The Conor McBride Series Books 1-3

by Kathryn Guare

  "Yes. I did. Did Conor mention Thomas disappeared into India, and that he went there looking for him?"

  "Thomas died in India?" she asked.

  "Jammu-Kashmir. From a gunshot wound."

  "Did you shoot him?"

  "Of course I didn't shoot him, for God's sake."

  "Well, I'm sorry," Kate shot back with equal intensity. "How was I supposed to know? I don't know anything except what I just told you."

  "That's okay, Kate." Sedgwick's glare softened to a sly grin. "I'm here to fill in the blanks."

  "Maybe I'd prefer to leave them empty," she countered weakly.

  "Sorry, not an option. I need your cooperation but first I have to brief you on what's going on, so you've got to hear it."

  She briefly considered trying to stop him anyway, instinctively knowing their conversation would carry consequences beyond anything she could predict. Despite her outburst, she felt unequal to the task of matching wits with the lean, weathered professional in front of her. He was a different specimen than the freshly laundered agents from Williston. Like a tempered blade that had seen its share of battles, he looked sharper and more dangerous.

  The setting was beyond spectacular. Its backdrop was a series of gently rounded mountains nestled in uneven rows receding into the distance. In the foreground a performance tent floated above the field like a dollop of meringue, its roof plucked into stiff white peaks. Colors and convivial sound spilled out in front of the stage as concertgoers continued to arrive, spreading blankets and chairs, opening baskets, uncorking wine.

  Conor was in everyone's way. He'd paid little attention to his surroundings while parking the truck, concentrating instead on the yellow-vested volunteers waving him along, but once he'd arrived on the threshold of the Trapp Meadow he'd been struck motionless, utterly gobsmacked by its beauty.

  This was one of the things he was coming to love about Vermont, because it reminded him so much of home. Every craggy corner was stuffed with unanticipated wonders, and whether natural or manmade they radiated an indescribable spirit, mirroring the soul of its people.

  And those people were, to a large degree, tolerant and unhurried—additional characteristics he admired. They'd arrived for this concert in a caravan of cars, winding their way up from the village of Stowe, past the alpine grandeur of the Trapp Family Lodge, to arrive at a rapidly filling meadow. Now, his immovable body stood at the gate between them and their destination, but with only a few curious glances they patiently streamed past him like water around a boulder.

  Collecting his wits Conor stepped forward to present his ticket. Once inside he moved away from the foot traffic to scan the crowd, half-hoping not to find what he'd been told to look for, but the two empty chairs jumped out at him immediately. A rush of adrenalin propelled him down the field, but after sitting alone for fifteen minutes his heart rate had slowed and his attention wandered to a wicker basket the size of a steamer trunk placed between the chairs. He was inspecting the contents packed inside when he heard a familiar voice above him.

  "You've not drunk up all the wine, I hope. It's rather a special vintage and I've been looking forward to a glass all day."

  "I might have done, if you'd been much longer." Conor paused as he peered up over the basket's lid, grinning at the novel sight of the elegant Frank Emmons Murdoch in a red polo shirt, khaki shorts and sandals. His silvered hair gleamed in the afternoon sun but he seemed younger than Conor remembered, perhaps because the summer attire revealed him to be surprisingly toned and fit.

  "How are you, Frank? You're looking well. The all-American style suits you."

  "As it does you, my boy. You positively glisten. Quite an improvement from the haggard shell I dropped on the curb at Heathrow five months ago." He dipped into the basket and came out with a chilled bottle and corkscrew, both of which he handed to Conor. "Do the honors for us now, and we'll toast our reunion."

  "Hmm. An Austrian Riesling." Conor shot Frank a deadpan stare. "Who recommended that, I wonder?"

  "Yes, this was all Eckhard's idea. Marvelous, isn't it? I keep expecting a pink-cheeked child to spring from the woods singing Edelweiss." Still emptying the picnic hamper, Frank hesitated. "What did you think of our illustrious conductor?"

  "I was prepared to dislike him, but it didn't take." Conor pulled the cork from the bottle and sat back. "The two of you have a lot in common."

  Frank nodded, amused. "He's extremely cross with me at the minute and I don't wonder. His family are friends of the von Trapps, and with the symphony playing tonight—well, I do regret his disappointment. I really ought to have let him come, I suppose."

  "Why didn't you?"

  "Because it's not all fine wine and music, I'm afraid. You and I have private business to conduct."

  "How's that?" Conor asked. "As I recall, last time we talked you said MI6 had released me."

  "Did I? How odd." Frank gave a perfunctory smile. "We never let anyone go, Conor. Now, let's enjoy some refreshment before we start. It likely won't taste as good to you later."

  The ceiling fan above their heads was rotating at its lowest setting, barely stirring the humid air, but Sedgwick appeared chilled and uncomfortable and his shivering had become more pronounced. He pointed at the fan, wincing as he pulled himself upright.

  "Do you mind if I turn that off?"

  "Let me." Kate got up and tugged the chain to cut the motor. As the rotation slowed, she caught one of the blades and gave him a worried glance. "You must have a fever. Should I get you a jacket from the gift shop?"

  "I doubt it would help much." His eyes squeezed shut against another tremor and he nodded sheepishly. "Might help a little."

  Once zippered into the fleece jacket she brought him, Sedgwick irritably refused her suggestion of hot tea. "Sit down. We don't have a lot of time."

  "You're welcome." Kate added some acerbic weight to the remark, wondering if she should throw him out after all, or if she even could. She had no idea what kind of jurisdiction these federal agencies had. Ignoring her attitude, Sedgwick drew in his shoulders and again crossed his arms.

  "The story starts with the guy who conned Thomas, the mastermind of the scheme to rip off the EU. He calls himself Robert Durgan—probably an alias. We still don't have a firm identity for him, but rumors say he broke from an IRA fringe group to start a money-laundering business for developing world mafias, running the operation through a chain of Irish pubs. He was looking to get started in Mumbai, and decided grant fraud was an easy source of capital. So, he got a few old friends from Northern Ireland to find him a patsy, and they found Thomas."

  Kate's mouth had dropped open at hearing the words "IRA," "money-laundering" and "mafia" in one sentence. Sedgwick narrowed his eyes.

  "Is any of this familiar?"

  "No. It's just . . . not what I expected."

  He peered at her, thrumming his fingers against his arm, and finally continued. "Thomas wanted to turn himself in, but Durgan's men convinced him it would be 'healthier' for him and his family if he did what he was told. They got him out of the country just ahead of the Irish authorities and a month later they had him placed in Mumbai, using the grant money to open a pub and run the business as a laundromat for Pawan Kotwal, the city's biggest Hindu mafia boss. Okay, what now?"

  Kate thought she must look like a grazing goldfish. Her mouth kept opening and closing in stupefaction. "Hindu mafia? I wasn't aware there was such a thing."

  "Why would you be?" He scowled. "Google it on your own time. Let's stick to the main story."

  "I'm not the one who keeps interrupting it," Kate snapped, her dazed compliance shattering. "And you haven't explained why you need to tell it to me, but I don't have a lot of time either. I've got a business to run."

  As if on cue, a tentative tap sounded and the door opened. Dominic's apologetic face appeared around its edge. The question was regarding a group booking for an anniversary dinner the next evening. After a whispered conversation he withdrew with a discreet, curiou
s glance at her guest.

  Sedgwick had twisted in his chair to observe the exchange. Seeing his cool amusement as she turned to face him, Kate's hostility began to work up a head of steam. She resented his presence and his hard-edged arrogance, and she resented Conor for whatever he'd done to bring these furtive characters out of the woodwork like questing termites. Most of all, it was humiliating to hear this story from the curled lip of a stranger when she should have demanded it directly from the source a long time ago.

  "What?" she challenged, glaring furiously.

  "Seems as though I've miscalculated. You're not easily intimidated by authority are you?"

  "I was earlier but it's wearing off, and frankly it's hard to find you menacing when you're quivering like a tuning fork. You said you need my cooperation, and from the shape you're in you're going to need a bed and more of my ibuprofen, so maybe you should give up on intimidation and try a little charm instead."

  "Maybe you're right."

  "What's wrong with you, anyway? This is an odd time of year for the flu."

  Unexpectedly, her vehemence drew a genuine, spontaneous smile from the agent, which startled her. Because it did make him look quite a bit more charming. Almost boyish.

  "You're just like him," he said. "No wonder he's hung around here so long. Can we leave that question alone, for now? We'll get off track and I don't have a lot of gas left."

  Kate spread her hands in sarcastic consent. She sat down, relenting as she watched him burrow into the jacket, searching for warmth. "Can I get you anything?"

  "No." He glanced up and smiled again. "No, thank you. Where was I?"

  "Thomas. Laundering money through an Irish pub in Mumbai. For Pawan Kotwal, the Hindu mafia boss."

  "Right, which is how I met Thomas. The Special Ops division of the DEA was in Mumbai, setting up a sting operation to bring in a Russian named Vasily Dragonov— a big-time drug and arms dealer. We needed someone with the right profile to pose as a buyer, so we were building a relationship with Kotwal."

  "You were working with the mafia boss," Kate clarified.

  "Yeah, exactly. Covert ops are a daily slog through ambiguous shit like that."

  "Again, I don't understand why you're telling me about a covert operation."

  "Does it make me seem more menacing, or charming?"

  "It makes you seem crazy."

  Sedgwick gave a weak laugh. "You're not the first to think so. Anyway, Kotwal agreed to play ball but he wanted to keep everything at arm's length, and his firewall was his money launderer. He told us to run the whole thing through Durgan. The DEA agent in charge of our operation was Greg Walker, and he met with Durgan in Geneva, saying Kotwal had recommended him as the right man for a piece of new business. Didn't go well. Durgan was an asshole and Walker decided we couldn't work with him, but we discovered he had a guy in Mumbai managing the flow of Kotwal's money through the pub. So I started schmoozing Thomas. After a while he trusted me enough to tell the story of how he'd been fucked by Durgan, and I got him on board by promising to take the guy down if he'd help us with Dragonov. It was a multi-year operation, went like clockwork, but just as we were ready for the sting MI6 staggered in and got everything fucked up good."

  "MI6?" Kate asked.

  "British Secret Intelligence." Sedgwick rubbed his fingers against his eyes. "They'd picked up the line about an IRA dropout who was washing money for international mafias. They didn't know who the hell he was but they followed the trail leading to Thomas, and sent a man to Mumbai to find him and persuade him to inform on his boss. As luck would have it, they asked me to babysit their operative while he was in Mumbai. I was one of MI6's non-official cover agents in India." Seeing Kate's exasperated confusion, Sedgwick paused. "I guess I just lost you."

  "You told me you're with the DEA," she said.

  "Which I am." He gave his pocket a slap. "Want me to show the badge again? At one time though, I was a contractor, kind of a freelance operative-for hire. MI6 didn't realize I had a job with the DEA. We couldn't risk telling them about the Dragonov operation, or let them have Thomas, so Walker asked me to run their agent in circles, which turned out to be fairly easy. London sent a fat douche bag they had to recall after he drank his way through Mumbai and blew his cover. We're not sure when or how Durgan got wind of the whole fiasco but we think he must have a mole inside MI6, because a few months later he passed a piece of information directly to Thomas. The British were training a new agent to send to Mumbai, and this time their operative was an amateur—his own little brother. Conor McBride, the fiddle-playing farmer."

  Stunned, Kate sat back in her chair, fumbling for the armrest. For reasons that had never been simple, it had suited her to minimize the importance of Conor's opaque past, but this was far different than anything she'd imagined. The dark-eyed man with the lilting voice who managed her farm, played lullabies, flirted with her chef—and who had stirred something in her she was only beginning to understand—was someone she really didn't know at all.

  Struggling to find a germ of comfort in the revelation, she focused on the innocence implied in the word "amateur operative," but as though reading her thoughts Sedgwick exploded this effort immediately.

  "I figured an amateur would be even easier to get rid of, but I was never more wrong in my life. They gave him ten weeks of training before throwing him out to me like cannon fodder, and he turned out to be one of the purest talents I've ever worked with—unflappable, good at almost everything. For a while I distracted him with a side job I managed, collecting intelligence on Kotwal's rival drug gang. I had him doing some pretty nasty shit but he just kept coming back. I couldn't shake him. In the end, we had to come clean and bring him into the DEA's operation." He lifted his eyes to look past Kate, fixing on a point near the ceiling behind her head. "Might have been a mistake. We made a lot of them."

  His face grew slack and Sedgwick stopped, appearing to lose the thread of the story, and Kate tried to decide if she should discourage him from continuing. Whatever ailment he was suffering from, its severity was beginning to alarm her. The fever had surfaced patches of crimson on his face and his ears glowed like red-hot coils. She wondered if a 911 call was going be added to the interesting events of the evening.

  At the very least she'd have to put him to bed in a guest room. She doubted whether he could make the trip on his own, which meant she'd be hauling a ragged, incapacitated man through the lobby and up the stairs at the peak of the dinner hour. Perfect.

  "Maybe you should stop now," she suggested.

  "The operation was compromised." Sedgwick abruptly pulled his gaze from the wall and continued as though she hadn't spoken. "We'd finally landed a face-to-face with Vasily Dragonov at a mountain resort called Gulmarg, in Kashmir, promising a twenty million dollar transaction. Unfortunately, one of our own DEA team members, an analyst named Tony Costino, figured he could profit by switching sides. He tipped off Dragonov, so we ended up running straight into a trap instead of springing the one we'd planned. There was a firefight and Thomas took a bullet in the side. We carried him down through the woods to the car so Conor could take him to a hospital in Srinagar. I arrived later, but they hadn't shown up. I never saw either one of them again."

  His face twitched convulsively—reacting to something other than fever, Kate suspected. He reached for the glass, needing both hands to hold it steady, and she rose to pour more water.

  "Is this why you're here? To find out what happened to Thomas?"

  "No, I know what happened to him." He choked out a hollow laugh. "But I'm sort of curious about what happened to the twenty million dollars he and Conor transferred out of the DEA's bank account that day in Gulmarg. Hopefully, our talented Irish lad has the answer, because I'm not the only one wondering, and I'm not the only one who knows he's here."

  13

  Forewarned is forearmed.

  He didn't remember who coined the aphorism, but it was bloody good advice that always failed him in the presence of his MI6 recru
itment officer. Perhaps because Frank Murdoch seemed so clever at disarming him—primarily through the use of alcohol.

  Conor drank a small amount of the crisp white wine—enough for the obligatory toast—before moving on to a local stout fished from the bottom of the cooler, confident the bottle had been stocked with his tastes in mind. The brew tasted all the better for not being too cold. Americans had a puzzling aversion to unchilled beverages.

  After beguiling him with food and beer, Frank continued the campaign with newsy updates from the professional world of "Classical Violin", a world Conor felt quite disconnected from now. He had to admire Frank's attention to detail—Gil Shaham's establishment of his own record label, the release of a re-mastered compilation of Kreisler—all this esoteric information spilled from his lips with impressive ease.

  Conor reclined in his lawn chair, and as they talked he flipped through the program book and watched their surrounding neighbors. To their left an older couple sat on a beach towel, pulling a simple meal of pita and hummus from their backpack, while in front of them a party of "patrons of the arts" handed wine glasses around a low, cloth-covered table complete with candles and a wildflower centerpiece. None encroached on their established boundary. The enormous blanket spread beneath his and Frank's chairs provided a discreet but effective no-man's land on all sides, ensuring privacy for whatever business was forthcoming.

  The conversation followed a meandering course and Conor played along. Frank never came at anything directly—he preferred to promenade around its edges until his quarry was too tranquilized to struggle. He was also in no hurry because he'd already been warned the fun wouldn't last, and he found himself enjoying the reunion. Frank's motives didn't necessarily match his own, but Conor never succeeded in sustaining any level of antipathy toward the man. He had to admit he enjoyed his company. Frank held him in high regard as well—his fondness was palpably sincere—but Conor would not make the mistake of expecting affection to trump the agent's cold-blooded professionalism.