She also needs to read all the reports issued by Popov’s new handler Tom Cassidy, the CIA officer who took over when Lyndsey left Moscow. It will be the first time she’s able to see them, since her access was taken away when she left Moscow Station, a standard security procedure. She no longer had need-to-know.
Her first move is to call Russia Division’s chief security officer. “I need to know who’s on the access list for Genghis, Skipjack, and Lighthouse.” The code names for Popov, Nesterov, and Kulakov. “And I need it asap.”
The security officer hems. “It’s going to take some time. I can’t promise that I’ll get back to you today.”
With this investigation her only responsibility, Lyndsey has time in abundance. “Let me into the files and I’ll go through the records myself and connect the dots.”
Ten minutes later, she’s got entry into the records she needs. She starts going through the access lists, beginning with Kulakov. The number of people who would need to know the true identity of a scientist would be small. Senior managers wouldn’t bother to be read in. The information that Kulakov provided might’ve been widely disseminated in classified reports, but most readers wouldn’t need to know the true name of the person who provided that information in order to understand it.
More people would be given access to Nesterov’s true identity because of the subject: every agency in the federal government seems to be working Russian cyber operations right now. Still, the list for Nesterov is shockingly long. Lyndsey makes a mental note to raise this with Eric. It seems an unnecessary risk.
She goes back and sifts through the list of names under Kulakov’s file, only about thirty. Then, she checks each one against Nesterov’s list, which numbers almost two hundred. After eliminating some false matches—common names that turn out to be different people—Lyndsey arrives at the conclusion she was afraid of: no single person appears on both Nesterov’s and Kulakov’s access lists. Which means, aside from a handful of senior managers who get included pro forma, no one person would know of both men’s true identities.
Whoever gave these names to the FSB—Federal Security Service of the Russian Federation—got them through other means.
Next, Lyndsey compares both Kulakov’s and Nesterov’s access lists with the third list, Popov’s. Just as she suspected, there are no matches against Kulakov’s list and only a handful of matches against Nesterov’s, and all are senior leaders at CIA—including Eric Newman. The idea that any of them could be an FSB mole is laughable.
Lyndsey starts on the next task she gave herself: going through all the reports featuring information that Popov provided to his new handler. On a yellow legal pad, she scribbles notes as she reads, a stream-of-consciousness grab bag of the things that have caught her attention. By now, she’s burned through the morning and her body rebels at being yoked to that chair for so long. But she keeps at it, plodding through cables one by one.
Lyndsey skims over her handwritten notes one more time. Popov slowed down after she left Moscow Station, no question. A turnover in handlers sometimes changes things. Sometimes the asset will feel abandoned, will only trust the first handler. Sometimes personalities don’t mesh. But Popov is a pro and he knew what to expect. There is nothing in Tom Cassidy’s reports to suggest there was a serious problem. Popov is being careful as usual, Cassidy wrote. But Russia Division took issue, felt there was a change in the quality and value of the intelligence he was passing. Had there been a problem brewing that escaped everyone’s notice?
She skips down to Cassidy’s last report on Genghis dated two months ago. No contact with Popov, or no record of any, for the past sixty days. It is a frightening gap: anything could’ve happened in those sixty days to send Popov skittering to Washington. It would be criminal negligence if something had happened, but Moscow Station missed it.
Tom Cassidy has a lot of explaining to do.
Then Lyndsey comes to a line in a report that hits her like a concrete wall.
Popov’s youngest daughter, Varya, is dead.
SUBJECT: GENGHIS
Asset reported that his youngest daughter had died three months earlier. She was age 16 at the time of death. Subject did not tell us at the time because of the circumstances: she died of a heroin overdose. He had not revealed to us earlier that his daughter was a drug addict, though he seemed to be aware of the fact.
Lyndsey remembers the girl in the picture Popov had shared with her years ago. Elfin, twelve years old at the time the photo was taken, with flyaway sandy hair and a crooked smile. She knows what this would have meant to Popov: his daughters came late to him and his wife. They had been totally unexpected. He said it changed their lives, made him think about how the elites were robbing the common Russian blind, made him angry at the oligarchs for hollowing out the country to stockpile obscene amounts of money in offshore accounts.
According to subject, the daughter drowned at the family’s dacha while they were on vacation. The police investigation was inconclusive; it could’ve been either suicide or accidental. She was reportedly hanging out with friends in a boathouse and fell into the water. The friends claimed they were unable to get to her in time.
Asset has been traumatized by the event. Although the asset has not said so for himself, I get the impression that he would like to end his service to us. After his daughter’s death, nothing seems to matter to him anymore.
Lyndsey feels like she’s going to be sick. Popov had often worried that his girls were being shortchanged by having such old parents. The world had changed so much and he and his wife had not kept up with it. Varya’s addiction would have been glaring proof of their failure. Her death would have gutted him. She wishes she could’ve spoken to him while he was still alive, to have consoled him.
And could this have had some bearing on what happened to him? In some way, she senses it could have. She just can’t see it yet.
There is a rap on the door. Eric Newman, looking incredibly well put together in a gray suit and burnished silk tie. He’s always tried to look polished, in her recollection, but this seems a new level of effort.
Eric follows Lyndsey’s eye, smiles. He shoots his cuffs, perhaps in self-deprecation. “I have a meeting on the seventh floor.” The Director’s suite. No wonder he wants to impress.
“Popov?”
“And a few other things.” He can’t tell her, of course. Instead, they use these veiled references, insinuating other intrigues, intrigues within intrigues. “If things go well, I’ll let you know. Meanwhile, do you have any good news for me?”
She tells him about the access lists. While she’ll need to double-check her findings before coming to any conclusions, that’s something she feels safe in sharing. But she doesn’t mention Varya’s death; she’s not sure what that means yet, and she wants to dig more deeply before bringing up Moscow Station’s drop in production.