Red Widow

by Alma Katsu

  The move rattled Lyndsey. Was it too soon? Will it turn out The Widow was innocent all along and make her look like a fool? But she will give this much to Eric: he knew how to make things happen. By the end of the day, the court order was ready to go before a FISA judge. They caught up with the judge at a dinner party in Georgetown, briefed him in the butler’s pantry, and by midnight had authority to wiretap Theresa’s phones.

  Maggie swings by Lyndsey’s tiny office, giving her a quick nod. It’s time for the meeting. Everything is hush-hush, because no one in the office can know what the meeting is about. It still seems incredible to Lyndsey that they are meeting with the FBI when Theresa’s desk is only a hundred feet away.

  The woman at the table in Eric’s office looks like she stepped right out of the Texas Hill Country. She’s tall and lanky with an aw-shucks friendly smile but an undeniable quiet confidence in her gray eyes, just the kind of person you’d feel good about entrusting with the civil liberties of your friends and neighbors. She wears a navy pants suit and no jewelry except a wristwatch with a plain black band, and her hair is cut in a short, no-nonsense style. “Special Agent Sally Herbert,” the woman says as she rises and extends a hand. She explains that she’s a squad supervisor in the Washington Field Office and will be leading the team working on this case. “We’ve set up a joint task force with Foreign Counterintelligence Division Five in the National Security Branch. They’re pulling in people from the U.S. Attorneys office to start work on the warrants for your Russian agent’s arrest. Don’t worry; we’re pulling in the absolute minimum to work this case. We all appreciate the sensitivity.” Herbert addresses Eric. “We executed the wiretaps and put a team on her house the morning after the court order was signed. She’s under coverage twenty-four seven.”

  Lyndsey feels a twinge. It’s hard to see this happen to someone you know and once liked, for a once-respected colleague to be treated like a criminal. To have law enforcement watching your house through binoculars and taping your phone calls. She fights to remember that Theresa has brought this on herself.

  “Have you gotten anything yet?” Eric asks.

  One curt nod. “That’s why I’m here. We got extremely lucky. She got a suspicious call early this morning. We think it was in a code of some kind.”

  “And the caller?” Lyndsey asks.

  “In the U.S. but it wasn’t a number we’ve seen before. We’re still tracking it down.” Herbert takes a piece of paper out of her portfolio and pushes it across the table at them. “This is the transcript.”

  WARNER: Hello?

  CALLER [MALE VOICE, NO DISCERNIBLE ACCENT]: This is a courtesy call from North Star Realtors.

  WARNER: Uh—yes?

  CALLER: We’re holding a seminar on selling your house in the current market. It’s Thursday night at eight o’clock at the Bethesda Marriott on Pooks Hill Road—

  WARNER: I’m sorry, I’m not looking to sell my home right now. But thank you for your call.

  [HANGS UP]

  Newman pushes the paper back at Herbert with an undercurrent of irritation. “Doesn’t look like anything to me. What makes you think it’s the Russians?”

  “We couldn’t find any business listed as North Star Realtors in this area,” Herbert says, her voice level and calm, “and the Marriott says there’s no such seminar booked for that location at that time.”

  “Did you catch a lucky break or do you research every call like that?” Lyndsey asks.

  Herbert smiles. “I’d like to say yes, but we’ve seen the Russians use this technique in other cases. One of our agents remembered hearing the FSB use North Star Realtors before.”

  Lazy tradecraft. It’s the little things that trip you up and give you away. “Does that mean they’re going to rendezvous next Thursday evening?” Lyndsey asks.

  “I’d say something’s going to happen, though it might just be a dead drop with information about the real meeting. You can be sure we’ll be watching Warner on Thursday night,” Herbert says.

  Eric perks up considerably. “This is a great catch. The sooner we can get this wrapped up, the better.” As he walks Herbert to the door, Eric adds, “I want you to contact me the minute you get anything else. I want to be kept in the loop.”

  Herbert gives him a patient smile. “I appreciate your enthusiasm Mr. Newman, but from here out, the FBI is in control. We require your cooperation, but we are talking about a criminal investigation. I expect you to keep me informed of any changes in Warner’s behavior. Anything—no matter how small.” She hands them each a business card.

  After Herbert leaves, Eric closes the door before Lyndsey can follow. “This is bothering you. I can tell by the look on your face,” he says.

  “Well, of course. I’d have to be an ogre not to feel bad about it.”

  “You were the one to figure this out. You should be pleased,” he says.

  “I’d be more pleased to be wrong.”

  “Look, if she’s innocent, surveillance will exonerate her.” A grin slips over his face. Is he the one who’s pleased? “Though it doesn’t sound like that’s going to happen, does it?”

  As Lyndsey heads back to her office, she realizes that she’s shaking. After talking to Herbert, it suddenly feels very real. And yet, despite all the evidence she’s found, the way the clues point . . . She doesn’t know what it is, but something doesn’t feel right.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Lyndsey pulls up outside the address Theresa has given her. It rained earlier, and the sky is still gray. The street debris looks as if it was just pulled out of the washing machine. Wet leaves and bits of twig strewn all over the road. The porch lights are starting to come on, and a warm lambent glow radiates from kitchen windows.

  In the driveway, there’s a car under a cover in the distinctive shape of an older-model sports car. Richard Warner’s famous Jaguar, like it’s waiting for him to come home. The cover is slightly askew, as though it’s been removed recently. Considering that the car must be worth a fortune, it’s surprising that she hasn’t sold it already. Frankly, it’s a sign Lyndsey realizes she should’ve caught earlier: a clear indication that Theresa cannot let go.

  Theresa’s house is in a nice old neighborhood in McLean, the kind of place that people hired early by the Agency bought to be close to work. Though they’re all retired now and have sold out to doctors and lawyers and businessmen who’ve remodeled away their former charm. Theresa’s gray-shingled Cape Cod is modestly sized, but even small houses in McLean fetch a lot of money. A million dollars for a three- or four-bedroom Colonial on a postage stamp of land. Too expensive for government salaries, really, so it probably means either Richard or Theresa has family money. There is a set of people at CIA who don’t need the salary but are patriotic and want the James Bond experience. If there is money, it came before there was any question whether Theresa is working for the Russians. There’s that, at least.

  The invitation came the day before, as Lyndsey and Theresa were having coffee in the cafeteria. “Why don’t you come over tomorrow night for dinner?” Theresa asked, studiously offhand.

  Curious, that offer. The timing was suspicious. Why make the offer now? Did Theresa suspect that Lyndsey was on to her? Had she messed up—left notes on her desk where Theresa could’ve seen them? Maybe someone in CI slipped up. Or maybe one of the reports officers blabbed to Theresa—despite Lyndsey’s explicit instructions.

  Should she turn Theresa down? Lyndsey wasn’t sure. It would be the safest course of action . . . But it might make Theresa suspicious. And there was an opportunity here.

  It was a minefield, but Lyndsey’s pulse quickened.

  There was only one way to know if Theresa’s up to something, and that was to call her bluff.

  “Sure,” she’d said, stirring the cream in her coffee. “I’d love to.”

  * * *

  —

  Theresa an
swers the door, an apron over the dress she wore that day at work, Brian hugging her leg. He strikes Lyndsey again as too small to be seven. He’s short and thin, with arms like sticks and those huge eyes. She hopes that he’ll warm up to her—they’ve met once already, for goodness’ sake—but he looks up at her shyly, not smiling, before breaking away from his mother to skitter back into the house.

  Lyndsey hands Theresa a bottle of wine, her contribution. The house smells of garlic and oregano. She hangs her purse on a row of hooks by the front door, next to a child’s yellow rain slicker. “Thanks for having me over. I can’t remember when I last had a home-cooked meal, and I’m not exaggerating.”

  “It’s going to be simple. Spaghetti and meatballs. Brian’s favorite.”

  The inside of the house is more interesting than the outside. There’s obviously been some remodeling done. The back opens into a great room, albeit with a few strategically placed columns so that the overall effect is of a cozy den. Two overstuffed couches with well-worn red slipcovers are flanked on one side by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Bins of toys, mostly action figures and Legos, are lined up in the corner. Across the back of the room is a wall of mullioned windows looking onto a dense wood. It reminds Lyndsey a little of her dream house, the one she thought she’d own once she married.

  While Theresa finishes cooking—steam rising from the sink as she drains pasta, the rattle of china and cutlery—Lyndsey makes a slow lap of the family room. She tries to engage Brian, who sits on one of the sofas watching television, but he studiously ignores her, curled up around himself like a true introvert, a pillow in his lap like a shield.

  “Can I look around the house? It’s so lovely . . .” Lyndsey calls over her shoulder.

  “Sure,” Theresa replies from the kitchen. “Help yourself.”

  So, Lyndsey takes a little tour of the house. Glancing through open doorways, peeking into closets. What is she looking for? She’s not sure . . . Signs that things have changed or that she’s preparing for something, perhaps . . . Stockpiling, packing. Suitcases dragged out of storage, boxes marked for Goodwill. And the house does seem a bit at ends, like Theresa has been clearing things out of storage, but couldn’t that be innocent, signs of a widow getting on with her life?

  She pauses at an arrangement of framed photos in the hallway. So many pictures of Richard. It is indeed the man she remembers from her first years at the Agency. The same serious, intelligent expression. He wears glasses with small lenses, well proportioned for his face, and his brown hair is on the shaggy side and starting to gray. He could be a professor, or an accountant, but not a case officer. Not an action hero. No James Bond. Proof that still waters run deep.

  Most are family photos, however. The three of them on a mountain top—family trip to Old Rag? Richard and Brian mugging together in front of the red Jaguar. Richard in an overcoat, the wind teasing hair over his eyes. Theresa and Richard in festive clothes, sitting in a pew—taken at someone’s wedding? They look so happy together, so made for each other. She looks at the constellation of photos, meant to reassure somebody. She once would’ve assumed it’s for Brian’s benefit but now she knows better. It is a sign of Theresa’s devotion.

  She tiptoes upstairs. The first room she comes to is obviously Brian’s: a single bed dressed in flannel sheets decorated with rocket ships, stars, and moons. A huge globe and a row of plastic dinosaurs sit on a shelf, posters of national parks on the walls. The second room is the master bedroom, so austere in grays and cream that it is a cipher. A tall mirror on a wooden easel stands in the corner, turned to an angle, reflecting nothing.

  The door is ajar to the third room—the last room. Lyndsey stands back in the hall, straining to see in. The room looks unused, simple blinds on the windows, a bare bulb in the ceiling fixture. Cardboard boxes sit haphazardly in the middle of the floor. Lyndsey tiptoes in and peers into one of the boxes.

  Clothing. Men’s clothing. They have to be Richard’s. At first, the sight makes Lyndsey sad. The Widow is packing up her husband’s clothes, finally ready to get on with her life. But then, she thinks: if she’s packing them up to give away, why now? Can there be another reason?

  She touches the top item in the box. Is there a tag on that sweater? Could it be new?

  She’s about to pick it up when a voice rises from the kitchen. “Dinner’s ready,” Theresa calls. Feeling unfinished, Lyndsey heads back downstairs.

  They start with salad and a plate of kid-friendly carrot sticks and grape tomatoes for Brian. Theresa draws her son out so that by the time they progress to the main course, he is talking to Lyndsey, telling her about his favorite subjects at school and what his day was like.

  There are furtive glances in her direction as he toys with his noodles. Lyndsey can’t help but want to ask him if his mother has been acting strangely. “So, Brian,” she says as casually as possible. “What’s new? Is there anything coming up that you’re looking forward to?”

  Theresa glances in her direction. Does she think that’s a strange question? There is the slightest flash of something on her face, but she keeps eating. A nibble of pasta, a sip of wine.

  Brian tilts his head like a bird. After consideration, he says, “We have a class trip coming up. We’re going to look at moon rocks.”

  Is Theresa’s faint smile one of triumph? Has she coached her son not to give away any secrets? “At the National Air and Space Museum. I’m going to be one of the chaperones.”

  Lyndsey puts on a smile. “That sounds like fun.”

  The conversation moves on to other topics, whether to enroll Brian in Cub Scouts or a science club and where they will go on summer vacation this year. The normal talk of normal families.

  “I’m sorry he’s so shy,” Theresa says later, when her son has gone upstairs to do homework. She rinses dishes and stacks them in the dishwasher while Lyndsey scrapes leftovers into plastic containers. “He’s had a hard time of it since he lost his father.”

  Lyndsey remembers the first few years after her own father died—was she that shy? Worse, probably. Then she thinks of a button to push, a way to see what’s on Theresa’s mind. “That’s understandable,” she finally says. “Maybe he needs a male figure in his life. You know, a father figure.”

  Theresa’s eyes flash. Anger simmers below the surface. It’s the first time Lyndsey’s seen her like this. The air practically crackles. “What are you saying? That I owe it to my son to get married again?”

  “I’m not saying marriage.” She backtracks to more manageable territory but finds she wants to keep going. “You’re still a young woman—don’t you ever think about finding someone new? You could have children . . . Give Brian a brother or sister. That might help him . . .”

  Her laugh is mirthless. “That doesn’t seem like the best reason to bring another child into the world. Or to get married, for that matter.” Her eyes narrow. She hefts up her wineglass a little too quickly. “Where is all this coming from? Why the sudden interest in seeing me married off?”

  “I didn’t say—”

  Theresa cuts her off. “I’m not ready to move on. I can admit it. I still love Richard. This is not open for discussion.”

  Then she gives Lyndsey a small smile, a reconciliation. They retreat to the sofas, Theresa pouring the last of the wine into Lyndsey’s glass. Is she trying to get me drunk? Lyndsey tries to remember how much wine Theresa has had.

  Theresa runs a hand through her hair. “This is nice. I’m not used to having friends over. I can’t remember the last time I got together with someone. Too busy worrying about Brian, I guess. And maybe I got to be too . . . oh, I don’t know . . . notorious? Who wants to be friends with ‘The Widow,’ anyway?” Her smile is an invitation to talk. But what does Theresa want her to talk about?

  They sip, wait each other out. It’s a bit nerve-wracking but Lyndsey learned this at Penn: you can’t rush the subject. They’re going to
speak when they’re ready and rushing it will only ruin things, drive them in the directions you subconsciously want them to go. Let them decide. She takes the smallest sips possible, making the wine last. She doesn’t want to drink too much, risk a slipup.

  Finally, Theresa speaks, filling in the awkward silence. “So, how is the investigation going? Making any progress?”

  It’s the first time Theresa has asked, and as much as she’s trying to play it cool, there’s the slightest hint of interest in her voice. This is an opportunity to try for a reaction from Theresa, to try to get her to misstep, to wobble. It’s not without risk: you don’t want to push her too far, to spook her.

  As Lyndsey is thinking it over, however, Theresa decides to press. “Who was that you were meeting with yesterday? In Eric’s office? I didn’t recognize her.”

  Bingo. She has to be talking about Sally Herbert. Lyndsey didn’t think Theresa was at her desk when she and Eric had met with Sally. She’s more on top of things than I think. “She’s with the FBI.” Will this make Theresa realize this could mean wiretaps and surveillance?

  Theresa forges on anyway.

  “Oh? So, you must have a suspect, then?” There is an unmistakable quaver in Theresa’s voice. Lyndsey just shrugs. Maybe this admission will push Theresa, make her more desperate. Force her to make a mistake if she goes forward.

  By unspoken agreement, they stop. Lyndsey feels the tension in the air as she carries the glasses to the sink while Theresa goes upstairs to get her son ready for bed. She’s set the trap: now to see if Theresa walks into it.

  She listens to the sound of their voices, mother and son, without being able to make out the words. The gentle negotiation of bedtime. There’s something reassuring about those two tones together, Brian’s voice high and singsong, like he’s reciting nursery rhymes, Theresa’s even and slightly melodic. It makes her feel slightly guilty for what she’s done. If things go as planned—as hoped—she’ll be putting Theresa away in jail. Brian will be without either of his parents. What will happen to him? Theresa’s mentioned that her mother is still living—could she take care of a young grandson?