Red Widow by Alma Katsu (interesting books to read .txt) 📕

get rid of you, but you haven’t had time to piss them off. These things are usually tit-for-tat, but they have no reason to throw one of us out now. There hasn’t been a recent scandal. It just doesn’t make sense.”

Lyndsey had leaned across the battered tabletop, straining to get through to her boss. “Let me do it, Reese. I’m willing to take the risk. That’s why I’m here. If we don’t take chances, we might as well go home.” Then there was the part she couldn’t say aloud: Moscow Station is failing on your watch. Let me help.

He’d stared back at her for so long, his expression unreadable, that she was sure she’d lost. But then he cracked the tiniest smile. “I knew Josh Kleinman, you know. I have great respect for his judgment. He gave me that paper you wrote, the one on microexpressions.”

Lyndsey had tried not to look surprised, or too pleased. Kleinman had been her psych advisor in college. He’d been impressed with the work she did with a pair of computer vision specialists to come up with a program that picked out tiny changes in video subjects’ facial expressions. It enabled computers to tell when people were lying or even thinking about lying more accurately than with a polygraph. It had brought a flood of attention from police departments and casinos and—unexpectedly—the CIA, too. It wasn’t until later than she figured out her professor had encouraged Langley to get in touch with her about a job.

But in Moscow, there would be no video camera taping Popov, no program scouring his image for near-invisible twitches and tells, no advisor whispering in her ear.

Reese had sighed. “So far, from your time here, I haven’t seen you do one thing to refute Josh’s opinion of you, Lyndsey. Your instincts have been spot-on. If you think Popov is on the up-and-up, I’m on board. Okay, let’s do.”

—

She still cannot imagine why she had been so lucky. What Popov had seen in her, why Reese had believed in her.

The phone rings, jarring her out of her memories and bringing her back to the present day. “Lyndsey?” It’s the same friendly but firm voice she remembers.

They exchange pleasantries and chat for a minute about Reese’s time in Minsk. The cold, the fog, the preponderance of grim Soviet-era architecture. He asks nothing about Beirut, which makes her think he’s heard about the trouble over Davis. She simmers with an embarrassment that can’t be discussed.

There’s no need for preliminaries. She mentioned a task force in her email so Reese knows exactly why she’s called. “You want to know about Kate Franklin,” he says as they settle down to business.

“I was told she worked for you at one time.”

“Yes. A few years back, in Dushanbe.” Tajikistan, a tough post for anyone. “She had some trouble with gambling, as I recall.”

So much for this being a recent problem.

“She was counseled. Claimed she had it under control. But then something happened.” Reese’s voice gets quieter. “One of the case officers swore he saw her talking to Tajik liaison. Well, technically he didn’t see her with them, but caught her walking away from a couple guys he recognized as Tajik internal security.”

“So, you couldn’t prove it?”

“I interviewed her. She swore up and down there was no meeting and accused the case officer of having it in for her.”

“Did he?” Competition can be fierce at stations.

Reese grunts. “I didn’t see it that way. I didn’t feel I’d gotten to the truth of it and had her assignment curtailed. Frankly, I’m surprised she got posted to Moscow. She must’ve been able to convince Security that it was all a big misunderstanding.”

The CI people will tell you it usually takes several attempts for a traitor to go through with the offer. That they’ll try one avenue, chicken out, try again. Dushanbe may have been Kate Franklin’s dry run.

She may have finally succeeded in Moscow.

“Thanks, Reese. And it’s good to hear your voice.”

“Yours, too, Lyndsey.” It is warm again, and full of unspoken emotions. “Look—this career you’ve chosen, it’s not an easy one. That may be the understatement of the year.”

He knows. This can only mean he knows about Davis, about Beirut. About her shame and failing. What must he think about her being the one to investigate a fellow officer? It’s the height of hypocrisy. She wishes she could disappear in a puff of smoke.

“What you’re going through now, it’ll blow over. They’re making it a big deal. It isn’t. I know Davis Ranford”—he interrupts himself with a chuckle—“and while your taste in men may be questionable, I wouldn’t say he’s a security risk.”

He knows Davis. After not being able to talk to anyone about him, even to acknowledge him, this is like a drink of water after a long spell in the desert. She longs to talk about Davis with Reese. A thousand questions leap to mind—How did you meet him? When? Where were you posted?—but this is not the time for chitchat.

Reese continues with his fatherly advice. “If I were you, I’d be more concerned about who is pushing the matter with Security. You’ve made an enemy, Lyndsey. Someone with clout.”

“I’ve been asking myself that same question.”

“Security wouldn’t be dogging it otherwise: there’s no merit in the case. I know you, I know they’re barking up the wrong tree. Have faith in yourself. Hang in there.” Reese has more integrity than anyone she has met at the Agency. Her bottom lip wobbles a little; his faith in her means so much, especially at this moment.

“Thank you, Reese. I’ll try.” A thought comes to her. Reese, like Ruth Mallory, has been with the Agency a long time. He’s probably worked with just about everyone who’s currently working on the Russian target.

“One more thing, Reese . . . Have you ever worked with Tom Cassidy?”

There’s a sharp intake of breath on the other end. “Why—is he a suspect, too?”

Lyndsey doesn’t know if Reese has a relationship with Cassidy. They could be old