Kyle Kincaid is found in another vast, open, dimly lit office. The men in the cubicles around him are all younger, and he holds court with a stream of chatter about a paintball outing this past weekend. From his buzz haircut to his erect posture and beefy build, Kyle Kincaid comes across as former military, most likely leaving the service as a junior officer to join the Agency. He wears a white shirt with the sleeves rolled haphazardly to his elbows, and an ugly tie, the kind picked by a man who hasn’t had to buy many. A battered canvas briefcase sits by his feet.
“Kyle?” She interrupts his chatter to introduce herself and tell him why she’s sought him out. “Is there somewhere private we can talk?”
They walk down the hall to a conference room. He slides into a chair. He doesn’t bother to try to hide his skepticism. It’s not that he doesn’t believe what she told him, but he clearly doesn’t like that she is going to be judging how he has done his job, if he might’ve done something that got his asset apprehended. “We’re just trying to figure out what happened,” she says even though she knows it won’t set his mind at ease.
“How did the Russians find out about Nesterov?” Kincaid asks.
“That’s what we hope to find out. I need you to answer a few questions.”
He smirks. “You sound like a cop. Do I need a lawyer?”
She should’ve brought Raymond Murphy with her, then at least they could play good cop, bad cop. “I’m not with CI. I’m sure they’ll talk to you soon enough. I’m trying to figure out if someone got access to Nesterov’s files who shouldn’t have. Have you noticed anything off lately? People asking questions who weren’t read into the access, asking to see his reports?”
“No… But there’s a lot of interest in Skipjack’s reports now. He’s been turning in some good information, though that wasn’t always the case. The number of people who know his true identity, though—that’s small. Most people don’t care who the source is as long as the information is good. Once they’re satisfied that he’s not lying, they don’t think about it again.”
“And there’s nothing out of the ordinary you can remember?”
“Nothing.” He frowns like a petulant schoolboy. “Why would a mole turn in Skipjack? That’s the part I don’t get. Moscow wouldn’t care about small potatoes like him. I think Station was ready to write him off. He was lucky to get reassigned to that cyber unit. Things were about to turn around for him.”
Lyndsey’s ears prick up. He’s touched on something that’s been nagging her: how did the mole decide to hand over these three assets? They’re lopsided: Lighthouse and Skipjack hadn’t been big producers, as Kincaid said. But Genghis, Popov, was a crown jewel. Genghis alone would be more than the Russians could hope for.
For another thing, they are as diverse as can be, from three different programs: science, military, and a highly placed security asset. You’d think that the mole would have access to one program only. The mole is either showing off his ability to break through firewalls or… there’s another reason at play here, one that Lyndsey hasn’t thought of yet.
On her way out, Lyndsey gives Kincaid’s desk a once-over. He sits with his back to three other officers, their four cubicles forming a square with a shared table in the middle. It seems a lively place, the four men talking among themselves constantly. She notices Kincaid’s safe, too: the drawers are open, manila folders peeking out, tempting anyone to pluck them up. But most likely, at least one of these four guys would be around at any given time. It would be hard to get to those files without being seen.
Unless the mole sits nearby. Or Kincaid is stupider than he seems. There’s a path through all these bits and pieces that leads to an answer, but at the moment she can’t see it.
That afternoon comes an appointment Lyndsey hasn’t been looking forward to: the interview with Kate Franklin. Lyndsey told Raymond Murphy she wanted to talk to her alone, rather than participate in CI’s questioning. Beirut is still fresh in her mind: her own interrogation by the Chief of Station, hammered with questions even though they were uninterested in her answers, their minds already made up. The shame and regret and fear. It’s too raw for her to sit on the other side of the table, to watch someone else go through the same ordeal.
She feels for this woman across the table, made to confess her failings in front of strangers. Franklin sits at the table, shoulders hunched, eyes downcast. An ugly patch of psoriasis has broken out on her face. Her hair is barely combed, her clothes don’t seem to sit right on her body, as though she’s misaligned buttons or put on things a size too small. Everything about her posture and demeanor says she has given up already. She probably wishes the floor would open up beneath her, that she could hand in her badge and kiss her pension goodbye if only they would let her walk out the door. They’ve threatened her with jail time, though, rattling her into submission. Lyndsey’s stomach clenches to look at her.
The questioning will need to be indirect. CI was clear on that. Lyndsey can’t ask any leading questions, nothing that would reveal there’s a mole hunt going on. If Franklin is involved, it should come out under questioning, revealing threads that lead back to spying activity. Unless she is an expert and determined liar.
She extends her hand. “Hello, I’m Lyndsey Duncan from Russia Division. I have a few questions for you.”
Kate’s eyes lift briefly to meet Lyndsey’s, then dart away. “Is this really necessary? I’ve already talked to CI and Security several times—”
Can this be over, please? I’d like to go home, crawl into bed, pull the covers over my head and never come out. Lyndsey understands only too well. “Absolutely necessary, yes. I’ll try to be as brief as possible. Why don’t you tell me when the, uh, problem started?”
Franklin sighs, collapsing further into herself, like a falling soufflé. She knows she has to talk about this, but she’s ashamed. Revealing your weakness to strangers is part of the job, however. You lay yourself bare, over and over.
When she speaks, her voice is small and helpless. “About a year ago. Right before I was posted to Moscow. I hadn’t gambled in a long time. At least five years, I think. Nothing, except the occasional lottery ticket. I started taking weekend trips to Charlestown, or Arundel Mills in Maryland. It was no big deal, just something to do with my girlfriends. A little excitement. But it was never a problem. Things might’ve been a little tight from time to time, but it wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle.”
“What happened in Russia?”
Russia. The bleak nights, the wet cold that suffuses everything. The loneliness that all single women suffer at an overseas post, probably worse for someone Franklin’s age. Franklin looks at her red, chapped hands as though they are responsible for her lapse. “I don’t know how it got out of control over there, I really don’t. I told myself I’d only do it once in a while, a treat when I’d had a rough day.”
“You ended up placing bets with the locals? But gambling is illegal in Moscow.”
Her first smile for Lyndsey is a half grimace. “It’s easy to find a bookie to take a bet on sports… a football match, boxing match. Everyone does it.”
“How much did you lose?”
She hesitates. “Twenty thousand. More than I ever thought… I don’t know how it got out of control—” She sniffles, reaches into a pocket for a wadded tissue, and dabs her nose. “The bookie, he knew I was an American, he figured I’d be good for it… But he let me know he expected to collect—or there would be consequences.”