The Conor McBride Series Books 1-3

by Kathryn Guare

  Conor hesitated as well. Again, he felt a vague suspicion that he was missing clues, but he still couldn’t put his finger on the source of his mistrust. “I guess it will have to be, God help me.” He winced as another cough rattled painfully against his ribs. “I may not survive the night, so you could be off the hook soon enough.”

  “I’m beginning to wonder if you’ll even make it through dinner.” Sedgwick gave him a worried scowl. “You should get that checked. Sounds like it needs something stronger than tea.”

  “Well, as it happens, I have something stronger, but I don’t like to use it much.”

  Conor picked up the knapsack sitting on the floor by his feet. From a zippered front pocket, he removed the small brown bottle that he had first seen in a British Airways plane bound for India.

  Kavita had been worried about him also. He had so far resisted her appeals for an examination at the hands of her personal physician, but he’d compromised by reluctantly accepting a bottle of her homemade physic. Although it was remarkably effective, he had used it only a few times. The taste was something altogether shocking, and he didn’t know what the hell was in it.

  He could detect the presence of ginger, anise, hot chilies, and mustard oil, but these ingredients did not account for the rush of relaxed euphoria he experienced after taking a dose of it. Clearly, there was a pharmacological wildcard in the mix, and since he had no idea what it was, he restricted the medicine to an intervention of last resort.

  He put the bottle down on the bar, and Sedgwick immediately picked it up with a look of intense interest. “Where did you get this?”

  “Ehm . . . ”

  The question was natural enough, but he wasn’t prepared for it. Conor hid his momentary confusion with a gulp of tea. “Bishan’s wife, Meera,” he said. “She’s always pouring her Ayurvedic recipes into me. This one works pretty well.”

  “Uh-huh.” Sedgwick removed the cap. As he leaned over the bottle to take a sniff, a portion of his silky hair fell over one eye, and a slow, reflective smile crept over his face. With a soft laugh, he nodded.

  With a sinking feeling, Conor watched him reach across the bar to pick up a shot glass. He didn’t know how, but it was clear from the recognition in his cool, gray eyes that Sedgwick knew all about the little brown bottle and its contents . . . and knew who had provided it.

  He filled the shot glass with the brown, viscous liquid, and their eyes met as he passed it over with a gently sardonic salute. “She probably told you take it like this, right? Meera, I mean?”

  Conor played the hand the only way he could—with feigned innocence. “She did tell me that, yeah.”

  He accepted the shot glass and tipped its contents down his throat, his mouth puckering at the revolting taste. The heat from the chilies made his eyes water as the medicine burned its way down his gullet, but almost immediately he began to feel its beneficial effects. The tickle at the bottom of his windpipe retreated, and he seemed able to breathe a little easier.

  “Better?” Sedgwick asked.

  Conor nodded. “I’d feel even better if the ingredients were listed on the bottle.”

  “That would be telling though, wouldn’t it?” Sedgwick said, with a wink. “There’s always a secret ingredient. Anything else on your mind? Before we go do this?”

  “Nope.” He tucked the bottle back into the knapsack. “How about you? Anything you want to add? About your Crimeans?”

  “Nope. Except that I’m as anxious to have it over with as you are.”

  15

  Perhaps because there had been so little in his stomach when he’d swallowed it, the shot of Kavita’s mysterious brew affected him faster—and more forcefully—than previous doses had. As Conor trailed Sedgwick out of the bar toward the restaurant, he felt a woozy, hypnotic warmth begin to envelop him. When the agent stopped short in the corridor with a whispered obscenity, his reflexes were not quick enough to avoid stumbling against him.

  “Arrey, gabh mo leiscal, yaar.”

  The apology, offered in a jumble of Hindi and Irish, caused Sedgwick to turn back to him in startled confusion. “What did you say?”

  Conor blinked. “Jaysus, I’m not sure. What did it sound like?”

  “It sounds like you’re drunk.”

  “Secret ingredient,” Conor suggested with an uncharacteristic snicker. “What’s the matter? Aren’t those your lads up ahead, there?”

  Sedgwick released his breath in a long, slow hiss of resignation and nodded. “They’re not what I expected. Are you going to be all right?”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Conor gave himself a slight shake and stood up straighter. “Anyway, I’m the dark, quiet sidekick, right? I’ll be a bit darker and quieter for a while. It will wear off before long. I hope.”

  “I hope it doesn’t.” Sedgwick started again toward the two men who were standing near the doorway of the restaurant. “It might be easier for everyone if it didn’t.”

  At first, it seemed Sedgwick might get his wish. They approached the strangers, and during the introductions, Conor wallowed in sleepy affability while trying hard to maintain his role as one of Khalil’s mysterious, deceptively tranquil goras.

  He was cautiously silent as they exchanged greetings, shook hands, and made their way in to the dining room. After taking a seat at a large round table that could have accommodated twice as many people, he began discreetly applying himself to the task of clearing his head.

  About fifteen minutes later, the cobwebs began to disperse, helped along by several glasses of water and a few pappadams slathered with hot, mixed pickle. With clarity of thought returning, he began a more discriminating assessment of their dinner companions.

  The men had introduced themselves as Grigory Lipvin and Anatoly Kovalevsky. Lipvin, the older of the two, was seated across from Conor next to Sedgwick. He was tall, appeared to be in his early sixties, and had a solid, athletic-looking frame. A shaved fringe of gray hair served as a notional border for the gleaming dome of his bald head, and he had small, dark eyes that looked out from behind a pair of wire-rimmed glasses.

  His associate sat on Conor’s left. Anatoly Kovalevsky was a short, slender, and dark-haired young man, no more than twenty-five if he was even that old. He had extremely fair skin; red cheeks; large, round eyes; and a conservative hairstyle featuring a straight, severe part down the side. He was the exact portrait of a young overachiever, right down to the conventional navy blue suit, identical in cut and style to the one worn by his elder counterpart.

  Kovalevsky had also not spoken after the initial introductions, and as the silence on their side of the table continued, Conor became more aware of the discussion across from them. Lipvin and Sedgwick sat with their elbows on the table, their heads bent toward each other. Although he could not understand their words, he could read the body language, and from the occasional, furtive glance Lipvin darted across the table, he felt confident in his interpretation. They were discussing him.

  His stomach lurched, and his brain—emerging from its stupor—struggled to keep up with the incoming stream of data. A dry-mouthed anxiety supplied a visceral substitute for the rational analysis that still eluded him.

  Something was wrong.

  His muscles twitched in an involuntary shudder, which the young Kovalevsky took as an invitation to converse.

  “So, Mr. . . . er, Con. You have been working in India for some time now?”

  Conor turned a smooth, inscrutable gaze toward the voice on his left. “I’ve been here a while,” he said, evenly. “And you, Mr. Kovalevsky? Is it your first time visiting India?”

  “Da. Yes, this is the first time, but there are no opportunities for sightseeing.” Kovalevsky’s brow wrinkled sorrowfully. He gave a deep sigh of disappointment. “All business. It is great shame to come so far and not see more of such amazing country.”

  “That is a shame.” Conor’s eyes remained riveted on Kovalevsky’s face. Since the young man had started speaking, a spark of understanding had begun
to grow and smolder, like a flame licking stubbornly against damp wood, and now it flowered into a steady glow. It was the voice, the accent, the face, and the clothes. The entire package was false.

  He was wide awake now and beginning to wish he wasn’t. If it was accurate, the insight crystallizing in his mind had ramifications so unexpected and disturbing that they threatened to overwhelm him. With effort, he drew on the training intended to guide him in such situations. He forced his thoughts to yield to a methodical process, and with the shadow of a smile, responded to Kovalevsky.

  “The Crimean peninsula is quite beautiful as well. At least I thought it was when I saw it.”

  And there it was. He’d been prepared to watch for something subtle, but no special powers of discernment were needed to register Kovalevsky’s immediate discomfort. The slight widening of his eyes and the reflexive glance toward Lipvin communicated his nervousness as eloquently as a verbal admission. He tried to cover the slip with a hum of delight.

  “Yes, of course, very beautiful. How marvelous that you have seen it. When were you there?”

  “Years ago,” Conor replied. “Sevastopol. Is that anywhere near you?”

  “Not far.” Kovalevsky waved a hand, vaguely. “I am from a small place not far from there.”

  “On the coast?”

  “Hmm, yes. The coast.”

  “Must be lovely. Right on the coast of . . . ” Conor paused with a small frown of uncertainty and looked at his table companion in embarrassment. “What sea? Funny, I can’t think of it. Is it the Caspian?”

  The young man smiled in an attempt to cover his frozen indecision. “It is, um . . . ”

  “Right.” Conor nodded. “The Caspian Sea. I thought so.”

  “Yes. Caspian.”

  Kovalevsky released his breath in a slightly explosive exhalation, but his relief was short-lived. Conor fixed him with a long stare of contempt.

  “Or is it?” he asked, softly.

  A dark red flush spread over the young man’s face and rose up to the precisely defined line of his scalp. Conor watched it without expression and turned away. The experiment was complete, the results analyzed, and the conclusion indisputable.

  Kovalevsky and Lipvin were no more Crimean than he was, and they’d taken very few precautions to hide the fact. With a dawning sense of incredulous shock, Conor also knew he was the only one their pitiful performance was designed to fool.

  They’re not what I expected.

  The meaning of Sedgwick’s remark and the source of his annoyance were now clear. He had been given a cover story only to find his associates had arrogantly neglected their side of the ruse. They had not adequately altered their appearance or demeanor to conform to the roles they were supposed to be playing. They could not have effected a more inept impersonation if they’d tried. They could not have looked more like the pompous Americans Conor was almost certain they actually were.

  Turning again to the ongoing drone of conversation across the table, he concentrated on the face of his controlling officer, which looked tense and unhappy, and tightened his jaw against a combination of emotions too numerous to name.

  One set of puppet masters was quite enough for him, but apparently not for Sedgwick. Apparently, he preferred to have some skin in more than one game, like a compulsive gambler. Or an addict. The exposure of his deceit was agonizing on many levels, but most harrowing was the realization that he couldn’t even be sure how big the lie was, how far back in time it extended, or who had started it.

  With that thought, the bedlam inside his head converged in rage and despair, but even in that extremity, his “talent for repose” did not desert him. With quiet, careful movements, he folded his napkin, slid his chair back from the table, and rose to his feet.

  “Mr. Lipvin.” He nodded to him and then looked at Sedgwick. Their eyes locked for several seconds, and the agent’s brow contracted, as though in pain. He whispered something soundless and slumped against his chair.

  “Thanks for your hospitality,” Conor continued. “And fair play to you on the success of your Pimsleur language lessons, but I’m afraid I’ve no appetite this evening—for dinner or any of this.”

  He retrieved his knapsack, and when he straightened, he swept his eyes over all of them, dismissively, and indicated the young man next to him with a tilt of his head. “If you’d really intended to keep the game going, you should have left this little fart of a fellow back in the States. Neither of us has ever been on the Crimean peninsula, but one of us at least knows it’s in the Black Sea.”

  16

  “McBride, hang on! Don’t run off without—where are you going? Goddamn it, will you please wait a minute?”

  On his way out of the building, Conor had veered from the long corridor, crossed the club’s wide veranda to the grounds beyond, and walked quickly across the manicured cricket pitch. He stopped now and spun to meet the shadowy figure advancing on him out of the darkness.

  “Is that an order, boss?” he demanded. “In what capacity, please? It’s dark out here, so I can’t see. Which official badge are you flashing at me, now, MI6 or CIA?”

  “I don’t have any capacity with the CIA.” Sedgwick came to a stop in front of him.

  “Sure, and if bullshit were music, you’d be a brass band. Don’t even waste your breath trying to sell me—”

  “I’m not selling anything. I’m telling you the truth. They’re not CIA and neither am I.” Sedgwick’s chin jutted defensively. “The CIA cut me loose eight years ago. Security risk to myself and my colleagues.”

  “What are you, then?” Conor’s voice shook with fury. “And what are they? Whatever you’re playing at, I’m guessing MI6 is out of the loop. Am I right?” Sedgwick’s lips compressed into a thin line. He nodded.

  “Right,” Conor said, bitterly. “As far as I can tell, that puts you and me on opposite teams.”

  “Not exactly,” Sedgwick said with a grim smile.

  With a growl of disgust, Conor shouldered his knapsack and turned away, heading across the field into the night. Sedgwick jogged forward to catch up and walked along beside him.

  “What are you doing?”

  “What’s it to you?”

  Sedgwick angled his head to the sky with a light groan. “I think you know why I need the information.”

  “Yeah, well, I think you know why I don’t feel the need to give it to you. I’ve had enough of this game, thanks very much. I’m not playing anymore.”

  Sedgwick took hold of his arm, pulling him to a stop. “I’m sorry it happened this way. Things aren’t what you’ve been led to believe, sometimes because people didn’t know any better and sometimes because they did. I understand that’s upsetting. It sucks to be lied to, and if it had gone differently tonight . . . anyway, my fault. They don’t trust me either. Not surprising. I warned them not to underestimate you, but I should have known they would.”

  “But, listen.” He gripped Conor’s arm more tightly. “Even though you don’t understand any of it, there’s a lot of dangerous and complicated shit going on, a lot of moving parts. It’s not a game. We’re not dicking around, making up stories for our own entertainment. You need to appreciate that.”

  Conor shook the hand off his arm. He shifted his weight, squared around to Sedgwick, and delivered a hard punch to his jaw. He watched as the agent tripped backward and sat down hard on the ground, his breath knocked out with a whoosh of astonishment. He loomed over him, fists still clenched, as Sedgwick struggled to breathe.

  “I know it isn’t a game, you miserable son of a bitch. I’m not that fat in the forehead, but if nobody will tell me what it is, then what am I supposed to call it? Has anyone spoken one word of truth to me since this mad shambles began? Is my brother even in this bloody country? Do you even know who he is? And do you have any idea what it has cost me to come over here for this? Do you have any fucking idea what it’s cost?”

  He whirled away and began pacing, fists pressed to the sides of his head. H
is chest heaved with the struggle to control his rage while Sedgwick regained his breath in ragged whoops.

  The agent rose to his knees and then got slowly to his feet. He silently watched Conor’s struggle before speaking again. “I do know Thomas. I’ve known him a long time. And he is in India. I’ve been working with him for years.”

  Conor’s fists unclenched. Recognizing the impotence of his wrath, his hands dropped down to hang at his sides. He stared at the ground in defeat. “You’ve known him for years, and you know where he is now. You’ve known from the beginning.”

  “Yes,” Sedgwick said, after a brief pause.

  “And you’re not going to tell me what this is really about or how to find him,” Conor added, tonelessly.

  “I wish I could. In fact I wanted to, but now I can’t.”

  “He’s never been near that drop house in Goregaon East, has he? All this bullshit I’ve been caught up in for the past two months—”

  “A feint, a distraction,” Sedgwick conceded. “I infiltrated the Khalil group years ago to collect intelligence. It was easy enough to bring you into it. It’s not the main event, and Thomas isn’t involved with them.”

  “Not the main event.” Conor choked a harsh laugh. “Just a minor attraction. And you get it coming and going, don’t you? Khalil pays you to help run his crime ring, MI6 pays you to babysit me, and your fake Crimean buddies pay you to keep me chasing my tail.”

  “That’s not quite the way I’d put it,” Sedgwick replied, “but the general gist is correct. We didn’t want you here. After we sent back the first MI6 agent pickled in gin, we didn’t expect London to send another one over so soon, and we certainly didn’t expect them to send an amateur. The conventional wisdom on this end was that after I’d trotted you around the hellholes of Mumbai for a couple of weeks, you’d give it up and cry to go home.”

  Sedgwick looked away and shook his head. “I had a feeling you wouldn’t though, and once I saw you shoot that guy’s knee apart, I knew you weren’t going away. I told them, but like I said, they tend not to believe me. They wanted to get a look at you. That’s why they called the meeting tonight.” The smile twisted into an expression of jaded contempt. “Their heads are so far up their own asses, they haven’t even realized yet how badly they’ve screwed up with you. The older guy—Lipvin—he’s thinking it’s all good. He figures you’re freaked and headed for the airport and that if MI6 gets a story about me dealing in something fishy—well, it won’t be anything they haven’t heard before.”