Still.
No sense slaughtering the cow when it might have more milk to give. As much as it would please him to burn Kanareyka, he realizes to do so now would be premature.
Then there is this matter of Yaromir Popov. The office had received word of Popov’s abrupt death; something about dying while on vacation, an obvious fabrication. A few of the old-timers were shaken up—you could still find one or two who liked the man—but it hadn’t mattered to Tarasenko, not at all. Popov was an old dinosaur who hadn’t done anything notable in years, one of these hangers-on who had no intention of retiring and seemed to want to die behind his desk. Well, he got his wish.
Still.
People don’t die on airplanes every day, much less SVR officers. And why would CIA set up this investigation if there wasn’t a reason? Obviously, Popov meant something to them. Who would’ve guessed that the old fox had been secretly betraying his masters?
Someone’s head would roll for that and Dmitri Tarasenko would make sure he had a front-row seat for the beheading.
Kanareyka is Tarasenko’s asset. Because of the sensitive nature of the situation, General Morozov put Tarasenko, his protégé, in charge from the beginning. Morozov trusted Tarasenko not to botch things up. It would be disastrous if things fell to pieces now.
Tarasenko looks back at the computer monitor, drumming his fingers on his desk.
Morozov has been restless lately, hinting that he might take a trip out of the country. Ten years he has been confined inside Russia. It is Morozov’s own fault. No one told him to kill CIA’s Chief of Station in Kiev. He had lost his temper. Usually, the stakes in the clandestine world are high for such folly. Morozov had gotten off lightly, all things considered. He could’ve been stripped of his position; he could’ve been jailed. Maybe the Hard Man had understood that the worst possible punishment was one meted out by CIA: a wanted man, Morozov risked being snatched up if he left the country. Dragged to the United States and put on trial.
Confined, Morozov is like a child in detention staring out the window at his classmates enjoying themselves in the playground. There are only so many times one could visit St. Petersburg or stay in the country in one’s dacha. He misses getting up to mischief in Paris and Vienna, Bangkok and Singapore—but mostly he misses Washington. Oh, how the old man misses Washington. It calls to him like a mistress. The old friend is snoozing, past offenses forgotten, Morozov claims. He is rested and ready to get into trouble again.
But so far, the Hard Man has ignored his requests. He needs Morozov alive and safe.
Morozov has a soft spot for Kanareyka, though. Kanareyka could be his downfall.
From Tarasenko’s point of view, that might not necessarily be a bad thing.
Many times, Tarasenko has protected his impetuous boss from his bad nature. Protected Morozov from himself, as it were. Morozov is his benefactor. Tarasenko, too, needs Morozov alive and safe.
But most men outgrow their benefactors, yes? A tree doesn’t grow strong if it remains in the shadow of the forest. Besides, Morozov is not above throwing people to the wolves, subordinates as well as rivals; Tarasenko has seen the proof. He’s learned to follow Morozov’s lead: stepped over their corpses, moved into their offices, moved his way up the ladder.
Tarasenko continues drumming his fingers against his desk. An opportunity might present itself from this strange confluence of events. This is how men get ahead in this pestilent kingdom: seeing opportunity before anyone else, and seizing it.
The matter bore watching, very closely.
TEN
TYSONS CORNER, VIRGINIA
It is Saturday, a day for running errands. Lyndsey forces herself to tug on a pair of jeans, tie her hair up in a ponytail, and head over to the sprawling Tysons Corner mall. She only needs a few essentials and promises to get something good for lunch (Tacos? Sushi? Something she cannot make in the barren wasteland that is her kitchen) as enticement to get out of the apartment.
One purchase later (athletic socks), she is standing outside Macy’s when she sees Theresa. Lyndsey is always surprised when she sees someone from work out in the wild, as though the two worlds make a combustible combination and should never, ever touch.
There is no mistaking Theresa. Chic as always, trench coat cinched tightly at the waist, sunglasses pushed on top of her head. She holds the hand of a small boy and has leaned over to whisper something in his ear. The boy stares as though hypnotized by the sprawling play space in front of them. Children brush by him to clamber onto the huge plastic structures. They are all laughing and shrieking except for little Brian. He stares at a neon set of monkey bars with something akin to reverence.
Should she leave them to their moment? But when will Lyndsey have the chance to meet Theresa’s son? She walks over, tiny shopping bag swinging from her arm. “Hey, fancy meeting you here.”
The smile on Theresa’s face seems genuine. At his mother’s prompting, Brian turns to face Lyndsey, his big eyes mapping her face. He must take after Richard, Lyndsey decides. Those wary, owlish eyes.
“This is mommy’s friend. We work together,” Theresa says. Brian blinks and shifts his weight. Theresa crouches to speak to her son. “Why don’t you go play? Lyndsey and I will sit right over there and watch you. You’ll be able to see us the whole time. I’m not going anywhere.”
They sit on a plastic bench together and watch as Brian begins to hoist himself up the constellation of bars until he’s above the heads of the other children. A hint of excitement betrays Brian’s otherwise controlled expression, but his gaze stays glued to his mother, like a dog rescued from the pound.
“Two years Richard’s been gone, and Brian still doesn’t like to go anywhere without me,” Theresa says. The shopping bags at her feet are all from children’s stores. “The therapist says he’ll outgrow it.”
Lyndsey is aware that today will mark a change in her relationship with Theresa. Although they get together every day for coffee, their talks haven’t been overly personal. Lyndsey talks about her widowed mother living alone in rural Pennsylvania, and Theresa mostly frets about how Brian is doing in school. Today feels different, however. Today, Theresa seems to be in a mood to open up.
Does Theresa have any friends? Lyndsey wonders. She seems to have dedicated herself to her son and her son alone. It seems crazy that this has happened to the wife of Richard Warner, once king of their insular kingdom, the pair a golden couple. Theresa Warner had had her circle of friends, a queen with her court, but it seems they’ve all deserted her now. All those people who knew and loved Richard Warner—why aren’t they helping her? It seems Eric Newman is the only one left.
In an odd way, Lyndsey knows what Theresa is going through. They have both fallen from grace, their worlds turned upside down, and are now forced to build new ones. What happened to her in Beirut—that anyone felt threatened enough to want to see her fall—had been a surprise, but it also had taught her a valuable lesson about Langley. Most people keep their resentments hidden. Suddenly, she realizes that she probably understands Theresa better than she first thought.
Theresa watches children scamper agilely over the monkey bars. “I try not to dwell in the past, you know, but sometimes I think about how different everything would be if Richard was still alive.”
Lyndsey’s not sure how much to pry into such a sensitive topic, a man’s death, but Theresa seems to want to talk about it. “You know, I never heard what happened to Richard. The details didn’t reach Lebanon. We weren’t told anything at all.”