Red Widow

by Alma Katsu

  She found one spot in particular good for an approach: there was a bottleneck on Constantinov’s route, where he had to maneuver his car from MacArthur Boulevard to the Clara Barton Parkway, around Ericsson Road. It was still city there and pedestrians milled on the street corners, waiting at bus stops and popping in and out of shops. She could do a brush pass by his car and it wouldn’t be noticeable, if it turned out the FBI had someone watching him.

  Another lucky break was that Constantinov smoked, a habit that was slow to die out among Russians. He often drove with his windows down, plumes of smoke rising above his car as he sat in traffic. He drove a massive SUV, surely an embassy vehicle, and it sat high on the road. She practiced making passes in her garage where no one would see her, walking by and aiming for a high shelf approximately the height of the SUV’s door, until they were perfectly smooth. Undetectable.

  Her hands shook as she wrote the note: I am a CIA officer with information that will be of interest to you. Followed by instructions for a rendezvous if they wanted to meet. The chances of follow-through, she knew, were almost nil. They would suspect the whole thing was a trap, albeit a clumsy one. It meant the possibility of multiple attempts passing notes to Constantinov to persuade them. And even if they were intrigued, it might be a long time before they decided to act. They’d need to identify her and then they would follow her and study her, until they were satisfied that she wasn’t setting them up.

  She folded the note so it would stay closed if she should somehow miss the window and it fell to the gutter or sidewalk, and kept it hidden in the rental car under a floor mat, but even this tenuous connection back to her made her nervous. It was proof of her perfidy in block lettering on yellow legal paper, tangible evidence of her intent to betray her country.

  The country that had betrayed her first.

  Every day, she did the same thing. She went home after work and made dinner for Brian, leaving him with the sitter. Then she drove the rental car to a sleepy branch library where she donned a wig and glasses, a different coat and handbag. After that, she went to MacArthur Boulevard, parked the car, and walked to the intersection where Constantinov would be in about an hour, stuck in traffic. She made many dry runs, practiced spotting his car and doing brushes. Calculating how far from the curb she’d need to be to slide the tightly folded note through the open window on the passenger’s side—without being noticed. An entire week passed before she was satisfied that he wasn’t being followed or watched by the FBI.

  The second week, however, Constantinov disappeared. She watched the traffic at MacArthur Boulevard but didn’t see his SUV. Whether his absence was due to late nights in the office or a sudden trip out of town, she didn’t know. It was so maddening that, back in the office, she dared to check his file, but there were no updates, no new notes. While it meant she had no idea where he’d gone, the only upside was that he didn’t appear to be on anyone’s radar.

  And then the third week, he reappeared, falling back into his normal routine. The amount of relief she felt was enormous, unexpectedly so. It was as though fate was reassuring her that this was meant to be. The plan was back on. She would proceed.

  She did her run the first three days that week but chickened out at the last minute each time. She’d get the feeling she was being followed or didn’t like the look of a man lingering on the corner, afraid he might be FBI even though she knew that he wasn’t. Nobody cared about Constantinov, the out-of-date file in the office backed that fact up. She wasn’t being followed. It was jitters, pure and simple. Get a grip on yourself. Either you’re going to do this or you’re not. So, on Thursday, she steeled herself and walked toward Constantinov’s car as it idled in traffic. She veered to the curb. He had no idea what was happening, she could tell by the bored expression on his face, the way he looked through the windshield like a law enforcement officer, at nothing and everything at once. The effortless flick of ash from the end of his cigarette. She slid the folded note into his cab so efficiently that she almost could believe she hadn’t done it, walking away with blood pounding in her ears. No one on the street had noticed, not even the people beside her on the sidewalk. Maybe even Constantinov—either that or he’d had the presence of mind not to react. Either way, he wouldn’t do anything until he’d pulled into the two-car garage at home and leaned over for his briefcase and saw the yellow triangle of paper resting on the seat. A simple note waiting for him like a time bomb.

  They were to meet at four p.m. on Sunday afternoon at the National Cathedral, three long days away. Theresa wasn’t sure how she’d get through work on Friday without breaking down and blurting it all out in one long confession. She considered calling in sick but if they suspected her in any way, she’d only confirm those suspicions by taking a day off. She spent the first half of the day in a cold sweat, listening for the sound of unfamiliar footsteps behind her as men from Security made their way to her desk. But it didn’t happen, and by lunchtime, she felt better. Mere hours to go before she was clear.

  And after all this anxiety, she almost didn’t go to the rendezvous. Her mind worked up insidious schemes. After all the propaganda she’d been fed in CI classes, it seemed impossible that Constantinov wouldn’t have a tail on him, that the FBI hadn’t questioned him and knew what she was up to. It was too quiet, too easy. You are walking into a trap, her brain hissed. But then a funny thing happened a couple hours before the appointed meeting: she saw on the news that there was a bust at the Chinese embassy. She didn’t get the whole story—it had just broken and facts were scarce—but there, on the screen, FBI agents and police swarmed all over the Chinese compound. Blue lights, yellow tape, men in FBI windbreakers carrying out boxes of computers. Every FBI agent in D.C. had to be there. Minor routine duties, like routine surveillance of Russian officers, would be canceled for the day. She was sure of it.

  She tried not to get her hopes up that Russians would actually be at the rendezvous. Even if they were curious, they would spend this first meeting playing it safe. They would go early to stake out the place. They would watch from afar to see if she showed up. They would look for FBI. They would give full rein to their suspicions. Offering yourself up for treason was inevitably a drawn-out affair. She’d have to be patient, play the long game.

  She dropped Brian off at the house of a school friend, finally taking the woman up on her offer of a playdate, and spent the rest of the hour running a surveillance detection route. It was short, too short, but that was all she had time for.

  She sat in the rental car two blocks from the National Cathedral and fought back the panic that now surged through her in waves. Am I really going to go through with this? What if run into someone I know? The wig wouldn’t fool anyone for more than a minute. This is madness. But she knew that if the Russians showed up and she didn’t, then it would be over. There would be no second chances. After the terror had subsided and she was awash in regret, she would wonder her entire life if she’d made a mistake. Every time she looked into Brian’s face, she’d wonder if she could’ve given him his father back.

  She took a deep breath and opened the car door.

  She walked into the cathedral’s gift shop prepared for disappointment, but there was Evgeni Constantinov by a rack of greeting cards. Up close, he looked just like his file picture, which was in itself a minor miracle, because spies never looked the same in person. The photos were usually years out of date, rarely updated. They always ended up looking older in real life than you expected, especially around the eyes. Exhausted and cynical.

  A nervous-looking man in an ill-fitting suit on the other side of the shop was obviously with Constantinov, which meant there were undoubtedly several more she hadn’t spotted out on the grounds watching for FBI. Theresa’s brain crackled with conflicting emotions. Disbelief, that they had come as she’d asked, that they had taken her seriously. Worry, that despite her intense effort to lose any tail, she had been followed and FBI would swoop down o
n them any second. And, lastly, excitement, because she was doing something that had been long forbidden to her, like a schoolgirl finally trying her hand at shoplifting. It’s never as bad or scary as you think it will be.

  She headed to the herb garden after making sure Constantinov was following. The hedges on the paths were shoulder height, providing good cover, and the thick foliage would absorb sound. They wouldn’t be overheard, accidentally or otherwise. The garden was usually popular with tourists but it was unseasonably chilly for June and the only other occupant was an elderly priest in a rumpled raincoat. He flicked a cigarette butt to the ground before disappearing into the main building.

  It was important to set the tone, she knew, to let the Russians know that she could not be jerked around. They had to see that she wasn’t the usual turncoat, deep in trouble and desperate for money. What she wanted was very, very specific. “I’m glad you took my note seriously. I don’t have time to waste,” she said to Constantinov in a low, even voice.

  He made a scoffing sound in his throat. “It doesn’t matter if you are in a hurry. There are still steps that must be taken, a protocol to follow.” The Russian obviously wanted to take control of the situation. That’s what any case officer would do, she knew, but she was through with letting someone else lead.

  She turned to face him. “Let’s cut to the chase. Your superiors are going to want to talk to me. Do you know who I am?” Constantinov looked uncomfortable, which pleased her. He was losing control and didn’t like it, but at the same time he was afraid of making a mistake. “I’m Theresa Warner. Richard Warner’s wife. He’s a CIA officer sitting in one of your jails. You wouldn’t have heard of him. It’s a very sensitive case. There’s been a big cover-up, both here and in Russia. Richard Warner—give that name to your bosses. They’ll know who he is.”

  Constantinov edged away from her slightly as though she were mad. Did he not believe her? That was okay: he’d believe her soon enough. “And if this is true, what is it you think I can do for you?”

  “I’m prepared to provide your organization with secrets in exchange for his release.”

  “You need to be more specific.”

  “I’m a CIA officer. I can get my hands on anything. I’ll make it worthwhile. But this will be a one-time exchange. I will give you secrets, and you will release my husband, and then we’ll disappear. Moscow will leave us alone—that’s part of the bargain, too.”

  He thought for a moment. “Moscow perhaps, but what about Washington? Your own people will come after you.”

  “That’s my concern.” On this point, she’d be firm: she wanted nothing more to do with either side. She’d only trust herself from now on, her and Richard. “So, no disrespect to you, but I want to speak to someone high up at the next meeting, someone with authority.”

  He crooked an eyebrow. He wanted to tell her she was in no position to be making demands. They would decide who would deal with her. The Russians didn’t run their assets like the Americans; they were more stick than carrot, a part of their authoritarian culture that ran through their psyches like a fat vein of ore. “I will see about setting up this meeting,” he said finally, grudgingly. “But you must show us what you have to offer. You must give us a sample, prove that you can deliver.” She nodded; she had expected this.

  They set up a way for him to contact her when the meeting was set. He looked skeptical but now that they’d bitten, they’d follow through, she was sure of it. Chances like these didn’t fall in their laps every day. Theresa went back to her rental car, shaking, unable to believe what she had done. She had gone toe-to-toe with a Russian officer. There was something primitive about it, like two animals squaring off in the forest, fang and claw. He had wanted to snap her up and gobble her down like some small, weak creature, but she had stood her ground. She had withstood him, and was only starting to realize it, to feel better and stop shaking. She flexed her hands before placing them on the steering wheel of the rental car.

  For the first time, she allowed herself to believe that this was going to turn out okay.

  TWENTY-TWO

  It had been three days since Theresa had met with the Russian and the guilt was only starting to fade. She tried not to think about what she had done, afraid it would show on her face while she was at work. In some ways it still didn’t feel real, like she’d imagined it all. Constantinov’s disbelieving face, the tightness in her chest, the breathless drive home. On Monday, she spent most of her day in a state of suspense, again waiting to be led away for a talk with investigators. It was only as the minutes ticked by and nothing happened that she grew more confident. She realized she could relax. They’d vastly underestimated her. She’d gotten away with it.

  It was time to move on to the next step: find something to give to the Russians, something good enough to get them to agree to do as she asked.

  It wasn’t something to rush into. The Agency’s computer system was a minefield, laden with traps—or so one heard. They were told so many stories, all meant to make employees afraid. Whether the traps existed or not, the seed of doubt was planted and did its job, keeping many of them from poking around where they shouldn’t. If she was going to try to fool the system, she had to be smart. She couldn’t leave behind a trail of crumbs.

  She knew her limitations: she wasn’t a computer wizard. Paper files would be the safest, but these would not be easy to get to, especially not for the compartmented, special access cases, the stuff the Russians were most likely to be interested in—these would be kept under lock and key by Maggie. Or down in the vault, but she couldn’t go back to Jimmy Purvis; it would make him suspicious.

  The only way she could think to explore without alerting anyone was through the collaboration tools on the Agency’s internal network. The tools were meant to remedy the problem, raised after September 11, that intelligence analysts worked in silos. They were told they needed to share their puzzle pieces if they were going to avoid the next intelligence failure.

  In her daily routine, Theresa rarely used these tools but, as she poked around the forums, she realized that you could find out a lot about what others were working on. And while an office somewhere in the bowels of the building might keep logs, the whole point was collaboration, so it wouldn’t necessarily stand out if someone stuck their nose in subjects that technically weren’t their business. She didn’t think this would get her all the information she needed, but at least it was a start.

  She sat at the computer, paging through the Russia forums. Officers and analysts were looking at every topic under the sun, and it seemed unbelievable that there were customers—policymakers, military commanders—interested in all that minutiae. She assumed it was a holdover from the Cold War days, when the Russians were doing so many crazy things that you couldn’t be sure what might end up being important, so you studied it all.

  She scrolled down the list of sub-forums, so comprehensive that it was practically a grocery list. Which of all these topics would the Russians be most interested in? What would be important enough to merit giving up her husband? What would tantalize them? It stood to reason that they’d be most interested in CIA’s assets in Russia. You always wanted to know if you had spies in your midst, handing over your secrets, rendering your work useless. The identities of assets were closely guarded, however. It was unlikely she’d find names in the forums. But they might show her where to start.

  After two days of carefully dipping in and out of discussion threads so she wouldn’t raise any suspicions, Theresa had a short list of cases to look into. One was an asset code-named Lighthouse. Theresa thought Lighthouse might be a scientist working for the Russian government in some capacity. The reports officer for Lighthouse, Jan Westerling, was pretty cagey. She didn’t provide details and so it was hard for Theresa to figure out where Lighthouse worked, exactly. But he seemed to know something about Russian missiles and the Russians would probably find that tantalizing, with r
ecently renewed turmoil over the Intermediate-Range Nuclear Forces treaty.

  The most important thing, Theresa decided, was not to give the Russians anything especially harmful. The thought of doing something that would hurt the country made Theresa’s stomach turn. It was still anathema to her. She was mad at CIA but she still loved her country. She had to give Russia just enough information to get her husband released—and not one iota more.

  After observing Westerling closely, Theresa realized that the young woman might be a new hire. That was both good and bad. New hires needed a lot of direction. Theresa remembered her early days, trying not to draw attention to herself so no one would realize how little she knew or understood, worried that if someone learned how incompetent she was they’d use it against her one day. She’d seen it happen, an old hand turning suddenly on a new hire to save his own neck or distract the boss from a mistake he’d made. She only saw now, from the distance of years, that being Richard Warner’s girlfriend had saved her from all that backstabbing and henpecking. Nobody went after her. She had been protected—another debt she owed Richard.