by Alma Katsu
Lyndsey tries to push the overwhelming grief away, though she feels like she’s drowning. She needs to think clearly while she’s able to communicate with Masha. There’s more she needs to know.
Did Y tell his handler that the FSB was onto him?
The answer comes back quickly. Without hesitation. He didn’t trust Gerald.
They use code names for handlers. Gerald is Tom Cassidy.
He didn’t trust Tom Cassidy—or, by extension, Moscow Station. That was why he was flying to Washington.
The implications are staggering. For a second, Lyndsey can scarcely breathe. She needs to think through all of this coolly, deliberately. But time is ticking by, and it’s dangerous to stay on any communications channel for too long. You want to be stealthy, to avoid drawing attention.
One last thing. Do you need anything?
The answer is not immediate, and Lyndsey feels the seconds tick by as Masha deliberates. I do not think we will be safe here soon.
She is asking, in so many words, for CIA to save her and her daughter. Her husband would’ve told her this was part of the deal. Lyndsey remembers sitting across the table from him in the safe house during one of their early meetings, hammering out the provisions of his cooperation. The payments and how they would be held in a special Swiss bank account (nothing outrageous; he’d been looking for security, not a payday). And the promise of extraction if things ever got tight. This was a promise made just to the big fish (rather cynically, Lyndsey always thought, knowing how few assets take it). Not to the small fry, and Popov knew this, too. He and his family would not be left to take the fall.
Only now, they are.
She wishes she could type yes, of course, because she knows that’s what Masha needs to hear. She is a new widow with a daughter to protect. But Lyndsey doesn’t want to lie to her. Russia Division won’t do anything until they know what’s going on. Someone is giving the names of CIA assets to the FSB and even though Yaromir Popov is dead, until he’s completely cleared, Russia Division is not going to act—as callous as that sounds. The seventh floor is focused on finding the mole. The wife of a dead asset will not be their greatest concern at the moment.
Masha needs to feel heard and seen. There is no one else she can go to for help. It is Lyndsey’s duty. I’ll get started on that right away, she types. Sit tight. If it becomes necessary, is there some place you can go where no one would think to look for you?
A few more beats. Yes. My sister’s dacha.
Keep watching this app. I will be in touch.
She is sorry she can’t do more at this moment, that she has to leave Masha like this. She closes the app, a tremble of rage passing through her. How they’ve failed Yaromir Popov. He placed his faith in her—and the Agency, but mostly in her—and she let him down. Because she trusted the system.
Something has happened, and I don’t know who to trust.
NINE
MOSCOW
Begging your pardon, Dmitri Ivanovich, but there is a report in your queue that requires your immediate attention. It has to do with Kanareyka.”
Kanareyka. Canary.
Dmitri Tarasenko’s assistant stands in the doorway. She is afraid to come in and so she stands twisting a lock of hair like an anxious little girl. I really should fire her, he thinks for the hundredth time. And he would, if he hadn’t been the one to encourage to her work for him in the first place, which he only did because she was so pretty. But she hasn’t slept with him yet, and that was the whole point, wasn’t it, why he’s suffered through four months of her incompetence. She loses his phone messages. His calendar is a complete disaster. At this point, he feels she owes it to him. It’s his due for putting up with her.
Tarasenko puts down what he is working on. “Very well, Teresa Nikolayevna, I will look at it right away, since you have interrupted my work.” Perhaps she will be more compliant if she suspects he is displeased with her.
She immediately crumbles. “Oh, I am so sorry, Dmitri Ivanovich, I didn’t mean to—”
He waves her away and looks for the email. Finds it, clicks on it.
MESSAGE RECEIVED FROM KANAREYKA. CIA HAS BEEN BLINDSIDED BY THE DEATH OF YAROMIR POPOV AND HAS LAUNCHED AN INQUIRY. INVESTIGATION BEING LED BY OFFICER BROUGHT IN FROM THE FIELD, FORMERLY STATIONED IN MOSCOW. KANAREYKA WILL PROVIDE MORE DETAILS AS THEY ARE KNOWN.
KANAREYKA IS UPSET BY LACK OF FOREWARNING ON POPOV. QUESTIONED WISDOM OF TERMINATION. KANAREYKA FEARS DISCOVERY AND DEMANDS EXTRACTION NOW. PLEASE ADVISE.
Tarasenko pushes back in his chair, chuckling to himself. First, it is ludicrous for an asset to make demands. The FSB holds all the cards and Kanareyka should have realized this when the deal was made.
Honestly, what does he care if Kanareyka is discovered? The FSB had gotten all they were likely to get from this asset. Kanareyka is balky and obviously has no intention of giving the FSB what it wants. What’s more, Kanareyka is a traitor, and all traitors are by nature untrustworthy. They betray their masters, the hand that feeds; knowing this, you’d be a fool to trust them. Though it’s protocol to make a fuss over them, to call them heroes and applaud their courage and the like. Dmitri Tarasenko never believed in that. They are self-serving liars. They cloak themselves in glory, pretending to be doing it for one noble reason or other, but in truth they serve no higher purpose; they only serve themselves.
Still.
No sense slaughtering the cow when it might have more milk to give. As much as it would please him to burn Kanareyka, he realizes to do so now would be premature.
Then there is this matter of Yaromir Popov. The office had received word of Popov’s abrupt death; something about dying while on vacation, an obvious fabrication. A few of the old-timers were shaken up—you could still find one or two who liked the man—but it hadn’t mattered to Tarasenko, not at all. Popov was an old dinosaur who hadn’t done anything notable in years, one of these hangers-on who had no intention of retiring and seemed to want to die behind his desk. Well, he got his wish.
Still.
People don’t die on airplanes every day, much less SVR officers. And why would CIA set up this investigation if there wasn’t a reason? Obviously, Popov meant something to them. Who would’ve guessed that the old fox had been secretly betraying his masters?
Someone’s head would roll for that and Dmitri Tarasenko would make sure he had a front-row seat for the beheading.
Kanareyka is Tarasenko’s asset. Because of the sensitive nature of the situation, General Morozov put Tarasenko, his protégé, in charge from the beginning. Morozov trusted Tarasenko not to botch things up. It would be disastrous if things fell to pieces now.
Tarasenko looks back at the computer monitor, drumming his fingers on his desk.
Morozov has been restless lately, hinting that he might take a trip out of the country. Ten years he has been confined inside Russia. It is Morozov’s own fault. No one told him to kill CIA’s Chief of Station in Kiev. He had lost his temper. Usually, the stakes in the clandestine world are high for such folly. Morozov had gotten off lightly, all things considered. He could’ve been stripped of his position; he could’ve been jailed. Maybe the Hard Man had understood that the worst possible punishment was one meted out by CIA: a wanted man, Morozov risked being snatched up if he left the country. Dragged to the United States and put on trial.
Confined, Morozov is like a child in detention staring out the window at his classmates enjoying themselves in the playground. There are only so many times one could visit St. Petersburg or stay in the country in one’s dacha. He misses getting up to mischief in Paris and Vienna, Bangkok and Singapore—but mostly he misses Washington. Oh, how the old man misses Washington. It calls to him like a mistress. The old friend is snoozing, past offenses forgotten, Morozov claims. He is rested and ready to get into trouble again.
But so far, the Hard Man has ignored his requests. He needs Mor
ozov alive and safe.
Morozov has a soft spot for Kanareyka, though. Kanareyka could be his downfall.
From Tarasenko’s point of view, that might not necessarily be a bad thing.
Many times, Tarasenko has protected his impetuous boss from his bad nature. Protected Morozov from himself, as it were. Morozov is his benefactor. Tarasenko, too, needs Morozov alive and safe.
But most men outgrow their benefactors, yes? A tree doesn’t grow strong if it remains in the shadow of the forest. Besides, Morozov is not above throwing people to the wolves, subordinates as well as rivals; Tarasenko has seen the proof. He’s learned to follow Morozov’s lead: stepped over their corpses, moved into their offices, moved his way up the ladder.
Tarasenko continues drumming his fingers against his desk. An opportunity might present itself from this strange confluence of events. This is how men get ahead in this pestilent kingdom: seeing opportunity before anyone else, and seizing it.
The matter bore watching, very closely.
TEN
TYSONS CORNER, VIRGINIA
It is Saturday, a day for running errands. Lyndsey forces herself to tug on a pair of jeans, tie her hair up in a ponytail, and head over to the sprawling Tysons Corner mall. She only needs a few essentials and promises to get something good for lunch (Tacos? Sushi? Something she cannot make in the barren wasteland that is her kitchen) as enticement to get out of the apartment.
One purchase later (athletic socks), she is standing outside Macy’s when she sees Theresa. Lyndsey is always surprised when she sees someone from work out in the wild, as though the two worlds make a combustible combination and should never, ever touch.
There is no mistaking Theresa. Chic as always, trench coat cinched tightly at the waist, sunglasses pushed on top of her head. She holds the hand of a small boy and has leaned over to whisper something in his ear. The boy stares as though hypnotized by the sprawling play space in front of them. Children brush by him to clamber onto the huge plastic structures. They are all laughing and shrieking except for little Brian. He stares at a neon set of monkey bars with something akin to reverence.
Should she leave them to their moment? But when will Lyndsey have the chance to meet Theresa’s son? She walks over, tiny shopping bag swinging from her arm. “Hey, fancy meeting you here.”
The smile on Theresa’s face seems genuine. At his mother’s prompting, Brian turns to face Lyndsey, his big eyes mapping her face. He must take after Richard, Lyndsey decides. Those wary, owlish eyes.
“This is mommy’s friend. We work together,” Theresa says. Brian blinks and shifts his weight. Theresa crouches to speak to her son. “Why don’t you go play? Lyndsey and I will sit right over there and watch you. You’ll be able to see us the whole time. I’m not going anywhere.”
They sit on a plastic bench together and watch as Brian begins to hoist himself up the constellation of bars until he’s above the heads of the other children. A hint of excitement betrays Brian’s otherwise controlled expression, but his gaze stays glued to his mother, like a dog rescued from the pound.
“Two years Richard’s been gone, and Brian still doesn’t like to go anywhere without me,” Theresa says. The shopping bags at her feet are all from children’s stores. “The therapist says he’ll outgrow it.”
Lyndsey is aware that today will mark a change in her relationship with Theresa. Although they get together every day for coffee, their talks haven’t been overly personal. Lyndsey talks about her widowed mother living alone in rural Pennsylvania, and Theresa mostly frets about how Brian is doing in school. Today feels different, however. Today, Theresa seems to be in a mood to open up.
Does Theresa have any friends? Lyndsey wonders. She seems to have dedicated herself to her son and her son alone. It seems crazy that this has happened to the wife of Richard Warner, once king of their insular kingdom, the pair a golden couple. Theresa Warner had had her circle of friends, a queen with her court, but it seems they’ve all deserted her now. All those people who knew and loved Richard Warner—why aren’t they helping her? It seems Eric Newman is the only one left.
In an odd way, Lyndsey knows what Theresa is going through. They have both fallen from grace, their worlds turned upside down, and are now forced to build new ones. What happened to her in Beirut—that anyone felt threatened enough to want to see her fall—had been a surprise, but it also had taught her a valuable lesson about Langley. Most people keep their resentments hidden. Suddenly, she realizes that she probably understands Theresa better than she first thought.
Theresa watches children scamper agilely over the monkey bars. “I try not to dwell in the past, you know, but sometimes I think about how different everything would be if Richard was still alive.”
Lyndsey’s not sure how much to pry into such a sensitive topic, a man’s death, but Theresa seems to want to talk about it. “You know, I never heard what happened to Richard. The details didn’t reach Lebanon. We weren’t told anything at all.”
Theresa gives her a pained look. They’re not supposed to talk about classified stuff out of the office but it happens all the time, whenever two or more Agency employees are by themselves, wherever there’s a reasonable expectation that they won’t be overheard. They will skirt around the edges, of course. Talk in code, leave out details. Avoid the secret stuff.
Theresa rises from the bench and jerks her head toward a little alcove, close enough so that Brian can still see her, but away from everyone else. They are by themselves, a bubble in a sea of mothers and teenagers, no one paying attention to them.
Theresa takes a deep breath, then lets it out slowly, ready to bare her soul. She drops her voice. “No one ever told me the whole story. I figured it out on my own from bits and pieces I heard over time. It started with a problem with an asset. The asset was a woman, one that Richard had been running from Langley. There was a case officer on the ground in Moscow, of course, but he only took care of the physical stuff, dead drops, stuff like that. Everyone at Langley knew that it was Richard’s case—and that it was a success because of him.” There is still pride in her voice for her husband, for what he did. She glances over her shoulder to make sure there’s still a wide buffer around them before continuing.
“But then Richard came home very late one evening, his face white. Brian had already gone to bed. Richard pulled out the bottle of Yamskaya, his favorite vodka, and poured us both a drink. They’d just learned the Russians were onto his asset. By sheer luck, she had not been home when the police came for her and managed to go into hiding. She wouldn’t survive long on the street, though, now that she was blown. And Langley had no resources who could help her, no one they were willing to risk.
“Richard wouldn’t let them desert his asset. It fell under Eric. Richard went to him and told him they had to get her out, no matter what. You know as well as I that extractions are complex operations. They take months to plan, not days. And dangerous, too. The whole thing seemed absurdly foolhardy, the gesture of a hard-core romantic—and for a moment I even questioned Richard’s motives, wondered if there was something going on with this asset that I didn’t know about.” She stops, her expression a tangle of regret and unhappiness. So, she’s wondered all this time, too, if Richard had been faithful, whether he had ulterior motives going to Moscow . . . The hurt this woman has been carrying is unimaginable.
“I wanted to ask him, ‘What about us?’ What about putting his family first? I wanted to throw it all in his face, but I couldn’t. It’s not that simple, is it? There’s no equation to tell you how much loyalty you owe to an asset.” She puts a hand over her eyes. Hiding from the pain. “He had to go, he argued. His asset had risked her life on his word. He couldn’t let the Russians catch her. Besides, no intelligence professional ever thinks he’s going to make a mistake. Richard didn’t think for a split second that he wouldn’t be coming home.”
Theresa takes a deep breath. Fighti
ng back tears. “Eric Newman was the one to tell me. He called me into his office . . . I sat on the couch like everything was normal, even though I knew something bad was coming. Even though every nerve in my body was telling me to get out of there. To run.
“The rescue operation had not gone well, he said. It was as though the Russians knew Richard was coming. He had been the one to go in for her. He had insisted on escorting her to the safe house. She was his responsibility, he would take the risk. That was the last anyone saw him.”
Is this good, recalling all this? Lyndsey wonders. Is it cathartic? The woman had just admitted that she hasn’t any friends; she probably hasn’t talked to anyone about it, not in a good, long time.
Theresa continues. “Details came out over the next few months, bit by bit. It was like Chinese water torture. Eric claimed he was given permission to share it with me in fits and starts. The Russians refused to return Richard’s body. Apparently, CIA had scored a serious coup with this asset and made the FSB look bad.
“But then the counterarguments started—you know how that is, how they love to twist and twist and twist a story, to see if there’s some angle they can come up with, something no one’s thought of before. And sure enough, someone got it into his head that the asset had been a plant, an elaborate trap by the FSB to redeem itself in Putin’s eyes, and that Eric and Richard had been duped all along. There wasn’t a shred of evidence to support it, but that didn’t stop it from taking on a life of its own. The whole episode—the asset, Richard’s death—became radioactive on the seventh floor.” All the tension goes out of Theresa all at once. She is wrung out like a washcloth. “I was told to stop pushing the issue and to accept what had happened. There was nothing more I could do.”