There is something unexciting about the man she finds in the small conference room. Counterintelligence are the people who look for in-house spies. In many ways, it’s a small world unto itself, chasing leads that rarely pan out. A dull job for dull, suspicious people. As opposed to the Clandestine Service, her service. The glamourous work, the stuff of legends.
“Raymond Murphy,” the man says as he rises to shake her hand. His dishwater-colored eyes give her a once-over. She studies his face in return. Wary. Something he’s trying to hide, that he doesn’t want me to see. He’s the kind of man who mows the lawn every Saturday morning whether it needs it or not, shines his shoes every Sunday, always buys the same brand of cereal. “I’ve been assigned to work with you on the task force.”
It makes sense that Eric would get someone from CI to assist on this. They have access to information that she wouldn’t, from financial disclosure statements to background checks. And computer logs. Still, she can’t help but feel slightly uncomfortable, as though he’s looking over her shoulder, too. All Agency people feel that way about them, she figures. They’re like internal affairs in a police department.
“I’ve been told that you’re just back from overseas, getting your feet on the ground,” he continues. How much has he been told about her specific situation, she wonders, before admonishing herself to STOP THINKING ABOUT THE THING that hangs over her head like the Sword of Damocles. Her lapse of judgment. Her relationship with a foreign national, an agent of another intelligence service to boot. Davis Ranford, a British citizen . . . and a member of a rival service. The rules are there for a reason, Chief of Station Beirut had said when he sent her back to D.C.
Rules that others have broken and gone unpunished, but who does the breaking is as important as which rule was broken.
Murphy gives no indication that he’s aware of the debate raging in her head. He swivels his chair lazily. “I thought maybe we could start with some background, get you set up. Have you ever been involved in an investigation like this before?” He leans back, but she senses he’s not as relaxed as he’d like her to think. “This is probably an insider threat. We like to say Counterintelligence is like an iceberg. The part we can see is probably less than ten percent of what’s really going on. You usually don’t have a clue until something like this happens.”
He means a double agent. Someone on your team selling secrets to the enemy. It’s not entirely a surprise to Lyndsey. The Agency teaches its employees about treason. They sit in classes devoted to the case histories of famous traitors: Robert Hanssen, Aldrich Ames, Ana Montes. They are made to learn the particulars of their treachery. They are taught the warning signs—unexplained wealth, sudden and unaccountable foreign travel, spurts of sudden chumminess alternating with prickly distance—so they’ll know when to be suspicious if they see these signs in a coworker. So you’ll be able to tell when the person sitting beside you might be selling secrets to foreign masters.
And yet it seems surreal to Lyndsey. Impossible. The kind of thing that never happens in real life. That only happens in movies.
“It’s more common than we think,” Raymond says, as though reading her mind. “You should know that going in. We’re going to have to look hard at some of your colleagues and it’s going to feel uncomfortable. You’re not going to want to believe what you’re seeing.” His dishwater-brown eyes don’t seem so vague now. “Chances are good that someone inside this building has committed treason. Maybe even someone you know.”
She already feels funny. She doesn’t want to judge her coworkers; she knows what it’s like to be judged. “Isn’t it possible that it isn’t someone on the inside? Couldn’t the Russians have found out on their own?”
He smiles like he feels sorry for her, clinging to a fairy tale. “Well, sure, there’s always a possibility. And if that is what happened, it’ll be your job to prove it. But it’s far more likely that it was someone inside. Someone who knew these guys were working for us.”
“But it could be Moscow Station. Could you look into the people there, see if there are any possibilities . . .” See if there are any weak links, she means but cannot say. Disciplinary cases, case officers who’ve fallen behind in child support or started drinking.
“That’s a good division of effort. I’ll look at the Station and you cover Russia Division. I’d like you to start by finding out which officers in Russia Division were working on those cases. Kulakov, Nesterov, and Popov. Check their reactions, how they’re taking it, see if any of them act defensive. You pass those names on to me. I have access to their files, so I can check out their stories, look for unusual activity.” That means financial disclosure forms, security paperwork, requests for unofficial foreign travel. A CIA officer’s personal life is well documented. It’s hard to keep secrets from Uncle Sam.
“We should check the access lists, too,” Raymond continues. “Who knew these guys’ true identities in the first place? See how many people we’re talking about. We’ve already started the paperwork to get you approved for the compartments. Get in touch with your Security office.”
“Okay.” And again, she sees something funny in his expression. A razor-thin but shell-hard veneer. Suspicion.
He can’t seriously think she had anything to do with this. That’s the thing about dealing with CI: they have a way of making you worry even though there’s nothing to find.
It’s not Davis Ranford. Raymond Murphy might know about Beirut—let’s face it, he probably knows—but she suspects it’s something else, something that’s been around longer. Maybe he’s heard the stories about her, stories that will haunt her for the rest of her career.
Because Popov had been a legendary Russian spymaster and she had been his
