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

She pores over her notes one more time, looking for some overlooked tidbit that will exonerate the accused. Lyndsey wants to be wrong about Theresa. It would be a relief to be wrong. And there are so many pieces to this puzzle that it’s entirely possible that she could’ve missed or misunderstood something. It’s her duty to double- and triple-check.

She’s not wrong. There is the serial number of Theresa’s computer trying to access the restricted files for Lighthouse, Skipjack, and Genghis.

Though the way she tried to access Genghis’s file looks a little different.

Check. We’ve identified this already. One of the reports officers confirmed that Theresa chatted her up.

Still, something niggles at Lyndsey. She bats it away.

There’s nothing to debate. She’s been caught dead to rights. Surveillance has Theresa being contacted by a suspected Russian agent. We’ll catch her red-handed and it’ll be all over. It’s almost over.

She’s a traitor.

Lyndsey flicks a page of an old report, a paper copy. Her eyes are tired. She debates calling it a night.

Her eye falls on a cover term, Razorbill. It’s the first time she’s seen it. The memo seems to refer to some horrible op that ended in disaster, ended so badly that it’s been hidden under a complete blackout of secrecy. She’s pretty sure this is the cover term that’s been redacted on a few of the reports she’s seen associated with Richard Warner’s disastrous mission. They’ve been very careful to keep this one out of the records but here it is slipped out. Fat black ink covers up the most tantalizing pieces of text.

She flips to the front of the folder. theresa warner, it reads in block letters. Why is this report in Theresa’s file?

Razorbill has something to do with Theresa. She sits back, her thoughts starting to race. It’s only right that Lyndsey knows what it is. The woman’s future depends on it.

Why wasn’t she told about the compartment earlier? It’s not out of the realm of possibility that it’s so obscure and so restricted that the very few people who were involved have forgotten about it or moved on and would certainly not know of Lyndsey’s task. She’s not ready to ascribe ill intent on anyone’s part—yet.

Tomorrow, she can contact Raymond Murphy and set him to run this down. Find out what Razorbill is, get her access if it’s warranted.

But . . . things don’t always move quickly in this bureaucracy. Sometimes it feels like the more people who get involved, the worse it is. The Russians could make contact with Theresa at any minute and they have no idea what form this contact will take, or what might happen. If things bog down, it might be too late. Razorbill might be nothing, and it’d be a disaster to pull the plug at this late date. It certainly would upset some people, sour senior management. Do you know what you’re doing or don’t you?

She needs someone very high in management to grant her immediate access to the compartment. Her gaze drifts down to the chat window tucked in the corner of her monitor. It’s nearly empty, just the names of one or two of her die-hard friends still burning the midnight oil.

But there’s one particular name with a blinking green square next to it. Patrick Pfeifer. Patrick is very high up now, the Director’s Chief of Staff. He had been interested in her research when she was first hired—just doing his job, maybe, encouraging new hires, but they’d stayed in touch over the years. A word of congratulations when she’d gotten the Moscow posting, that sort of thing. He seems like a nice guy, one of the good ones—or is she being naïve?

She hesitates again. If she’s wrong, or wrong to ask this man so directly, at this hour, she could burn this bridge forever.

She clicks on Pfeifer’s name. A little window pops up. Good evening, Patrick, she types.

Before she can finish, a response pops up. You’re working late tonight, Lyndsey. What can I do for you?

Now she doesn’t hesitate. I need your help.

—

Five minutes later, she’s sitting in Pfeifer’s office.

In some ways, he looks much like the man she met over a decade ago in the alumni center at Penn, asking questions about her studies. His hair at the time was the palest blond she’d ever seen and so she can’t even tell if he’s starting to go white. There are unmistakably more lines on his face, particularly around his eyes. He’s tall, though the desk and chair swallow most of that height.

She’s never been to this office before, let alone at a few minutes to midnight. It’s nice, as befits the number-three man at the Agency, but not as luxurious as Lyndsey would’ve thought. The furniture all looks a little old, like it’s been here through several changes of administration. Pfeifer looks worn, too, though the dimness helps to hide that. The lights are low in deference to overworked eyes. His smile is tired and his shoulders slump. But he doesn’t seem annoyed in the least to be bothered at this hour.

He listens to her without interrupting, though as she speaks, she becomes aware of how many holes there are in her story. Her heart sinks as she explains, but her mind races: what was I thinking? I’m making a fool of myself.

When Lyndsey stops speaking, Pfeifer remains silent. He leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “I knew Richard Warner, you know. Good man. I don’t know all the particulars of his case . . . and I don’t think I was read into Razorbill, or I’ve forgotten if I ever was . . .” It’s understandable; there must be hundreds, if not thousands, of compartments and the top men theoretically have access to all of them. Finally, he shakes his head once as though chasing the thought away. “Theresa Warner . . . The Agency didn’t do everything it could’ve for her. I want to make sure we’re right here. If there’s even the slightest chance