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

She heard about Clemens’s death. He had been Eric’s deputy for a long time, even though he was much older than Eric and that he was past the time to be running things. Some grumbled that Eric made him deputy precisely because he wasn’t very good. He got a cushy position and plenty of time to play golf and in return, stayed out of Eric’s hair and never made him look bad. Why else would Eric carry him all these years? the skeptics asked. Others swore there was nothing nefarious in it, that Eric was just doing a favor for an old man and helping preserve his dignity.

There were two sides to everything. What mattered, and what was almost impossible to find out, which was the truth? “And when was that?” she asks.

There’s that frown again. There’s definitely something wrong with Eric’s frown, a complexity that defies classification. An indicator that’s being repressed. “Jack died in early May.”

Lyndsey works through the months in her head: if Theresa had acted on Clemens’s information right away, the timing fits. “Did she come to you? Did she ask for your help?”

“Does it matter? I told her there was nothing I could do, because there wasn’t. The seventh floor wasn’t going to change their minds. I didn’t think she’d go to the Russians, for god’s sake. I would’ve reported her if I thought she was a danger.” He stands up. “Look, what you saw in that file made you mad, I get it. It certainly doesn’t paint me in a flattering light.”

“Eric, I want to believe you. I want to be on your side. Be straight with me: why didn’t you tell me about Richard? You put me in charge of this investigation—I should’ve known.”

He turns on his heel and starts pacing. “It was highly compartmented, one of the Agency’s most closely held secrets . . . I didn’t think they would give it to you. Because of what happened in Beirut.”

That stings.

He continues, not stopping for air, rolling over her. “What does it matter, anyway? You figured it out for yourself. I didn’t have to tell you. You got to the truth on your own. And—how did that happen, exactly? How were you able to see this transcript?”

“I saw the cover term in a report in one of the old files. I went to Patrick Pfeifer in the middle of the night—”

Eric switches from controlled to ballistic in the blink of an eye. “You went to the Chief of Staff, behind my back?”

There’s a nasty edge in his voice. “Not behind your back—he was available, we know each other . . . slightly. I saw there was a compartment and asked him to get me access. It took five minutes.” Then, she thinks to add, “We didn’t discuss the case.”

Eric is quiet. Lyndsey knows there’s more to this investigation than meets the eye. There’s more she’s not seeing—yet. Like most everything at the Agency. A long hall of smoke and mirrors.

Then suddenly, he’s across the room, standing right in front of her. “What happened with Richard was one of the worst moments of my life, personally and professionally, and I’m willing to talk to you about it—just not now, okay? I have to get ready for the stand-up and I don’t want to be thinking about all this while I’m standing in front of the Director.” He’s searching her eyes, trying to read her. He wants to know if she believes him. “You can trust me, Lyndsey. I brought you into this, didn’t I? Made your problem go away?”

What’s going on? She feels as though she’s a step behind, that she’s missing something. Eric hasn’t answered her question, not really: why didn’t he tell her that Richard Warner was still alive? Was it nothing more than an honest lapse in judgment, as he says?

He turns his back to her, gathering the things he needs from his desk. Portfolio, pen. “Don’t let this rattle you. We’re almost there, Lyndsey. Keep your eye on the ball: Theresa is the bad guy here. This could be the biggest catch for Russia Division since—since you brought in Yaromir Popov. Keep working it—but come to me first, if you learn anything more, understand?” And then he’s gone, leaving Lyndsey alone under the harsh glare of office lights, wondering what just happened.

THIRTY-ONE

Well, well, well.

A few weeks ago, from across the office, Theresa watched Lyndsey in conversation with Jan Westerling.

As everyone in the office knew, her asset was just found dead. Westerling was young, so this may well have been the first person she has known, personally, to die. And to die so horribly, so violently. She was shaken so badly that she burst into tears in the office, not a good place to display emotions, especially the weak, “female” kind. Someday she’ll rue it, realize it set her back in ways she couldn’t know.

Theresa remembers the incident now, and tries to tamp down the accompanying wave of panic. Who else might Lyndsey have spoken to? Theresa should’ve thought of this earlier, done something about it. What else is she forgetting?

It’s exhausting being on high alert all the time. When was the last time Theresa did her actual job? She should be going over the reports coming in from Moscow Station but it’s nothing but low-level assets, handled by bored case officers who have been going through the motions for years. She’s supposed to read these reports and put the pieces together, to see the bigger picture. Occasionally she is asked to translate, her Russian that good fifteen years after college. She hasn’t done any real work for days, maybe weeks, but it would be easy to catch up before anyone asks.

If something else doesn’t happen first.

All she can think about now is keeping two steps ahead of Lyndsey and the investigation. She listens for footsteps behind her, waits for the hand of an officer from Security to fall on her shoulder. You’re coming with