Fidelity Read online

  “At least they weren’t in your case,” Jeffries said flatly. It was the least emotive compliment that Kay had ever received, and probably the best. “If you need some time off, however long, we can put you on administrative leave. It won’t be held against you, I can promise that. And there’ll be a spot waiting for you in my program whenever you’re ready.”

  “Thank you,” Kay said, “but that won’t be necessary. I’ll be in the office on Monday.”

  “That’s just as well,” Jeffries said. “I was hoping to have your assistance on something.”

  And, despite the emotion of the moment, Kay found her investigative instincts breaking through. “What, exactly?”

  Jeffries shrugged, her walls back up as swiftly as they’d come down. “Let’s call it Black Bear 2.0,” she said, then nodded and walked off.

  Torres proved more talkative, looking awkward in his black suit, the coat ill fitting, his biceps and gut bulging against them.

  “How you holding up, Ivy?” he asked.

  “All right,” Kay said, realizing to her surprise that it wasn’t even a lie.

  “I guess it’s been hell over the past eighteen months,” he said. “First Williams and then—”

  “I remember it,” Kay said, cutting him off.

  Torres realized midway through his laugh that he was at a funeral, then managed to swallow most of it. “How’s your brother?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “How are you?”

  “I have no idea,” Kay admitted.

  “You did the right thing here, Kay,” Torres said, and suddenly he was no longer smiling; he was covering her upper arm between his thick, worn hands and looking down at her with adamant seriousness. “You did the right thing. You ought to be proud of yourself. I’m proud of you. For whatever it’s worth, I’m proud of you.”

  “It’s worth something,” Kay said, leaning into Torres for a moment. Just a moment—Kay did not need it for very long, but all of us need it now and again.

  The funeral was starting to break up: there would be no reception afterward—Justyna’s decision, although Kay was happy she had made it. This had been enough—more than enough. Kay saw her brother slip away from the crowd and walk slowly east, up the manicured greenery and away from the funeral. She knew where he was going and decided to give him a few minutes before she went to find him. Justyna had returned to the graveside, staring at the coffin as if it might tell her something.

  “How are you holding up, Auntie?”

  “All right,” she said, eyes still on the box that held her husband of forty years.

  Kay wanted to say something but wasn’t sure what.

  “Luis was better than the worst thing he did.” Justyna pulled away as soon as she said it, as if she couldn’t bear to look at Kay any longer, the shame or despair too great.

  Kay watched her aunt walk off towards the parking lot. Justyna was right, of course—as close as she had come to the edge these last few weeks, she knew her aunt was right. What if Christopher hadn’t come to her? What if her instincts had not been sharpened by working counterintelligence? What if she had not been able to sniff out the SVR plot behind it? What if she had walked into the meeting with her uncle innocent as a lamb, without the understanding and weight of the FBI behind her? Would she have turned traitor, if the alternative had been the death or imprisonment of her brother? Would she have been strong enough to hold to the code and the mission against everything?

  Paul and Anne Malloy were buried at the other end of the cemetery, a fifteen-minute walk and not an unpleasant one, the evening beginning its certain if temporary victory over the day. When she came in sight, she saw that Christopher had carried two roses from the shrine of flowers that had been left for their uncle, and when she arrived he had just finished placing them over their parents’ graves.

  “I suppose I wasn’t very decent to Luis,” Christopher said finally.

  In spite of herself, unexpectedly, Kay found herself chuckling. “I suppose you weren’t, exactly. Though I’m surprised to find you only realizing it at this belated moment.”

  “He did his best with us,” Christopher said. “Raising us, I mean. Do you remember when I stole his car and drove it up to Cape Cod for the weekend?”

  “You were all of seventeen.”

  “Still sixteen,” Christopher informed her. “How many parents would put up with that kind of thing? You know, he never once hit me,” Christopher said with unexpected seriousness. “Never even raised a hand.”

  “I know.”

  “He did his best with us,” Christopher said again. “That still means something, I think.”

  Kay pursed her lips but didn’t say anything. “I’m not sure what it means.”

  “I spent twenty years being angry at him without much reason,” Christopher said absently. “And now that I have one I feel . . . empty.”

  “He made his choices,” Kay said.

  Christopher shrugged. “It’s not that simple,” he said. “I think maybe I understand him better than you do. Better than you can, maybe.”

  “Maybe.”

  “What would you have done to get Justyna free? What would you have sacrificed? What is right and wrong, measured against the life of someone you love?”

  “I don’t know,” Kay admitted. “But afterward, once it was through, he could have gone to the authorities. He could have come clean.”

  “It takes a lot to throw your life away on a point of principle,” Christopher said. “Easier to keep your head down and hope things improve. It wasn’t like it was an everyday thing. Probably there were weeks, months, maybe even years when he forgot that he had done what he did, forgot that his life was in hock, forgot that he was living on borrowed time . . .” Christopher shrugged.

  “Forgot that he’d murdered our parents?” Kay asked, waving a hand at the gravestones and what lay beneath them.

  “No,” Christopher admitted. “I don’t suppose he ever forgot that.”

  They stayed like that for a long time, the two of them, the last of the Malloy clan, standing over the corpses of their parents, silence hanging over them, the sunlight beginning to dim. “Sin is sin, Christopher,” Kay said finally. “Even if we regret it, even if we were forced into it, even if it’s understandable, it marks us. It stains us, corrodes and corrupts. Innocence is a precious thing and needs to be guarded.”

  “Then I suppose it’s a good thing that you’re around to protect it,” Christopher said, taking her hand in his, staring east towards the river, and the skyline of Manhattan, and the vast world beyond it. Kay smiled and squeezed herself against him, and they stayed like that for a time.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  THIS BOOK exists because of the support and guidance of two people, Jonathan Karp and Marysue Rucci, who gave me the opportunity to tell a story. You’re both amazing. I still marvel at the serendipitous way in which my path intersected with Jonathan’s, and from that intersection, the concept for this book was born. His enthusiasm has been inspiring. I owe Marysue a debt of gratitude for her patient and insightful editorial guidance throughout the process. I consider myself extraordinarily lucky that she took this project on personally.

  Thanks to all the wonderful people at Simon & Schuster who fielded my many questions and made the publishing process look so easy when it seemed so overwhelming.

  I would like to express my deepest gratitude and sincere appreciation to Daniel Polansky. Your expert guidance and willingness to listen were very special to me. I learned much from you and can only hope I was a good student of the art. Till we meet again, good writing and good fortune.

  And finally, to the men and women of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, who keep our nation safe.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Heather Crowder

  Jan Fedarcyk retired from the FBI after twenty-five years, rising t
hrough the ranks to serve as the first woman assigned as the Assistant Director in Charge of the New York Office, the FBI’s largest and most prestigious field office. A Maryland native, she resides in the Annapolis area and runs her own consulting business. Fidelity is her first novel.

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  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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  ISBN 978-1-4767-3386-9

  ISBN 978-1-4767-3389-0 (ebook)

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