by Alma Katsu
Merely losing his job doesn’t seem like punishment enough. Yaromir Popov is dead. Theresa Warner was tricked into committing a crime and very nearly ruined her life. The unfairness eats at Lyndsey as her car creeps down Route 66.
By some miracle—the capricious D.C. commuting gods smiling on her this morning—Lyndsey finds space in a garage not far from FBI and is able to make good time. A young woman from Herbert’s office escorts Lyndsey, chirping brightly over her shoulder as she leads the way. “I heard about the takedown last night. It sounds like you had an exciting evening.”
You don’t know the half of it.
The young woman works a keypad at the front door of the SCIF, leading Lyndsey inside. Herbert is talking to a couple men. She introduces them to Lyndsey: Steven Riley from the U.S. Attorneys office, and Jonah Rhee, from State Department. “Steve will participate in the questioning. Joe here delivered the bad news to the Russians this morning.”
Rhee smiles sheepishly. “We’re trying to slow roll them for you, but they’re pretty anxious to get their men out of jail. They’re claiming diplomatic immunity, of course. We told them we IDed one of their men as FSB. That’s where we’re at, at the moment.”
They step into the interview room, the same one where Tom Cassidy was questioned less than two days ago. Was it only a day ago? The past twenty-four hours feel like an eternity.
She’d seen the man at the table just a few hours earlier, but now he looks completely different. He was like an enraged bull in Theresa’s house, defensive, dangerous, looking for a way to free himself. Here, he sits—not calm exactly, but not on edge. He sizes up his three visitors, but his gaze lingers on Lyndsey. She’s seen a lot of Russian intelligence and military from her time in Moscow. Men like Dmitri Tarasenko tailed her wherever she went in the city. They would give her the same little smirk to try to intimidate her. It enrages her, and then she remembers the reports she read on Tarasenko’s military service and a shiver runs up her spine. He is not a man to engage lightly.
Sally drops a folder on the table. “Dmitri Tarasenko. Major Tarasenko, of the FSB. We’ve been in touch with your embassy and informed them of the charges against you. They denied them, of course, and demanded your release.”
Riley takes over. “I’m with the U.S. Attorney’s Office for the Eastern District of Virginia. We handle all criminal prosecutions for violations of federal law. We’re preparing the court papers. We’ll be charging you with espionage against the United States of America, and you should be aware that you could face a number of years in a U.S. prison—”
“An idle threat, no?” Tarasenko lifts one shoulder in a lazy shrug. He doesn’t come across as nervous or afraid. To the contrary: he’s not threatened in the least. “We both know you will not prosecute me. You don’t want to give away secrets in court. You will trade me for your spies in Russia, the people we caught working for you.”
Richard. This could be how they get Richard back. The FSB won’t be able to deny they’re holding him any longer, not when they were trying to entice his wife to work for them. This could be the opening they were hoping for. Lyndsey will have to talk to Patrick Pfeifer to see if the seniors will agree to offer a swap.
Tarasenko sinks back in his chair. He looks down at the Formica tabletop, at two worn patches where countless people have rested their elbows, exhausted by the weight of their duplicity. “There is one other possibility. One you haven’t considered, perhaps, but is much more beneficial to you.” He locks onto Lyndsey with those cold-as-creek-water eyes. “You are with CIA, yes? Do not bother to deny it: I know your name from your time in Moscow. I would like to make a deal with you. I want to become a double agent for the CIA.”
* * *
—
It is pandemonium. They have to clear the room, unsure who needs to take part in this discussion. This is above Lyndsey’s pay grade. Ideally, someone much more senior would handle this negotiation, but Lyndsey is here. It seems as though Tarasenko is counting on this.
Standing in the hall with Riley and Rhee, Herbert is relieved. “You know he’s right,” she says to Lyndsey. “He’ll never be prosecuted. His people are going to fight like hell to get him released. The best we could hope for is a prisoner swap.”
She needs to bring this back to Langley. Logically, the decision would be made by the Director of Russia Division, but Eric has been removed from his position. Kim Claiborne has been Eric’s deputy since Jack Clemens went into the hospital. But Claiborne has been on a long-term assignment out of the office. Lyndsey hasn’t met her since her return from Beirut and is pretty sure Claiborne hasn’t been kept in the loop on any of this. Eric is known for eschewing deputies. He has them because he has to, it’s part of the management structure, but they quickly find out Eric considers them about as useful as a knitted condom.
She’ll call Pfeifer’s office. He has more important things to do, but she’s pretty sure he’ll want to hear this. And hopefully, Claiborne is already on recall and winging her way back to Virginia.
“I need a secure line. I have to make a phone call—but then I’m going back in there.”
* * *
—
Now it’s just the two of them in the interview room. Tarasenko leans far back in the chair, defying gravity. The Russian is cockier now. He’s happy he’s gotten the attention he needs. He likes to be in the driver’s seat, this one. Lyndsey assesses him as quickly as she can from across the table.
They’ve given him a cup of coffee and cigarettes, letting him smoke in a federal building. The cigarette burns lazily between his fingers. He’s watching her, too, deliberately letting his gaze wander away from her face over her body. He’s just trying to intimidate her. She learned a lot about old KGB tactics from Popov. This man would’ve been happy under either the Soviet regime or the oligarchs. A bully and an opportunist, he’s tailor-made to be a foot soldier in Putin’s Russia.
“You’ve had quite a change of heart,” Lyndsey says.
He taps ash into the paper cup they’ve given him to use as an ashtray. “How do you know? Maybe I’ve always wanted to help the CIA.”
Or maybe you just want to play us. “We’ll see. You’ll need to talk to some people who will evaluate you. They’ll decide whether you can be trusted.”
His smile is reptilian. “Ours is a funny business, no? We deal in deceit but in the end, there is no magic formula to let us see into a man’s heart. It comes down to gut and need. Do you feel you can trust me? Do you need me enough to override your distrust?”
She’s been through this before, of course. She went through the whole drill with Popov; even though she never doubted his sincerity, she understood the need for polygraphs and interviews and evaluations. Those things take time, however. The clock is ticking with Tarasenko. Every day he’s detained will add to the FSB’s suspicions. After a certain point, they will assume he’s been turned.
“Do you think you can see what’s in my heart?” He narrows his eyes at her.
The human lie detector. Does he know about her, her reputation? It wouldn’t surprise her: she’d been stationed in Moscow, after all. Theresa may have told Moscow she was the person running the investigation for the mole. Tarasenko may be trying to keep her off-balance. Baiting her.
“That’s up to other people, and we’ll see soon enough. In the meantime, I need to ask a few questions. But mainly I want to know why? Why flip?”
He closes his eyes as he takes a drag on the cigarette. Avoiding her. “I can see what will happen. The Hard Man will be displeased by this . . . miscalculation. Morozov will be in trouble. This is not good for me. His enemies will use this to their advantage, and he has many enemies.” He crushes the cigarette in the paper cup. “I can tell you are disgusted. What kind of person in our profession would do this, offer to turn on his country? I am looking to survive, that is all. A man must look out for himself. CIA wants Evgeni Morozov. I
can help you.”
Russia could’ve handed him over to the UN for what he did in South Ossetia, but it didn’t. There is no honor among thieves.
Tarasenko is not stupid; he’s being practical. He’s been caught by the enemy. His mentor’s stock will be dropping back in Moscow. He must cut his losses and find a way to land on his feet. He has one card to play—and he knows this offer will quicken the pulse of every official back at CIA headquarters. But Lyndsey finds his treachery breathtaking. “You were Morozov’s protégé, weren’t you?”
He tilts his head. “He helped me, yes, but I did not ask for this. This is how it is in the FSB; the ones at the top surround themselves with men who are indebted to them. We are an insurance policy. It is like with parents: you do not choose your father. What do you do if your father is a bad man? What do you owe him?” She feels a sting—does he know about her father, too? Is he trying to manipulate her?
“Look”—he leans forward, a tiger constrained only by his cage—“I know you don’t like me. That is fine. Do we like any of the people who spy for us? Of course not. But that does not stop us from using them. It is like an arranged marriage, no?”
There are certainly case officers who disdain every asset who works for them—and many assets are damaged people, weak and narcissistic, desperate for approval, for love. Hard to like. But she also thinks of Yaromir Popov, whom she admired. She thinks of other case officers who tried to protect and care for their assets, even to advise them against their worst selves.
She doesn’t think she will be able to like this one, though. He is doing this to save himself and that will be good enough for the evaluators.
“How will you deliver Morozov, if he never leaves the country?”
He flips a lighter in his hand end over end with the dexterity of a magician. “I will help you get him. I cannot say how, at this point. We must assess. It is true, he doesn’t leave the city often, but he has a secret place he goes when he needs to get away from the Hard Man. A country dacha. Something might be possible there—maybe.”
Is this true, or is he making it up? Tarasenko would know this is exactly what CIA would want to hear. She studies him for tics and tells but the vault is closed. He’s good.
Lyndsey stands. She knows what she needs to do. There was no question that they will take him up on his offer, but she wanted to satisfy herself. “I’ll recommend we proceed. You know what comes next. Evaluations. Interviews. A polygraph. We’ll want to make sure you’re telling us the truth.”
He snickers. “I expect as much.”
“And the expression you were looking for is ‘a marriage of convenience.’” Yes, this is a marriage of convenience, slightly better than an arranged marriage. She can’t help but have the feeling, however, that Tarasenko is a bad bargain at any price.
As she turns for the door, she hears him whisper. Almost too softly to be heard.
Kukla. Doll.
But he wanted her to hear. She turns back to face him and doesn’t like the smile on his face.
FORTY-TWO
Lyndsey stands in the observation room, looking through a one-way mirror. On the other side, Tarasenko sits in an armchair, chatting easily with a CIA tech ops officer as though they were old friends. He snorts cigarette smoke through his nose like a cartoon bull while they go over a piece of covert equipment Tarasenko will use once he’s back in Russia.
They’re in a safe house in the verdant Virginia countryside, not far from a covert CIA facility. They’re not going to bring Tarasenko into the facility, where he would get the opportunity to see the faces of CIA employees and learn more about the workings under the cover. Not yet. Such privilege only comes with trust. He has to prove his trustworthiness.
The safe house is small, an old farmhouse surrounded by acres of overgrown fruit trees, gone half-wild and impenetrable. Tarasenko sleeps upstairs, and there’s someone on duty in the house—half housekeeper, half truant officer—around the clock. Outside, a security team patrols the grounds to make sure no unwelcome visitors come at night but it’s unlikely the Russians have made up their mind about him yet, let alone know where the safe house is. Tarasenko has been here for three days. The first two, he was evaluated by psychologists. By the end of the second day, they concluded that he was probably making the offer in good faith. “He’s not motivated by ideology—obviously,” one of the psychologists said when she presented the team’s decision to Lyndsey and Kim Claiborne, now returned from overseas. “He’s an egoist, so he’ll respond well to flattery. That will only go so far, however. Our best chance to control him is through incentives.”
That evening, there had been a tense negotiation with Tarasenko. Claiborne, Lyndsey, and a few old Russia hands, guys who had worked the target their entire lives. They sat around the dining room table, intent on making a deal.
Claiborne is with Lyndsey now, watching Tarasenko recite the tech ops officer’s instructions back to him. It was clear from Claiborne’s behavior and the way she led the meetings last night that she’d been appointed acting Chief of Russia Division. Whether or not she’d keep the top post remained to be seen.
“He’s a smooth one,” Claiborne says. She’d come to the deputy position after tours in Iraq. She’d worked the Russia target early in her career but then took assignments in other offices—it was clear, at that point, that she was looking at upper management one day, and needed to broaden her experience. There would be others vying for Eric Newman’s old job, now that he’d been forced out. Men who’d been eyeing the plum position, biding their time. “Can we trust him?”
He’d asked for a lot of money: a hefty down payment, deposited in an offshore account, and the balance to be paid after Morozov was delivered. He didn’t want to stay in place, working for CIA: he would give them one thing, and one thing only: Evgeni Morozov. Once Morozov was captured, his future in the FSB was over. It wouldn’t take them long to figure out who had helped the Americans. There’d been some debate whether it was better to keep an asset in place this high in the FSB versus getting a juicy but ultimately symbolic target like Morozov, but they’d decided to get Morozov. With a snake as slippery as Tarasenko, there was no telling when he’d turn on them. It was only a matter of time and the right circumstance.
The dollar signs lit up in Tarasenko’s eyes as CIA made its offer: the payment, plus resettlement in the U.S., and more money as an “advisor” to CIA. Teaching Langley all about FSB techniques, recalling as much as he could about Russia’s spies in the U.S. It was lucrative, but he would have to look over his shoulder for the rest of his life, or at least as long as Putin remained in power which, at this point, is looking like a lifetime appointment.
They are being careful with Tarasenko, not exposing him to too much of their tradecraft and methods. Still, it is hard to predict what will happen once he’s back in Moscow, especially when he returns to work. A technical team is in Tarasenko’s apartment right now, not far from Lubyanka Square. Tarasenko knows, of course. CIA’s strategically placed microphones and cameras will pick up his every conversation, see who’s coming to his door, who passes outside his windows. It’s part of the dark bargain. If he wants to burn his American handlers, it will happen when he passes through the doors of FSB headquarters.
“We’ll see if he passes his first test,” Lyndsey replies, arms crossed over her chest. There’s always a first test, low-hanging fruit. A sign that he’s willing to do what’s needed. He’s been given initial requirements: Morozov’s schedule for the next three months. The address of this secret hideaway Tarasenko alluded to, which he swears he doesn’t know—yet.
Claiborne lifts an eyebrow. “I’m glad to hear you say that. It sounds like you’re emotionally invested in this case—”
“Of course I am.”
“Then I hope you’ll consider what I’m about to say next: Tarasenko wants you to be his handler.”
It’s a great opportun
ity and she should be elated; she’s anything but. The whispered word—kukla—echoes in her mind.
Lyndsey looks through the glass at the Russian. The relationship between handler and asset is close and often tempestuous. It demands clear thinking and emotions kept under control. Tarasenko seems to push others emotionally, hoping they’ll make a mistake that he can capitalize on. Plus, she knows his background: he is violent, highly dangerous. It would be a challenge. And she has always liked a challenge.
But then there’s the look he gave her at FBI headquarters. Chilling.
“You’re probably sick of this case and want nothing more than to step away. I get it. But, Lyndsey—he’s asking for you,” Claiborne says.
“He wants me as his handler because he thinks he can play me.”
“Maybe. There could be other reasons. Maybe he’s attracted to you. Maybe he doesn’t see young women as a threat. I don’t mean to belittle you or your abilities—you’re obviously very capable.” Claiborne begins pacing, eyes directed at the floor. Something she doesn’t want me to see. “You won’t have to go it alone. We’ll pull together a team of the best Russia hands to work this case. They’ll be there to advise you. And at least you wouldn’t be looking at an open-ended assignment: Tarasenko is going to help us get Morozov and then it’s over. In the confusion after the snatch, we help Tarasenko slip out of the country. We give him his money and his new identity and then you’re done.”
Claiborne makes it sound so easy. Then why does she look so worried? What is she hiding?
There’s one other thing bothering Lyndsey. She runs a hand along an empty shelf. “I can’t work in Russia Division if Eric comes back.”
“I don’t want to misspeak, Lyndsey. Eric’s situation isn’t settled, not definitively, but . . . I think it’s safe to say he’s not coming back. He’s going to be fired. It’s not just what he did here—though you’d think that would be enough—but there have been other cases. Just not as egregious. I think they’ve finally come to see that Eric shouldn’t have been put in a position of such high trust.” She hesitates. “I wish I could say that he’ll be punished for what he’s done, but that’s up to the Justice Department. It’s out of our hands.”