He leads her down the hall to his office. It’s nicer than she remembers. They’re treating him well. Large by headquarters’ standards, with enough room for a couch and armchair to one side, a conference table and six swivel chairs to the other. A cluster of three tall windows looks out on the trees, the scene so idyllic and peaceful that it resembles a college campus. His desk sits toward the back of the room, facing out like a captain’s bridge. Unlike many managers at Langley, Eric doesn’t decorate his office with mementos, no “me wall” of awards and commendations doing their best to impress you. Uncluttered and focused, Eric’s office projects that he’s stronger than that.
Lyndsey’s mind flits back to when she and Eric first met. He was a branch chief then, two rungs down the ladder from where he is now, with his circle of responsibility commensurately smaller. He was her first boss in the clandestine service when she finished the trainee program and wrapped up her assignment in the Directorate of Science and Technology, building on the paper she’d worked on at the University of Pennsylvania, the one that got all the attention, brought the job offer in the first place. Eric had been interested in her work in the DST, even the paper she’d written, though she’d been out of school for years at that point and college seemed like another life. He undoubtedly had something to do with the decision to send her to Moscow for her first overseas assignment. It was rare to get such a plum assignment right off the bat. “Don’t make us regret sending you,” he’d said with a chuckle as he toasted her at the going-away party.
Then she brought in Yaromir Popov as a major asset and her future seemed assured, all their trust in her validated.
Now she is on administrative leave pending adjudication. What a difference a couple of years can make.
Eric takes the armchair with the easy command of a king on his throne, but his face is troubled. “I’ll cut right to the chase: I called you in because we have a crisis on our hands. In the past couple weeks, we lost two of our assets in Moscow. They disappeared. Vanished.”
When two of your recruited spies disappear in such a short a time, you have to assume the worst. Discovery by Russian internal security, arrest. Prison, or worse. She can’t remember this happening since she’s been at the Agency. Sure, assets stopped performing and took themselves out of the game, or you stopped expecting anything from them. But they’d never lost one to the enemy, not in her time.
“These were two of our most promising assets,” Eric continues. “The first is a colonel in the Russian Ground Forces, Gennady Nesterov. He’d been working for us for a few years. He’d just been assigned to a new unit, an elite cyber force. The unit was supplementing its ranks with hackers. They’d arrest guys selling malware on the dark web, you know, garden variety criminal activity, and give them the option to either work for the government or go to jail. It was the only way for the military to get the skills it needed.” Lyndsey is familiar with the story. Russian army recruits were bottom of the barrel, country boys with no prospects, most of them dropouts from school. “Nesterov had just warned us that his unit got the call: something big was about to happen. Then he disappeared.”
“You think they were on to him?”
“Moscow Station was just starting to look into it when the second disappearance happened. A scientist, Anatoly Kulakov. He’s part of a very small but very important program. The Office of Tactical Solutions. They look for ways to apply new technologies to ground warfare. Most of what he’s passed to us hasn’t been immediately useful. Developmental stuff, basic research. Still, we get insight into the strategic direction of research over there. He disappeared a few days ago.”
One in the military, one in research. Two different departments. You might lose one to a routine counterintelligence sweep. Lyndsey knows there are reasons why an asset might get rolled up. It could be entirely self-inflicted: he may have made a mistake that led to his arrest. He might have been arrested for reasons that had nothing to do with spying—a domestic squabble, a lawsuit gone bad. It happened. But two assets, from two different walks of life? The odds against it are astronomical. No, this is textbook: when arrests start, chances are that you’ve got a spy in your midst. A traitor handing over your secrets to the adversary.
There could be a spy in CIA.
Eric shifts unhappily in his chair. “I want you to handle the investigation. Obviously, I can’t turn to anyone inside the Division. You have experience both with Moscow Station and Russia Division. You know how both operate and we’re going to need that. I knew you’d be the right person for the job. When I heard you were back from overseas, I couldn’t believe my luck.”
Lyndsey hesitates. It will embarrass Eric if he puts her in charge and then finds out that she’s being investigated. As much as she would like the opportunity—she feels strongly about the mission, having worked the Russia target nearly her entire career. And it would help rehabilitate her reputation. But she owes it to Eric to tell him. Though the thought of recounting what she’s done makes her sick to her stomach. It’s like admitting he was wrong to trust her all those years ago, to have any faith in her whatsoever.
Her palms have gone sweaty and she rubs them against the legs of her pants. “I appreciate the vote of confidence, Eric, I really do. But there’s something you should know first—”
He waves her off. He already knows. She can tell by the way he looks at her, the hint of disappointment he struggles to hide. “If it’s about what happened in Beirut, you don’t have to tell me.”
She’s not sure if she’s irreparably embarrassed or grateful that she doesn’t have to explain. “Well, I don’t know the details,” he clarifies quickly. “Security is pretty strict about that stuff. When I raised your name up to the seventh floor, that’s when they told me you were sent home early from Lebanon.”
She wishes she could walk out and spare herself this shame, but the feeling passes. You learn early in this job that it’s going to require an uncomfortable degree of candor. That you must admit your every trespass, your every failing, to complete strangers. You’re expected to lie to your spouse and your children in the line of duty, but you can’t lie to the Agency. It’s your confessor and parent and spouse.
She fixes her gaze on him. Steady. “You want me to tell you the whole story?”
“It’s your call. If it makes you feel better.”
Who knows, maybe it will. Aside from Security, she’s talked to no one about it. Left the Chief of Station’s office in Beirut so utterly embarrassed, she’d wished the earth would open up and swallow her. Her shame was red-hot, like she’d been on fire. What she needs is someone with a bucket of water. And here is Eric Newman, volunteer fireman. “Maybe sometime. Soon. I’m not ready to talk about it yet.”
He seems disappointed but nods.
“If I’m cleared to work on this, I can only assume they don’t consider me a security threat.” She’s only a danger to herself.