by Alma Katsu
If Eric returns, there’s no way she can continue at CIA. He’ll hound her for the rest of her career, no matter where she goes or what she does. Still, she doesn’t want to be responsible for ending a man’s career. He’s certainly done good along with the questionable. Undoubtedly, there are people walking the halls at Langley who would swear Eric Newman was the best manager they ever had. Those people will come to resent Lyndsey, too. Her enemies list grows by the hour.
Staying means reporting to this woman, but Lyndsey thinks it might work. She can tell already that Kim Claiborne is not Eric Newman. That much is clear from the careful way she speaks. Though Lyndsey feels guilty here, too: does Claiborne know about Beirut? Maybe she won’t want Lyndsey to stay on the case after she finds out.
Lyndsey walks slowly across the small room, gaze directed at the tips of her shoes. “There’s something else you need to know. I was recalled from my last assignment. There’s an investigation—”
Claiborne waves her hand. “Davis Ranford, MI6?”
“Don’t tell me you know him, too.”
“Oh, I know him. So, I know there’s nothing for Security to worry about. Besides, after what you’ve done here—it’s water under the bridge. If you tell me it’s over, I believe you.”
Lyndsey hesitates. Does it have to be over? Is there a chance they will allow her to see him? It seems an impossible thing to ask . . . and she doesn’t know how Davis feels. Maybe he’s relieved it’s over. Those were the unspoken rules when they started.
But Claiborne is already moving on. “You’ll be happy to know that we’ve convinced State Department to offer to swap Tarasenko for Richard Warner.”
It takes a moment for the words to process. All the heartache and treachery of the past two years might have been avoided if this had been done in the first place—or maybe that’s not true, maybe nothing could’ve been done then to persuade the Russians to listen.
“The seventh floor changed its mind?”
“This is a different director. Chesterfield wants to do the right thing. What’s more, they have someone to trade who’s important to the Russians. And it will get our new asset back to Moscow at the same time. What’s not to like?” Claiborne’s shrug is playful. “So, let’s not look a gift horse in the mouth. We’ll see if it works.”
“What about Theresa? Has anyone told her?”
Claiborne shakes her head. “Not yet. They thought it was better not to get her hopes up until it’s official.”
There it is again, the paternal attitude that rubs the wrong way. As though Theresa Warner doesn’t know how capricious these things can be. Like Richard’s return should be a gift. You don’t want to spoil the surprise. “Wouldn’t it be better if she knew the Agency was trying to free her husband, rather than to keep her in the dark?”
Claiborne suppresses a grimace. “I see what you mean . . . Let’s put it this way: if someone were to tell her informally I don’t think that would be a problem. Understood?”
She will drive out there to deliver the news in person. “Thank you.”
“So . . . Should I take this to mean you’ll stay? You know, if you’re going to be Tarasenko’s handler, you might need to be stationed overseas. Maybe we can arrange for you to live in London. Would you like that?” Is that a wink Claiborne gives her? Her informal permission to see Davis.
Lyndsey looks back through the one-way glass. There sits the Butcher of Tskhinvali, laughing amicably with the tech ops officer, pretending that we’re all friends, that he is just another guy. Doesn’t think twice about all the blood on his hands.
He won’t be anything like Yaromir Popov. Not at all. He will be a test of all her abilities as a case officer.
But after everything she’s gone through with this case, she feels a powerful urge to see it through to the end.
She nods.
FORTY-THREE
Lyndsey opens a bottle of prosecco. Maybe she should’ve sprung for champagne, but she feels superstitious and is afraid it might jinx things.
The plan had been to go over to Theresa’s house tonight, but Theresa called that afternoon and asked if they could meet at Lyndsey’s apartment instead. She was on her way back from her aunt’s vacation cottage at Lake Anna, where she’d just dropped off Brian. He would get away from the house and the neighbors’ stares for a few days, and Theresa would be free for the inevitable meetings with Justice Department and CIA Security. “Is it okay if I come over? I’d rather not face an empty house right now.”
Lyndsey putters around the apartment but, unsurprisingly, there is little tidying up to do. The apartment still shows few signs of occupancy. Sorting through the clothes she’s tossed onto the bedroom floor, she resolves to get her life together. She’ll find a new place to live, a real place. She’ll buy furniture and a car.
Because pretty soon, she’ll have a whole new life, too. She’s getting her career back which, despite her misgivings, is a huge relief. It’s like she’s getting her old life back, but different. She’ll be back in Russia Division, true, but if things go well with Tarasenko, she could move overseas again to be closer to him. In any case, it means returning to a target she understands, having familiar ground under her feet. Not being left to fend for herself the way she was in Lebanon.
Then there’s Kim Claiborne. It may be too early to come to any conclusions, but she seems like a good leader. It’s hard to know; it might just be wishful thinking, self-deception as an act of self-preservation. But each interaction with her has felt right and at this stage, at least, Lyndsey is willing to give it a chance.
There’s a sharp knock at the door. Theresa stands in a red trench coat, cinched tightly at the waist, a bottle in her hand. Prosecco. Lyndsey accepts it with a smile: they’ve even come to think alike.
Lyndsey leads the way to the living room. “How is Brian?”
Theresa kicks off her shoes and sinks into the sofa. “Hopefully, a few days at the lake will bring him around. He’s shaken up, of course. I can only hope he won’t be scarred for life.”
“He’ll be fine. He’s strong. At least he’s not going to live in a different country.”
Theresa hides her face in her hands and groans. “I can hardly believe I was going to go through with it! The things we do when we’re desperate . . . I hope to never be that desperate again in my life.”
Lyndsey hands her a glass of prosecco. “What’s next? Have they given you any idea . . . ?”
“They have to file charges, but the U.S. Attorneys office is going to recommend that the charges be dropped. My clearance has been pulled, of course,” she says with a sigh, leaning back into the cushions. “At the moment, I’m on administrative leave while they decide what they’re going to do, but if they just fire me and there are no other repercussions, I’ll consider myself lucky.”
They do not discuss Kyle Kincaid. He came out of the coma and is undergoing tests. It is too soon to tell what the consequences will be for Theresa, whether Kincaid will tell the police what happened. He’s not entirely innocent, either. The Agency’s investigators have not been able to speak with him, however.
“What will you do?” What does a disgraced spy do for work? Will Theresa be able to get another job? You’d think it would be a big black mark on your permanent record, like a dishonorable discharge from the military.
“We could move away from here. I can’t help but think this won’t seem as bad if I can just get away from D.C.” Lyndsey also feels this way, that all this cloak and dagger stuff becomes less and less important the more miles you put between yourself and Washington. “My house is worth a lot, thanks to the location. We could live quite nicely off that in another part of the country. Then there’s Richard’s car. Did you know a man chastised me once for driving it to work? He said it was downright reckless of me. I could sell it. That’s Brian’s college fund, right there.”
It seems a good
opportunity to break the news to Theresa. Lyndsey has to be careful: she doesn’t want to get Theresa’s hopes up prematurely. The seventh floor has blessed the prisoner exchange but it’s far from a done deal. It could still be derailed.
Lyndsey pours more prosecco into Theresa’s glass, smiling. “Oh, I don’t know about that—Richard might just want it back.”
It takes a minute for Theresa to put it together, but once she does, her eyes cloud with tears. “Are you saying there’s a chance?”
“Chesterfield gave the okay. I think they’ve got it all lined up on the U.S. side. Now it’s up to the Russians. I can’t imagine they won’t agree. They must want to put this debacle behind them.”
For a long moment, Theresa cannot move. She seems to be paralyzed with hope and fear. Then she shakes her head, brushing aside tears. They clink glasses.
She tells Theresa, too, that she will become Tarasenko’s handler. “You know him best. What advice do you have for me?”
Theresa puts down her glass. “I wouldn’t say I know him well at all. We only met a few times. Still . . . I wouldn’t trust him, Lyndsey. Be careful.”
“It’s meant to be a limited relationship. He’s going to help us get Morozov—that’s it.”
A scowl ruins Theresa’s lovely face. “Morozov. Look at everything CIA has done to try to get him. They paid informants, they’ve gone through all the ‘official’ channels . . . All the people who’ve died, and it’s all been for nothing. And if they do get him, what then? Will it be worth it?” Theresa is bitter and Lyndsey doesn’t blame her: Eric was willing to sacrifice her and turn her whole world upside down in order to bring him in. Is it worth going to such extremes for revenge?
Then, too, there’s the question of whether an asset like Tarasenko couldn’t be put to better use. A well-placed spy like Dmitri Tarasenko could be used to save, potentially, hundreds of lives. The thought nags at Lyndsey, though she knows the deal has been made. This is what Tarasenko offered, and CIA accepted.
There’s an unexpected knock at the door, definitely an uncommon experience at this hour of the evening. Lyndsey’s first instinct is to assume someone has mistakenly come to the wrong door and to ignore it, but no: it could be a neighbor with a problem or a mishap in the parking lot, someone swiping her car. She gets to her feet and answers it.
Eric Newman. He’s the last person she ever expected to see at her door, so his presence seems like a mirage. He’s all wrong, his expression, his stance, even what he wears, Burberry raincoat over jeans and anorak, running shoes on his feet, no socks. It’s something you’d throw on to run down to the drugstore for cigarettes and lottery tickets.
He pushes his way inside. “I want to have a word with you,” he says a little too loudly. The smell of alcohol is strong on his breath.
In two steps, he sees Theresa on the couch. His face falls. “I came because I thought you’d be alone. But I see you two couldn’t wait to celebrate my downfall. You’ve got champagne and everything.”
Lyndsey wasn’t worried when she first saw him at the door. He was obviously in a bad way. She actually felt sorry for him. Now that he’s pushed his way into the house and is obviously drunk, reeking of self-pity, and a little out of control, it’s a different story. Pfeifer’s warning comes back to her. Just one day ago, Eric suffered the worst indignities of his life. He was taken to FBI headquarters. He was fired from his job. He is under investigation. He probably gave the slip to a surveillance team to make it here.
She touches his shoulder, meaning to steer him back to the door. “Eric, you shouldn’t be here. And you’re drunk.”
He shakes her hand off violently. “So, now I’m not welcome. You were pretty friendly when I invited you to run the investigation. You were only too happy for my help then. For me to make that bad thing you did in Lebanon go away—”
“‘Bad thing’? There’s no comparison between what I did in Lebanon and what you’ve done.”
“Your friend has questionable judgment, did you know that?” he says over his shoulder to Theresa. His tone is mocking and gleeful. If he’s going down, he’s going to take everyone with him. “Do you know why she was recalled from Beirut? She was caught sleeping with a foreign intelligence officer. She’s either self-destructive or incredibly stupid, you decide.”
“What I did is none of your business.” Lyndsey knows he’s trying to make her lose her temper, but that doesn’t make it any easier to keep from getting angry. She never guessed Eric could be like this. He hid his ugly side so well.
Theresa is on her feet, cell phone out. “Eric, you shouldn’t be here. I bet you were told not to contact either of us. If you don’t leave right now, I’m calling the police. Do you understand?”
As he spins on Theresa, his face softens. His anger evaporates. “It’s your fault, you know. If you hadn’t—If we . . .” He stops, catching the words in mid-flight. “Things could have been different. In another world, we could’ve been happy and none of this would’ve happened.”
Strangely, Theresa doesn’t snap back at him. She doesn’t speak. She drops her head, avoiding his eyes.
What is going on here? Lyndsey is confused but she doesn’t say a word. The air prickles like an electrical storm has just passed by.
Eric stuffs his hands in the pockets of his raincoat and shuffles his feet. “I just wanted you to know—it’s your fault. Both of you,” he says, turning back to Lyndsey like she’s an afterthought now. “You remember that, when they ask. You’ll have only yourselves to blame.” And then he pushes past her again, only this time she has no desire to stop him. He leaves the door wide open to the night.
Stunned, Lyndsey stands at the open door. Theresa walks up beside her. “What was that about?” They both look at the spot where Eric had last stood. There is a weight to the emptiness. That moment with Eric is dissolving by the second. It is hard to say what they saw, let alone believe what it might mean.
Lyndsey turns from the door, reaching for her cell phone. “It almost sounds like—I don’t know—like he’s going to do something drastic.”
“Do you think he might try to kill himself?” Theresa asks, dubious.
It would be easy to say, He’s just drunk. He’s upset. It will pass. That they heard wrong. They misunderstood. To avoid the embarrassment of Eric being found in two hours waiting to board a plane for Minnesota to visit his family and lick his wounds.
But that’s not what’s happening. There was another kind of threat in Eric Newman’s demeanor. Lyndsey calls the Watch and gets the same officer who called her in the night Yaromir Popov died. Sergeant Mitchell.
“You’re right, ma’am. It sounds like he evaded the surveillance team. We’ll alert them right away. It’s doubtful that Mr. Newman will try to contact you again tonight, but if he returns to your apartment, try to detain him.”
The two women return to the couch, rattled. Theresa is already getting her things together, readying to go. But there is one thing bothering Lyndsey. She heard what Eric said and this moment, right now, might be her only chance for an explanation. In an hour, a day, the moment will be lost. Deniable. It must’ve been important for Eric to say it to her, under the circumstances. Lyndsey wants to know. “What was that he said to you? That the two of you could’ve been happy?”
The sigh that comes from Theresa is long and low and pained. She turns away, crossing her arms over her chest. “It’s nothing. A long time ago, before Richard. But it was nothing.”
Suddenly, Lyndsey understands. Eric had been in love with Theresa all this time. Maybe it was the reason he’d kept the secret of Richard’s survival from Theresa two years ago. Maybe he’d hoped things would be different this time. “It was something to Eric, apparently.”
Theresa turns her head. Her hair sweeps over her eyes, and she reaches up to brush it away. Even this tiny gesture is elegant and perfect, and she can see why Eric would fall in
love with her. “He should’ve known better. And he was never in love with me. He was in love with what Richard and I had. With what Richard had. Respect, love. I might’ve been young and inexperienced, but I could see that he didn’t want me—he wanted to be Richard. And he proved it in the end, didn’t he? Whatever love he had turned to hate. He was willing to burn me and let Richard die in prison.”
Now Lyndsey feels a slight afterburn of embarrassment. Because she recognizes that this is what she has wanted, too. Once she came back to Russia Division and became friends with The Widow: to have a piece of what she didn’t have a decade ago, when she was on the outside looking in.
And yet . . . That seems like a lifetime ago, the desire for acceptance a holdover from her first uncertain days at the Agency. That self-doubting young woman is gone, Lyndsey’s eyes opened by the events of the past weeks. She understands Davis better, how one becomes toughened in this business. Cynical.
She deserves that relationship with Davis now, she decides. It’s been hard-won.
Just like her friendship with Theresa.
FORTY-FOUR
ONE WEEK LATER
RAMSTEIN AIR BASE, GERMANY
It is a rainy and cold afternoon. Lyndsey stands inside an old concrete building, next to a wall of windows.
Outside, the air base looks like any airport the world over. Huge runways. Planes touching down in the background with languid regularity. Ground crews in camouflage and reflective vests scurrying about. Huge transport vehicles parked on the periphery, painted olive drab. Rainwater runs down the glass in streaks, the grayness lending an air of weariness and ennui.