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

he would get the opportunity to see the faces of CIA employees and learn more about the workings under the cover. Not yet. Such privilege only comes with trust. He has to prove his trustworthiness.

The safe house is small, an old farmhouse surrounded by acres of overgrown fruit trees, gone half-wild and impenetrable. Tarasenko sleeps upstairs, and there’s someone on duty in the house—half housekeeper, half truant officer—around the clock. Outside, a security team patrols the grounds to make sure no unwelcome visitors come at night but it’s unlikely the Russians have made up their mind about him yet, let alone know where the safe house is. Tarasenko has been here for three days. The first two, he was evaluated by psychologists. By the end of the second day, they concluded that he was probably making the offer in good faith. “He’s not motivated by ideology—obviously,” one of the psychologists said when she presented the team’s decision to Lyndsey and Kim Claiborne, now returned from overseas. “He’s an egoist, so he’ll respond well to flattery. That will only go so far, however. Our best chance to control him is through incentives.”

That evening, there had been a tense negotiation with Tarasenko. Claiborne, Lyndsey, and a few old Russia hands, guys who had worked the target their entire lives. They sat around the dining room table, intent on making a deal.

Claiborne is with Lyndsey now, watching Tarasenko recite the tech ops officer’s instructions back to him. It was clear from Claiborne’s behavior and the way she led the meetings last night that she’d been appointed acting Chief of Russia Division. Whether or not she’d keep the top post remained to be seen.

“He’s a smooth one,” Claiborne says. She’d come to the deputy position after tours in Iraq. She’d worked the Russia target early in her career but then took assignments in other offices—it was clear, at that point, that she was looking at upper management one day, and needed to broaden her experience. There would be others vying for Eric Newman’s old job, now that he’d been forced out. Men who’d been eyeing the plum position, biding their time. “Can we trust him?”

He’d asked for a lot of money: a hefty down payment, deposited in an offshore account, and the balance to be paid after Morozov was delivered. He didn’t want to stay in place, working for CIA: he would give them one thing, and one thing only: Evgeni Morozov. Once Morozov was captured, his future in the FSB was over. It wouldn’t take them long to figure out who had helped the Americans. There’d been some debate whether it was better to keep an asset in place this high in the FSB versus getting a juicy but ultimately symbolic target like Morozov, but they’d decided to get Morozov. With a snake as slippery as Tarasenko, there was no telling when he’d turn on them. It was only a matter of time and the right circumstance.

The dollar signs lit up in Tarasenko’s eyes as CIA made its offer: the payment, plus resettlement in the U.S., and more money as an “advisor” to CIA. Teaching Langley all about FSB techniques, recalling as much as he could about Russia’s spies in the U.S. It was lucrative, but he would have to look over his shoulder for the rest of his life, or at least as long as Putin remained in power which, at this point, is looking like a lifetime appointment.

They are being careful with Tarasenko, not exposing him to too much of their tradecraft and methods. Still, it is hard to predict what will happen once he’s back in Moscow, especially when he returns to work. A technical team is in Tarasenko’s apartment right now, not far from Lubyanka Square. Tarasenko knows, of course. CIA’s strategically placed microphones and cameras will pick up his every conversation, see who’s coming to his door, who passes outside his windows. It’s part of the dark bargain. If he wants to burn his American handlers, it will happen when he passes through the doors of FSB headquarters.

“We’ll see if he passes his first test,” Lyndsey replies, arms crossed over her chest. There’s always a first test, low-hanging fruit. A sign that he’s willing to do what’s needed. He’s been given initial requirements: Morozov’s schedule for the next three months. The address of this secret hideaway Tarasenko alluded to, which he swears he doesn’t know—yet.

Claiborne lifts an eyebrow. “I’m glad to hear you say that. It sounds like you’re emotionally invested in this case—”

“Of course I am.”

“Then I hope you’ll consider what I’m about to say next: Tarasenko wants you to be his handler.”

It’s a great opportunity and she should be elated; she’s anything but. The whispered word—kukla—echoes in her mind.

Lyndsey looks through the glass at the Russian. The relationship between handler and asset is close and often tempestuous. It demands clear thinking and emotions kept under control. Tarasenko seems to push others emotionally, hoping they’ll make a mistake that he can capitalize on. Plus, she knows his background: he is violent, highly dangerous. It would be a challenge. And she has always liked a challenge.

But then there’s the look he gave her at FBI headquarters. Chilling.

“You’re probably sick of this case and want nothing more than to step away. I get it. But, Lyndsey—he’s asking for you,” Claiborne says.

“He wants me as his handler because he thinks he can play me.”

“Maybe. There could be other reasons. Maybe he’s attracted to you. Maybe he doesn’t see young women as a threat. I don’t mean to belittle you or your abilities—you’re obviously very capable.” Claiborne begins pacing, eyes directed at the floor. Something she doesn’t want me to see. “You won’t have to go it alone. We’ll pull together a team of the best Russia hands to work this case. They’ll be there to advise you. And at least you wouldn’t be looking at an open-ended assignment: Tarasenko is going to help us get Morozov and then it’s over.