some good information, though that wasn’t always the case. The number of people who know his true identity, though—that’s small. Most people don’t care who the source is as long as the information is good. Once they’re satisfied that he’s not lying, they don’t think about it again.”

“And there’s nothing out of the ordinary you can remember?”

“Nothing.” He frowns like a petulant schoolboy. “Why would a mole turn in Skipjack? That’s the part I don’t get. Moscow wouldn’t care about small potatoes like him. I think Station was ready to write him off. He was lucky to get reassigned to that cyber unit. Things were about to turn around for him.”

Lyndsey’s ears prick up. He’s touched on something that’s been nagging her: how did the mole decide to hand over these three assets? They’re lopsided: Lighthouse and Skipjack hadn’t been big producers, as Kincaid said. But Genghis, Popov, was a crown jewel. Genghis alone would be more than the Russians could hope for.

For another thing, they are as diverse as can be, from three different programs: science, military, and a highly placed security asset. You’d think that the mole would have access to one program only. The mole is either showing off his ability to break through firewalls or . . . there’s another reason at play here, one that Lyndsey hasn’t thought of yet.

On her way out, Lyndsey gives Kincaid’s desk a once-over. He sits with his back to three other officers, their four cubicles forming a square with a shared table in the middle. It seems a lively place, the four men talking among themselves constantly. She notices Kincaid’s safe, too: the drawers are open, manila folders peeking out, tempting anyone to pluck them up. But most likely, at least one of these four guys would be around at any given time. It would be hard to get to those files without being seen.

Unless the mole sits nearby. Or Kincaid is stupider than he seems. There’s a path through all these bits and pieces that leads to an answer, but at the moment she can’t see it.

—

That afternoon comes an appointment Lyndsey hasn’t been looking forward to: the interview with Kate Franklin. Lyndsey told Raymond Murphy she wanted to talk to her alone, rather than participate in CI’s questioning. Beirut is still fresh in her mind: her own interrogation by the Chief of Station, hammered with questions even though they were uninterested in her answers, their minds already made up. The shame and regret and fear. It’s too raw for her to sit on the other side of the table, to watch someone else go through the same ordeal.

She feels for this woman across the table, made to confess her failings in front of strangers. Franklin sits at the table, shoulders hunched, eyes downcast. An ugly patch of psoriasis has broken out on her face. Her hair is barely combed, her clothes don’t seem to sit right on her body, as though she’s misaligned buttons or put on things a size too small. Everything about her posture and demeanor says she has given up already. She probably wishes the floor would open up beneath her, that she could hand in her badge and kiss her pension goodbye if only they would let her walk out the door. They’ve