The Conor McBride Series Books 1-3

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The Conor McBride Series Books 1-3 Page 46

by Kathryn Guare


  "Yeah, since we're on this topic—it wasn't Durgan who showed up in Geneva."

  Sedgwick squinted at him. "What do you mean? I told you about the meeting. Durgan was an asshole. Walker said he'd never be able to trust him."

  "Wasn't him," Conor insisted. "Thomas said Durgan suspected a trap so he sent a stand-in named Desmond Moore, one of the farm assistants who conned my brother into the grant fraud. When he figured out later that Desi had bollixed the meeting he tortured and killed him, and sent Thomas the photos as a warning."

  Sedgwick was too weak to muster more than a fretful complaint. "Why didn't Frank fill me in on any of this?"

  "How the hell should I know? Anyway, come on, now." Conor mopped the agent's face with a wet cloth to keep him awake. "Costino contacted Durgan. What did he say?"

  "Okay, okay." Sedgwick swatted the cloth away. "This time he tried a threat. Told Durgan his man in India had screwed up, said you and Thomas had stolen federal government money and if Durgan didn't cough up your location a team would be mobilized to bring him in and string him up. Risky move, but Tony knows he can't hide from Dragonov forever. He's betting Durgan knows where you are, and thinks if he can find you he'll find out what happened to the twenty million dollars. To be honest, I can't argue with his logic."

  "What happened?" Conor asked, ignoring this pointed remark.

  After an appraising stare Sedgwick settled his head back on the pillow, all remaining energy sapped. "Durgan actually replied. Said he had no information about Thomas but might have an address for you. The threat didn't scare him, though. He said Costino would have to make his cooperation worth something, and told him he'd be in touch again later. His message was the first confirmation I had you were even alive . . . and that Thomas probably wasn't. By this time I was on the way to Bangalore. I watched the internet cafe around the clock for a few days, but Costino never showed and didn't access the email account again. Then I got malaria. Thought I had food poisoning at first, since I puked most of the day. When I finally got off my knees it seemed more important to find you than to waste any more time crawling around Bangalore, so I got in touch with Frank."

  "When was this?" Conor asked.

  "Two weeks ago. Should have contacted him a long time ago, I suppose. Never trusted the old son of a bitch, but in the end I had no one else to call."

  "What about the DEA? Aren't they interested in finding Costino as well? You must have reported back to them?"

  "Yeah, funny thing. I tried but they didn't want to hear it."

  Sedgwick's lips were barely moving now, and before this tantalizing bit of information could be explored he crashed into sleep. Conor let him go this time and slumped against the chair, equally exhausted by a narrative that had raised as many questions as it answered. Within minutes sleep had pulled him under as well, but at the touch of a hand on his shoulder, he snapped awake with a gasp.

  "Shit. What's the time?"

  "Calm down. It's only eleven o'clock." Kate stood in the circle of light cast by the bedside lamp, holding a covered plate in one hand. "How is he?"

  "Should be okay, assuming my drugs work better than his." Conor gestured at the plate. "He's probably not going to eat anything for a while."

  "I brought it for you," Kate said.

  "Oh. You did?"

  "It's just a sandwich."

  "No, that's . . . thanks." He reached forward but Kate swung away, plate firmly in hand.

  "Let him sleep, now. You can eat upstairs. While we talk."

  "Right. Okay."

  Conor watched her disappear into the hallway, his hands gripped on the arms of the chair. He pressed hard against the back of it and the dovetailed joints strained against the wood, releasing a high-pitched creak. E Minor, he thought mechanically. After a minute, he stiffly rose and followed her.

  In Kate’s apartment they faced each other across a tiny café table in the kitchenette—an alcove more than a room, barely big enough for both of them. To buy a little time Conor forced down some of the sandwich, but the bread churned in his throat like wet concrete, nearly gagging him. He gave up after a few bites, which fortunately left his airway clear when Kate addressed him with icy precision.

  "You used me, and you used my home as a hide-out."

  God knows he'd had enough time to prepare, but the accusation and its undeniable truth left Conor searching for breath. In one simple sentence she'd captured everything. He'd used Kate to his own advantage—used her need, her compassion and her tolerance—and betrayed her trust. He'd violated her home by cowering in its safety, hiding from her and everyone else, including himself.

  "I suppose this is my fault as much as yours," Kate went on bitterly. "I asked but I never demanded, and I projected on to you what I wanted to be true. I thought we shared something in common, because I assumed we were talking about trauma and grief, not spies and secret operations."

  "Those things aren't mutually exclusive." Conor dipped his head at her responding stare. "No. I understand that's not the point."

  "How long did you think you could do this, especially after last night . . . at the pond?" Kate's voice caught. "Didn't you realize silence wasn't going to work forever? That you'd have to give me something? Even if it was a lie?"

  "That's what they trained me for, sure." Conor picked at the sandwich, unconsciously crumbling the bread into a pile of rubble on the plate. "To lie, and become good at being somebody I'm not. I wanted to believe I'd be lousy at it. Turns out the whole business slips over me like a comfortable old coat. A perfect fit. I got used to lying, and yes, I figured I'd be giving you more of the same—but I didn't. I never did lie to you, Kate. I've wriggled like a snake, trying to keep you in the dark, but I didn't lie. From the minute I ever laid my two eyes on you I knew I wouldn't be able to."

  He risked a peek at her face, and the anguish he saw did him greater damage than her anger.

  "Maybe you didn't lie, but you weren't honest. Not really."

  "No," he acknowledged. "Not really. Honesty wasn't an option. The only thing I could do was leave, which I should have done a long time ago, but—"

  "I wanted you to stay. I asked you to."

  "And I convinced myself it would be okay. I was tired of losing things, tired of leaving everyone I care about behind me and just . . . feck it. Tired."

  Conor sensed control escaping him by degrees, like air whistling through a knife-pricked hole. Pushing up from the table as though yanked by an unseen hand, he picked up the plate and stared at the wreckage.

  "Jesus. I've made a mess of this. Sorry."

  Recognizing the irony, he looked at Kate and gave a miserable shrug. Her responding smile—brief and sad—hinted at the possibility of forgiveness, a gift so generous it shuffled him that much closer to the edge. She rose and took the plate from him, pressing him back down into the chair. After tossing the mangled bread into the garbage and leaving the plate in the sink, she returned to her seat.

  "There are some things you need to tell me, now."

  Conor nodded, and winced at the pain throbbing in his head.

  "Did you take the money—the twenty million dollars these people are trying to find?"

  "Not exactly." The equivocation lit a dangerous spark in Kate's eyes that he rushed to subdue. "The meeting with the Russian arms dealer—Dragonov—was supposed to include an electronic transfer of the money from the DEA to an account they shared with him. Costino was the operation's legal analyst and he'd convinced Greg Walker—the senior agent in charge—a transfer had to happen to make the case stick in court. Now we know why. It was a convenient way for him to make sure Dragonov got his money. Even at the time the idea sounded mad altogether and Thomas didn't like it, so he opened an account at a bank in South America to receive the transfer instead. He asked me to set the password but I don't even know what country he picked, much less the bank. I never imagined I'd need to. It was all so we'd be able to transfer the money back, not get blamed for losing twenty million dollars if something w
ent wrong. Of course, it did— everything went wrong."

  Conor stopped. He couldn't control what happened in his dreams, but many months had passed since he'd allowed his waking mind to exhume the chaos of that day in Gulmarg. The passage of time had not softened the panic cascading along his nerves, a sizzling fuse racing toward ignition. He rocked forward, catching his head in his hands, and surrendered to the weight of memories.

  Somewhere beyond the ringing in his ears Conor heard Kate murmuring his name. He felt the pressure of her hand massaging the back of his neck, but couldn't respond. The tableau was repeating again and he was powerless to stop it—as he always was. The figure in white comes into focus, turns to him in astonishment, and the forest explodes.

  15

  Kate made it until ten o’clock the next morning before giving in to curiosity and aggravation. The previous evening she'd felt embarrassed and ill used, and had been spoiling for a fight with Conor—an objective frustrated by his immediate capitulation. In the end they'd both been too worn out to take the argument further, so she'd settled for Conor's account of the meeting with his MI6 superior, Frank Murdoch. At midnight, she'd left him still mumbling apologies outside his room while she made a brief trip downstairs to check on Sedgwick, who was also mumbling—in his sleep.

  Her own sleep had been fitful and uneasy, and as the morning wore on Kate grew increasingly on edge. She'd been cheated of the opportunity to vent a cleansing fury, and now had been excluded from whatever discussions she presumed were going on without her. Neither of the two "agents" sheltering under her roof had made an appearance as yet. For once, Abigail had taken the morning off, but Ghedi, the Somalian sous-chef assigned to the breakfast shift, reported Conor had not shown his face at all, nor could Kate find him in any of the usual places. She assumed he and Sedgwick were holed up in the agent's room, exchanging information they may or may not choose to share with her.

  After seeing off her final overnight guests her patience and her nerves had stretched to a filament. She double-timed it up to the second floor and down the hall to Sedgwick's room, storming the barricade with two firm raps. The door abruptly swung open and the force of it nearly sucked her inside.

  "Oh. It's you." Sedgwick planted an arm against the doorframe and grinned at her. "Afraid I was dead? Or hoping I was?"

  He'd showered and dressed—a clean pair of khakis and a blue polo shirt—and apart from a lingering pallor he seemed largely recovered. Caught off guard, Kate fumbled for an opening line before hitting on the most obvious one.

  "How are you?" She looked beyond him, confirming he was alone.

  "Not too bad. Joints are kind of achy. Not sure if that's from the fever or from McBride throwing me around the room. Did you want to come in?" He swung the door wider. Deflated, Kate walked in, thwarted again in her effort to be incensed.

  "I thought I'd find Conor here with you." She flopped into the chair near the bedside table. "Plotting or scheming, or doing whatever spies do when they get together."

  "Plotting and scheming pretty much covers it." Sedgwick sat down at the foot of the bed. "I only woke up an hour ago. Haven't seen him."

  Kate cast about for a topic of conversation, wondering what she hoped to accomplish before impulsively posing a question she hadn't expected to ask.

  "What went wrong that day?"

  "He still hasn't told you." The softness of Sedgwick's tone surprised her.

  "He tried, I think he wanted to, but he couldn't." She dropped her gaze to her hands resting in her lap. "He has nightmares. I've heard them a few times, but he doesn't know."

  After a long silence she looked up at Sedgwick, who absently rubbed a hand over the globe-shaped finial of the bedpost, as if it were a crystal ball that might provide answers for both of them.

  "Everything went wrong," he said, echoing Conor's words. "He had to run away from all of it. There was no other option, but that's hard to remember when you're sweating it out in the middle of the night. He'll tell you when he's ready."

  Kate nodded, looking restlessly around her. Odd, to sit like a tourist in one of her own guest rooms, evaluating the amenities from an outsider's perspective. Were the curtains as clean as they should be? Her attention settled on an edgeless lucite picture frame sitting on his bedside table. The photograph inside showed a beautiful, smiling Indian girl with a lustrous braid pulled forward over her shoulder. She wore a red school jacket and white skirt, and held the handlebars of a dusty bicycle.

  "Is she your daughter?"

  Sedgwick gave a self-deprecating snort. "No, luckily for her. I'm an honorary bhaiyya—elder brother—and a stand-in if I'm honest. McBride still reigns as Number One bhaiyya."

  "Who is she?" Kate picked up the frame and studied the photo more closely.

  "Her name is Radha. Her father sold her to a dance-bar pimp in Mumbai when she was twelve years old. McBride bought her back so to speak, and nearly got himself killed in the process. One of his little adventures. She's at a convent school in Agra, now. I visited her three months ago and she wanted me to send the photo to him. At the time I didn't know if he was dead or alive, but I wasn't about to tell her."

  Sedgwick laughed, a grudging sniff of appreciation. "He can be as cold-blooded as he needs to be, has some amazing talents, but self-protection isn't one of them. He won't put on the armor. Leaves him vulnerable to everyone and everything that wants to stick to him—needy children, old ladies, tuberculosis—"

  "Tuberculosis?" Kate glanced up sharply.

  "Oops. Shit. Forget I said that." Sedgwick made a wry face and changed the subject. "Where the hell is he, anyway? I figured he'd be hoisting me out of bed at daybreak."

  "Off somewhere, I guess. I can't find anybody who knows. Tell me what you meant by—"

  "Wait. You're saying nobody's seen him?"

  "Maybe he walked into town. He can't be far. The truck and my car are still here."

  Sedgwick was up and at the window before she'd finished. He looked down at the parking lot and then turned to study her, the cool speculation she'd seen the previous evening dropping over his face like a mask.

  "Well, my car is gone. Fortunately, there's a tracking device under the hood."

  She couldn’t believe Conor would run away, but the evidence and Sedgwick's conviction were hard to challenge. He tore into his duffel bag and came out with a laptop and a slightly larger square device, then ran from the room with Kate close behind, chasing him down to the ground floor.

  "Get me your keys," he said over his shoulder.

  "I'll drive. I'm coming with you."

  "No, you're not."

  "Then I won't give you the keys."

  Sedgwick pulled up at the foot of the stairs and glared at her. "You think I can't start a car without keys?"

  She was composing a scathing retort when the front door opened and Conor stepped into the lobby, balancing a large white box on one arm. Before the moment could elude her again Kate gave voice to her pent-up wrath.

  "Where the hell have you been?"

  Conor froze with his hand on the doorknob. The box wobbled at a dangerous angle and he steadied it, staring at the two of them.

  "At the bakery in Montpelier. Abigail asked me to collect the cake for the anniversary group booked in tonight. She didn't tell you?"

  "It's morning. She's not scheduled to be here."

  "Since when does that matter?"

  "Why did you take his car, for God's sake?" Kate hiked a thumb at Sedgwick.

  "It's a Mustang." Conor shrugged, as though further explanation would be superfluous.

  "It's government property you dickhead, and it's got a trunk full of surveillance equipment among other things." Sedgwick did a slow-motion collapse on the stairs, looking weary. "If you'd been stopped for speeding we'd be dealing with a shit-storm right about now."

  "Jaysus, really?" Conor smiled faintly. He pulled the keys from his jacket and tossed them over. "Good thing I wasn't, then. Don't leave those lying around in your pockets fr
om now on." His dark eyes lost their glitter when they shifted back to Kate. "So, I guess you thought I'd scarpered for the border, or the airport or someplace. That's what you expected from me?"

  "Not as much as he did." Kate was still fuming. "Don't try throwing me on the defensive, Conor. You've got no right to the high ground. You told me you had pneumonia last winter, but this one is telling me it was TB. Who's lying?"

  Conor glared at Sedgwick. "Thanks very much."

  "Sort of slipped out."

  "You can't pretend you didn't have time to tell me all this yourself." Kate paused, seeing Conor's annoyance abruptly darken into something more threatening. Without further warning, he exploded.

  "And what exactly was I supposed to say, Kate? Lovely of you to have me here, and by the way I'm an undercover MI6 agent, just off a badly fucked up black ops project with the DEA?" He slammed the box on top of the registration desk. "Yes. I got TB in Mumbai. Last winter."

  "How?" Kate asked.

  "I suppose I caught it off someone else," Conor snapped. "As one does. People get tuberculosis in India, along with malaria and cholera and a bunch of other biblical diseases we don't much worry about in Hartsboro Bend. Then, while I was hiking around in the fucking snow in Kashmir, I caught pneumonia as well. So, nobody was lying and now you know; and can I just say that if you'll be going off your nut like this every time a new fact emerges, you should probably start drinking a lot more than you do now."

  Kate had never seen him so angry. Instead of fueling her own rage it gave her an irrational urge to smile. Avoiding his eyes she approached the desk and peeked into the box, relieved to find the cake still intact. She turned to his scowling face, and a belated sting of anxiety erased the inclination to laugh.

  "Tuberculosis is curable, right?"

  "Not always, but in this case, yes. Thanks for asking." He took a deep breath, and continued more calmly. "I did a six-month therapy with shed-loads of pills and was cleared a few weeks ago at Copley Hospital. Darla saw me there, ask her. She haunts the place."

 

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