"Good." Kate closed the cake box and smoothed her fingers over the top, calming the atmosphere. "Are you hungry?"
Conor squinted at her, as though suspecting a trap. "Ehm, yes?"
"What about you? Breakfast?" Sedgwick gave a nervous start as she spun around to face him. He was still perched at the bottom of the stairs, in neutral territory.
"Yeah, sure. Whatever. Coffee, anyway."
"Well, come on, then." She picked up the cake box and started down the hall, and like obedient school boys the two of them fell into step, following her into the dining room.
"Sorry to screw up your love life, dude." Sedgwick shot Conor a skeptical glance. "She's sort of out of your league though, isn't she?"
"Feck off." Conor plucked a strip of bacon from the agent's plate. "You'd best be nice to me if you want any more of my primaquine."
"I was wondering where those pills had gone."
"Nicked them. When I went for your keys."
"Nice to know you haven't lost your edge."
Kate appeared, coffee carafe in hand, and frowned at Sedgwick's plate of half-eaten pancakes. "You're not doing a very good job of keeping up."
Sedgwick rolled his eyes. "Look who you're comparing me with—he eats like he's going to the chair."
She twitched a glance at Conor's empty plate before sitting down and pouring herself a cup of coffee. "What have you been discussing? You weren't supposed to start without me."
"Just trading insults," Conor said. "You haven't missed anything."
He was trying to keep up, also—to find a balance in the shifting terrain of Kate's mood. Since last night he'd seen her move through anger, bitterness, anguish and tenderness, and then back to anger again. He'd made the rounds through most of those as well. With anger put aside—at least for the moment—he detected a renewed smidgen of warmth between them, but also the sense of a retreat, as though they'd each pulled back to opposite corners, measuring out a safe distance from which to avoid being hurt. He decided not to dwell on what that felt like, or what it meant. He turned his attention to Sedgwick.
"Last night you said the DEA wasn't interested in hearing your report. Why?"
"Wish I knew." Sedgwick pushed the remains of his breakfast around his plate. "They flew over an officer to deal with the transport of Walker's body and settle down the Srinagar police, who naturally wanted an explanation for why they'd just lost six officers. I expected the guy to debrief me on the spot but he told me he didn't have clearance to hear anything, and he told the police their answers would be coming through diplomatic channels. He seemed genuinely in the dark. Privately, he said DEA headquarters was freaking out, and he'd seen a few characters in the hallways who smelled a lot like CIA. His official purpose was to put me on administrative leave until further notice."
Next to him Conor heard Kate abruptly shift in her chair with a small sigh of distress. She appeared tired and shaken, but managed a smile in waving off his concern. "Of course. The CIA. Why not?"
"Sounds fishy," Conor remarked.
"You think?" Sedgwick shot him a sarcastic glance. "What else would send me running into the arms of Frank Murdoch? For better or worse I'm buddied up with him on this gig, flying under the radar to hide the fact from my own agency." He poured himself a third cup of coffee before continuing with clipped efficiency. "So, this is where things stand. First we've got Tony Costino, desperate to deliver the twenty million dollars he promised Dragonov, which he thinks you have. Then we have Robert Durgan, who most likely got your location from a mole inside MI6, and he's essentially been told you and Thomas cheated him out of a huge piece of business. He's only waiting for a guaranteed return on investment to justify the risk of coming after you. Dragonov's assassins might find Tony before he can close a deal with Durgan, although we can't depend on it. We need a strategy for both defense and offense, but first let's go back to the question you dodged last night, McBride." Sedgwick put his mug down and rested his elbows on the table. "Where the hell is the DEA's money?"
"Haven't a clue," Conor admitted. "We did the transfer to a bank account Thomas set up in some South American country."
"Uh-huh." Unlike the previous evening the agent's gaze was focused and alert. "A country like Brazil, for instance?"
"Sounds as good a guess as any, I suppose. Why Brazil, in particular?"
"He used to launder some of Kotwal's money through a bank manager in Porto Allegre. Why did he do it?"
Conor explained his brother’s foresight in questioning the idea of putting twenty million dollars into an account Dragonov could access, and Sedgwick's face brightened.
"It must be the bank in Porto Allegre." He thumped a fist on the table. "Excellent. You've got the password for the account?"
Conor met his eyes without flinching. "Nope. He didn't tell me."
The decision to lie and its actual delivery was an instinct that formed in the space of an instant, before he even understood why he was doing it. In keeping with his training in this particular art, the words fell from his lips without hurry or hesitation, but Conor was less anxious about Sedgwick's reaction than Kate's, since the statement was a direct contradiction of what he'd told her earlier.
Sedgwick spat an obscenity, dropping his head in frustration while Conor extended a booted foot under the table to carefully rest on top of Kate's. So much depended on how she would respond, and he had no idea what to expect. She had already turned her head to him, her mouth opening to speak, but stiffened as she felt the pressure of his foot. He could only risk a glance, serving as an implicit plea. It was enough. Kate pressed her lips together and began gathering the breakfast dishes.
Eyes down, he slid his plate over, grateful she could still offer this degree of trust. It was a privilege he had not earned.
“We’ve got to tell Abigail."
It was after midnight and Kate was stretched flat on her living room sofa. Sedgwick had checked in as an official guest by this time—insisting on the government rate—and their relationship had crystallized into an ongoing contest of wills. Earlier in the day he'd emptied his car trunk of its stash of technological wonders, but Kate had flatly refused to have them installed. She was in the hospitality business, she argued. She couldn't operate as a guarded fortress, spying on her guests. Conor supported her on this point, although she suspected he too would have preferred to have every inch of the inn bristling with revolving cameras and hidden microphones.
He and Sedgwick were sprawled in the club chairs flanking her, the rejected surveillance equipment piled on the coffee table in the middle. All three of them were weary after several hours of argument. She'd yielded on the demand for remote access to the inn's reservations system, but intended to extract a concession in exchange.
"It's too awkward." Kate turned to Sedgwick. "She didn't believe you're a soil scientist from the USDA and I can tell she's upset."
Conor sat forward and groaned. "Bloody hell, Kate. Can't we tackle this fight later? It's nearly one o'clock in the morning. I've got to get up in three and a half hours."
"I'm not fighting that one anyway," Sedgwick said tiredly. "Go ahead and tell her."
Astonished, Kate sat up, wishing she'd demanded something else now. "You don't care if she knows?"
The agent gave her a vicious grin, clearly pleased at having outsmarted her, but then grew serious. "We've got no idea what a Durgan-Costino alliance might cook up—if one ever takes shape. I'm heading back to India to try and pick up the trail on Tony, so I'll be out of the picture for a while, and since you won't accept the security detail Frank wanted to arrange, McBride will be adding guard duty to his list of chores. Given all that, it's smart to have another person in the house who can be trusted to take direction and act as needed. If you trust her, then let it be Abigail."
There was no one Kate trusted more. Whether Abigail would take direction was another matter, and whether she'd share the story with Dominic—which Sedgwick had strictly forbidden—was yet another. The first question
was how to approach her with the news. After fretting through the night she determined the best plan was to let Conor handle the matter alone. When the restaurant closed the next evening she left the two of them sitting in the kitchen, working their way through a banana cream pie while he told his story.
Sedgwick departed the following day, looking much healthier than he had upon arrival. After upending their lives in one short visit his final assault on their nerves came as they stood in the driveway, listening to him deliver final instructions like a worried parent.
"Trust your instincts—if anything seems suspicious get in touch with Frank. He'll be able to mobilize something pretty quickly. MI6 has a few general staff officers placed at the British embassy in New York, and he’s got a personal connection with some higher-up in the FBI. That’s how I ended up with this car. He’s got a few connections of a shadier variety too, which is how I ended up with this other little item." Sedgwick reached under the seat of his Mustang and came out with a zipped leather bag. Kate saw Conor immediately stiffen and take a step back as the agent held it out to him.
"No. I can't. I won't."
"Conor, don't be an idiot." Sedgwick spoke with surprising gentleness. "You know you have to. Take the damn gun."
The tension of shared secrets passed between the two men, mysteries that had not been revealed in Kate's initiation. The pain in Conor's face tugged at her heart, but the past was not her concern now. She moved to his side and put a hand on his arm.
"Take it."
16
Milking cows. A monotonous but mesmerizing routine, and Conor had welcomed its anesthetic effect during the afternoon after Sedgwick's departure. He'd been lost in a fugue state for most of the process, and had removed the milking claw from the last cow in the line when he looked up to find Kate watching from the doorway.
"Hey," he greeted her, surprised. "How long have you been standing there?"
"Just a few minutes."
"Sorry. I didn't notice."
A trace of amusement skittered over her face. "No kidding. If I'd set myself on fire you wouldn't have noticed. Go ahead and finish. I'll wait for you on the bench."
He joined her, and for a moment neither of them spoke. He imagined them both remembering earlier, happier trips to the same spot.
"You're wrong," she said finally. "I didn't believe you'd run away, but I’ve been giving it some thought and I think maybe you should, Conor. Just go, and don't tell anyone. Not Sedgwick or Frank Murdoch, or even me. If someone turns up looking for you I can say you're gone and I don't know where. Which would be the truth."
Is that what you want? Conor kept his face composed and resisted asking the question aloud, afraid of the answer. "Suppose they wouldn't believe you? What's worse, suppose they thought you knew about the money and how to get it? Don't send me away now Kate, even if you'd rather see the back of me. I can't leave your safety to a roll of the dice."
Kate swung around to straddle the bench, facing him directly. "I figured you’d say something like that, so I have another idea. Get Frank to spread some disinformation around his office, say you're somewhere else, and if a mole is keeping Durgan informed he'll pass the news and they'll be off on a wild goose chase."
"You have been giving this some thought." Conor smiled at her and shook his head. "Frank wouldn't do it."
"Why not?"
"Because he wants Durgan to know where I am. Frank didn't want me to leave Ireland. He hoped I'd sit at my farm like bait in a trap with a few security agents guarding the perimeter, but I ran off instead. This time he's made sure you're well tangled up in the trap too, counting on the idea that I won't run again and leave you sitting alone in it. Frank wants Durgan. There's something personal about his obsession I can't figure out, but he wants him badly—and to be honest so do I. Durgan and Costino, both. My brother's blood is on their hands, and while I spent the last four months hiding, Sedgwick has been tracking them down."
"Why did you lie about the password to the bank account? Don't you trust him?"
"I trust him well enough," Conor said, "but the password is my only leverage in this game. I won't give it up until I can get something in return."
He passed a hand over his eyes. He felt tired and fearful, but oddly relieved as well. He'd done things he couldn't forgive himself for, but hoped some form of atonement might still be possible.
Like bait in a trap. Fine, but when the prey wandered close enough he would become the hunter.
In the following days, Kate initially regretted her naive refusal of surveillance and security. She began each morning at a baseline level of anxiety that ratcheted up by the hour. By evening it seemed to float above her like ectoplasm—as if dread had become a sort of mystical, out-of-body experience. She found it hard to function, fixed in an orbit of taut vigilance, but as the weeks passed with no further word from either Sedgwick or Frank her nerves gradually settled—just in time for the annual touristic juggernaut known as the Fall Foliage Season.
Unfortunately, it proved to be the coldest, wettest autumn Kate had ever experienced in Vermont. The driving rain stopped only long enough for an oppressive fog to coat everything with a layer of condensation, making Hartsboro Bend seem like the stereotypical setting for a horror film, where locals share nervous glances as something unholy prepares to descend on them. By the time a windstorm ripped the trees bare in a single night, Kate felt she’d be happy to take a smaller bottom line just to have the season finished.
The current set of bedraggled guests included a couple with two children they made no attempt to control, and a sullen collection of senior citizens that even Conor's Hibernian charm was powerless to crack. After setting up card tables for them in the library on the second showery morning of their stay, he met Kate putting on a sweater in the hallway and rolled his eyes.
"Horrible old wagons. The looks they're giving off, you'd think I'd personally pulled the leaves off every feckin' tree in the state."
Unlike her, the past several weeks had taken a heavy toll on him. He’d operated as a one-man physical security system, until his hollow-eyed exhaustion made Kate reverse herself and insist he install the remote-alarm tripwire devices Sedgwick had left behind. The intervention helped, but the strain on him was compounded by the demands of the season—he'd often been pressed into bartending and butler duties—and his current week was ending with an excess of farming drama. The storm had knocked out the barn's archaic electrical system, resulting in two days of dumped milk, and a heifer was due to calve at any moment. After spending the past two nights on obstetric duty Conor was tired and grouchy, and fighting a cold that only made him more so.
"A sweater won't do the job in this weather." He scowled at her. "Where are you off to?"
"The store. I told Yvette I'd run the cash register for her today and pick up Jigger from school."
Yvette was another casualty of the month's foul weather. She'd slipped on the wet leaves covering her porch a week earlier and had broken her shoulder. Kate added a raincoat on top of the sweater and surveyed Conor. "What about you? You sound awful."
"I'm all right. I'm going to meet whoever Green Mountain Power sends over to prop up the bloody grid. If I have to throw one more bucket of milk down the drain I may weep." He cocked an eyebrow. "And how's your week going?"
"Okay I guess, but I plan to drown the children in the brook later today."
The tiredness in his eyes shifted to a mischievous twinkle that had become too rare of late. "About bloody time. Will I give you a hand?"
"I'm not sure I need help." Kate pursed her lips. "I can just kick them over the edge."
They exchanged a facetious glance before her involuntary snort tipped them into hilarity. A healing laughter, it dispersed the simmering tension of the past several weeks and continued until Conor's painful-sounding cough made them both wince. Abigail equated its percussive depth with the noise of a two-by-four in a wood chipper, and knowing his medical history she and Kate were openly nervous about i
t—which added to his irritability.
"Don't look at me like that."
"Like what? Like I'm afraid you're headed for the sanatorium?"
"Do they still have those here?"
Kate smiled at his startled consternation. "Of course not, but I hear doctors are still in fashion." Opening the door to a furious downpour, she plucked two umbrellas from the corner and held one out to Conor. He dismissed the offer, tugging a Penzoil cap from his pocket instead.
"Another one? Where do you come up with those?"
"The store. Sale table." He grinned, pulling up his collar and using the cap to wave her through the door ahead of him.
She returned in the late afternoon. The inn was wrapped in a pleasant hush typical for that time of day, disturbed only by the muffled clinks and rattles of the kitchen staff preparing for the evening shift. Kate went straight up to change before the restaurant opened. Leaving her bedroom to return downstairs she met Abigail coming down the hall, carrying a tray of food and looking troubled.
"Whatever he's got, it's not letting go. When the man won't eat, you know something's wrong."
"I thought the same thing earlier," Kate said. "Has he been in bed all day?"
"Should have been. He fussed over that damned cow for hours. Breach delivery. Turned out fine for her but he looked like death on a cracker when he got back—wheezing, feverish, shirt covered in blood and afterbirth." Abigail brightened a little. "He scared hell out of one of the old ladies."
"Go on ahead. I'll peek in on him before I come down."
"I just did that," Abigail pointed out. "He's asleep."
"Well, still . . . "
"Sure, honey." Abigail headed for the stairs, hiding a smile. "Go peek in on him."
Kate put her head around his door and confirmed Conor was indeed still asleep. He lay in a damp tangle on top of the bed, covers askew, pillows scattered. His room was otherwise as tidy as the day he'd arrived. His violin case and a folded music stand stood near the fireplace, a pile of musical scores sat neatly stacked on his bureau, and a number of Vermont-themed books had been added to the mantelpiece. She tiptoed across the room and stopped to browse the collection—Robert Frost, Howard Frank Mosher, field guides and farming manuals, and a history of Vermont. Kate glanced at Conor's sleeping face, thinking about his own startling history, wondering why she'd thought it made him such a stranger to her and realizing she didn't seem to believe it anymore.
The Conor McBride Series Books 1-3 Page 47