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

It meant the possibility of multiple attempts passing notes to Constantinov to persuade them. And even if they were intrigued, it might be a long time before they decided to act. They’d need to identify her and then they would follow her and study her, until they were satisfied that she wasn’t setting them up.

She folded the note so it would stay closed if she should somehow miss the window and it fell to the gutter or sidewalk, and kept it hidden in the rental car under a floor mat, but even this tenuous connection back to her made her nervous. It was proof of her perfidy in block lettering on yellow legal paper, tangible evidence of her intent to betray her country.

The country that had betrayed her first.

Every day, she did the same thing. She went home after work and made dinner for Brian, leaving him with the sitter. Then she drove the rental car to a sleepy branch library where she donned a wig and glasses, a different coat and handbag. After that, she went to MacArthur Boulevard, parked the car, and walked to the intersection where Constantinov would be in about an hour, stuck in traffic. She made many dry runs, practiced spotting his car and doing brushes. Calculating how far from the curb she’d need to be to slide the tightly folded note through the open window on the passenger’s side—without being noticed. An entire week passed before she was satisfied that he wasn’t being followed or watched by the FBI.

The second week, however, Constantinov disappeared. She watched the traffic at MacArthur Boulevard but didn’t see his SUV. Whether his absence was due to late nights in the office or a sudden trip out of town, she didn’t know. It was so maddening that, back in the office, she dared to check his file, but there were no updates, no new notes. While it meant she had no idea where he’d gone, the only upside was that he didn’t appear to be on anyone’s radar.

And then the third week, he reappeared, falling back into his normal routine. The amount of relief she felt was enormous, unexpectedly so. It was as though fate was reassuring her that this was meant to be. The plan was back on. She would proceed.

She did her run the first three days that week but chickened out at the last minute each time. She’d get the feeling she was being followed or didn’t like the look of a man lingering on the corner, afraid he might be FBI even though she knew that he wasn’t. Nobody cared about Constantinov, the out-of-date file in the office backed that fact up. She wasn’t being followed. It was jitters, pure and simple. Get a grip on yourself. Either you’re going to do this or you’re not. So, on Thursday, she steeled herself and walked toward Constantinov’s car as it idled in traffic. She veered to the curb. He had no idea what was happening, she could tell by the bored expression on his face, the way he looked through the windshield like a law enforcement officer, at nothing and everything at once. The effortless flick of ash from the end of his cigarette. She slid the folded note into his cab so efficiently that she almost could believe she hadn’t done it, walking away with blood pounding in her ears. No one on the street had noticed, not even the people beside her on the sidewalk. Maybe even Constantinov—either that or he’d had the presence of mind not to react. Either way, he wouldn’t do anything until he’d pulled into the two-car garage at home and leaned over for his briefcase and saw the yellow triangle of paper resting on the seat. A simple note waiting for him like a time bomb.

They were to meet at four p.m. on Sunday afternoon at the National Cathedral, three long days away. Theresa wasn’t sure how she’d get through work on Friday without breaking down and blurting it all out in one long confession. She considered calling in sick but if they suspected her in any way, she’d only confirm those suspicions by taking a day off. She spent the first half of the day in a cold sweat, listening for the sound of unfamiliar footsteps behind her as men from Security made their way to her desk. But it didn’t happen, and by lunchtime, she felt better. Mere hours to go before she was clear.

And after all this anxiety, she almost didn’t go to the rendezvous. Her mind worked up insidious schemes. After all the propaganda she’d been fed in CI classes, it seemed impossible that Constantinov wouldn’t have a tail on him, that the FBI hadn’t questioned him and knew what she was up to. It was too quiet, too easy. You are walking into a trap, her brain hissed. But then a funny thing happened a couple hours before the appointed meeting: she saw on the news that there was a bust at the Chinese embassy. She didn’t get the whole story—it had just broken and facts were scarce—but there, on the screen, FBI agents and police swarmed all over the Chinese compound. Blue lights, yellow tape, men in FBI windbreakers carrying out boxes of computers. Every FBI agent in D.C. had to be there. Minor routine duties, like routine surveillance of Russian officers, would be canceled for the day. She was sure of it.

She tried not to get her hopes up that Russians would actually be at the rendezvous. Even if they were curious, they would spend this first meeting playing it safe. They would go early to stake out the place. They would watch from afar to see if she showed up. They would look for FBI. They would give full rein to their suspicions. Offering yourself up for treason was inevitably a drawn-out affair. She’d have to be patient, play the long game.

She dropped Brian off at the house of a school