Red Widow

by Alma Katsu

  Raymond had only hinted at the cards in his hand, but it sounds like one of the case officers. Someone who was known to be having money problems and had been caught fudging about the situation in paperwork. Raymond wants to poke around a bit more before sharing a name with her, so that’s all she has for now. Enough to know that Moscow Station couldn’t be ruled out at this point.

  It’s time to get started on the tasks Raymond outlined. The first step is to get the access records for Popov, Nesterov, and Kulakov. The information that an asset provides to the Agency might be widely reported, but those reports wouldn’t reveal the true identity of the source. To get on the access list, you would’ve had to prove a need to know the asset’s true identity—usually in order to validate the truthfulness or usefulness of the information. That access list would include policymakers, which means there’s a chance, albeit a slim one, that a U.S. diplomatic or military attaché could’ve accidentally let slip a true name during a negotiation or meeting. There are other ways the Russians might’ve found out, too, but it’s highly unlikely they would’ve found three assets on their own. And for Popov, a consummate professional, to trip himself up? It seems almost impossible. The most likely reason, far more likely than any other, is that someone on the access lists told the Russians.

  She also needs to read all the reports issued by Popov’s new handler Tom Cassidy, the CIA officer who took over when Lyndsey left Moscow. It will be the first time she’s able to see them, since her access was taken away when she left Moscow Station, a standard security procedure. She no longer had need-to-know.

  Her first move is to call Russia Division’s chief security officer. “I need to know who’s on the access list for Genghis, Skipjack, and Lighthouse.” The code names for Popov, Nesterov, and Kulakov. “And I need it asap.”

  The security officer hems. “It’s going to take some time. I can’t promise that I’ll get back to you today.”

  With this investigation her only responsibility, Lyndsey has time in abundance. “Let me into the files and I’ll go through the records myself and connect the dots.”

  Ten minutes later, she’s got entry into the records she needs. She starts going through the access lists, beginning with Kulakov. The number of people who would need to know the true identity of a scientist would be small. Senior managers wouldn’t bother to be read in. The information that Kulakov provided might’ve been widely disseminated in classified reports, but most readers wouldn’t need to know the true name of the person who provided that information in order to understand it.

  More people would be given access to Nesterov’s true identity because of the subject: every agency in the federal government seems to be working Russian cyber operations right now. Still, the list for Nesterov is shockingly long. Lyndsey makes a mental note to raise this with Eric. It seems an unnecessary risk.

  She goes back and sifts through the list of names under Kulakov’s file, only about thirty. Then, she checks each one against Nesterov’s list, which numbers almost two hundred. After eliminating some false matches—common names that turn out to be different people—Lyndsey arrives at the conclusion she was afraid of: no single person appears on both Nesterov’s and Kulakov’s access lists. Which means, aside from a handful of senior managers who get included pro forma, no one person would know of both men’s true identities.

  Whoever gave these names to the FSB—Federal Security Service of the Russian Federation—got them through other means.

  Next, Lyndsey compares both Kulakov’s and Nesterov’s access lists with the third list, Popov’s. Just as she suspected, there are no matches against Kulakov’s list and only a handful of matches against Nesterov’s, and all are senior leaders at CIA—including Eric Newman. The idea that any of them could be an FSB mole is laughable.

  Lyndsey starts on the next task she gave herself: going through all the reports featuring information that Popov provided to his new handler. On a yellow legal pad, she scribbles notes as she reads, a stream-of-consciousness grab bag of the things that have caught her attention. By now, she’s burned through the morning and her body rebels at being yoked to that chair for so long. But she keeps at it, plodding through cables one by one.

  Lyndsey skims over her handwritten notes one more time. Popov slowed down after she left Moscow Station, no question. A turnover in handlers sometimes changes things. Sometimes the asset will feel abandoned, will only trust the first handler. Sometimes personalities don’t mesh. But Popov is a pro and he knew what to expect. There is nothing in Tom Cassidy’s reports to suggest there was a serious problem. Popov is being careful as usual, Cassidy wrote. But Russia Division took issue, felt there was a change in the quality and value of the intelligence he was passing. Had there been a problem brewing that escaped everyone’s notice?

  She skips down to Cassidy’s last report on Genghis dated two months ago. No contact with Popov, or no record of any, for the past sixty days. It is a frightening gap: anything could’ve happened in those sixty days to send Popov skittering to Washington. It would be criminal negligence if something had happened, but Moscow Station missed it.

  Tom Cassidy has a lot of explaining to do.

  Then Lyndsey comes to a line in a report that hits her like a concrete wall.

  Popov’s youngest daughter, Varya, is dead.

  SUBJECT: GENGHIS

  Asset reported that his youngest daughter had died three months earlier. She was age 16 at the time of death. Subject did not tell us at the time because of the circumstances: she died of a heroin overdose. He had not revealed to us earlier that his daughter was a drug addict, though he seemed to be aware of the fact.

  Lyndsey remembers the girl in the picture Popov had shared with her years ago. Elfin, twelve years old at the time the photo was taken, with flyaway sandy hair and a crooked smile. She knows what this would have meant to Popov: his daughters came late to him and his wife. They had been totally unexpected. He said it changed their lives, made him think about how the elites were robbing the common Russian blind, made him angry at the oligarchs for hollowing out the country to stockpile obscene amounts of money in offshore accounts.

  According to subject, the daughter drowned at the family’s dacha while they were on vacation. The police investigation was inconclusive; it could’ve been either suicide or accidental. She was reportedly hanging out with friends in a boathouse and fell into the water. The friends claimed they were unable to get to her in time.

  Asset has been traumatized by the event. Although the asset has not said so for himself, I get the impression that he would like to end his service to us. After his daughter’s death, nothing seems to matter to him anymore.

  Lyndsey feels like she’s going to be sick. Popov had often worried that his girls were being shortchanged by having such old parents. The world had changed so much and he and his wife had not kept up with it. Varya’s addiction would have been glaring proof of their failure. Her death would have gutted him. She wishes she could’ve spoken to him while he was still alive, to have consoled him.

  And could this have had some bearing on what happened to him? In some way, she senses it could have. She just can’t see it yet.

  There is a rap on the door. Eric Newman, looking incredibly well put together in a gray suit and burnished silk tie. He’s always tried to look polished, in her recollection, but this seems a new level of effort.

  Eric follows Lyndsey’s eye, smiles. He shoots his cuffs, perhaps in self-deprecation. “I have a meeting on the seventh floor.” The Director’s suite. No wonder he wants to impress.

  “Popov?”

  “And a few other things.” He can’t tell her, of course. Instead, they use these veiled references, insinuating other intrigues, intrigues within intrigues. “If things go well, I’ll let you know. Meanwhile, do you have any good news for me?”

  She tells him about the access lists. While she’ll need to double-check her fi
ndings before coming to any conclusions, that’s something she feels safe in sharing. But she doesn’t mention Varya’s death; she’s not sure what that means yet, and she wants to dig more deeply before bringing up Moscow Station’s drop in production.

  Lyndsey takes a deep breath. There’s one thing they can do to protect themselves, and now’s her chance. “CI turned up something, too, on Moscow Station.” Eric’s brows shoot up; she hates to get his hopes up that Russia Division isn’t to blame—as fortuitous as that would be. “Too soon to tell . . . It may be nothing. But do you think it’s time to warn our other assets in Russia? Get them to go into hiding?” Two assets have disappeared in two weeks. Isn’t that enough cause for alarm?

  He’s shaking his head before she’s finished speaking. “If there’s the possibility that the mole is in Moscow Station, we can’t tip them off that we know. And we can’t tell Moscow Station to stand down all operations without something concrete. Once you turn these things off, it’s hard to get them back on track. Assets lose their nerve. Things might never be the same again. We can’t look like we’re jumping to conclusions. I need proof—which is why I brought you in.”

  He takes in her frown, her frustration. “I know you’ve only been on the case for a day, Lyndsey, but the Director is breathing down my neck. This meeting I’m going to? The Director has asked for an update every day until we have an answer. And he’s not a patient man. If he doesn’t like what he sees, he’ll start calling the shots himself. I don’t intend to be marginalized in my own office. Do whatever it takes to get answers, and if somebody stands in your way, you let me know. We need to figure out what’s going on before the Russians pick up one more of our assets. I know you can do this, Lyndsey—I’m counting on you.”

  EIGHT

  Closing the door behind Eric, Lyndsey’s thoughts turn back to Varya. Reading that report was a punch to the gut.

  She throws herself into her chair, letting it roll backward to hit the wall with a jarring thud. Too much is happening at once. Even though she hasn’t seen Popov in years, losing him has shaken loose an old sadness inside her. She lost her own father when she was very young, but that loss has never gone away. It has merely been dormant, and now those emotions kick up like a sandstorm. Being left with her aunt while her mother rushed her father to the hospital. Her mother returning in the middle of the night—alone. The feeling that the floor has suddenly dropped out from beneath her. The sensation of being completely vulnerable. Of never being whole.

  Poor Masha. Losing her daughter and now her husband. Though Lyndsey never met them, she has always felt as though she knew Masha and the daughters, Polina and Varya. Popov had told her stories about how it was just the two of them, he and Masha, for a long time, before the girls came along. For a girl who had few memories of her own parents together, it was a balm to hear about their marriage. How he valued Masha’s wisdom and had come to trust her judgment, even with his intelligence work. She remembered the photos he’d shown her of Masha from the early days, her round, serene face; the two in somber Soviet-era clothing, standing outside their grim, regimental apartment building. Later, Masha as a schoolteacher, her hair gray and piled on top of her head. Photos of the girls, too, of course: he was a proud father. Little girls in snow suits, teenagers in fur hats and lipstick.

  Should she try to reach Masha, offer condolences? It would be risky to try to contact them directly right after Popov’s suspicious death. The authorities undoubtedly would be watching the family, particularly if they knew he was a double agent.

  Lyndsey doesn’t have a way to contact Masha, anyway. There was no protocol for covert communications with the family, only with the asset. Strictly speaking, families were not supposed to be witting; it would endanger both them and the asset.

  Thank goodness for modern technology. The spy’s friend. For backup, she’d had them both set up special accounts on a secure messaging app. It wasn’t even one of the popular ones; reputedly, it was used almost exclusively by teenagers. Popov had balked, saying he felt ridiculous having it on his phone, even if no one knew, but she had pressed and eventually they were both glad she had.

  She’ll have to wait until after work to use the app. Cell phones aren’t allowed in secure spaces at CIA, for obvious reasons. Her phone sits out in her car, waiting patiently, like the family dog. Some people at Langley take a break to go out to their cars if they need to use their phones, but even that is frowned on. Lyndsey can be patient. She has plenty of work to keep her distracted.

  * * *

  —

  As soon as Lyndsey is back in her cheerless apartment that evening, she leaves her purse and coat at the door and heads straight to her couch, cell phone in hand.

  She stares at the black glass of her smartphone. She hasn’t used this secret channel since she left Moscow. Lyndsey swipes through the screens, looking for the app. She’s not a big smartphone user, not like some people she knows who download every hot app they hear about—use it a couple times and then forget about it. She can’t remember the name of the app but she remembers its icon: a square pink telephone sporting a cartoonish human face, one eye winking. On second thought, she can see why Popov didn’t like it. She finds it on the second to the last screen—she never used it in Beirut because she hadn’t developed any assets during her short time there, no one who merited special back-channel communications. The app is like a guilty memory, a reminder of her willingness to flout the rules, now buried on her phone.

  It opens with a tap. Her account name is Mindreader, plucked out of thin air at the time but so silly now, so naïve, it makes her cringe.

  There’s a red flag next to it. An unread message.

  There was only one person she corresponded with on that app: Yaromir Popov.

  Her stomach goes into free fall. She had turned off notifications after she’d been in Beirut for a few months, determined to put her old life behind her. The handoff to a new handler was where an asset could stumble; they both knew it. She and Popov had agreed he’d give the new handler a chance. Then, too, her life had been in such a state of flux: being pushed off the Russian target, told to prove herself by doing something completely different. See if you can make lightning strike a second time, COS Beirut had said with a touch of bitterness. It had been time to get back on track. To prove, if only to herself, that she could abide by the rules.

  She squints at the tiny print. The message is dated the day before Popov’s Aeroflot flight.

  Taking a deep breath, she opens it.

  I need to talk to you. Something has happened, and I don’t know who to trust.

  Guilt washes through her like acid. She wills herself to calm down, but the same thought keeps swamping her: he tried to reach me before he died. Before he made that fatal flight to Washington. He had come to try to find her because she hadn’t answered him. Because she had forgotten all about him.

  She resists the urge to throw the phone across the room, frustrated by that cryptic message. Why didn’t he explain in his text what had happened? But it’s useless to ask questions that can’t be answered. She can only guess. Maybe it was because he didn’t think it was safe, even though the app encrypts the messages.

  Whatever he had to tell her must’ve been exceptionally sensitive.

  She stares at the phone’s screen for a long time before she starts to type.

  What she writes is pure wishful thinking. It’s like stuffing a message in a bottle and throwing it in the ocean. A bottle adrift in a vast sea. Chances are it will never be found, never read. But she does it anyway, because it’s all she has.

  M or P, if you’re watching this, please reply. A friend of Y.

  Then she goes on a run to clear her head.

  * * *

  —

  Lyndsey can’t wait to get back to her apartment so she can check her phone. Superstitiously, she didn’t bring it with her on her run—a watched pot ne
ver boils—but she heads straight to it as soon as she unlocks the door. She snatches the phone off the coffee table, squints at the screen, and holds her breath as she scrolls, frantically looking for a message.

  This is M. Y said you would help us. Is that why you’ve texted?

  Her heart first explodes with glee—success—then clenches like a fist. Tom Cassidy should’ve reached out to them as soon as they learned Popov was dead. But it’s obvious this hasn’t happened.

  She’s about to tap a response but pauses. There is a momentary, passing instinct to suspect interference. That response was awfully fast. Maybe it’s not Masha, maybe it’s an FSB tech operative. But no: she and Popov used this channel for two years and were never found out, by either the FSB nor the CIA, so she feels certain that she is talking to Popov’s wife and not an FSB operative pretending to be her.

  She begins to type. I’m so sorry for what happened. Are you okay? Has the FSB contacted you yet?

  The dialogue box fills slowly. The authorities are still not certain what happened, I believe.

  She has to ask a question, a very important one. It can’t wait, though she feels badly for trying to get information from Masha while she is grieving. She has no choice.

  Y contacted me before he died saying something terrible had happened but didn’t explain. Do you know what he meant?

  She counts the seconds after she finishes typing. There’s a long pause on Masha’s end. Lyndsey prays that he shared this secret with his wife.

  Y said the FSB knew about him. He went to the U.S. to find you.

  The missed text. Another stab of regret, right in her heart.

  There is her answer: the mole—whoever he is—gave them Popov, and he had no choice but to run. But the FSB went after him, his running might as well have been an admission of guilt, so they killed him.