Red Widow

by Alma Katsu

  Somewhere, not far away, Eric’s team is setting up. As decided in advance with Lyndsey, Herbert’s team told Eric they’d intercepted a call that gave the final date and time, setting the trap. Lyndsey tries to picture what Eric will do—this is his big night, after all. The payoff for all his cunning. How many officers and contractors has he got on his team? He told Lyndsey, in passing, that he will lead them himself. She’d assumed he wouldn’t let someone else steal the limelight. He will want to nab his prize.

  So many teams converging on one target in such a confined, busy area, it’s a miracle they haven’t tripped over each other yet. In a more well-coordinated operation, Herbert explains to Lyndsey, CIA would let FBI handle it or a few officers would be invited to participate as part of the team. The fact that there are two separate teams should’ve tipped Eric that something unusual is going on—but he was so close to his prize, perhaps he decided not to fight it.

  At one point, there’s a crackle over the radio and one of the FBI units says they believe they’ve spotted the CIA team in a large SUV parked down the street. It has a clear line-of-sight to Theresa’s house. Thinking of all these agents, armed and converging on the small Cape Cod, worries Lyndsey. Maybe Theresa was right, maybe this is too dangerous for Brian to be there. But it would’ve been risky to sneak him out. Someone might have seen him leave. Anyway, it’s too late to change the plan now.

  “If things go well, we’ll catch our Russian handler. We’ll also take Newman into custody. And Cassidy, for questioning. Your Agency hasn’t turned over the contract yet, so we don’t know if Newman’s signature is on it,” Herbert says, a little coolly on the last part. There’s a rivalry between the agencies, and for some people, their natural instinct isn’t to be cooperative, no matter what the orders say. One more thing to follow up on later, Lyndsey notes, maybe with Patrick Pfeifer.

  It’s right around ten o’clock. Outside the van, there’s still traffic, car and foot. This part of the neighborhood is commercial, with small restaurants and coffee shops, a gift store, and a dentist’s office. One block away, it all becomes residential, a mix of the original small houses and McMansions sprouted up from teardowns. It’s a densely settled neighborhood and to think of the activity that will go down before long . . . It would be easy for a civilian to be hurt. Too, she thinks of Theresa, not far away, and how she must feel, alone in her house with her son, knowing that all hell is about to break loose. Earlier, they overheard a conversation picked up by the microphone, a disagreement between mother and son over bedtime. Theresa had ended up snapping at Brian in a way that made him burst into tears, which probably hurt Theresa to the quick. She couldn’t explain why it was so important tonight, of all nights, that he listen to his mother.

  The radio crackles to life behind her. “Black Escalade approaching target. Slowing down.”

  “We saw that car earlier,” another unit chimes in. “Circled the block fifteen minutes ago. Same license plate.”

  “Just the one car?” Herbert asks into a microphone. “No tails?”

  “None spotted—yet.”

  “Three inside. Possibly more—it’s hard to tell with tinted windows.”

  “They’re stopping. They’ve pulled into the target’s driveway.”

  Lyndsey checks her watch. It’s five minutes after ten.

  “Two men have exited the vehicle. They’re approaching the front door.” Pause. “They’ve gone inside.”

  Herbert nods to the other agent, who gets up and heads to the driver’s seat. “We’re getting into position,” she says into the microphone. The engine roars to life and the vehicle lurches out into traffic. It only takes a minute to swing around the corner and slide into an empty spot in front of a neighbor’s house, just out of sight from the driveway.

  They can see Theresa’s house, albeit not completely. Shadows move on the curtains in the front room but rapidly disappear. Lyndsey remembers the layout of the house: they’re going toward the back, to the family room and kitchen.

  “Thomas, cover the man in the SUV,” Herbert says in the microphone as she draws her weapon and heads for the van door. “Let’s move on my mark—”

  But they’re interrupted by the appearance of black figures approaching Theresa’s house. Bulky shadows suddenly glide between the trees like phantoms. They move down the street, past the FBI van, cross to Theresa’s side of the street, and then, with raptor-like swiftness, fall on the SUV in the driveway.

  “What the hell?” Herbert mutters into the mic.

  Five, no, six. Six men move toward Theresa’s house.

  “That’s got to be Newman’s team. What the hell—Move, move!” Herbert says as she bursts out of the van.

  Lyndsey sprints after her. She knows she’s supposed to stay in the van until the site has been secured but she can’t help it. Surely the Russian driver has seen the CIA team and notified his people inside. Theresa and her son could be in danger. At that moment, FBI agent Thomas drags the driver out of the van and presses him up against the vehicle, cheek ground into the glass window. But if the driver was quick and attentive, it could be too late.

  Lyndsey holds her breath. Gunfire should break out at any moment. How could it not when the FBI teams explode out of nowhere, descending on the CIA team? It’s going to be a debacle, a clusterfuck, as the two teams engage each other. Lyndsey can picture the seventh floor’s reaction. But Herbert is holding up her credentials for the nearest member of the CIA team to see and gestures broadly for silence, so that no one mistakes the other team for Russian. It settles as quickly as it started, nearly noiselessly. Thank goodness Theresa and the two Russians are deep in the back of the house, away from all this.

  Herbert continues to the house, her men following her, and the CIA team falls in behind them. In total, there’s a swarm of about a dozen men, weapons drawn.

  Herbert tries the front door: it’s open. Clever Theresa. Herbert points a finger to the hall, where shadows fall on an ochre wall, the advancing men darting like mice. Herbert heads down the hall, shouting, “FBI! Freeze!” The team hustles to follow her back, where the Russians will be, and sure enough, there stands Theresa with two men. Brian hides behind Theresa, face buried in her skirt.

  The two men’s faces are dark and dour with an unmistakable detachment, as though watching this unfold from far away. They are large physical specimens like linebackers, and dressed for travel, in coats and hats. They take in the FBI agents without saying a word, their eyes doing all the talking, searching left and right for a way to escape. Practicing a story that should get them out of here quickly.

  One is clearly the leader. He carries himself with importance. He stands up and puffs out his chest, even though the circumstances call for him to make himself small and unobtrusive. He’s not the type to go down without a fight, then. He’s well dressed, looking like he plans to board an international flight shortly. But his face is pure malevolence. His square jaw clenched. And the scar at his temple, white and puckered, seems to pulse.

  “He’s not here. Goddammit, he’s not here.” That’s how Lyndsey knows Eric has arrived: his voice. It rises up from the gathering of men. Anger seasoned with fear. The sound of failure. “Where the fuck is Morozov?”

  Pushing his way through, Eric marches up to the man with the scar and goes nose-to-nose with him. “Is he waiting to meet you somewhere?”

  A slow smile breaks out over the scarred man’s face. “Is that what this is about?” He cannot disguise his Muscovite accent. Then there’s that smile. He is clearly enjoying himself.

  Herbert steps forward with enough power and authority to make Eric turn and stalk away. She flashes her credentials at the scarred man. “My name is Special Agent Sally Herbert and I’m with the Counterintelligence Division of the FBI. Dmitri Tarasenko, I’m arresting you and your accomplices for espionage against the government of the United States.”

  There’s only one
way they would know his name and he’s figured it out in a flash. He turns in Theresa’s direction; his face is a frenzy of anger. He bares his teeth in a nanosecond of animal impulse. She steps more fully in front of her son so that he can’t see the hatred directed against her. “Izmennick,” he hisses. Traitor.

  Then he turns back to Herbert, struggling to get his anger under control. His hand reaches for his breast pocket.

  “Hands where we can see them,” one of the FBI agents says, lifting his weapon.

  The fingers gingerly pluck a document from the pocket. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I am with the foreign ministry. Let me show you my passport. I have diplomatic immunity—”

  The rest of the FBI team has surrounded the other Russian, who has raised his hands. “We’ll contact your embassy, but in the meantime, I’ve got a witness willing to testify that you attempted to suborn her to commit treason,” Herbert says. “We’re taking you to FBI headquarters.” Hands fall on Tarasenko’s shoulders as they pivot him toward the door.

  He jerks hard, trying to shake them off. “This is absurd! I demand you contact my embassy immediately . . .” This is an act; he was trained long ago in what to expect and how to act if he was ever caught.

  “As soon as we get you to headquarters,” she says. “But if you don’t come quietly, we’re going to have to cuff you.” At that, he stops resisting. She nods toward the door for the agents to hustle him out. Now that the scarred man is no longer fighting them, the second man follows easily with no need for manhandling, which is good because he’s as big as a refrigerator.

  As soon as Tarasenko is out the door, Eric wheels around, jabbing a finger in Theresa’s direction. He’s going to try to salvage some victory. “What about her? Shouldn’t you arrest her, too? After all, she committed treason. She passed classified information to the Russians. We have proof. That’s still a violation of the law, isn’t it? That’s what I’ve always been led to believe.”

  Theresa seethes but doesn’t react. She knows better. They’re not going to get into a shouting match here, in front of the FBI or her son. She reaches down and lifts Brian, letting him press his face into her shoulder. “I’m taking Brian upstairs. I don’t want him here for this.”

  Herbert nods as she holsters her weapon. She stands between Eric and the staircase, nearly as tall as he. “Ms. Warner is cooperating with us, Mr. Newman. The provisions of that cooperation have already been approved by the district attorney handling the case. Ms. Warner is free on her own recognizance until a judge decides otherwise.”

  The news almost knocks Eric backward off his feet. His face is nearly white with fury. He throws his hands in the air. “Why wasn’t I informed of this? It’s my office. The secrets she stole are my responsibility. That woman is a traitor, and you’ve made a deal with her?” He seems to remember in that moment that there is someone else he can pivot to, someone else to deflect the attention, and he looks for Lyndsey. “Why didn’t you tell me about this? You knew, didn’t you?”

  As angry as she is with Eric, and as guilty as she knows he is, Lyndsey knows not to confront Eric. She must trust that there will be an investigation. She doesn’t want to mess it up with an errant word, not when they’re so close.

  Herbert proves she has ice water in her veins. She looks past Eric to nod at a pair of agents, who step up to Eric, flanking him like sentries. “You’re going to have to come with us, too, Mr. Newman, for questioning in regard to your role—”

  “What?” Eric jerks away from the hand that falls on his shoulder, and skitters backward out of their grasp. If Tarasenko’s fury was an act, Eric’s is not. “My role? You must be joking! This is ridiculous—”

  “You’re Ms. Warner’s supervisor, aren’t you?” Herbert asks. “I’d think you’d want to cooperate.”

  “Of course, but . . . This is CIA business. I’ll answer to an internal investigation but there’s nothing I can say to you. It’s classified . . .”

  “Let me assure you, Mr. Newman, that I’ve been read into all the compartments germane to this investigation. We’ve briefed your seventh floor. Patrick Pfeifer authorized everything we’ve done. Now, you can come with us voluntarily or I can take you into custody.”

  That’s the moment when Eric realizes it’s all over. Everything he’s schemed for, everything he wanted. The men in the ivory tower know what he’s done. Those traitors, they talked to the FBI behind his back, without doing him the courtesy of talking to him first. This would never happen to guys at the top. Or to Richard. But Eric is not one of them and now, he never will be, and it was a colossal mistake to think he was. There’s nothing more to say.

  He quiets, perhaps realizing that it wouldn’t look good to resist. He lets the agents lead him away, though not before giving Lyndsey a piercing glare. She figured out his secret but, unlike Cassidy, refused to keep it. You were in on this, weren’t you? Even you. I can’t trust anyone.

  Herbert watches Eric leave with her men. To Lyndsey, she says, “You did the right thing. Though I know it was really difficult.”

  What will people at CIA say when this comes out? How many will side with her and how many will decide she’s a traitor for not circling the wagons to protect her fellow officers? She might never be trusted again with a special operation because she didn’t cover up what Eric had done. She may have torpedoed what was left of her career.

  Herbert is looking at her cell phone and frowning. “My director wants me to brief him in person. Now. I’m going to need to head off.” Lyndsey nods. “It’ll take a few hours before we’re ready to question Tarasenko. You should join us. Call my office when you arrive and I’ll send someone to escort you.”

  There’s nothing left to do but to check on Theresa.

  The trip to the second floor of Theresa’s house is longer and steeper than she remembers, or maybe it’s because she is suddenly exhausted. The adrenaline high has worn off. The stress of the past twenty-four hours has caught up to her. At the top, a wedge of dim light from Brian’s room spills across the hall. She catches the murmur of low voices, mother and child.

  She gives a two-knuckle rap on the door before she steps in. Theresa sits on the bed holding Brian, her chin resting on the top of his head. He looks much younger than his seven years. They hold each other: they are all the other has.

  Theresa looks up at her.

  “I’m going now. There will be a police unit in front to watch the house tonight.” Lyndsey is merely reminding her. Herbert went through this beforehand, how they don’t think Theresa has anything to fear from the Russians, not right away in any case, but they would leave police protection in place until they have a sense of how the Russians are going to react. Right now, there’s a jumble of vehicles in front of the house and they’ll likely remain there for hours gathering evidence.

  Theresa nods as she strokes her son’s head.

  “The FBI took Eric in. They have . . . questions.”

  Theresa’s eyebrows shoot up, but she keeps mum in front of Brian. The boy knows him, after all. He’s been in their house. Daddy’s friend.

  “Try to get some sleep. I’ll be in touch tomorrow.”

  Lyndsey has one hand on the bannister when Theresa calls out. “Wait a minute—I want to thank you. This could’ve ended differently, a lot worse, and . . .” She looks down at her son.

  “You don’t have to thank me, not after what you’ve been through.” And she has been through so much more than anyone will ever know. Because of what she did tonight, her husband may remain in a Russian prison for the rest of his life. Brian doesn’t know that yet, but he may one day. What then?

  “You did the right thing,” Lyndsey says. Theresa deserves to hear it, too. Even if Lyndsey is the only person who will ever say it to her.

  FORTY-ONE

  The next morning, Lyndsey is sluggish. In the end, she only gets a couple hours of sleep before dayligh
t and traffic noise force her out of bed. Even a hot shower does little to revive her.

  For one thing, she had to take a late phone call from Pfeifer. He’d spoken to the attorney general and wanted to warn her that the FBI had decided not to hold Eric overnight. “Barker called someone and threatened hell to pay if they did,” he had told her, an uncharacteristic grittiness in his tone. “I’ll talk to Barker about it in the morning. And Lyndsey, there’s something else. I’ve spoken to a few people about Eric, people whose judgment I trust, and they had some unsettling things to say about him. Clearly, we missed the signs on this one. Obviously there’s something we should’ve caught sooner. We’ll be watching him of course, but his ego is bruised, and that’s the worst thing you can do to a guy like him. Be careful. Keep your distance. At least he doesn’t know where you live,” Pfeifer said in parting. She’s not sure that’s not the case. She remembers mentioning where she was staying to him once, but surely Eric hadn’t been paying attention at the time.

  That morning, she spends the gridlocked drive into D.C. wondering if Herbert was able to get much of anything out of Newman before he was released. Will he be fired? Pfeifer had warned her it was unlikely that Eric will face any disciplinary action. Strictly speaking, he broke no CIA regulations or U.S. law. The only offense he’s guilty of is recklessness, which is viewed at Langley as a blessing and a curse. Pfeifer has made it clear that Eric has committed enough wrongs so that his career, if not over, will be ruined. That’s a catastrophe when your career is all that matters. Barker has been particularly outspoken, Pfeifer confided. Apparently, it’s one thing to let a case officer sit in an FBI holding cell but quite another thing to ignore Clandestine Service protocol and bypass proper vetting.