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

crossed a line and it was a federal matter now. But Yaromir Popov’s murder—now that Lyndsey doubts it is connected to Kulakov and Nesterov, it doesn’t belong to FBI, does it? The weight of the evidence is that Eric Newman arranged it. She can’t go to FBI with that, not until she knows why.

“I’m not sure what it means,” Lyndsey says. That much felt fair to say. “I’ll talk to Tony and find out if we sent Simon to Russia.” What she doesn’t say, because she doesn’t need to, is that the case just got turned on its head.

Herbert waits a beat. “Look, Lyndsey, I’ll give you space to work this through, but are you sure this isn’t something I need to know? It’ll only slow down the investigation if you don’t tell us everything.”

“You and I know this could have serious implications at the Agency. I don’t want to be wrong. I just need a little more time to be sure of what I’m seeing.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Twenty-four hours. Then I’ll tell you everything I know.”

“I’ll hold you to it.” Herbert hangs up.

Alone, the realization hits Lyndsey like a baseball bat. She doesn’t have a doubt, not a whisper, not a glimmer. Eric Newman was behind Yaromir Popov’s death.

THIRTY-SEVEN

There’s a courtyard outside the Agency cafeteria. It’s got a handful of tables, and benches under the scant trees. A huge sculpture stands in a corner, strips of metal with letters of the alphabet punched out in seemingly random placement, inviting further inspection. It’s meant to represent cryptography, and those letters encase a hidden message.

Lyndsey sits on a bench staring at the statue. The sun is filtered by trees but still glints brightly off the metal, making her squint. She left her desk because she couldn’t risk running into Eric in her current frame of mind.

What game is he playing? No matter how she twists and turns the facts, she can’t think of one scenario that makes sense. Why would Eric Newman bring her in to solve the case—or not solve the case—if he’s the one who had Popov killed?

He says he is on her side.

She looks at the metal sculpture, but her gaze goes right through it. The letters are a tangle. Like everything else, it seems.

She goes back to her own puzzle, trying to lace the pieces together in a way that tells a logical story. Eric hired Simon to kill Popov. No one knows why Popov was rushing to Washington, but the circumstances imply he had something to tell CIA but didn’t trust Moscow Station. What did he know?

That’s where she comes up blank. He had something to tell her, according to Masha. Something he didn’t think he could share with Moscow Station. Which could mean he didn’t trust his handler, Tom Cassidy, or didn’t trust the entire station.

All she can do is think about Eric. Why this charade when Popov was killed, when he was behind it all along? It couldn’t have been sanctioned, then.

He authorized it on his own.

She’s afraid of the emotions running through her right now like a raging river. At CIA, you’re trained to be wary of emotions. Emotions cloud your judgment and trick your mind, leave you susceptible to manipulation and error. So right now, she’s fighting with everything she has. She wants to go into Eric’s office and push him up against the wall and demand to know what he’s doing, damn the secrets within secrets, tell me. Why—of all the assets available to him, all the deadbeats and liars and drunks who’ve strung CIA along for years—he chose to sacrifice Yaromir Popov. But you don’t ask the fox to explain why he went into the henhouse when all the chickens are lying dead on the ground.

She feels eyes on her. She’s sure it’s paranoia, nothing more than an old friend who didn’t know she was back from Beirut, ready to walk over with a big “hello.” Lyndsey looks over her shoulder, expecting to find nothing there, no one—but it’s Theresa. Lyndsey would recognize her trademark red lipstick anywhere.

Theresa is looking at her quizzically. They haven’t been seeing as much of each other in the office of late, not like at first. Lyndsey realizes, cynically, that was because Theresa was looking for information about the investigation, not out of real friendship. This realization comes with a sting.

Yet, their friendship felt real.

Don’t be a chump: it’s all smoke and mirrors. And has been since day one.

—

Lyndsey suddenly remembers her first date with Davis. He brought her to Bourj Hammoud, the Armenian neighborhood in the city, for a dinner of sujuk shawarma. After dinner, they strolled back down Armenia Street and Davis told her stories from his various assignments, the safe stuff, no secrets, no names. The more she enjoyed herself, the more she worried because it couldn’t be. It wasn’t allowed. If she were smart, she would nip it in the bud, stop it before it began.

Davis picked up on her silence, and tucked her arm over his, drawing her close. “I know what you’re thinking—and don’t. Don’t listen to them. Don’t let them think for you, Lyndsey.”

“But, the rules—”

“Fuck their rules—no, really. If you follow their rules, you’re going to miss the important things. The things that are worth fighting for. You and I know we’re not doing anything wrong, so why should we give up the good thing we could have, just to obey some pointless rule? The thing is, they wouldn’t want you to, if they knew. They need rule breakers. You just need to know which rules to break.”

—

Theresa is still waiting across the courtyard. Lyndsey has only a second to decide what to do. She’s angry with Theresa and more than a little wary—she probably put a man in the hospital—but those dangerous emotions tell her to talk to her. It’s not too late to save her. And Theresa has the answer. She knows what’s really going on.

Yet, too, she knows what