by Alma Katsu
Closer to the doors leading to the tarmac are Theresa and Brian. They are more animated than everyone else in the terminal, and certainly more than the last time Lyndsey saw them. Theresa is pointing out ground equipment to Brian, who seems to know the name of each one. Brian, who has barely said two words in the entire time Lyndsey has known him and perpetually hid behind his mother’s legs, can’t stop talking. He’s pressed against the windows, straining to see the landing of the aircraft carrying his father.
There isn’t a big crowd waiting in the terminal for Richard Warner’s return. Spy swaps tend to be done on the hush-hush, even for a man who has been declared dead. There are a couple Agency representatives to handle all the administrative work, the paperwork, and to explain what happens next. What the government is prepared to do to make amends. Once they’re back in Virginia, there will be debriefings. Eventually, he will be brought back into the headquarters building. There are a lot of people who want to see him, to hear his stories, to cry over his return.
The two representatives stand back, conferring with each other in a waiting area. This is the family’s time, Theresa’s and Brian’s.
She and Theresa have barely spoken since they heard the news that Eric Newman has disappeared. That night, right after Lyndsey’s call, the Watch sent an officer to Eric’s apartment to check on him, only to find certain key things missing, such as his suitcases. Then they found out that he’d withdrawn most of his savings from his bank account the day before, just walked in and took what he could in cash. They were trying to track him down, but it wasn’t hard to disappear when you know how. When you’ve been trained for it.
A woman in an air force uniform walks up to Theresa, their liaison since arriving on the base yesterday. “Your husband’s plane should be touching down any minute. If you go over here”—she starts to lead them along the wall of windows—“you’ll have a better view.” Theresa and Brian follow, hand in hand. Lyndsey hangs back a little.
The plane, a military transport, comes into view shortly. It’s so big, it’s like watching an aircraft carrier descend from the clouds, then touch down on earth, the ground rumbling beneath it. You hold your breath as it wheels toward the terminal. It looks impossibly big, like it could roll over this building.
The officer escorts Theresa and Brian through the doors and onto the tarmac. An ambulance has pulled up, its red lights flashing. They’ve already been told the ambulance is just a precaution; Richard Warner has been seen by medical personnel at the U.S. embassy in Moscow and he’s in reasonably good health for a man who’s been imprisoned for two years. But that’s why he’s been flown to Ramstein and not directly to the United States: he’s getting a complete checkup. It seems that’s the protocol for prisoners and hostages, a trip to the army’s Landstuhl Regional Medical Center. He’ll stay for a couple days, at the least, before flying to Virginia. A psychiatric evaluation before he touches down on U.S. soil is a big part of the reason he is at Landstuhl.
Lyndsey remains inside and watches. The terminal is cold; perhaps it’s just too hard to heat this old building. So much glass. A damp German chill seems to emanate off the walls. She watches as they roll a set of metal steps out to the aircraft, Spartan and old-school. No jet bridges here.
A couple of other passengers disembark first. None are Richard, she guesses, because they’re wearing military uniforms. Did they know that man at the back of the plane, the quiet man in civilian clothing, has just been released from a Russian prison? That he’s a hero? He’ll never be a famous one, though; his story won’t even be well known in the halls of CIA. The real story will be kept secret. Not for the first time, she wonders what will become of Richard Warner. What do you do with your life after something like this? She tries to imagine him back at CIA, working for men who left him to rot in prison, but that can’t be possible. He will have been changed forever by the experience. He must be ready to close the book on his life in the intelligence business.
Eventually, Lyndsey catches sight of him as he steps onto the top of the portable stairs. He’s so far away that she can’t see him very well but it’s close enough. A wisp of a man, his hair gone completely gray. He’s wearing a tan jacket they probably bought for him in Moscow, and a plaid shirt like something a lumberjack would wear. It seems incongruous and a tad fanciful until she realizes Richard used to be an outdoorsman, loved his hiking and fishing, and he wore plaid flannel all the time.
Brian jumps up and down on the tarmac, but waits until his father gets all the way to the bottom to launch himself at him, wrapping his arms around his father’s legs. Richard leans over to rub his back, a comforting gesture, but doesn’t try to pick him up—is he too weak?
This whole time, Theresa hangs back. She can’t take her eyes off him, but she doesn’t throw herself at him the way Brian did. Moscow Station must’ve told Richard what happened, the reason why the U.S. was finally able to arrange his release. He knows that she made a deal with the Russians. That she gave up names of assets and is responsible for the death or disappearance of two men. She broke the law—but for him, all for him. He should be flattered, logic would seem to dictate. Only someone who loved you very, very much would go to such lengths—right?
But Richard is—or was—a Boy Scout, with unshakable loyalty to the Agency and everything it stood for. After two years in prison, is he still? Will he be able to forgive his wife for what she did?
Lyndsey wishes it weren’t so complicated, for Theresa’s sake. The woman did her best for him. She stands riveted, her face almost pressed against the cold glass.
They look into each other’s eyes, Richard and Theresa, for what seems to be a long time. Maybe they’re thinking about what lies ahead. Both of them have changed in ways the other can’t begin to know. They’ll have to get to know each other once again, and most important, to trust each other. If they’re going to stay together, that is.
The same challenge, sort of, waits for Lyndsey. She doesn’t know if she should stay with the Agency. She knows what she told Claiborne, but she’s had time to think about it. Russia Division is in complete turmoil: for better and worse, it’s losing the man who has been running it for years, who knew it inside and out, knew every man and woman who worked there, knew every asset they’d ever run, knew every operation backward and forward, knew its twisted, wicked history like his own. It’s been rocked by this scandal, made people shaky and timid. People are talking about leaving, finding new positions elsewhere or quitting altogether. The scandal has to be a sign of deeper rot, right? How can you trust this place to do right by you after what happened to Richard and Theresa, two of the Agency’s anointed?
Oh, but there’s more to the story than the rank and file will ever be allowed to know. Yet another deep, dark secret hidden away in its deepest, darkest vaults.
Lyndsey, hands shoved in pockets, pushes through the double doors and meanders out onto the tarmac. She has the same question before her: can she trust the Agency? Patrick Pfeifer has done the right thing, and that gives her hope, but how many men like him are there, and how many more are like Eric Newman, lying in wait? She’s agreed to run Tarasenko, yes, but it feels like she hasn’t fully committed. That she’s still looking over her shoulder, wondering if she’s doing the right thing. Kim Claiborne seems trustworthy. She’s no Eric Newman. But these managers all seem rock solid—at first. You must be confident to be a manager in the Directorate of Operations: people have to be willing to do some pretty dangerous things on your say-so, after all.
She looks at Richard and Theresa, still observing each other at arm’s length. This is what it can do to you: make you doubt the very ground beneath your feet.
Then, Richard stirs.
He stretches out his arm to Theresa.
She tumbles into him, pressing her face to his chest. His right arm wraps around her back, drawing her closer. They cling to each as tightly as possible.
Lyndsey edges cl
oser to the family as they make their way to the ambulance. Richard is about to climb into the back when Theresa waves her over. Her eyes glisten with tears as she takes Lyndsey’s arm and pulls her into their circle.
“Richard, I want you to meet Lyndsey Duncan. We owe her so much . . . We owe her everything. If it weren’t for her, you wouldn’t be here today.”
He squints through his eyeglasses. She can tell he is searching his memory, perhaps remembering something about her face. Lyndsey is shocked to see how he’s aged. He could easily be fifteen years older. His clothes hang off his lean frame. His face is creased with wrinkles, the skin rough, as though he’s been left in bad weather for a long time. There seems to be an involuntary tremor in his hands—but Brian clings to them nonetheless.
But there’s the same intelligent twinkle in his eyes that she remembers from her earliest days in Russia Division. Despite what they did to him in prison, they didn’t manage to destroy the man. To break his spirit.
She’s glad to see, after everything he has been through, that sometimes the best endures.
“Hello, Richard. It’s good to see you.” She extends her hand. “Welcome home.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
For those who know of me through my novels, it may come as a bit of a surprise to learn that before I started writing, I had a long career in intelligence, which I drew on to write Red Widow. I always wanted to write a spy novel because I felt there were things about working in this field that people didn’t understand, especially if what they did know came from popular movies, TV shows, and books. I am grateful for my career: as I’ve told many people, through it, I was able to do many things I would otherwise never have experienced. But it has its dark side, too, and it’s that trade-off and the personal toll it can take that I wanted to capture in Red Widow.
I can’t reveal the names of all the colleagues who helped, befriended, and challenged me over the years but know that I think of you and appreciate your kindnesses. I would like to drop the first names of a few special friends here (you know who you are): Andrea and David; Bev; Charlotte; Jen; Jan; Jay; Kathy; Peter, Simona, Jim, Gary, and everyone at the Center. Also, thank you to the patient folks in the Pre-Publication Review office and a special thanks to Larry P. for letting me base a character on him.
Thanks also to John Nason for his help understanding what happens when a foreign national is arrested by the FBI for spying. Thanks, too, to former colleague and friend Ed Mickolus for the introduction to John.
There would be no Red Widow without my editor at Putnam, Sally Kim. I had pretty much given up on writing a spy novel and I didn’t take it up again until she challenged me to come up with an idea that eventually blossomed into this book. She went through countless revisions to get me to the version you hold in your hands. I am grateful for her vision and patience.
Deep thanks to the entire Putnam team for all their support and enthusiasm: president Ivan Held; director of marketing Ashley McClay; director of publicity Alexis Welby; the tireless Gabriella Mongelli; Katie Grinch, Sydney Cohen, Emily Mlynek, and Nishtha Patel.
Many thanks, as always, to my literary agents Richard Pine and Eliza Rothstein, who make everything better. Thanks, too, to my film agent Angela Cheng Caplan. And last but far from least, thank you to my husband for letting me disappear behind the door of my study to write, after thirty-four years of letting me disappear behind the gates and barbed-wire fences of work.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Alma Katsu is the award-winning author of five novels, most recently The Deep and The Hunger. Prior to the publication of her first novel, she had a thirty-five-year career as a senior intelligence analyst for several U.S. agencies, including the CIA and NSA, as well as RAND, the global policy think tank. Katsu is a graduate of the master's writing program at the Johns Hopkins University and received her bachelor's degree from Brandeis University. She lives outside of Washington, D.C., with her husband, where she is a consultant to government and private industry on future trends and analytic methods.
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