With a smooth motion, the leather chair glided back. Frank opened the middle drawer of the desk and removed an envelope. He slid it across to Conor with a rueful smile. “It may surprise you to learn that of the two petitions you put before us, this was by far the hardest. Several markers got called in to secure it.”
Conor opened the envelope and shook out the items inside: a US permanent residence visa, an Irish passport, and a piece of folded stationery.
“You know the drill for passports,” Frank said. “Don’t get caught traveling with more than one. The letter gives details for your alias, should you choose to use it—one F. James Doyle—and it has the refreshing stink of truth to it. Just try not to mention you’ve been dead for fourteen years.”
Conor studied the letter in silence and then tucked the documents into the inside pocket of his jacket. “And the second petition?” he asked, getting to his feet. “Is that secured as well?”
“Nearly there. I’ll overnight the final documents to Dingle. You’ll be there at least a few days before moving on?”
He nodded, and Frank folded his hands on the desk, regarding him with pensive concern. “Are you quite certain of this? Such a permanent, self-imposed exile? The service has an obligation to provide protection for you. We have a section for that.”
“What progress have you made in tracking down Durgan?” Conor asked. “Have you discovered anything yet?”
“Very little,” Frank admitted. “But let me again assure you that Agent Sedgwick’s poor opinion of MI6 is unwarranted— at least in this instance. No reciprocal relationship exists between the service and Robert Durgan. I’ve been perfectly honest with you. I’ve no idea who he is. We’re pursuing it. I’d hoped the Mumbai pub might lead to something, but everything was in your brother’s name. We’ve frozen the accounts so Durgan can no longer access them.”
Conor smiled, grimly. “I’ll bet that’s made him happy. Maybe the service itself isn’t involved, but you agree his knowledge of my recruitment suggests MI6 must have a mole in here somewhere?”
“It’s hard to draw any other conclusion. There’s a section for that as well, but I’ve started my own inquiries.”
“And Dragonov?”
“There, we don’t come off as honorably.” Frank dropped his head to stare at his hands. “I can’t touch him as long as MI6 wants to continue using him as an informant.”
“God, almighty.” Conor exhaled a humorless laugh. “How did I get mixed up with you lot? Britain’s best and brightest. So, are you seriously asking me to accept your so-called protection, go back to the farm, milk my cows, and wait for an assassin to crawl out of the woodwork? No. I didn’t think so.”
A wave of dizziness disturbed his train of thought. He tried to disguise it, putting a hand on the back of the chair, but the ploy was no match for a trained eye. Frank stood up and indicated the chair with a commanding snap of his fingers.
“Sit down. Have you eaten at all today you bloody fool? You’re prepared to fly to the earth’s four corners to escape men we’re not even sure are pursuing you, but it strikes me you’re rather cavalier about surviving this illness.”
Conor dropped back into the chair, pressing a thumb and forefinger against his eyes. “Survival is a tedious business, it turns out. I’m not sure it’s to my taste, but I wasn’t given a choice. On the whole, though, I’d rather slip away in a sallow, wraith-like sleep than be tortured to death.”
“Christ, what a macabre piece of idiocy.” Frank reached for the phone. “Gavin, a tray of sandwiches and a pot of tea, if you please. And have them bring round my car in an hour. I’ll be dropping our guest at Heathrow for his afternoon flight home.”
As could have been expected, Frank’s car was one smooth, comfortable ride, and as he slipped into the passenger seat, Conor couldn’t resist a mild dig.
“Of course, it has to be a Bentley. You never go against type do you?”
“I have an image to maintain.” Frank’s eyes gleamed with self-deprecation. “It can be hell, but I persevere. It’s pre-owned and not actually mine. Perhaps that makes me slightly less absurd?”
“Ah, you’re all right. I’m sorry.” Conor realized he was beginning to dislike himself in this mood of jaded cynicism. “Who wouldn’t drive a Bentley, if they could?” After a short pause, he added, “I do appreciate this, Frank.”
“It’s really no trouble,” Frank said. “I live just the other side of Heathrow in Windsor.”
“I don’t mean the ride. I appreciate that as well, but I meant everything else. It’s a lot of money, after all.”
Frank’s warm, hazel eyes swept over him before returning to the road. “It’s a lot of money, but good God, Conor, it’s only money, and the service has it. It hardly makes up for what we lack in other areas, and as I already mentioned, purchasing eighty-nine acres of farmland wasn’t as dicey as acquiring a green card. I only hope you don’t come to regret it.”
He already regretted it. He would never stop regretting it. He had never wanted the farm. There was a time when he couldn’t wait to leave it, but when he had returned to it, the land unexpectedly captured him. He grew accustomed to feeling bits of it under his fingernails, holding clumps of it in his hands, and feeling the give of it beneath his boots. At first, it was something he just got used to; he wasn’t sure when it turned into something he loved. There was a certain peace in lying down at night, knowing the land was there beneath the floors of the house. That it belonged to him, and he to it.
Selling it now was like tearing out whatever remained of his soul, but Conor didn’t know what else to do. He couldn’t remain there like a sitting duck, and he couldn’t let others go on tending it indefinitely. He also wouldn’t have a job once he left home, and wasn’t sure where he would find one. He needed the money, and Frank had wanted to do something. This worked for both of them, but it troubled his mind wondering what British intelligence would do with eighty-nine acres of land on the Dingle peninsula.
“They’ll resell it, won’t they?” he asked. “I mean, they won’t go turning it into something clandestine?”
“They won’t even know they’ve bought it,” Frank said. “Not for a good long time. Proverbially speaking, I will be keeping it on a shelf for a while. In case you change your mind.”
They arrived at Heathrow, and Frank brought the Bentley to a stop at the curb in front of the terminal. He cupped his fingers over his chin, regarding Conor doubtfully. “You will keep up with the treatments? A relapse could be particularly dangerous.”
“I’ve got a sack full of drugs. Haven’t missed a day yet.”
“You’ll need to be seen regularly, to be tested.”
Conor smiled. “Don’t worry. I’ll be okay.”
“Yes, I believe you will be, in time. I won’t embarrass you by asking whether you intend to stay in touch, but as I can’t phone you, and as I believe you’ve mislaid the one I gave you earlier . . .” With a typical flourish, Frank produced a card from his vest pocket and passed it to Conor. “A new number. You know what to say.”
“Thanks.” He accepted the card, and, removing his wallet, gave Frank an amused, sidelong glance as he tucked it into his billfold. “I wonder if there’s really any getting away from you, Frank. Like you said, ‘no hole on earth.’ I have a hunch we haven’t seen the last of each other.”
Frank laughed. “And your hunches are usually correct.”
Conor’s answering laugh was brief and wistful. “I am the son of Brigid McBride. My hunches are usually correct.”
They shook hands, but as he stepped from the car, Conor looked up at the terminal and was struck with a sudden memory. He bent to look back in at Frank.
“That parting gift you gave me last time, the silver cross—Thomas has it now. I left it with him.”
“Ah. Thank you for telling me.” Frank’s face brightened. “Slán abhaile, Conor, wherever it may be.”
“You as well, Frank. Slán abhaile.” Safe home.
42<
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Daylight was fading to a gauzy film of dusk when he reached the cemetery. He took a shortcut when it came within view, leaving the road to walk out over a field that gradually sloped up hill to the main gate.
The grass grew long on the hill. Wet from the day’s drizzle, it soaked his jeans and caught at the toes of his boots as he climbed. Around him, the fields spread out in their characteristic patchwork pattern, displaying varying qualities of green.
The walk took longer than he’d planned, but the lengthening shadows didn’t bother him. This was Ireland, a place where darkness came slowly. It descended with lazy reluctance, stretching itself over hours of deepening twilight.
He gained the crown of the hill and paused to rest, looking down at the landscape. Tidy houses dotted the countryside, and here and there, a plume of smoke rose from a chimney and instantly mated with the mist rushing down to meet it. He closed his eyes and relished the luxury of inhaling deeply.
A gust of wind lashed the hillside while he fumbled with the gate latch, and once inside, Conor paused again, leaning against it. His stamina was improving, but even today’s undemanding walk emphasized its limits. After a moment, he straightened and continued into the cemetery. The McBride family plot was marked by a decoratively carved high cross, and when it came within view, he felt a comforting twinge of familiarity. Dismissing fatigue, he walked forward to stand before it.
The monument’s original lettering had been smoothed by more than twenty years of weather, making the more recent name in the stone appear harsh by comparison. As he reached out to trace the fresh cut, his fingers trembled. He took a step backward and dropped his hands.
“I wanted to go with you.” The new, splintered quality of his voice still sounded strange to him. “I couldn’t get there. I don’t know what that means. Too strong to die or too weak?”
He pictured his mother’s face again as he had seen it last, fading away from him, while his heartbeat stumbled back to its regular rhythm. Her face had been full of love and forgiveness, but he wondered if she could have known what she was forgiving. How much could spirit understand once the body was left behind? Could it look into the mind of a loved one and see the crimes accumulated there? He sank down next to the cross, resting his head and hands against the cool stone.
“God forgive me,” he groaned. “I couldn’t bring him home, Ma. I couldn’t even bury him properly. All I could do was leave him there and run.”
Huddled against the cross, he wondered if she could know it was not only his brother he was remembering and that it was not his brother who haunted his dreams.
“Conor? God in heaven, is that yourself there?”
Looking in the direction of the urgent whisper, Conor smiled faintly. “No other. How are you, Phillip?”
“Jaysus, I can’t believe it.” Phillip Ryan approached through the darkness, his broad face illuminated by a penlight attached to a key ring. “How did you get here?”
Conor squinted as the circle of light landed on his face. “I got a cab from the airport as far as Graham’s store and walked from there.”
“I just came from Eileen Graham,” Phillip said. “She saw you heading this way and swore she was seeing your ghost, and I see why. You look half-destroyed. Are you sick?”
“Not really. I mean, not anymore.”
“How long have you been sitting here?”
“What’s the time?” Conor asked.
“It’s about half-nine.”
“So, an hour and a half, then.”
“I can’t believe it,” Phillip repeated. “You look—”
“Half-destroyed. So you said.” He put up a hand and Phillip pulled him to his feet with little effort.
“It needs saying again,” Phillip said, shaking his head. “You’ve dropped two stone at least, and what’s wrong with your voice?”
“Dose of pneumonia,” Conor said lightly, hoping to modulate the drama. “They had to open up a hole in my neck to get some air in, and I guess they hit a few things they shouldn’t have.”
“Holy mother of God,” Phillip breathed. He aimed the penlight at Conor’s throat, examining the scar. “Must hurt like hell, then?”
“It doesn’t actually,” Conor assured him. “Just sounds like it does. Would you mind running me home, Pip? Now I come to think of it, I’m fairly knackered.”
During the ride to the house, he kept the conversation steered away from himself, posing a steady stream of questions and focusing on the last months of his mother’s life. She had remained characteristically serene and brave right up to and through her last days, Phillip confirmed. When she knew she was failing, she’d called her sister-in-law to come down from Galway. Honora had moved in and organized the hospice care, and was there at the end with her two daughters, Fiona and Grace.
“I ought to warn you,” Phillip said. “You’re as popular as a month of rain with those three women just now. Come to that, you’re not a great hero around town either.” He brought the car to a jolting stop in front of the house and turned from the wheel in sudden anger. “Conor, where in the hell have you been all this time, for fuck’s sake? You leave for London on a Thursday to meet with some dodgy Brit about your long-lost brother, and then you don’t come home for months? Did you not realize—”
“Of course I did,” Conor said sharply. “And so did she.”
He looked at the agitated face next to him and felt his resolve weaken. He owed his friend a great deal and couldn’t stand the thought of lying to him. Although there was little of his story that was safe for sharing, the urge to confess was unbearable. It would only get harder to resist the longer he stayed. With a resigned sigh, Conor threw open the door of the car. “Come on into the house. I need to talk to you about something.”
It wasn’t the story he knew Phillip wanted, but he did have news, and realized he needed to tell it now, before nostalgia took a firmer grip, tempting him to say more than was prudent.
An hour later, they sat in the living room with a bottle of whiskey on the table between them. Conor fidgeted uneasily in his chair, staring at the fire. The hissing blaze was too understated to provide much light, but its strawberry hue bounced from the rippled glass of the casement windows, giving their faces an artificial flush. When he could no longer endure the silence, he pushed the bottle forward, and cocked a questioning eyebrow.
“Say something, Pip.”
Phillip poured the width of two fingers of whiskey into his glass, stared at it, and then picked it up and took a slow sip before speaking. “Okay. I’m surprised all right. This place is your family’s legacy, and if you say the hunt for your brother was a wild goose chase, then I suppose he’s not likely to show up again to claim his share of it. It’s yours, free and clear. I never expected you’d make the choice to sell it.”
“Choice?” The word no longer triggered the withering bitterness in Conor it once had. It just made him feel tired. “When was the last time I did anything because I chose it?”
“How should I know? Why don’t you tell me?”
Conor cringed at the tension in his friend’s voice and met the hurt reproach in his eyes with difficulty. “Phillip—”
“You’re dragging around an awful heavy load, Conor. Why do you want to be carrying it all by yourself?”
“Because it’s mine to carry,” Conor said, softly.
“Rubbish.” Phillip pushed aside the whiskey bottle and sat forward. “You say you hunted all over India for Thomas because the British fellow said he was there. You say you never found him. Well, what did you find, for God’s sake? You were gone long enough. What happened over there that’s made you want to sell your farm and run off to America?”
When Conor made no reply, Phillip fell back against his chair and stared at him, angry and confused. “Have you got a buyer?”
“I do.”
“Who is it?” Phillip waited, and as Conor’s eyes fell to the floor, he slammed his glass down onto the table. “Are you joking me? I don’t eve
n deserve to know that much for the love of God?”
The chair toppled onto its side as he erupted from it. Conor flinched, half-expecting a fist to come flying across the table at him, but after he jumped up, Phillip’s rage appeared to dissolve. He froze, looking uncertain, and stepped over to the fireplace. He squatted down and began jabbing a poker into the heart of the guttering flames.
“When did you decide you couldn’t trust me?” Phillip asked quietly, thrusting the poker forward with rhythmic repetition.
“It’s nothing to do with trust, Phillip.” Conor could read his friend’s sense of betrayal in the stiffened muscles of his back and hated himself for it. “Believe me when I tell you, you don’t want to get mixed up with any of this. I’ve already said more than what’s good for either of us. I shouldn’t have come here at all, but I had to.”
“When will you leave?” Phillip asked, after a short pause.
“In a few days.”
“Where will you . . . oh no, never mind.” Phillip’s ordinarily gentle voice held a jarring note of mockery he had never heard before. “I suppose that’s a great secret as well. Not for me to question or to know.”
“Actually,” Conor said, carefully, “There’s something I was hoping to have your help with, if you’re willing. You’ve been to America, but I haven’t. I don’t know a soul and haven’t a clue where to go. You once told me about that cousin you visited over there, the one that died. Doesn’t his widow do B&B now? With a farm attached that she can barely keep going?”
“It’s not B&B. It’s an inn with a working farm. In Vermont.” Without turning, Phillip put the poker down on the floor next to him. He wrapped his arms around his knee and continued staring into the fire.
“Yeah, all right, an inn,” Conor agreed, stupidly nodding at his friend’s back. “I just thought, you know—me needing a place to go, her needing some farming help. Is it dairy?”
“Dairy, yeah,” Phillip said at last, breaking another interminable pause.
The Conor McBride Series Books 1-3 Page 34