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

Richard didn’t go through proper channels, the Deputy Director says. He knew the risk he was taking. He didn’t expect to be bailed out if things got out of hand.

There’s nothing we can do, Moscow Chief of Station weighs in. The Russians refuse to even acknowledge anything happened. They will deny that they have Richard Warner, and if we press the point, we risk exposing CAROUSEL. I’m not going to lose this asset—we’ve lost enough of them because of this fiasco.

Fiasco. The word must’ve dripped like acid onto Eric’s skin. He was already in water hot enough to boil him alive. All his years on the Russia target, his reputation, going up in smoke.

Risk big or go home—wasn’t that always Eric’s motto?

But not Richard’s. Yes, there’s something here that niggles at Lyndsey, like a buzzing gnat.

Finally, the Director weighs in. Our hands are tied. There’s nothing we can do for Richard, poor bastard. Maybe the Russians will change their mind one day. For now, we let it go. Seal the records.

No one speaks up, according to the report.

And Theresa? The Deputy Director asks the question.

Tell her nothing. Let her think that her husband is dead.

Who could be so heartless to keep this from Theresa? Lyndsey wonders. That director, the political appointee, the one before Chesterfield? Some outsider, oblivious to the Agency’s obligation to its people.

It’s right there on the page, who said it.

Eric Newman.

Eric Newman told them to keep this information from her.

It went on: We don’t know that we’ll ever get him back. Let her get on with her life. There’s no reason for her to suffer for his mistake. Isn’t it better for her this way?

No one objects. Not the Director, not the Deputy Director. No one speaks up for Theresa.

I swear she’ll never know, Eric goes on. It remains on the seventh floor. We’ll be the only ones to know.

And it’s done.

Lyndsey pushes away from her desk, her heart pounding in her chest like she’s just run a marathon at a sprinter’s pace.

This is unbelievable—and yet it is completely plausible. In the clandestine service, you hear rumors of assets captured by foreign security services and left to rot in jail for years and years. It’s the risk they all acknowledge and accept.

But it only happens to assets, foreigners who decide to give away their country’s secrets. This doesn’t happen to CIA officers. There are always secret negotiations, trades for an adversary’s agent languishing in a U.S. prison. Right? That’s what the Clandestine Service would have its new hires believe.

Two years in a Russian prison. Lyndsey can only imagine what it must be like for Richard.

And Theresa . . . They decided she would never be told. Eric made the suggestion, the men in suits backed him up. Left his friend to rot in a Russian prison, to be tortured, maybe even killed, and leave the wife thinking he was gone forever. And all the stories Eric’s told, over and over, making him look like the good guy, the hero who fought for her . . . Lyndsey feels a stab in her chest like a cold dagger plunged deep.

There is no indication that Theresa ever found out the truth, but if she did . . .

There is her motivation for working with Russia. To get back at CIA for their betrayal.

Lyndsey’s stomach drops, like being pushed off a cliff.

This is a tangled, tangled web of deceit. And at the heart of it, The Widow, bruised and battered.

THIRTY

First thing in the morning, Lyndsey marches into Eric Newman’s office.

It’s seven thirty. She’s barely slept, thanks to the Razorbill reports she read hours earlier, still percolating like a narcotic in her veins. Luckily, at this hour Russia Division is nearly empty, just the same early birds hunched over their monitors, the same blue light flickering in the dimness. None of them pay attention to her as she heads straight to Eric’s office and closes the door.

His head jerks up at the sudden intrusion. “I’m getting ready for the eight thirty stand-up. Can this wait?” No smile, no “good morning.” It’s like he was expecting her. Perhaps there was an email in his inbox from the Watch, letting him know someone was given access to the Razorbill compartment last night.

She folds her arms across her chest. “Were you going to tell me about Richard Warner?”

The energy seems to go right out of him. Then he stiffens. He pushes back from his desk but remains in the chair, looking up at her. “So, you know—”

“About Razorbill, yes. A mention slipped through sanitization. I was read into the compartment last night,” she says, not wanting Eric to cut her off before she can ask all her questions.

He almost seems relieved that she knows, as though he’s wanted to say something all along. “You don’t know the half of it.” He rises to his feet and starts to pace, full of a wild energy. “It was hell. I thought I was going to get brought up on charges. I would’ve, if Roger Barker had his way.”

Few people survive a clash with Barker, head of the Clandestine Service. He looks like your sweet old grandfather but is rumored to play as rough as legally possible. What big teeth you have, Grandfather. The better to eat you up with, my dear.

“You let Theresa think her husband was dead.”

“It wasn’t my idea.”

“That’s not what the transcript said.”

An expression passes over his face, angry, then gone. Tamped down. “I don’t know what’s in this transcript you’re talking about . . . It’s a mistake, then. Maybe done on purpose, to make those snakes in the room look better. You know I’d never do that to Theresa. You’ve heard me defend Richard—and try to protect Theresa.”

Yes, she has. “Does Theresa know Richard is alive?”

“What difference does it make?” He sounds miserable.

“Motive, Eric. It gives her a motive to go to the Russians.”

His face reads pain. His brows furrow and the corners of his mouth collapse. “She knows. Jack Clemens made a deathbed confession. I guess