Will she become a dinosaur, too, one day? She doubts she’ll last that long.
Lyndsey asks him the same questions she asked Westerling and Kincaid. “It’s not like it was during your day, Lyndsey. Popov stopped producing after you’d gone. He gave us only tidbits. It might be that he got circumspect… After the episode with Richard Warner, things were very bad over there. You had left for Lebanon. The FSB made it impossible for Moscow Station. Morozov, the big man, that shit, made life hell. He was probably being spiteful—you know, because we had him pinned to Moscow after the affair in Kiev. He was always sending his goons to harass our officers, sending people over to rifle through apartments and leave little messages so we’d know they’d been there. Move things around, unplug refrigerators, take a shit on a bed. One officer came home to find his cat had been poisoned.”
The Russians’ love of poisons apparently extended to house pets. Was it the same one they’d used on Popov? And Morozov—the name roused old memories. He had just been elevated to chief of the counterintelligence department in the FSB when Lyndsey was in Moscow, a cagey old man who, like Northrop, had hung on since the Yeltsin era. He was rumored to have orchestrated the hit on the Chief of Station in Kiev many years back, before Lyndsey’s time, and it earned him a place on CIA’s most-wanted list. General Morozov—the rank was honorary, everyone working for Russian security services technically were members of the Russian army—was like a ghost, never seen but whispered about, not too loudly lest he be summoned by the mere mention of his name.
“Maybe he was lying low. Trying to avoid a dragnet…”
Northrop does a sly one-shouldered shrug. “Or it could be that he loathed Tom Cassidy. That was pretty clear.”
“Why do you think that was?”
“I guess you haven’t met Cassidy yet. He’s one of those guys who only respects the people above him on the chain. Assets are commodities to be used up and discarded.” Northrop puts down his cup and saucer with a rattle of china. “He’s not an easy man to like.”
Yaromir Popov would’ve despised him, Lyndsey guesses. “If Popov hadn’t been providing information, does that mean no one came looking to get on the access list?”
“No, no one.”
Then how did the mole learn about Popov? This doesn’t fit the pattern for Skipjack and Lighthouse—if it can even be called a pattern. It’s thin as tissue paper, and uncertainty starts to gnaw on Lyndsey again.
The time for directness has come. “Evert, I need you to be frank with me, but you have to promise me you’ll be discreet.”
Northrop smirks. “No one talks to me anymore, Lyndsey. Anything you tell me is not going anywhere.”
He’s a little hungry for gossip, though. She can tell by the way the corners of his mouth turn up, the slight twitch of his lips. She’ll have to trust him, even though he’s an old hand and likely to have certain alliances to the old guard. To Richard Warner.
“Did Theresa Warner ever ask you about Popov?”
Surprise registers on his face for only a second, but it’s genuine. His gaze flicks in the direction of Theresa’s desk. He can guess why she’s asked.
“Theresa? No. Never.”
“What about Evelyn Wang?”
He purses his lips. “Evelyn’s a friendly girl… and a pleasure to talk to. But about Genghis?” He shakes his head.
Which leaves one suspect.
TWENTY
Lyndsey is back at her desk, mulling over her conversation with Northrop, when she notices the chat window on her monitor is flashing. Raymond Murphy sent a message while she was away: You’ve got access to Pennantrace. Pennantrace is the cover term for Olga Boykova, the asset Richard Warner was trying to save when he was killed.
There’s more to the message. Physical records have been destroyed.
Irritation flares in her brain. It does seem suspicious, even though accidents have been known to happen to archived documents. But for a case this controversial, under such scrutiny?
It appears all is not lost, however. Murphy has one piece of advice: Suggest you speak to Edward Sheridan, the reports officer at the time. He’s on a detail to National Defense University.
The drive to Fort McNair isn’t pleasant but the campus makes up for it. It is hard to believe something this open and green could exist within the boundaries of Washington, D.C. Lyndsey is early for her appointment, so she takes a lap of the campus for the view. A few soldiers jog by in gray athletic uniforms, while a young officer appears to be showing his family around the monuments on the green. How tempting it must be to take one of these details out of the building, if you’re with the Agency. To get out of the cross fire, where there’s no target on your back.
She finds Sheridan outside the library, where he suggested they meet. He’s an older gentleman with thinning brown hair and glasses, with the bland look of a man who is already retired in his mind. He shakes her hand. “I thought maybe we could take a walk. It’s such a lovely day.”
They have the sidewalk to themselves as they stroll the promenade. She keeps pace with Sheridan’s unhurried meander. “I’m not sure I can answer your questions about Russia. I’ve tried to put that episode behind me,” Sheridan says. Of course: it didn’t end well and there are unhappy memories. That’s probably why he ended up here, to finish out his career quietly.
She didn’t drive all the way out here to fold easily. “With the records lost, anything you can remember would be of help…”
Sheridan sighs, thinking for the span of a few strides. “I remember that Boykova was a complete surprise. We couldn’t believe it when we got the first drops. It was solid gold. Putin’s talking points for upcoming negotiations. Background papers. Decision memos. It was like having keys to Putin’s inner sanctum. We knew exactly what Russian leadership was thinking.”
His joy is still apparent, even after all this time. Lyndsey remains silent, waiting for him to continue.
“Naturally, we thought that the asset must be very, very senior. It had to be someone close to Putin, perhaps an oligarch who had grown rich from Putin’s patronage but had developed a conscience and could no longer stand by while the country was being plundered. Or a top aide who knew all of Putin’s appointments and made sure the right papers were read in advance.” Sheridan turns and gives Lyndsey a sheepish smile. Nearly apologetic. “But Olga Boykova was none of those things. Olga Boykova was a housekeeper.”
Lyndsey can scarcely believe what she’s hearing as Sheridan lays it out. It sounds like a strange, political version of Cinderella. Boykova started at Novo-Ogaryovo, Putin’s official residence just outside of Moscow proper, polishing the floors and working her way up in the household staff. Soon, she was assigned to the small team in the office wing. She had risen quickly despite her youth and lack of seniority—the older members, with a great sense of entitlement, guarded their standing jealously—because she had proven herself an exceptionally hard worker. In a society where initiative and competency were viewed with suspicion, it seemed President Putin appreciated having one person who could find a book when it had been misplaced or turn down sheets exactly the way he liked.
She had been working in Putin’s household for five years when she decided to spy for America.
“It’s not uncommon for foreign intelligence services to recruit household staff as paid informants, but these assets tended to provide little more than tactical information,” Sheridan says. “They could tell you if a principal was drinking more heavily than normal, or who in the inner circle might be open to approach, but often lacked the know-how to go after really good stuff.”