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

a once-respected colleague to be treated like a criminal. To have law enforcement watching your house through binoculars and taping your phone calls. She fights to remember that Theresa has brought this on herself.

“Have you gotten anything yet?” Eric asks.

One curt nod. “That’s why I’m here. We got extremely lucky. She got a suspicious call early this morning. We think it was in a code of some kind.”

“And the caller?” Lyndsey asks.

“In the U.S. but it wasn’t a number we’ve seen before. We’re still tracking it down.” Herbert takes a piece of paper out of her portfolio and pushes it across the table at them. “This is the transcript.”

WARNER: Hello?

CALLER [MALE VOICE, NO DISCERNIBLE ACCENT]: This is a courtesy call from North Star Realtors.

WARNER: Uh—yes?

CALLER: We’re holding a seminar on selling your house in the current market. It’s Thursday night at eight o’clock at the Bethesda Marriott on Pooks Hill Road—

WARNER: I’m sorry, I’m not looking to sell my home right now. But thank you for your call.

[HANGS UP]

Newman pushes the paper back at Herbert with an undercurrent of irritation. “Doesn’t look like anything to me. What makes you think it’s the Russians?”

“We couldn’t find any business listed as North Star Realtors in this area,” Herbert says, her voice level and calm, “and the Marriott says there’s no such seminar booked for that location at that time.”

“Did you catch a lucky break or do you research every call like that?” Lyndsey asks.

Herbert smiles. “I’d like to say yes, but we’ve seen the Russians use this technique in other cases. One of our agents remembered hearing the FSB use North Star Realtors before.”

Lazy tradecraft. It’s the little things that trip you up and give you away. “Does that mean they’re going to rendezvous next Thursday evening?” Lyndsey asks.

“I’d say something’s going to happen, though it might just be a dead drop with information about the real meeting. You can be sure we’ll be watching Warner on Thursday night,” Herbert says.

Eric perks up considerably. “This is a great catch. The sooner we can get this wrapped up, the better.” As he walks Herbert to the door, Eric adds, “I want you to contact me the minute you get anything else. I want to be kept in the loop.”

Herbert gives him a patient smile. “I appreciate your enthusiasm Mr. Newman, but from here out, the FBI is in control. We require your cooperation, but we are talking about a criminal investigation. I expect you to keep me informed of any changes in Warner’s behavior. Anything—no matter how small.” She hands them each a business card.

After Herbert leaves, Eric closes the door before Lyndsey can follow. “This is bothering you. I can tell by the look on your face,” he says.

“Well, of course. I’d have to be an ogre not to feel bad about it.”

“You were the one to figure this out. You should be pleased,” he says.

“I’d be more pleased to be wrong.”

“Look, if she’s innocent, surveillance will exonerate her.” A grin slips over his face. Is he the one who’s pleased? “Though it doesn’t sound like that’s going to happen, does it?”

As Lyndsey heads back to her office, she realizes that she’s shaking. After talking to Herbert, it suddenly feels very real. And yet, despite all the evidence she’s found, the way the clues point . . . She doesn’t know what it is, but something doesn’t feel right.

TWENTY-EIGHT

Lyndsey pulls up outside the address Theresa has given her. It rained earlier, and the sky is still gray. The street debris looks as if it was just pulled out of the washing machine. Wet leaves and bits of twig strewn all over the road. The porch lights are starting to come on, and a warm lambent glow radiates from kitchen windows.

In the driveway, there’s a car under a cover in the distinctive shape of an older-model sports car. Richard Warner’s famous Jaguar, like it’s waiting for him to come home. The cover is slightly askew, as though it’s been removed recently. Considering that the car must be worth a fortune, it’s surprising that she hasn’t sold it already. Frankly, it’s a sign Lyndsey realizes she should’ve caught earlier: a clear indication that Theresa cannot let go.

Theresa’s house is in a nice old neighborhood in McLean, the kind of place that people hired early by the Agency bought to be close to work. Though they’re all retired now and have sold out to doctors and lawyers and businessmen who’ve remodeled away their former charm. Theresa’s gray-shingled Cape Cod is modestly sized, but even small houses in McLean fetch a lot of money. A million dollars for a three- or four-bedroom Colonial on a postage stamp of land. Too expensive for government salaries, really, so it probably means either Richard or Theresa has family money. There is a set of people at CIA who don’t need the salary but are patriotic and want the James Bond experience. If there is money, it came before there was any question whether Theresa is working for the Russians. There’s that, at least.

The invitation came the day before, as Lyndsey and Theresa were having coffee in the cafeteria. “Why don’t you come over tomorrow night for dinner?” Theresa asked, studiously offhand.

Curious, that offer. The timing was suspicious. Why make the offer now? Did Theresa suspect that Lyndsey was on to her? Had she messed up—left notes on her desk where Theresa could’ve seen them? Maybe someone in CI slipped up. Or maybe one of the reports officers blabbed to Theresa—despite Lyndsey’s explicit instructions.

Should she turn Theresa down? Lyndsey wasn’t sure. It would be the safest course of action . . . But it might make Theresa suspicious. And there was an opportunity here.

It was a minefield, but Lyndsey’s pulse quickened.

There was only one way to know if Theresa’s up to something, and that was to call her bluff.

“Sure,” she’d said, stirring the cream in her coffee. “I’d love to.”

—

Theresa answers the door, an apron over the dress