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

threatened her with jail time, though, rattling her into submission. Lyndsey’s stomach clenches to look at her.

The questioning will need to be indirect. CI was clear on that. Lyndsey can’t ask any leading questions, nothing that would reveal there’s a mole hunt going on. If Franklin is involved, it should come out under questioning, revealing threads that lead back to spying activity. Unless she is an expert and determined liar.

She extends her hand. “Hello, I’m Lyndsey Duncan from Russia Division. I have a few questions for you.”

Kate’s eyes lift briefly to meet Lyndsey’s, then dart away. “Is this really necessary? I’ve already talked to CI and Security several times—”

Can this be over, please? I’d like to go home, crawl into bed, pull the covers over my head and never come out. Lyndsey understands only too well. “Absolutely necessary, yes. I’ll try to be as brief as possible. Why don’t you tell me when the, uh, problem started?”

Franklin sighs, collapsing further into herself, like a falling soufflé. She knows she has to talk about this, but she’s ashamed. Revealing your weakness to strangers is part of the job, however. You lay yourself bare, over and over.

When she speaks, her voice is small and helpless. “About a year ago. Right before I was posted to Moscow. I hadn’t gambled in a long time. At least five years, I think. Nothing, except the occasional lottery ticket. I started taking weekend trips to Charlestown, or Arundel Mills in Maryland. It was no big deal, just something to do with my girlfriends. A little excitement. But it was never a problem. Things might’ve been a little tight from time to time, but it wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle.”

“What happened in Russia?”

Russia. The bleak nights, the wet cold that suffuses everything. The loneliness that all single women suffer at an overseas post, probably worse for someone Franklin’s age. Franklin looks at her red, chapped hands as though they are responsible for her lapse. “I don’t know how it got out of control over there, I really don’t. I told myself I’d only do it once in a while, a treat when I’d had a rough day.”

“You ended up placing bets with the locals? But gambling is illegal in Moscow.”

Her first smile for Lyndsey is a half grimace. “It’s easy to find a bookie to take a bet on sports . . . a football match, boxing match. Everyone does it.”

“How much did you lose?”

She hesitates. “Twenty thousand. More than I ever thought . . . I don’t know how it got out of control—” She sniffles, reaches into a pocket for a wadded tissue, and dabs her nose. “The bookie, he knew I was an American, he figured I’d be good for it . . . But he let me know he expected to collect—or there would be consequences.”

“Did he make an offer for you to work off your debt?”

“Work for the Russians, you mean?” Her look is beyond contempt. “I would never do that. It was only twenty thousand. I don’t have that kind of money lying around, but I could get my hands on it. Take it out of my retirement fund. Borrow from relatives. I wouldn’t agree to spy—no way.” She stops to compose herself. “It didn’t come to that. He let me make one more bet—and that one came in.” Franklin pulls back slightly as though waiting to see how Lyndsey will react. Even she knows it was too good to be true. “Sure, I thought it was suspicious . . . But he said I won it. It would wipe out my debt. I wasn’t about to turn it down.”

“But you didn’t tell the Station about it, any of it . . .”

“I was hoping for a miracle. That it would all blow over and everything would be okay . . .” She starts shredding the tissue. “CI has made it clear they think I was being set up. That the Russians were going to start pressuring me after I’d accepted the money, when I didn’t have any choice because they’d have proof I was dirty.”

“You understood the risk.”

“But that’s not what happened, I swear.”

Lyndsey says nothing, absorbing every flick of her eyes, twitch of her mouth, every nervous fidget of her hands. CI says they’d caught Franklin before the Russians had a chance: there’d been a little money left over after paying off her debt, a few thousand dollars, which she put in her bank account. It wasn’t necessarily sloppy tradecraft: such a small amount could be overlooked or explained away if anyone asked. It was just her bad luck that this happened as the mole hunt kicked off, and Security pressed harder than they normally would. She crumbled under questioning.

“I admit I haven’t used the best judgment. Have I done things I wish I hadn’t? Sure, hasn’t everyone? I haven’t committed a crime.” The tears subside as anger rises to the surface. “I’m not stupid. I know what’s going on: something bad happened and they’re looking to pin it on someone. If they can’t find out who did it, they’re going to pin it on me.” Her eyes frantically search Lyndsey’s face for confirmation.

“We want the guilty party. We’re not looking for a scapegoat.” Lyndsey tries to sound authoritative, but Franklin glares at her. She thinks I’m being naïve. “Look, your best bet is to cooperate fully with the investigation. If you’re innocent, you’ll be exonerated.”

Franklin turns away from her in exasperation. She’s shaking visibly from head to toe. Her strange behavior worries Lyndsey: could it be a sign of guilt? Does the heightened emotion mean she’s lying? Lyndsey’s own recent scrape with Security doesn’t help. It’s hard to be objective.

Then she remembers what Ruth Mallory told her. A past incident? Maybe there’s something in Franklin’s past that would be relevant. Reese Munroe, the Station Chief, might know.

Lyndsey stands. “That’s all I have—for now. Thanks for your time.” She can’t quite read the expression on Franklin’s face, but it is worrying. Angry and sad and hopeless all in one. She gathers up shreds of tissue before leaving