Whatever he had to tell her must’ve been exceptionally sensitive.
She stares at the phone’s screen for a long time before she starts to type.
What she writes is pure wishful thinking. It’s like stuffing a message in a bottle and throwing it in the ocean. A bottle adrift in a vast sea. Chances are it will never be found, never read. But she does it anyway, because it’s all she has.
M or P, if you’re watching this, please reply. A friend of Y.
Then she goes on a run to clear her head.
* * *
—
Lyndsey can’t wait to get back to her apartment so she can check her phone. Superstitiously, she didn’t bring it with her on her run—a watched pot never boils—but she heads straight to it as soon as she unlocks the door. She snatches the phone off the coffee table, squints at the screen, and holds her breath as she scrolls, frantically looking for a message.
This is M. Y said you would help us. Is that why you’ve texted?
Her heart first explodes with glee—success—then clenches like a fist. Tom Cassidy should’ve reached out to them as soon as they learned Popov was dead. But it’s obvious this hasn’t happened.
She’s about to tap a response but pauses. There is a momentary, passing instinct to suspect interference. That response was awfully fast. Maybe it’s not Masha, maybe it’s an FSB tech operative. But no: she and Popov used this channel for two years and were never found out, by either the FSB nor the CIA, so she feels certain that she is talking to Popov’s wife and not an FSB operative pretending to be her.
She begins to type. I’m so sorry for what happened. Are you okay? Has the FSB contacted you yet?
The dialogue box fills slowly. The authorities are still not certain what happened, I believe.
She has to ask a question, a very important one. It can’t wait, though she feels badly for trying to get information from Masha while she is grieving. She has no choice.
Y contacted me before he died saying something terrible had happened but didn’t explain. Do you know what he meant?
She counts the seconds after she finishes typing. There’s a long pause on Masha’s end. Lyndsey prays that he shared this secret with his wife.
Y said the FSB knew about him. He went to the U.S. to find you.
The missed text. Another stab of regret, right in her heart.
There is her answer: the mole—whoever he is—gave them Popov, and he had no choice but to run. But the FSB went after him, his running might as well have been an admission of guilt, so they killed him.
Lyndsey tries to push the overwhelming grief away, though she feels like she’s drowning. She needs to think clearly while she’s able to communicate with Masha. There’s more she needs to know.
Did Y tell his handler that the FSB was onto him?
The answer comes back quickly. Without hesitation. He didn’t trust Gerald.
They use code names for handlers. Gerald is Tom Cassidy.
He didn’t trust Tom Cassidy—or, by extension, Moscow Station. That was why he was flying to Washington.
The implications are staggering. For a second, Lyndsey can scarcely breathe. She needs to think through all of this coolly, deliberately. But time is ticking by, and it’s dangerous to stay on any communications channel for too long. You want to be stealthy, to avoid drawing attention.
One last thing. Do you need anything?
The answer is not immediate, and Lyndsey feels the seconds tick by as Masha deliberates. I do not think we will be safe here soon.
She is asking, in so many words, for CIA to save her and her daughter. Her husband would’ve told her this was part of the deal. Lyndsey remembers sitting across the table from him in the safe house during one of their early meetings, hammering out the provisions of his cooperation. The payments and how they would be held in a special Swiss bank account (nothing outrageous; he’d been looking for security, not a payday). And the promise of extraction if things ever got tight. This was a promise made just to the big fish (rather cynically, Lyndsey always thought, knowing how few assets take it). Not to the small fry, and Popov knew this, too. He and his family would not be left to take the fall.
Only now, they are.
She wishes she could type yes, of course, because she knows that’s what Masha needs to hear. She is a new widow with a daughter to protect. But Lyndsey doesn’t want to lie to her. Russia Division won’t do anything until they know what’s going on. Someone is giving the names of CIA assets to the FSB and even though Yaromir Popov is dead, until he’s completely cleared, Russia Division is not going to act—as callous as that sounds. The seventh floor is focused on finding the mole. The wife of a dead asset will not be their greatest concern at the moment.
Masha needs to feel heard and seen. There is no one else she can go to for help. It is Lyndsey’s duty. I’ll get started on that right away, she types. Sit tight. If it becomes necessary, is there some place you can go where no one would think to look for you?
A few more beats. Yes. My sister’s dacha.
Keep watching this app. I will be in touch.
She is sorry she can’t do more at this moment, that she has to leave Masha like this. She closes the app, a tremble of rage passing through her. How they’ve failed Yaromir Popov. He placed his faith in her—and the Agency, but mostly in her—and she let him down. Because she trusted the system.
Something has happened, and I don’t know who to trust.
NINE
MOSCOW
Begging your pardon, Dmitri Ivanovich, but there is a report in your queue that requires your immediate attention. It has to do with Kanareyka.”
Kanareyka. Canary.
Dmitri Tarasenko’s assistant stands in the doorway. She is afraid to come in and so she stands twisting a lock of hair like an anxious little girl. I really should fire her, he thinks for the hundredth time. And he would, if he hadn’t been the one to encourage to her work for him in the first place, which he only did because she was so pretty. But she hasn’t slept with him yet, and that was the whole point, wasn’t it, why he’s suffered through four months of her incompetence. She loses his phone messages. His calendar is a complete disaster. At this point, he feels she owes it to him. It’s his due for putting up with her.
Tarasenko puts down what he is working on. “Very well, Teresa Nikolayevna, I will look at it right away, since you have interrupted my work.” Perhaps she will be more compliant if she suspects he is displeased with her.
She immediately crumbles. “Oh, I am so sorry, Dmitri Ivanovich, I didn’t mean to—”
He waves her away and looks for the email. Finds it, clicks on it.