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

bruiser who had muscled his way up the ladder and was trying to put it behind him now.

She stopped in front of a model of Westminster Abbey. It looked so flimsy, walls of paper, but still recognizable. She had been there with Richard early in their married life, a business trip, a week of meetings with MI6, but they took the weekend to play tourist. It had happened shortly after they’d wed, when she assumed they had a lifetime to travel the world together.

She’d thought it lost forever, but maybe this rough character was going to give her life back to her.

She sensed someone standing next to her and looked up to see his face reflected dimly in the glass. It was like seeing a ghost.

“I hear Metro will stop running at midnight.” It was the phrase she had been told to expect. Silly and contrived, but they all were.

She turned to face him. There was not a shred of humanity there. A soulless monster walking around in a human suit. Something inside her—fear—spiked.

“Theresa Warner?”

She couldn’t answer. She returned his steely-eyed stare. He nodded toward a bench in an alcove, away from the rest of the visitors.

He sat comfortably, as though he did this sort of thing every day. Maybe he did. He put the folders on the bench next to him, obviously glad to be rid of this subterfuge.

She found her voice. “What’s your name? You know my name, it’s only right that I know yours.”

“I am Dmitri Tarasenko. I am with the Counterintelligence Division in the Federal Security Service of the Russian Federation.” He gave her a smile that he probably imagined was charming. “I do not mind telling you that we were surprised to hear from you.”

“I was surprised to be contacting you.” But that was life, one surprise after another. We’re all capable of things we never thought we could do.

“It’s been two years. Why did you wait this long?”

The truth was galling but there was no other explanation. “I just found out that my husband is still alive.”

He chuckled at that. “So, they kept it from you? That wasn’t very nice of them, was it?”

“Never mind that—I know now, and I want to do something about it. But first, I want proof that he’s still alive.”

He reached into a coat pocket and pulled out a photograph.

It was Richard. Seeing his face knocked her for a loop, made her dizzy. He was thinner than the last time she’d seen him, and seemed to have aged twenty years, but it was him, no question. His head was tilted to one side fatalistically, almost like he was shrugging. One corner of his mouth kinked up as though he was trying to smile but had forgotten how. Had they told him the picture was for her? Smile—this is for your wife. She felt a sharp stabbing desire to hold him. She wasn’t going to cry in front of the Russian.

“That picture was taken right before I left. You see he’s in good condition. He hasn’t been harmed.”

She nodded, pressing the photo to her heart. He held out his hand for it but she was damned if she was going to give it back. She shoved it hurriedly in her purse. What was he going to do—wrestle it away from her in front of all these people?

The look on his face was threatening and grew darker by the second. Case officers are the same the world over: manipulators. He’s trying to get inside my head. Wait it out. “This is not a good way to start our relationship, Mrs. Warner. You know how this works. You need to listen to me. To trust me.” He relented after a moment, the thundercloud passing. “I’m thinking of your safety. What if someone were to find that on you? What about your son? He doesn’t go through your purse?”

How dare you bring my son into this. “No, he doesn’t,” she said through gritted teeth. “I’m careful. No one will see it. You’re just going to have to trust me.”

“Let me be clear, Mrs. Warner, on where you stand. It may not be possible to get your husband released. There are important men who oppose it. We do not like spies in Russia. When your husband was caught, there were people who wanted him put to death. He is lucky to be alive.”

At least part of that was a lie. Russia understood the need for spies: it was a country of spies, had made a cult out of spying. The population had been groomed to spy on one another, the tradecraft absorbed through osmosis from birth. The leader of the country was an unapologetic former KGB agent. The FSB may have been angry for what her husband had managed to accomplish at their expense, but on some level, they had to admire him, too.

Or perhaps she was over-romanticizing the situation because she believed in her husband so much. Believed the myth of Richard Warner that had only gotten richer with time.

He smiled again, all teeth, like the wolf in a bedtime story. Tell me a story. “But you are in luck. The Rezidentura at the embassy happened to contact my boss. General Evgeni Morozov. He is the head of counterintelligence, a very powerful man in the FSB. General Morozov is the one who saved your husband, you know. When he had been captured. Talked the Hard Man out of killing him. The general told him it would be worth it one day, and the Hard Man listened.” The Hard Man was Putin. Richard’s asset had done something to Putin; it had been personal. The asset had died a terrible, torturous death, she’d been told. She once had imagined the same for Richard.

The Russian turned on the bench so that he blocked out the rest of the gallery. He was all she could see, all teeth and steely eye and hideous scar. “You see, Mrs. Warner, General Morozov is sympathetic to your plight. He does