Lyndsey rests her hand on the doorknob and turns to him. “One last question . . . You’ve had some time to think about it . . . If there is a mole, chances are it’s either here or in Moscow Station. Do you have a sense . . . ?”
“I’d rather it was in the Station, of course,” he says quickly. “And Moscow Station will insist that the mole is here. That’s another reason why I asked for you: both offices will see you as neutral. And for Popov’s sake, I knew you’d want to be involved. So you see, Lyndsey, it has to be you.”
FOUR
Eric calls the office manager, Maggie Kimball, a tall, no-nonsense woman, and asks her to help Lyndsey get settled. To Lyndsey, he apologizes: she’ll need privacy for her work but it will take a day or two to clear one of the private offices. In the meantime, she must make do with one of the empty cubicles.
Every office at Langley, it seems, has a Maggie, a take-charge woman whom everyone turns to when they need something done. Organize the office holiday party, accommodate all the dietary restrictions to make sure that no one is offended or poisoned. Figure out a way to seat three summer interns and two new hires when there are only two empty desks. And, most important, wrangle the boss and make sure he gets his to-do list done each day. One look at Maggie and Lyndsey is sure the woman—a little younger than Lyndsey, highlighted hair piled on top of her head, dark green polish on her dragon-lady nails, tight smile—is more than up to the task.
Maggie finds Lyndsey a desk in a quiet corner of the floor, half-hidden behind a pillar and a row of safes, the reinforced file cabinets with combination locks that are as big as Sherman tanks. It feels like exile, though for the job Lyndsey is about to undertake, that’s not necessarily a bad thing.
The woman in the next cubicle looks strangely familiar. Lyndsey feels she might know her, though not in a personal way. More like someone you might recognize from a TV commercial. She is fortyish, a few years older than Lyndsey. She is elegant, with narrow shoulders and hips. Her russet-red hair is cut in an old-fashioned bob that goes perfectly with her chic black dress. She looks like the kind of woman you find in the New York Sunday society pages, very white and very thin, the product of one of those aristocratic families who believe in eugenics.
The woman shows no interest in Lyndsey, continuing to peck at her keyboard as though Lyndsey isn’t standing five feet behind her. It’s odd behavior, but Langley is full of odd ducks.
Lyndsey steps into the woman’s field of vision and sticks her hand out. “Hello. I’m Lyndsey Duncan.”
They shake. The woman’s hand is like doeskin wrapped around a mouse’s skeleton, small and soft and crushable. “Theresa Warner.”
Theresa Warner. Theresa Warner was a junior officer who’d already distinguished herself when Lyndsey first came to Russia Division. Five years ahead and she made the most of every one of them. She looks so different from how Lyndsey remembers her.
“I actually worked here previously. I think we met, briefly.”
Theresa’s head tilts like a terrier’s as she puts the pieces together. “Oh yes, Lyndsey. Of course, I remember you.” She must be pretending: there is no reason for Theresa Warner to remember her. They were in different circles then. Lyndsey, fresh out of training and Theresa part of the elite. Worlds apart. “Welcome back.”
Lyndsey checks out the desk as she waits for the computer to boot up. A steno pad with half the pages ripped out. Two old pens, tooth marks in the plastic shells. A handful of paper clips. Does anyone even use paper clips anymore? “I won’t be staying long. I’m here for the investigation,” she says absently.
A thin, perfect eyebrow arches. “The incident from last night, you mean? The Russian on the plane? They haven’t told us anything about it yet. It’s all close hold.”
That’s right, the compartment. You don’t know who has been read in and who hasn’t. She shouldn’t have said anything. “Yes, I suppose you’re right.”
Theresa Warner turns back to the monitor. Next to her computer is one and only one family photo, a picture of a young boy with dark hair and the biggest eyes Lyndsey has ever seen. No pictures of a husband anywhere.
That’s because Theresa’s husband had been killed in an Agency operation gone wrong. The pieces come back to Lyndsey now. Theresa Warner is The Widow. They had made a big deal when they put her husband’s star up on the Wall of Honor, splashed around a photo of Theresa from the ceremony. Skeptics snarked it was because she looked like Jackie Kennedy and would remind people of the tragic romance of dying for your country. Lyndsey heard about the incident shortly after she arrived in Lebanon and she never heard any details of what had happened. Close hold, no need-to-know. Like everyone else, she only heard that Richard Warner had died.
Richard Warner had been a branch chief in Russia Division when she first came on board. Not that she’d ever worked with him. She only knew him in passing. He and Eric had both been branch chiefs then—though he surpassed Eric at some point.
It is kind of strange to find Theresa still working at Langley. How awful it must be, to spend your days in a place where everything reminds you of your lost spouse. Most people would’ve quit. Of course, everyone’s circumstances are different. Perhaps Theresa can’t afford to leave, or doesn’t want to look for a new job. There is the son, obviously. Perhaps she stays out of loyalty, or the possibility of avenging her husband’s death.
Suddenly Eric is walking toward her. He looks like he’s on his way to something important, a stand-up over a late-breaking crisis, a meeting with the Director on the seventh floor. He is rushed but puts on a good face.
“Good, you two have met. I was coming to introduce you. Don’t you know each other already? Didn’t you work together in the early days?”
“No,” Lyndsey says.
“Well, if you need anything, I’m sure Theresa would be happy to help you get settled.” Then he heads off to fight his next battle.
Theresa narrows her eyes, studying Lyndsey. “Weren’t you at Moscow Station recently?”
Lyndsey thinks she knows where Theresa is going with this but she wasn’t there when Theresa’s husband died. Lyndsey opens her mouth to say how sorry she was to hear about Richard, but Theresa cuts her off. “I’d love to catch up, but I don’t have time to talk right now. I have a report to finish. Maybe later?” And with that, she turns her back on Lyndsey and goes back to her keyboard, keys clacking away.
Dismissed. Lyndsey pokes around the empty desk for a few minutes and then heads to Maggie’s station. The office manager looks up as she approaches.
“Is there another empty desk I could use? I feel like I’m—imposing on her space.”
“Oh, don’t mind her. She can be a little chilly.” Maggie drops her voice and leans forward, a curl dropping onto her forehead. “You know who she is, right?”