The Conor McBride Series Books 1-3

by Kathryn Guare

  It wasn’t long before Radha led Sedgwick—unshaven and noticeably subdued—over to the courtyard, and the two brothers stoically took up their assignments. Thomas and Sedgwick returned to the train station in preparation for their departure that evening. Conor asked Radha and Kavita to show him some of the places they had seen during their visit to the cathedral. They strolled around the gardens and came to St. Patrick’s Junior College, where the archbishop joined them, as if by chance. He guided them through the building, introducing teachers and describing the studies underway in various classrooms they passed. When they had finished, Conor sat with Radha in a small grotto behind the cathedral as twilight descended.

  “Do you think it is a good place, Con-ji?” she asked, watching his face anxiously. “Would you be happy for me to be staying here?”

  “I think it’s a very good place,” he assured her. “I’d be happy for you to stay, but more important, I think you will be happy here. Do you think so as well?”

  Her face relaxed in relief. “Yes. I think so, and I am glad you think this way, too. Shrimati-ji says I will be learning so much, and if I am studying well, then in some time I will go to university. I can become nurse, Con-ji! A good one! Really and truly.”

  “You’re a good one already, love.” He put an arm around her. “Really and truly.”

  They had supper with Archbishop de Cunha, and after the meal, Conor brought Radha out to the courtyard where a cycle rickshaw had arrived to escort the new pupil to her quarters. A smiling nun in a gray habit was waiting, along with a friendly young girl who had clearly been brought along for moral support.

  Her small bag of clothes and personal items had been sent over from the train earlier in the afternoon. Conor put it into the rickshaw, and after taking a steadying breath, he turned to face her. The moonless night wasn’t dark enough to hide the look of pain on her face.

  “Will you be coming back, Con-ji?” she asked in a small voice. “Will you be visiting me sometime?”

  He hesitated, wanting to lie and knowing he couldn’t. He took another shaky breath. “I don’t know, sweetheart. I know that I want to, and if I can, I will.”

  She nodded, lips trembling. “You will be going back to your home place.”

  “Yes. I think so.”

  In the next instant, her fine, small features had broken into pieces, and Conor was on his knees, pulling her into his arms. Her felt her tears soaking his shirt and tried desperately not to add his own to them. When she had cried herself out and grown quiet, he lifted her up into the rickshaw and gently pulled her arms from around his neck.

  He arranged the dupatta that was always falling from her shoulder and then, smoothing her hair, kissed the top of her head and stepped back. She caught his arm and gave it one last squeeze. “I am missing you already, bhaiyya,” she said, bravely meeting his eyes with sad composure. “And you? Also? Are you missing your Radha?”

  Conor nodded, fighting to keep his voice level. “I am,” he said, softly. “I am already missing my Radha.”

  29

  The archbishop’s sedan returned Conor and Kavita to the Cantonment Station with just fifteen minutes to spare before the train’s seven o’clock departure. The streets of Agra were even more engorged with traffic than earlier, but the uproar seemed remote as observed from within the hermetically sealed vehicle. A muffled echo was all that penetrated its quiet interior.

  Conor spoke little during the ride to the station. He felt bone tired, emotionally whiplashed, and the car’s supersonic air conditioning was aggravating his lungs. He hunkered down into the soft leather and dispiritedly watched their progress through the city, trying not to breathe too much.

  He rallied when he arrived on board the private car and found Thomas and Sedgwick lazily sprawled across the sitting room furniture, sipping mango lassis. Whatever “brotherly” conversation had taken place during the previous hours, it apparently had gone off successfully. Sedgwick still hadn’t shaved, but he was again cloaked in his preferred “dramatis persona,” caustic wit sharpened and at the ready.

  “God almighty, McBride. Are you ever going to get rid of that damned cough?”

  “I’ll keep you posted.” Conor kicked the agent’s feet aside so he could more easily access the sofa. “I was fine until I got locked in the archbishop’s bloody icebox of a car.”

  “Have the other lassi.” Thomas indicated the extra glass on the coffee table. “Maybe it’ll help.”

  “It won’t,” Conor assured him but reached for the glass as he sat down. “It has to taste like shite, or it isn’t any use. Kavita will be here any minute with my evening shot of floor polish, so we’ll all get some relief soon. How’s everything coming along on this end?”

  His eyes shot a question at Thomas over the rim of the glass, and his brother twitched a brief smile in response. “Oh, grand altogether. How about for you?”

  “Yeah, fine. Sort of. It’ll be fine.”

  He finished the sweetened yogurt drink, put the glass on the table, and coughed. “Told you.” Conor shrugged apologetically as Kavita sailed in with resolute purpose.

  “Not a moment too soon, ji,” Sedgwick remarked. “I was ready to kick him and his moth-eaten lungs out the back door. I guess this means lights out for you, pal.”

  “Ah, that’s where you’re wrong, pal,” Conor said. He winked at Kavita and shuddered in swallowing the dose. “Brand new recipe, same unparalleled flavor. I can go all night, if that’s what it takes.”

  Taking the empty glass, she smiled in approval and gave Sedgwick a subtle gesture of command as she left the room. Conor settled back on the sofa, regarding him with relaxed expectation. “Will it take all night, do you think? I’m ready when you are, so tell me a story.”

  The light mockery in Sedgwick’s eyes softened a few degrees. “Can’t say you haven’t earned it. Where do you want to start?”

  “How about with that gang who were shooting at us at the train station—what have you got on that?”

  “Bupkis. A hinky feeling with nothing to show for it.” Sedgwick ran a hand over his face and looked startled at feeling its light stubble. “They were too well trained and well armed to be from Mehta’s outfit—or Khalil’s for that matter. Plus, when I got back, I confirmed the lid was still on our Sassoon Dock rope-a-dope, so they had no reason to come after me.”

  “What about the police at the train station?” Thomas asked. Sedgwick shook his head with a worried scowl.

  “They weren’t saying anything, no matter how many rupees I waved at them. That alone puts up the hair on the back of my neck. Somebody’s paid them a bundle not to talk, or they’re afraid to. Either way, not good.”

  In the pause that followed, the Pullman’s coupling mechanism suddenly engaged with an echoing, metallic belch. The three of them jumped in unison and then settled back, grinning uneasily. The train lurched forward and began moving slowly out of the station.

  “Okay, so if it isn’t related to Khalil, it must have something to do with this other game the two of you are—no, sorry.” Conor stopped himself. “I know. Not a game. What about it, though? British intelligence thinks this is a money-laundering scheme to arm a Kashmiri terrorist group. Is that what the DEA is up to? Because maybe your customers aren’t satisfied with the service; maybe they sent a few representatives to Mumbai to let you know.”

  “Tom is the launderer for Pawan-bhai. That’s nothing the DEA started, although we took advantage of it.” Sedgwick pursed his lips and frowned thoughtfully at Conor. “And, the terrorist part . . . ” The agent looked to Thomas, as if seeking permission. His brother heaved a mighty sigh of resignation and glared at the ceiling.

  “There are no terrorists,” he growled. “Never have been.”

  “There have never been any terrorists?” Conor swiveled a glance back and forth between his brother and Sedgwick, uncertain who was going to pick up the thread.

  “Technically untrue, in the general sense,” Sedgwick said mildly. “Naturally,
there have always been terrorists. You find them on every continent, and in every—”

  “Oh, leave off, for fuck’s sake,” Thomas said. He pulled his gaze down from the ceiling. “We’re not talking about the general sense. This particular ‘story,’ I suppose you can call it, has nothing to do with actual terrorists.”

  “What’s it to do with, then?” Conor asked.

  “Fake terrorists,” Sedgwick replied promptly.

  “Uh huh. So far, I’m not mesmerized by this story. Please tell me it gets better than this.”

  “Not much,” Thomas said. “Just give it to him straight, Sedgwick. The whole thing is bunged together with chewing gum and butcher’s string if you ask me, but it will make more sense if you tell it properly.”

  “Okay, okay.” Without preamble, Sedgwick abruptly shifted forward in his chair and gave Conor an unblinking stare. “Have you ever heard of a man called Vasily Dragonov?”

  “No. Who is he?”

  “You really don’t know?”

  “I just said so. You think I’m lying?”

  Sedgwick regarded him for another few seconds but relaxed as Thomas let out another impatient sigh. “I just wondered whether his name got mentioned in any of your briefing books. Vasily Dragonov is one of the biggest drug and arms traffickers in the world. Although they don’t get much support, the DEA—more specifically, Greg Walker—has been trying to nail him for twenty years. MI6 and the CIA give lip service to the idea, but they also use him as an informant for operations they’re running from Colombia to Kosovo. Dragonov craps out a few nuggets of information for them every so often, and somehow they forget they’re supposed to be capturing him.”

  “Shocking. I’m absolutely gobsmacked,” Conor said tonelessly.

  “Disillusioning, isn’t it?” Sedgwick grinned. “Anyway, Walker got tired of the bullshit, and he’s pretty high up in special ops now. The agencies have reciprocal agreements for information sharing, but he got permission to set up a sting operation and fly it dark and silent. He planned it to look so authentic that any national agents who came sniffing around would peg it as one more Dragonov project they could use as leverage for their next information download.”

  “How does it work?” Conor asked with a weary sense of déjà vu. He’d been asking the same question—to Frank, Shelton, Sedgwick, and his brother—for months now.

  Before Sedgwick could respond, Kavita returned bearing a tray with their evening sweet. It was a fragrant, steaming bowl of gajar halwa, a warm carrot pudding made with cardamom and sugar and garnished with roasted cashews.

  “Once again, Kavita-ji, your timing is impeccable,” Sedgwick observed. “We were just getting around to you.”

  She placed the tray on the table and sat down next to Conor, whose stomach was burbling in anticipation. Thomas quickly picked up a plate and passed another across to Sedgwick. “Get what you can now. Last night he put away most of it on his own.”

  “About time. He could use a few pounds.” Sedgwick threw a speculative glance at Conor. He spooned a serving onto his plate and continued. “Your brother might think it’s chewing gum and butcher’s string, but really, it was genius. The challenge is to lure Dragonov to a place where he can be captured, and that’s damn near impossible. He’s too smart to walk into a trap, but Walker has been studying this guy a long time. He’s done psych profiles, analyzed his habits, changing interests—all that shit. He came up with an idea for taking something this guy treasures and turning it against him, and the lynchpin in the strategy is our very own Shrimati-ji. Kavita Kotwal.”

  Incredulous and alarmed, Conor stared at the pint-sized figure sitting next to him. Eyebrows shooting up and eyes widening in what he assumed was a droll imitation of his own expression, she looked back at him.

  “Land of surprises, no? So much we did not know of each other, until few days ago only.”

  “I’m beginning to wonder how much I’ll ever know of you, Kavita-ji.” Conor sighed. “How in the name of Jesus and Mary do you figure into all of this?”

  Instead of responding, she inclined her head toward Sedgwick, and with a wink of affection, he gave her one of his rare, unguarded smiles.

  “Years ago, Dragonov got religion. He became fascinated with Hinduism and then got fanatical about the practice of yoga—asana, pranayama, dhyana—the whole shooting match. Completely obsessed with it, on a mission to find his true guru. It just so happens that one of the preeminent teachers of the ashtanga vinyasa system of yoga is also the most unorthodox guru in India, known in Rishikesh as Mata Saraswati Devi, but also known as Kavita Kotwal, the Devi of Dharavi and the wife of Mumbai’s biggest Hindu crime boss.”

  Conor had put an arm over the back of the sofa and was watching Kavita in open amazement. “Spiritual guru, humanitarian worker, all-around angel of mercy, and mafia wife—that’s a lot to reconcile in one small body.”

  “Haan.” Kavita’s head toggled, and she laughed quietly. “Problem is always husband, but what is so different? Where is the married woman in India who has no husband problems?”

  Sedgwick regarded her affectionately. “Our smartest move was at the beginning, when Walker decided to approach Kavita first. Once she was on board, Pawan-bhai didn’t stand a chance. Walker left the recruitment in her hands, and it was done within a week.”

  “He is older now.” Kavita shrugged. “He begins to have some thought for his place on the wheel of dharma.”

  “Well, it wasn’t completely altruistic.” Sedgwick smirked. “The price for his cooperation was to overlook the money-laundering racket and to collect intelligence on his biggest rival, Ahmed Khalil. That’s how I got hired. I was brought on to infiltrate Khalil’s organization.”

  Conor nodded as another piece of the mystery slipped into place.

  “Pawan Kotwal agreed to act as front man, a paying customer for Dragonov,” Sedgwick continued. “He’d pose as a gang boss turned radical, looking to arm a Hindu paramilitary group in Kashmir. We’d run negotiations through Dragonov’s middlemen, and with some innocent small talk, start making references to Kavita and her ashram, hoping they would take the information back and plant it on Dragonov like a virus, get him wondering if she might be his true guru. We knew it would take years, planned it that way, in fact. We’d build a steady relationship as a predictable customer, keep dangling this tantalizing bit of tinsel at him, and look for him to make a grab at it. The key was having the right middleman for our side of the relationship, which turned out to be Pawan Kotwal’s money-launderer. Your brother.”

  The revelation was not entirely surprising. Conor absorbed it with a curt nod while Thomas pushed himself up from his chair and pulled out a package of cigarettes. He indicated the door leading to the rear observation deck. “I’m off to the patio for a smoke.”

  “Now?” Conor looked at him in irritation. “Can’t you wait? We’re just getting around to your part.”

  Like smoldering brush exploding into flames, Thomas turned on him in a fury. “Yeah, thanks, I’m aware of that, Conor,” he barked. “I’ve been living it, and I know how it goes, don’t I? I don’t need to hear the whole feckin’ thing all over again. Let him carry on with it. He’s on a roll.”

  The small sitting room shook with the crash of the rear door slamming shut and then settled into numb silence.

  30

  Rattled by the vehemence erupting out of nowhere, Conor watched his brother through the door’s glass window. Thomas moved to the edge of the platform with his back to them and bent over in the darkness, his large hands spaced wide and locked onto the deck’s railing.

  “What the hell was that about?” Conor breathed, weakly. “What’s wrong with him?”

  Sedgwick was standing and also gazing out at Thomas with an expression that was unfamiliar to Conor. With its polished glaze of cynicism stripped away, his face seemed tender and defenseless, particularly when he turned to Kavita, as though seeking reassurance.

  “It is not about you, beta,” she said ge
ntly. “Let him be.”

  “Isn’t it always about me?” His smile was pained and apologetic. “Self-absorption is a signature element in people like me.”

  For a moment, it appeared he would go after Thomas any way, but finally he sat down again with a sigh. “It’s Robert Durgan, the bastard who tricked him into the money-laundering mess in the first place. He hates him, and he’s scared of him, and he can’t stand talking about him. I’ve never met the guy, but I’d cheerfully kill him if I ever got the chance. Walker nearly did. It was a reasonable strategy, but when it blew apart, he almost lost it. He gets so deep into the cobwebs of his obsession that he . . . shit. Sorry.”

  Sedgwick flashed a humorless grin. “I’m in the cobwebs too, I guess. You don’t have a clue what I’m talking about, yet.”

  “No,” Conor said. “Listen, if you want to take a break from this . . . ”

  Sedgwick shook his head. “Let’s get through it. Otherwise he’ll stand out there all night. He’s as bullheaded as you are.”

  “Go on outta that. I’m not as bad as him.”

  They looked at each other, and suddenly both were smiling. For the first time Conor felt a bond with his one-time boss, surpassing anything they had previously shared. They were like two younger siblings, commiserating over the autocratic disposition of a big brother.

  “Where was I?” Sedgwick leaned back in his chair. He put a booted foot on the coffee table, but Kavita quickly shifted it off again with a light slap against his knee.

  “Talk more quickly, Curtis,” she instructed, gathering the empty plates onto the tray. “I will be bringing chai in a short while.”

  “You’ve got to hand it to Pawan-bhai,” he continued, when the two of them were alone. “He figured the best assurance of DEA protection for his money-laundering operation was to get Durgan into the game, and Walker agreed to it. Kotwal gets Durgan to come out of his hole and fly to Zurich to meet Walker—who’s posing as Pawan-bhai’s business manager— about a special project. Now, this guy stood to make a tidy sum out of all this, plus whatever extra business came his way from the intelligence I pulled out of the Khalil gang. Sweet deal. Unfortunately for him, the dickhead overplayed his hand.”