Lyndsey snaps back to the moment, breaking the pleasant trance she let herself fall into. There is no loving this assignment, possibly the worst possible job of all the difficult, unpleasant jobs at Langley. But she will do it for Yaromir Popov, because he is dead and she owes him.
It is then she realizes her mistake. Raymond Murphy is not a dull man trapped in a dull job. That is a façade he has built to lull her into complacency, so she will let down her guard. He wants to ask her about Popov (and probably Davis, too), she can feel it, but he can’t. That’s not how you do the job, running headfirst at it. They are to work together on the disappearance of the Russian assets, yes, but she will be Raymond’s target, too. He will watch her as closely as everyone else.
She can’t afford to forget that.
SIX
Lyndsey arrives early to work the next day, determined to follow her old routine. Predawn alarm, hair pulled back in a ponytail, a protein powder smoothie on the drive to the gym. This is what she wanted, wasn’t it, to slide back into her old life?
As she slips through the door to Russia Division, Maggie stops her as she heads for the desk in the corner. “We found an office for you. Eric said you should have privacy.”
Maggie leads the way, carrying a cheerful coffee cup that reads This may be wine next to a drawing of a poodle in a beret hoisting a goblet. The private office is small and out of the way, next to the copy room, but that will do fine. Lyndsey doesn’t want to be in a high-traffic area, anyway. The rest of the people in the Division will be curious about the investigation, once word gets out. Maybe this will reduce the drive-by snooping.
The office is barely larger than the desk itself, and has obviously been vacated hastily. There are out-of-date books on some of the shelves (World Factbook 2002; inexplicably, an ancient Janes All the World’s Tanks from 1982 in a tattered blue dust jacket). Cheap ballpoint pens and paper clips scattered about like bread crumbs. The chair is tired and worn. At least the desk drawers seem to have been emptied of any classified papers.
Maggie leans in the doorway. “I’ll get you the keys”—to the door, the desk, the file cabinets—“once the previous occupant finds them all.”
After Maggie leaves, Lyndsey begins tidying up. It’s going to remain a Spartan cell. There’s no reason to settle in, to bring in photos from home or any other personal touches. It would send the wrong message. She’s not here for the long haul. She’s here to do a specific job.
She’s just locked away all of the detritus when she notices someone hovering in the door. It’s The Widow.
Theresa shows the faintest hint of a smile, shy and apologetic. “Maggie told me I’d find you in here. I want to apologize for my brusqueness yesterday. I was crashing a report for Eric and I guess my mind was elsewhere.”
“I understand completely. No need to apologize.”
“It looks like we won’t be neighbors anymore. They got you your own space.” Then she cocks her head, hair falling across her face and momentarily obscuring her eyes. “Say, have you had any coffee yet? I was just about to head down—would you like to join me? We could catch up.”
—
It still happens, even after all this time. A head will turn after Theresa has passed. A whisper behind a hand. Only the most brazen gawk openly, eyes widening. Theresa has to know they’re looking at her. And yet she doesn’t react at all.
They cross the ceremonial entrance to the building, a cavern of white marble and glass. It’s where all the icons are kept. The life-sized statue of Wild Bill Donovan, who led the organization in the OSS days. The Agency seal inlaid into the terrazzo floor, where important visitors are unfailingly positioned for a souvenir photograph. But the most famous feature is surely the Memorial Wall, commemorating the Agency’s fallen, a field of five-point stars, each one solemn and distinct, carved into white Alabama marble. Below, on a little shelf, is the register that bears the name of the Agency employees killed in the line of duty.
Which one is Richard’s star? Lyndsey wonders.
Theresa seems to sense what Lyndsey is thinking. “Do you want to see it? Richard’s star?” Before Lyndsey can answer—there can be only one answer, yes, of course—Theresa is off, heels clattering against the terrazzo floor.
Luckily, there are no groups of visitors lingering in the hallway today. There are tours most days, visiting officials or families allowed in for an award ceremony. But today, except for the guards, they have the alcove to themselves. Theresa stops in front of the big marble wall. “Here it is.” She points quickly at it. The last one, the chiseled edges fresh and crisp.
She traces the edge with her finger. “Looks rather lonely, doesn’t it?”
After a respectful minute, Theresa leads the way to the cafeteria. The first pit stop is for coffee, steam rising from the coffee urn as she draws a cup. They pick a table set next to the towering glass wall overlooking a grassy courtyard. They head to the farthest corner, so they will have a buffer of empty space around them.
It’s amazing how much Theresa has changed from the woman Lyndsey remembers, but it’s understandable given what
