Fidelity by Jan Fedarcyk Page B

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
    K YRA M ARTIN 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.
    â€œNot 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 morecasual 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