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

“Let’s go somewhere else to talk. I don’t feel safe—even in the parking lot.” She turns the key in the ignition, puts the transmission in reverse.

And then, Theresa does a strange thing. She lowers the window, then grabs Lyndsey’s untouched coffee and throws it out. The cup hits the car parked next to it, coating the driver’s door in a wash of brown liquid.

“What was that about?” Lyndsey asks as she pulls away.

“Don’t doubt that I was ever your friend,” is all Theresa will say.

—

They drive into McLean, to a tiny coffee shop in a quiet shopping center. It is the middle of a weekday and Lyndsey is certain that they won’t be seen together by anyone from work. They sit in the back of a small, bright shop. It’s just the two of them and a middle-aged waitress in jeans.

As they settle at a table, Lyndsey thinks she sees a crack in Theresa’s flawless façade. She looks tired, like she’s been running for months.

“I’d like you to clear up a few things for me,” Lyndsey says. They both have their hands wrapped around thick ceramic mugs. “You had nothing to do with Yaromir Popov’s death, did you?”

Theresa’s head jerks up like a spooked horse. “No. I didn’t even know he was one of ours until the incident on the plane.”

Her expression and body language support that she’s telling the truth. Taking into account the data trail and what Evert Northrop said, Lyndsey is inclined to believe her.

“Nesterov and Kulakov—you gave the FSB those names.”

Theresa drops her chin. She can’t look at Lyndsey. “Yes.” Unsaid between them is that Kulakov’s death is on her head. Nesterov is still missing, and she’ll be responsible for whatever happens to this man, too. “But those were the only two.”

Lyndsey knows what Raymond Murphy would ask: how do I know you’re not lying? Prove it. All that will come soon enough, the interrogation, interviews, Theresa showing them every step she took, every file she touched.

It’s time for Lyndsey to share her real concern with Theresa and it’s impossible to predict how she’ll react. “I have a suspicion—with no way to prove it, at least not yet—that Eric is involved in this.”

For a moment, this seems to amuse Theresa. But if it’s true, she’s afraid to trust it. Theresa smiles sadly. “As much as I’d like to believe that, Eric had nothing to do with this. I—I let my anger get the best of me. I did it to myself.”

Lyndsey lets Theresa’s remorse play out before she lays out all the facts. Theresa is an experienced reports officer—she has a stellar reputation, as a matter of fact—and Lyndsey could use her perspective. If she’ll tell the truth.

Theresa listens as Lyndsey tells her about the poison, Simon, and—without going into too much detail—the strange digital fingerprints left all over Popov’s files. “It appears that Eric has something to do with Popov’s death, I agree with you on that. But all the things I’ve done . . . He has nothing to do with it. I went to Eric when I found out Richard was still alive. He was as surprised as I was by the news . . . I begged Eric to help me, but he refused. He told me to make my peace with it, that the seventh floor would never reopen the case . . .” Theresa shakes her head.

Lyndsey goes cold, like being plunged in an ice bath. “Eric told you he didn’t know about Richard? You’re sure of it?” She doesn’t know. She’s never seen the transcript . . . the damning transcript in the Razorbill file . . .

Lyndsey has to stop herself from grabbing Theresa by the shoulders and shaking her. “He lied to you, Theresa—”

“I don’t follow you. Lied about what?”

“Eric knew Richard was alive. He knew and never told you. He was the one who proposed it to the seventh floor. That you not be told . . .”

Theresa draws back, her face curdling like she’s bitten a poisoned apple. “What are you talking about? How do you know?”

Lyndsey can barely keep her eyes on Theresa’s face as she recounts the transcript for her. Sadness, hurt, anger pass over Theresa’s face in quick succession. Solidifying into anger, blind fury.

“So he did it to save himself. He insisted the seventh floor had already made up its mind. He swore they’d squash me like a bug if I tried to go to my congressman or the press. I had Brian to think about . . . He—he told me to trust him, that he would take care of me. It’s been an act, all this time. That he was Richard’s friend, that he cared for me . . . An act.”

She stops, silent. The two women exchange a knowing look. They’re in this together now. They will both succeed—or both fail. Together.

THIRTY-EIGHT

Tarasenko finds himself back in the city he hates most.

He takes an Uber from National airport to his hotel. Settled into the back seat of the Honda Accord (very clean by Russian standards, and the driver even offered him a bottle of water), he watches the cityscape roll by. George Washington Parkway, past exits for the Pentagon and Arlington National Cemetery, and now plunged into woods as dark and lonely as any Russian folktale. And he’s heard just as many stories about the parks of Washington as he has about the woods outside Moscow. Who knows what goes on in these woods at night? Murders, drug deals, assaults . . . It is not what it pretends to be—to the world, to itself.

The main reason he doesn’t like D.C. is that it tries too hard to be liked. So many pretty monuments, too many trendy shops. Too many expensive, fancy cars on the roads. It’s all too neat, too clean for his tastes. The capital of a great power should be like a heavyweight prizefighter, in his opinion. Washington lacks the spine of steel that a true superpower needs to let other countries know that it’s not fucking