Eric shifts again in his seat. “Well, they had their reservations, but I told them there were extenuating circumstances. There was no runner-up. It had to be you. Because there’s one more thing—something I haven’t told you yet.” The tentativeness falls away and suddenly he looks like the saddest man in the world. “Have you seen the Post this morning?” He is watching her face. “I’m sorry to have to tell you. So, so sorry.”
Enough with the apologies—tell me already. Her skin is crawling. How much bad news can one person take?
Eric takes a deep breath. “Yaromir Popov is dead.”
Her heart does a stutter step. Her first asset. Impossible. This cannot be.
Eric continues, talking over her shocked silence. “It happened last night. He was flying to D.C. From everything we’ve been able to gather, he had no reason to make the trip. It came out of nowhere. State Department didn’t have him scheduled for meetings, no ‘official duties.’ It could’ve been some other business or a personal reason, of course, but . . .” Eric trails off; they both know that this isn’t likely. “Are you okay? It’s got to be an awful shock. Can I get you some water?”
Lyndsey can only blink at him. To the rest of the world, Yaromir Popov looked like a mid-level diplomat in the Russian foreign ministry, a man who filled out the table during negotiations, chatted up visiting foreign delegations, and attended endless rounds of diplomatic functions.
But behind the quiet façade and accommodating demeanor, he was really a high-ranking officer in the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service. A man with thirty years in Russian intelligence.
A man who had been a double agent for CIA.
Lyndsey knows this because Yaromir Popov was her first triumph as a case officer. But there was more to their relationship. She could admit to some people—no one at CIA, of course, but the people who were really close to her—that Yaromir Popov was like a father to her.
And she’d already lost one father. Losing two might be too much to bear.
* * *
—
Time has slowed. Seconds pass like minutes. The sunlight falling across the conference table is so bright, it stings Lyndsey’s eyes. Sound is muffled, like the world has been wrapped in cotton batting, quietly ushered away.
She pictures Popov’s face. The way he smiled for her, like a delighted parent. Always happy to see her, even when the business at hand was bad. They met in that shabby safe house off Arbat Square or in rented cars parked along quiet Moscow streets. He always carried himself with dignity, but there had been sadness, too. He had been somewhat tortured, ending his career working with the enemy. But his disgust for what had happened to his country under the oligarchs ate away at his belief that the enemy was external. The more patriotic thing to do was to try to rid his country of the parasites.
He had managed to turn his sadness aside, and even seemed to enjoy working with his American handler. To channel his energy into teaching the tricks of the trade—his side of the trade, that is. He had come to see her, over time, as his protégée.
But now, he was dead.
She had been his recruiter, his handler. Yaromir Popov wouldn’t have been a target if it wasn’t for her.
Eric has the office manager bring coffee, dark as pitch from sitting too long on the burner. It unblocks her ears and focuses her eyes.
Her hands are unsteady on the cup, making the coffee tremble. “How did it happen?”
“It looks like a heart attack. He was on the last leg of the Moscow trip, JFK to Reagan National. It departed JFK at eleven p.m., arrived at Reagan about midnight. The attendant said he started showing signs of distress shortly after he boarded. That’s all we know. No surprise, the Russians are demanding the body back right away. We got the D.C. health department to hold on to it, saying he might’ve died of some communicable disease, but they could only do so much. It’s got to go back today. We’re waiting on the report.”
How did they kill him? Russian intelligence is known to love its poisons. They have a long history of political assassination by poison, quirky and cruel at once. Something about the delayed effects and painful drama at the end that appeals to the Russian nature. Lyndsey thinks of Popov dying alone on the plane, panicking as his airways swell shut. Realizing that help is 33,000 feet below. Recognizing what is happening to him, knowing that his choices have caught up to him.
Was he running for his freedom? He wouldn’t flee without his wife, Masha, and daughters, Polina and Varya. She is sure of that—pretty sure. Even though the Russia of today is not Cold War Russia. The spouses and children of traitors aren’t automatically thrown in prison. If he were running, then poisoning him on the plane would send a message to other would-be traitors—and the big middle finger to America at the same time. We knew he was your man and you were not able to save him.
Now that the shock has eased, she sees pain on Eric’s face. Of course, Eric must be taking Popov’s death hard, too. He knew the man—not as well as Lyndsey, but the Russian asset had been one of Eric’s coups. He owed much to Popov. Nearly as much as Lyndsey.
Eric won’t want consoling, however, so she presses on. “Do we think his cover was blown?”
“He should’ve gone to Moscow Station if that was the case. We have procedures for this.”
And, in this case, there is only one person for Popov to turn to. The person Popov was told to report to. “Who’s his handler now?” Lyndsey asks. When she left Moscow Station, there had been a near complete turnover in personnel. This is not uncommon; the bureaucratic changing of the guard had a rhythm to it. Popov’s new handler hadn’t been decided by the time she left for her next assignment. There had been no overlap, no handoff.
But Eric doesn’t answer her question. Instead, an eyebrow shoots up: don’t go there. “No one was going to have the same success with Popov that you did. You can’t blame the handler.” Things will undoubtedly get ugly, political. Moscow Station will feel threatened and defensive. His subtext is clear: don’t start attacking Moscow Station and turn this into a war between headquarters and the field.
Yaromir Popov. The thought of him pushes all other concerns out of her head. She will always be defined in part by the man. She never told him what he meant to her. That for two years, he was the mentor she never had at CIA. The one person, ironically, she felt she could trust.
Eric stands: this meeting is over. He starts to ease her to the door. “The Director told me to set up a task force to get to the bottom of this. It needs to be small, given the circumstances. We’re not lifting the compartment, for obvious reasons. I need you to work quickly on this. He would like an answer as soon as possible. If the Russians knew about Popov, all of our assets there could be in jeopardy. Lives are at stake.”