Fidelity Read online

  They gave you a target; some background information, date of birth, education, marital status, a few pictures taken from a distance or, more recently, scraped off of Facebook. If it was possible, Tom liked to do the first bit of surveillance himself; of course, he had any number of underlings on his payroll but he had always found it useful to begin the operation on his own, rather than have his initial understanding of the target filtered through another person’s eyes. After two decades in the business Tom had developed a sort of sixth sense for sin: he could sit down with someone for five or ten minutes, watch them out of the corner of his eye, ask them a few friendly questions, excuse himself and tell you with virtual assurance about drink, drugs, gambling debts, a pretty girl that his wife did not know about, perhaps a pretty boy.

  Tom scratched at the garbled fat of his buttocks through his jeans, took a nip of vodka against the cold, wedged himself into his car seat. His size was the only thing that had ever kept him from being an absolutely first-class surveillance man. He had everything else required: cold, discerning eyes, a memory like a steel trap, the ability to ignore boredom, to concentrate for endless hours narrowly on one particular point or individual. But he could do nothing about his size, and people tended to remember a six-foot-three completely bald man sitting on a bench across from their apartment. On the other hand, his size had been an advantage on those rare though not unheard-of occasions when he was called upon to do more than watch. He was over forty now, and some of his muscle had turned to fat—but not all of it. There had been a time when he had a reputation as a bruiser, and he still suspected, if it was necessary, he could remember which end of the gun to point.

  His real name was Lev Telstei, although it had been a very long time since anyone had called him that. Sometimes late at night, alone in his bedroom as the clock face turned round its usual path, he would say it softly to himself—“Lev Telstei, Lev Telstei, Lev Telstei”—but never very loudly, never above a whisper. It had a strange ring to it these days, like a lyric from an all-but-forgotten song.

  Most of Tom’s life was no different from that of any other American citizen. He owned a small store near Brighton Beach, a step up from a bodega, his pride insisted, although grim-eyed honesty admitted it was not a very large one. Still, it did not run itself, and at any given moment most of Tom’s time was dedicated to all the many tasks required to keep his cover business operating: payroll and inventory, that sort of thing. Over the years he had acquired a trustworthy enough staff, but still, it was a rare day that did not see him behind the counter for at least a few hours, making sure things were running properly. His wife had died some years back, an Illegal like himself, the two of them set up with each other shortly before being shipped out to New York. It was more of a business arrangement than a love affair, but it was an amicable one, at least. He had been in a state of modest despair for some six months after her death, and still missed her sometimes, though faintly and without any great passion. Tom was an unsentimental sort, as much a part of his personality as it was a skill developed over long years working at his real job.

  There were innumerable nuances and subtleties to the spy business, but most nations used the same rough structure. Within their embassies were embedded legal resident spies. These individuals were entitled to the same protection as other diplomats, and could not be prosecuted but only expelled back to their country. Although the FBI worked diligently to ascertain the identities of these individuals, and generally succeeded, they were still useful in coordinating or assisting in operations.

  Beneath this network were a select group called, simply, “Illegals.” Unknown, or at least undeclared, to their host country, they went about their business creating fictitious lives, as bartenders and cabdrivers, as businessmen and oil magnates, as housewives and hookers. For years and sometimes decades they burrowed into their cover stories, appearing to any outside observer to be no different from your next-door neighbor. All the while, of course, they were intimately involved in intelligence operations, trying to recruit potential targets or running surveillance. In practice, every side had an incentive to keep their people alive, and these days should an Illegal get arrested he was most likely to be swapped for a counterpart, the modern equivalent of a prisoner exchange. But not always: in the worst-case scenario an Illegal with his cover blown would find himself living out the rest of his life in a federal penitentiary.

  Beneath even these Illegals were individuals cultivated to support them: a ring of small-time criminals, thugs, drug dealers, prostitutes and general lowlifes whom Tom had quietly and faithfully assembled during his nearly two decades in New York. A few of the brighter and more senior ones might have had some idea that there was more to Tom than his cover as a minor criminal and fixer, although none could have pointed to any evidence of his being an SVR Illegal, and of course remained blissfully unaware of the existence of his superiors. Compartmentalization, after all, was one of the most critical requirements of the trade. No person should ever know anything about any other, or about any other operation with which he or she is not directly related. To do otherwise was to risk destroying the entire chain because of one weak link.

  Tom sighed and scratched himself again and went to light a cigarette, remembering only after he had checked both of his front pockets that he had given up smoking six months earlier and made do with a stick of gum that he chewed through a snarl.

  Tom had been born in Odessa back when it was still part of the Soviet Union and was trained by the KGB in all the different aspects of intelligence work: how to set up a network, how to recruit and train other agents, how to pass information without alerting U.S. intelligence, how to navigate the dangerous and dimly lit world of international espionage. And finally, how to kill: with a rifle or a pistol, with poison, with a length of twine or a piece of pipe or a bit of sharpened metal or his oversized hands.

  When he had first stepped off the plane almost twenty years earlier he had thought himself properly trained to accomplish anything that would be required of him, and had soon realized how wrong he was. It had been Pyotr Andreev who had given him the master class in spycraft; who had made him, if Tom said so himself, as good at his job as anyone on earth; who had taught him to blend in seamlessly with American society, to operate inside it like a fish in water. To set up an organization of people you could control but must never trust; to use that organization to surround a target; to bend that person into the direction you required them to bend.

  Yes, more than anything else, Pyotr had taught Tom to corrupt, to pervert—but there was only so much even a master like Tom could do with someone as morally blameless, not to say dull, as Kay Malloy. She went to work, she went home, she went back to work. Sometimes she met a friend for dinner. That was about as exciting as it got. These idealistic types, these young crusaders, they could be tough. Driven by work or advancement, lacking that happy hedonism that, generally speaking, made Tom’s job so easy. A month now his men had been tailing her, searching quietly for some vulnerability to seize on, some way into her life. She did not do drugs; she did not gamble. She did not drink to excess—at least, she did not drink in such a fashion that made her act foolishly. She had not yet taken a man home to her bed—not that that alone would help them much in these days of frivolity. But at least it would have been something, some tangible trace of humanity to lock onto. Alas for both of them, he secretly thought, Kay’s life consisted of work, sleep and an occasional visit to an aged relative.

  Well, they were not always easy, were they? If they were all easy, then anyone could do Tom’s job, and then Pyotr would not value him so highly. It was a source of pride for Tom, he could quietly admit to himself but no one else, that a man like Pyotr saw fit to leave large aspects of his operations in Tom’s hands. Within the SVR, Pyotr was a figure of dark legend, his name whispered rather than spoken aloud. Most often he was referred to by one of his nicknames, the “gray man” or the “gray suit,” both meant to
indicate a certain vagueness, as if he could be seen only from the corner of your eye or in twilight. He was there but he was not there. He was the guy behind the guy behind the guy.

  The chop-chop-chop of an engine snapped Tom out of his reverie, and a moment later a motorcycle made its way noisily into a parking spot across the street. A man got off it—­unhelmeted, Tom noted casually, his eye for transgression as keen as ever. He had long hair and a handsome face and a worn leather jacket. He hooked his fingers into his pockets and strutted into a neighboring bar, and Tom did not think he was imagining the drunken roll to his gait.

  Tom smiled. It was easy to break a person by their vices, but it was very nearly as easy to break them by their virtues. Kay Malloy was not a drunkard, not a gambling addict, not corrupt, not promiscuous or a fool. But she was a loyal sister, and in the end that would be enough.

  17

  KYRA MARTIN stood five foot seven, with dark hair and rather striking eyes. An academic, having received a doctorate in conflict management from an Ivy League university two years earlier, and she dressed like one: Her clothes were more conservative than stunning, but what could be expected of a young woman in an entry-level position at one of the innumerable think tanks that dotted the city? It was not as if she were a fashion consultant or arm candy for some Wall Street banker. No, perhaps her clothes left something to be desired, but the body beneath it was far from homely, and her lips were a bright and vivid red.

  “Not bad for a woman that doesn’t exist,” Kay said, checking herself one final time in the mirror. Walking to the door, Kay reached for her regular purse, caught herself with a quick and severe rebuke, then grabbed the one hanging next to it. Inside were tissues, lipstick, a few sticks of chewing gum and a Florida driver’s license and credit card with her fake name emblazoned on the front. Outside, she managed to flag a passing cab, told him the address—a venue on the Upper East Side—and settled into her seat.

  Deep-cover FBI Agents were required to undergo elaborate training before being certified to enter the program, but more casual light cover, of the sort that would hold up to a brief investigation but not more than that, could be entered into by any Agent. It was not the sort of thing that had come up much when she was working violent crime: a young, pretty woman of her particular complexion would not have been very effective as a mole in the drug enterprises that blanketed the city of Baltimore. Here in counterintelligence, however, Kay’s background and looks fit neatly into a far wider range of scenarios.

  At least, that was the reason that Jeffries had given her the day before when she had explained the situation. “Tomorrow morning the Institute for the Advancement of Near East Relations will be having a talk, with drinks to follow. We’d like you to attend. We’ll give you cover as an academic, get you an RSVP—not that you’ll need one: these things aren’t exactly velvet-rope events; most of the people going are there because they can’t get out of it. Get a lay of the land,” Jeffries said vaguely. “See if there’s anyone worth talking to, and talk to them, and remember what they say.”

  Kay had wondered if there was more to it but knew better than to ask: Jeffries spent words like a miser does pennies, each weighed and measured and carefully chosen. If she elected to leave Kay’s assignment vague, that was a deliberate decision. Asking for clarification would only serve to agitate her superior and leave Kay no more knowledgeable.

  Kay stepped onto the sidewalk half an hour after she had gotten into the cab, adjusted the hemline of her dress and walked towards the entrance with what she hoped was confidence. The security guard—really more of an usher—scanned his list for the name Kay offered. There was no reason to be nervous, Kay told herself: surely her credentials could pass such basic scrutiny, and even if there was some mix-up, she could just walk off huffily. But she was nervous, and had to work to keep it off her face, and didn’t let go of it until the guard nodded and waved her inside and even then not entirely.

  She found a seat in the back and sat quietly for a few minutes before the lights dimmed and the panelists came onstage. The next hour and a half passed by slowly. The discussion was, if not painfully dull, then far from memorable: standard boilerplate about the importance of continued good relations between Russia and the United States. Few members of the audience seemed any more interested; there were lots of dulled eyes and slack mouths. The applause afterward was cordial but nothing more, and then the assembled rose and filtered out through the foyer and into an adjoining bar for the reception.

  Kay got a drink at the bar and scanned the assemblage: intellectuals and would-be experts engaged in animated conversation, a hard core of diplomats and consulate functionaries and political players discussing business quietly. From one corner Kay heard the loud strands of harsh Slavic speech, sipped her wine and began to pay closer attention, her limited grasp of Russian insufficient to give her much insight into the conversation beyond that it was taking place. It was a small group, several men in not-quite-nice suits drinking slightly more vodka than the moment strictly required, and an attractive middle-aged woman with a well-worn look of boredom. Kay spent some time trying to remember how she recognized the man sitting next to her. After she remembered, she finished her glass of wine, gathered up her courage and went to make a new friend.

  “Privet,” Kay said to the woman with what she hoped was ingratiating half awkwardness.

  “Dobry vecher,” the woman said, smiling sweetly to assuage Kay’s discomfort.

  “Mogu li ya sidet?” Kay asked, with a slightly more tortured accent than she was capable of.

  The woman waved at the vacant seat in offer and Kay dropped down beside her. “Where did you learn Russian?” she asked.

  “I think ‘learned’ would be far too strong,” Kay said. “I took some classes back in school, but . . .” She shrugged. “A lot of water under the bridge since then.”

  The woman smiled. “For you less than me. I’m Olga Stonavich.”

  “Kyra. A pleasure to meet you.” Only the first half a lie. “You don’t mind, do you? I don’t really know anyone here. I suppose I feel a bit out of place.”

  All of which was true, actually, which was probably why Olga seemed to believe it. “Don’t worry, that will wear off soon, and then you’ll just be left with the mind-numbing tediousness of the evening.” Kay laughed and Olga laughed also. “What are you doing here, exactly?” she asked.

  “I’m part of the Fieldings Insitute,” Kay said. “Just joined, actually. Moved up here from Virginia two months back. Still trying to get my sea legs.”

  “Don’t feel bad, darling,” Olga said. “I’ve been here four years and sometimes I still have no idea what’s going on.”

  “And yourself? What brings you out this evening?”

  Olga tilted her head at the man who had been sitting next to her earlier, now deep in conversation at the other end of the room. “Boris works at the consulate,” she said. “And our attendance is . . . strongly encouraged at all of these functions.”

  “How lovely for you,” Kay said.

  Olga laughed again and shrugged.

  The conversation continued easily, comfortably. After that initial bit of dishonesty, and a few sentences of deceit that Kay found rolled off her tongue rather more smoothly than she might have expected, there was little need for falsehood. Olga, like most people on earth, enjoyed talking about herself, and Kay made sure to keep the conversation moving in that direction. Nothing overt, nothing obvious, nothing interrogatory; just the casual empathy of one person trying to learn about another person, her life and history and habits and problems. Soon Olga’s glass was empty, and soon after, Kay filled it and got one of her own. After forty minutes they were laughing and chatting like old friends, and Kay found that she was enjoying herself.

  “How strange to have to move across the world,” Kay said, “and to bring your entire family with you! It must be difficult.”

  Ol
ga shrugged. “I knew it was a possibility when I married Boris. And it could be worse, far worse. You don’t have much choice in where you get posted: I have friends that are whiling away their hours in third-world hellholes who would cut off a finger to spend a winter here in New York!”

  “And your children?”

  “They love it,” Olga said, smiling. “Children take easiest to new environments, new settings. Our eldest, Vladimir, never wants to go back.” The smile faded from her face, as if she had remembered something unpleasant.

  If Kay were Kay and not Kyra, she would have ignored Olga’s change in demeanor, recognizing it as one of those short moments of unhappiness that sometimes eclipse a good mood and are best left unremarked on. Instead she said, “Is something wrong?”

  Perhaps it was the vodka, perhaps it was Kay’s false good humor. Whatever it was, Olga found herself continuing. “Nothing, really. My husband’s posting ends this summer; we’ll all be traveling back to Moscow. Vlad is a senior; we were hoping that we could stick around long enough to see him into an American college. He’s a very bright boy,” Olga assured her, as if Kay might think otherwise. “But he’s had some . . . learning problems. They’re not very well equipped to handle that sort of thing back home. We had very much hoped that Boris’s posting might be extended but it seems unlikely now that it will happen.”

  “How unfortunate,” Kay said, her face a mask of sympathy, consciously mimicking Olga’s own. “There is no chance for him?”

  “There doesn’t seem much of one,” Olga said. “It would be rather a difficult thing to acquire a visa for him.”

  “Of course, of course,” Kay said, scribbling furiously in her mental notebook. “Keep up hope!” she said, patting Olga on the shoulder. “The world is a strange place, and fate sometimes lays unexpected plans.”