His expression says he’s not telling the truth. He’s so pleased that he’s like the cat that ate the canary, but she won’t call him on it. “And if you are selected? Would you go?”
A mask descends, and she can’t read him. He’s trying to read her, too, though: the slightest narrowing of his eyes, tension around the mouth. “I’ve been in this position for some time… Most men would’ve moved on by now, wouldn’t you say?”
That’s his ambition showing itself. “So, you’re saying you’d take it?”
He laughs lightly, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Let’s just say I’m comfortable here.”
It could be he’s afraid of jinxing it by talking about it—or that he doesn’t want to make himself vulnerable by admitting that he wants it. She decides to let it drop. “There was one other thing. Cavanaugh asked why Popov’s killer didn’t use Novichok. You know, the poison from the Skripal case.”
“And what did you tell him?”
Now it’s her turn to shrug. “I can see reasons why they might not… but I’ll talk to the poison expert and see what he has to say.”
Eric has gone a bit glassy-eyed, lost in thought. He tugs at his lower lip. “Interesting. Yeah, let me know what he says.”
The unanswered questions nag as she walks back to her office. Why would the Russians be subtle? If they knew Popov was a traitor, why didn’t they want everyone to know they’d killed him? Playing it subtle would be uncharacteristic, to say the least.
And yet, that’s what happened.
For today, she has no answers.
THIRTY-THREE
Back at her desk, Lyndsey checks her IM and sees a little green box by Detwiler’s name. He’s at his desk.
She types, Heard you put out a report on the Genghis toxicology report.
His reply is almost instantaneous. I did. But I found out something since that report. I did a little more research on the variant of gelsemium used on Genghis. Turns out it’s slightly different from the compound the Russians have used in the past. Chemical makeup suggests the variant found in Genghis’s body was gelsemium rankinii and not gelsemium elegans…
Lyndsey types furiously. In English, please.
A pause. It’s not the kind found in previous Russian killings, which is actually Chinese in origin…
The conversation with the NSC directors, Dentley and Cavanaugh, flashes through her mind. They were right to be suspicious about the poison. What are you telling me? she types. Was it the Russians or wasn’t it?
It’s not that simple.
She resists the urge to slam her hands on the keyboard. It’s never a simple answer with these analysts. It’s always messy and complicated. Let me ask you something. If it was the Russians, why didn’t they use Novichok? Isn’t that their poison of choice lately?
There is a long pause, the cursor blinking at her like some kind of electronic eye. Finally, he replies, Granted, Novichok is what they tend to use these days. But it’s not their only poison and it depends on a lot of things. Availability, for one…
She types, cutting him off. She is going to force the issue. If they kill someone today, which poison is most likely?
Blink, blink. Assessing, weighing. Figuring the odds. The wait seems maddeningly long. Probably Novichok.
She stares up at the ceiling. The ground is crumbling beneath her feet. Or, at least, it feels like it. Until the meeting with Dentley and Cavanaugh, Popov’s death seemed like a slam dunk. It was the Russians. They had found out about Popov and killed him. Then they found out about Kulakov and Nesterov and killed or detained them, too.
Now Lyndsey is not sure.
And Theresa being the one behind it all? She feels a glimmer of a doubt.
She types her thanks to Detwiler and closes the window.
A minute later, there’s a message from Molina. Got what you wanted. Only there weren’t emails between them, so I looked for chat. I’m sending you the instant messaging records.
In another few seconds, an email appears in her queue from Molina. The attachment isn’t long, but it is damning.
13 august 2018 2322z warner, theresa: Saw you sparring with Wilson in the teleconference over the Milan hack. That report you cited, is it Skipjack?
13 august 2018 2322z kincaid, kyle: Yes. All the best stuff is.
13 august 2018 2323z warner, theresa: I really should get read into the compartment. I need a little more info, though, to convince my manager.
13 august 2018 2323z kincaid, kyle: Sure, whatever you need. How about we meet for coffee
The last chat session was from a few days ago.
7 december 2018 1805z kincaid, kyle: How about Wildfire, on Foster Drive? 8?
7 december 2018 1805z warner, theresa: Sure. I’ll meet you at the restaurant
You don’t meet for work at a restaurant. Had they gone on a date?
Lyndsey looks up Kincaid’s phone number, then reaches for the phone. He has some explaining to do, such as why he hadn’t told her about Theresa’s interest.
But there is no answer. It goes to voicemail.
She slams the phone down. She can’t wait for him to get in touch with her and besides, he’ll only continue to be evasive.
She goes to the online white pages to pull up Kincaid’s record. It takes only a minute more to track down Kincaid’s supervisor. She exhales slowly in an effort to calm down, and is surprised when the phone is answered quickly.
She explains that she’s running an investigation and needs to speak to Kincaid. Can he tell her how to get in touch with him, please?
There is a strained silence on the other end. Finally, the man says, “You haven’t heard? I guess you don’t know… Kyle is in the hospital. He’s in a coma.”
THIRTY-FOUR
Theresa stands outside Lyndsey’s office, listening. She has always been as quiet as a nun. Able to hide from her parents, sneak up on her husband.
She overheard all of Lyndsey’s conversation with Kincaid’s supervisor. There can only be one reason Lyndsey is looking for Kincaid: Lyndsey is onto her. Once she finds out Kincaid is in the hospital and starts tracing Theresa’s steps, it will be over.
She will lose everything. Her son. Her one chance to get Richard out of prison.
Which means all these terrible things she’s done will be for nothing. Betrayed her country, caused one man’s death, probably responsible for a second (though not Yaromir Popov, she had nothing to do with that).
All for nothing if the Russians don’t pull her out in time.
Tick tock, tick tock. With every minute, she feels Lyndsey closing in on her.
Tarasenko is a sadist, keeping her on tenterhooks.
She feels helpless. She doesn’t like to feel helpless.
She tiptoes away from Lyndsey’s office, silent as a swan gliding across a lake. She needs a minute alone. She grabs her purse and heads to the ladies’ room. Standing in front of the full-length mirror, she plucks nervously at her hair. Reapplies her lipstick, moisturizes her hands.
What she needs is a plan, a way to buy time if everything goes to hell.
She’s pretty sure Lyndsey hasn’t put it all together yet, or else they’d have arrested her already.
All she has to do is keep Lyndsey from putting the last pieces together.