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

not think your Agency should have kept this secret from you. The FSB would not have done this to one of its officers. The FSB takes care of its own.” They are the good guys. Right. “He wants to help you, but you must give him something to appease the Hard Man. To show that he was not wrong when he saved your husband’s life.”

She knew what they wanted: for her to stay at CIA and keep spying for them. But she knew she could never do it, couldn’t face Eric Newman every day, wait to be discovered. Wait for the day they ripped Brian from her side. It would drive her mad.

She shook her head.

His smile sent a chill through her. “Ah, still you don’t understand your position, Mrs. Warner. You do not set the terms. That is up to General Morozov to decide. You are asking us to bring a dead man back to life. So, you must ask yourself: what is the price of a miracle?”

The high, overhead lights seemed to flicker, fade in and out. It was all in her head. Panic. What have I gotten myself into?

It was too late to change her mind. They had her. If she got cold feet now, they could give her name to CIA. A hint, that’s all it would take.

There was no going back.

She breathed heavily, in and out, in and out, trying to remain conscious. Do not faint here. Do not cause a scene.

What have I done?

He leaned back, observing her distress with no more concern than he would have for a dying moth. “I have given you a present, word of your husband—now it’s your turn. You have something for me, no?”

She reached into her pocket for the envelope with the information on Lighthouse and Skipjack. She’d decided to give them two names to minimize the risk of being refused; she loathed the thought of the Russians dragging it out. It was all in there: names, where the men worked, what information they’d given over. As much information as she could find on them. She tried not to think of what would happen to them once the FSB got that envelope. They had taken a chance that CIA would protect them and here she was, betraying them.

Richard had trusted that CIA would protect him, too.

Remember Richard. You’re doing this for him. It doesn’t matter what happens to you. Or anyone else.

She thrust the envelope at Tarasenko.

He slipped it into his breast pocket. “Very good. That was not so hard, was it?” He was enjoying her misery, licking it up like cream.

He told her how she would know if they wanted to meet again: she was to look for a mark on a piece of equipment in a playground near her house. It was a little playground that Brian and his friends used regularly, and now the Russians would use it for their purposes.

The place would never be the same to her. Nothing would ever be the same.

He rose to leave, tapping the front of his coat where the envelope was hidden. “We will evaluate this and be in touch. I hope you have chosen wisely. Your husband’s life depends on it. Good day, Mrs. Warner.” She remained where she was, concentrating on breathing, willing herself not to faint, as she watched him walk away.

TWENTY-FOUR

Theresa returned to the office the next day, though she would’ve liked to stay home, to play hooky like a schoolchild. When she showed up pale and rattled, teammates asked if she was feeling better. “Fine, thanks,” she mumbled. She remembered to cough occasionally to keep them at arm’s length. Let them think I’m contagious. Let them be mad at me, thinking I’ve brought some disease into the office. She wasn’t fine—she wouldn’t be for a while—so she didn’t want anyone looking too closely.

Her son, on the other hand, was not so easy to fool. She’d only been able to hide it from him for a couple hours. By evening, he knew something was wrong. “Are you scared, Mommy?” he’d asked at dinner. Unused to seeing his mother frightened, he was skittish, afraid to get close. “Nonsense, what would I be scared about?” she’d answered with false bravado. It was best to pretend around Brian. He was a sensitive boy, prone to worry.

The meeting with Tarasenko haunted her at work. She’d underestimated her conscience. Guilt coursed through her veins and swelled her throat shut. Going through the security turnstiles that morning, she’d felt like she would burst into flames, like a demon trying to enter a church. One of the damned trying to pass for normal. Nothing happened, of course, though she was still trembling by the time she got to her desk. The usual eyes were on her from the time she left her car to when she arrived at her office. Look, it’s The Widow. Did those curious faces see that something was wrong? Was it written all over her face, etched in the lines around her eyes, hanging from the edge of her frown, engraved in the furrow in her brow? That woman is a traitor.

How long before she would hear from the Russians? A month, two? Never? Volunteer spies were generally problematic. CIA took a long time to decide whether to trust the embassy walk-ins who offered to turn over the secrets in their heads for money, or for a plane ticket to the U.S. and a new life. They were hot messes, unraveling mentally and emotionally, beset by financial troubles, alcoholism, difficult personalities that cost them family and friends. But Theresa’s motive was pure as the driven snow: to free a loved one. She was blameless. How much more trustworthy could one be?

There was nothing she could do except wait. She felt helpless and vulnerable, and she didn’t like it.

Her fingers moved by habit on the keyboard at work as she checked email, read through reports on her targets—not that she cared