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

about her job anymore. The words didn’t even register, falling on her and melting like snow. Her mind was back in the museum, the chill of fear on her afresh, Tarasenko’s wolfish grin impossible to forget.

But she wasn’t helpless. She had two names now—Dmitri Tarasenko and this General Morozov. She would get to work.

Tarasenko had probably been lying when he said Morozov had intervened with Putin to save her husband’s life. If the Hard Man had a personal interest in the case, why get involved at all?

She needed to find out more about the two of them. Best to be prepared. But she had to do this cautiously. It was too easy to tip off Security by showing an abnormal level of interest in a subject that fell out of your purview. Even though she hadn’t seen any sign of them yet, they could be hiding in the shadows, gathering more evidence against her. That meant she couldn’t search on the names, even though that would be the most expeditious. She didn’t want to give Security ammunition to later use against her.

It was tedious, but she started by reading through the reports on the Counterintelligence Division at the FSB. She had no idea how long this General Morozov had served there, but figured his name would turn up eventually. Hours passed before she saw the first mention of him and it was next to nothing, his name and title, one of the participants in a meeting where an important decision had been made. It was excruciatingly slow, like untangling a hopelessly knotted skein of yarn, and she itched to type his name in the search bar and get to the heart of the mystery. But she owed it to Richard and Brian to use her best tradecraft. Now was not the time to get sloppy.

She searched by dancing around the edges. Looked up other attendees at the meeting, hoping to see Morozov’s name come up again. Backtracked when it didn’t, tried another approach.

After lunch, she stumbled onto a second report, this one more substantive.

She was confused at first. It was about Ukraine, not Russia, but the two countries had a long history together, so it wasn’t exactly unexpected. Her eyes skipped down the screen, trying to absorb the story.

Something terrible had happened in Kiev. The Chief of Station had been shot. A wave of nausea passed through her as she remembered the incident, dimly. It had happened around the time she’d been hired so she’d never heard more than general rumor. He’d been shot on the street right outside his home, an apartment in a gated compound that housed American officials. It had been so brisk and impersonal that they thought it was an execution. A man exited from a car as the Station Chief approached the gate, pulled out a gun and fired at him. There had been a security guard on duty at the time, but the assailant managed to flee the scene nonetheless. No one was ever caught. The Ukrainians told the Agency that it was a street crime with no political connotations but of course that wasn’t true. The killer hadn’t even tried to take the Station Chief’s wallet or expensive watch. Theresa’s lip curled as she read: the Russian way, to tell bald-faced lies even when you know you wouldn’t be believed. Like it was a game.

When it happened, Theresa didn’t grasp the significance; it would’ve been impossible for someone in her position, a new hire. Everyone in the office was angry and wanted to do something about it, but the anger was subdued. There were no histrionics, no chest-beating vows of revenge, only a little crying in public. When she wondered why everyone was so stoic, Richard took her aside and explained there was a code of honor at CIA. Whoever did this wouldn’t get away with it. Look at Mir Kansi, the Pakistani who in 1993 had shot CIA employees outside the entrance on Route 123. It had taken four years, but eventually he was found, arrested, and stood trial. And was executed for what he’d done. You kill a CIA agent, we’ll find you. And you will pay.

The horror of those days came back as Theresa read the cable. But what did it have to do with Evgeni Morozov, who seemed to be nothing more than an undistinguished colonel in those days?

An analyst in Kiev Station had figured it out, according to the report. They pulled out all the stops to gather more information. Bribed Ukrainian security, grilled liaison, put the thumbs screws to all their assets. This analyst had camped out in the Station without taking a break, not even going home to sleep, until he had solved the puzzle. He’d pored over every detail, but the picture didn’t jell until he looked at travel data. There’d been multiple reports putting a Russian colonel behind the hit, but it wasn’t until the analyst found Morozov flying into Kiev a couple times before the hit that he was able to pull the story together.

Theresa was sure there was a report in the system with the full picture, tied Morozov to the assassination in certain terms, good and airtight. She just didn’t dare search for it. More recent reports took Morozov’s guilt as fait accompli. Right after the assassination, he was moved into an important position in the FSB and, a few years later, was promoted to general. It was enough to make Evgeni Morozov one of CIA’s most wanted. He had managed to avoid capture or expedient dispatch by never leaving Russia, not after the hit. Always traveling with bodyguards, even inside Moscow city limits.

Theresa pushed back from her desk, stricken. She tried not to let her shock show on her face. The man who was pulling her strings was a mastermind. Her hands started to tremble again. It would be foolish to think she would be able to outmaneuver a man who’d managed to elude the CIA for a decade.

With great