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 around. It should inspire fear. Washington, D.C., lost its spine a few presidents back and it’s only gotten worse with time. Now it’s overrun with lobbyists and lawyers telling the government what to do, corporations backing politicians like it’s a horse race. They may be in it for the money in Moscow, too, but no one forgets who is in charge. It’s not a crazy land grab, everyone out to get what they can. Under the Hard Man, there is harmony. He keeps everyone in line.
In the Uber, he keeps an eye out for an FBI tail but he’s pretty sure he’s clean. He’s traveling under a new identity and it looks like they haven’t picked up on it yet. More proof that Washington isn’t the superpower it once was. There was a time when the FBI would be on them from the second they got off the plane. In Beijing, you have to worry about facial recognition everywhere you go. Again, a superpower that doesn’t fuck around. Younger Russian intelligence officers prefer to be posted to Singapore and Hong Kong and mainland China for the challenge. The technology in these places keeps you on your toes. Keeps you from getting complacent. It’s no fun when your adversary doesn’t give a fuck.
As he drinks that evening in the hotel bar, he is overcome with an ill-advised recklessness, a child whose parents have gone out for the first time without getting a babysitter. Should he stick a fork in an electrical outlet, leap from the roof of the garage into the bushes, play pranks on the neighbors? He orders up a rental car—no Uber for what he’s about to do—and drives out to northern Virginia, to the neighborhood where Kanareyka lives. He loops through the dark streets for over an hour just in case there is a tail following him, then parks within easy view of the gray-and-white house, lights a cigarette, and watches.
The Rezidentura has been circumspect about bugging the house of a CIA officer. For most assets, it would be a given, the price of doing business. They would sneak in under the guise of an electrician or other serviceman and place recording devices in the house. But the housekeeper doesn’t let anyone in when Kanareyka is away, and they know better than to try this with Kanareyka herself. The Rezidentura has to make do with men watching her house from fake service vans, risky in a neighborhood of former spies who think nothing of knocking on your window and demanding to see identification or, worse yet, calling the police.
Kanareyka’s Volvo is in the driveway. At one point, he sees Kanareyka through an upstairs window, her angular face in profile, arms crossed over her chest, looking down as though she is talking to someone who is very short. It has to be Kanareyka’s son, the one mentioned in the reports. There is a blue glow cast on Kanareyka’s cheek from a television or computer monitor. Is her son begging for a few more minutes to play his video games, like boys in Russia? Like boys everywhere. They talk for a few more minutes and then the light clicks off and the room goes black.
Everything looks normal, and that is good. Again, in this neighborhood of spies, you don’t want to raise suspicions that the family is about to leave. On the other hand, everything looks too normal, and that makes him nervous. Could Kanareyka be trying to trick them? Maybe she is not planning to flee after all. Maybe she’s going to defy them. He studies the quiet house—no signs of packing, no trash piled on the curb waiting for pickup, nothing out of place—and puffs on his cigarette. What does this utterly placid house tell him about Kanareyka’s state of mind? He needs to know more. After all, he’s the one walking into that house in a day’s time. It’s not too much to want assurances, to know he’s not heading into a trap. He needs to look inside.