"He's alive." Kate's voice was flat, expressionless. "You're telling me my husband is alive."
Conor looked at Frank, who nodded a confirmation.
"I see." The shock was transparent in Kate's face, but her voice remained steady. "I have a framed print of this picture on the nightstand in my bedroom. Where did you get this one, Frank?"
"From a moving line's shipping container, hidden amongst others in a warehouse on the outskirts of Dingle. I brought several boxes of personal items along with me. They're in my car. I can arrange for the container's remaining contents to be shipped back to you."
"So, that was him. He robbed me." Kate's face began to crumple, but she bit down on her lip and steadied her composure. "He booked the company in advance. For moving up here. I spent two months trying to track that moving truck. Finally, I just took the insurance money. I lost everything. Family antiques, some original oil paintings from the Hudson River School, photographs. I got the wedding album back, though. My sister called the photographer and had it reproduced for me. I also lost almost all of my own canvases. It was as though everything I'd ever done was a mirage." She rose from the couch. "Is your car unlocked?"
Frank pulled the key from his pocket and Conor got to his feet. "Do you want me to help?"
She turned to him, her gaze opaque, as though looking at a stranger. "No. I want you to—" She caught herself, and walked from the room without another word.
After watching her leave, Conor picked up his scotch, drained it, and then—like an elderly invalid—slowly lowered himself onto the couch. His face was still in his hands when he heard Frank open the bottle and refill his own glass.
"Shall we get drunk, my friend?"
Conor dropped his hands, and without looking up, pushed his glass forward.
Fueled by booze, the operational debriefing continued until midnight. Despite Frank's many sleepless nights in pursuit, Robert Durgan had not been found, but a file which had remained thin was thickening rapidly. The name he'd been born with turned out to be a hybrid of his working aliases. Robert Ryan Fitzpatrick grew up at Twinbrook, a republican-leaning housing estate in West Belfast. Fitzpatrick was a known commodity, a wanted man who'd been missing for years. He'd been a key figure in a paramilitary group called the Irish People's Liberation Organization, infamous for violence and criminal activity of all varieties. Many of its recruits came from the ranks of those fallen from favor in the IRA. On October 31, 1992, the Provisional IRA wiped out the IPLO, killing its leader and several members in a series of raids around Belfast. Fitzpatrick was not among the killed or injured.
"He simply dropped off the face of the earth," Frank said. "The strong suspicion within IPLO circles is that he informed on his colleagues to the IRA—who might be found at what time, in what pub—in exchange for an altered identity and safe passage to the United States. No UK authority or intelligence service chased it up. Christ, British intelligence might have helped the business along. At any rate, why should we care? A distasteful element had been sorted, and everyone was making nice in support of the flowering peace process."
The agent flipped open one of the manila folders and referred to a sheet of paper. "Had we been looking, we might have easily found the record of an arrival from Shannon at the New York port of entry on October 28, 1992. IPLO member Robert Ryan Fitzpatrick had become American citizen Michael Fitzpatrick, complete with a valid US passport and a bright new legend—birthplace Newfoundland in 1968, matriculated at New York University in 1989, US citizenship in the same year. Digging a little deeper, we'd have turned up a 1996 marriage license for himself and one Katherine Chatham, and perhaps even the Coast Guard's report from August 22, 1998, detailing the boating accident and presumed death of Michael Fitzpatrick in Long Island Sound."
He paused to let the information sink in and then asked, "Do you remember when Phillip Ryan turned up in Dingle?"
"About two months later. Middle of October is when I met him, anyway. In a pub." Conor poured another measure of scotch into his glass.
"The wedding photograph in Kate's bedroom. You never—" Meeting Conor's stony gaze, Frank cleared his throat. "Obviously, she never showed it to you."
"No."
Frank nodded, tapping a finger against the manila folder. "I didn't make the connection immediately, but I realized the farm manager was the key as soon as Kate identified your brother in this photograph as a man named Phillip Ryan. For some reason Thomas had pretended to be her husband's cousin, which meant her husband had lied to her. At some point whilst keeping watch at your bedside the significance of her married surname dawned upon me, and the penny finally dropped. Her husband and your farm manager were the same man—the infamous, long-lost Robert Ryan Fitzpatrick. I puzzled over this a bit during my drive to Nashua to sit in on Ciaran Wilson's interrogation. Wilson and his associate Desmond Moore had been loyal members of the Armagh branch of the IPLO, and Fitzpatrick had betrayed them. Why would they be working for him?"
"So, why were they?" Conor asked.
"Wilson and Moore never met the man in person. He recruited them by phone two years after the elimination of the IPLO, and they knew him only as a Canadian-born American named Robert Durgan. A stroke of genius, the Newfoundland cover. He apparently affected a convincing American accent, but would attribute any slips to his 'Newfie' origins." The agent gave a thin smile. "Imagine Wilson's consternation at discovering who he'd been working for all these years. He was quite eager to cooperate, once he knew. He said he'd never been keen on the kidnapping assignment. Their main project with Durgan had been grant fraud and money laundering. Wilson and Moore recruited accomplices willing to sign their name to EU grant applications in return for a cut of the money. The cash would get flushed through a select group of New York restaurants and bars—clients whose money Durgan already laundered under the alias of Michael Fitzpatrick, purveyor of restaurant cash management systems."
"Thomas wasn't a willing accomplice," Conor objected.
"No," Frank agreed. "Wilson conceded Thomas was an anomaly. They simply deceived him. The strategy from the start was for Thomas to get caught, and for them to 'rescue' him. Durgan had indicated he wanted someone in New York for a special job."
"Why did Wilson and Moore target Thomas in particular?"
"I don't think they did, Conor," Frank said sadly. "An accident of fate. They were passing through Dingle, simply looking for the nearest farmer. Had he stayed away from town that night or left the pub a bit earlier, they would have picked someone else, and Thomas might never have run into two strangers who stood him six shots of Jamesons before convincing him to give them a job."
"Sure, he was an easy mark for Durgan, or Fitzpatrick. Ryan. Whoever. Ah, Christ." Conor got up to pace the room with his hands on his head, trying to loosen the stiffened muscles in his side. "A poor culchie from the heart of the Gaeltacht who wouldn't recognize an IPLO traitor if one bit him in the arse."
"Precisely." Frank took a sip from his glass, squinting and frowning at the wall as he swallowed. "I'd prefer to stick with 'Durgan' if you don't mind. I've been using the bloody name for years and haven't the time or staffing resources to re-label everything."
Conor expelled a bitter laugh. Dropping his hands, he stopped pacing and eased himself back onto the couch. He noted without much interest that the alcohol was having an accelerating effect. He'd had a lot to drink and little to eat, and was dosed with medications carrying instructions to do exactly the opposite. He gazed through the large living room window in front of him as a car glided up the road toward the inn. As he stared at them, the twin beams from its headlights bobbed and merged into a single fuzzy glow. Reservations at eight. Table for two. Candlelight and music. All going on just two floors below him. Two floors and a universe away. He heard the soft clink of glass on glass as Frank placed his drink on the coffee table.
"I mentioned Durgan laundered money for a number of New York clients." He steepled his fingers and sat back in his chair. "The list included
a chain of upscale Indian restaurants called Bombay Masala. Care to guess the owner's name?"
Conor pulled his eyes away from the window and rolled them toward the ceiling. "Pawan Kotwal."
"Our favorite Indian mafia boss. Extraordinary how the puzzle comes together so nicely when you understand where the pieces are. I surmise Durgan perceived some opportunity in Kotwal's broader interests in Mumbai and wanted his own reliable 'smurf' placed onsite to handle the cash deposits—Thomas. I haven't worked out where Durgan went after the manufactured boating accident. We know Thomas was in Mumbai a few days later. Perhaps Durgan traveled ahead to help build the pub and get the business running. At any rate, as you already confirmed, two months after the incident he appropriated the Phillip Ryan alias for his own use and presented himself to you for employment. Brilliant in a way, because if Thomas attempted to escape his situation, surely his family would hear from him. Seems an odd cover—self-imposed isolation with an identity as a lowly farming assistant, maintained over a period of years; but he was biding his time, of course. He had a particular goal with a hard deadline: Kate's thirtieth birthday."
"And after all this you still don't know where he is." Conor didn't intend the comment as an accusation and the agent didn't take it as such, but he sensed Frank's helpless frustration.
"I'm afraid not. I'd hoped to use Wilson to trap him, but unfortunately they spoke by phone after he left Bretton Woods, and when Durgan learned the extent of his failure he severed all contact. Until then, he'd remained in his rented house on the outskirts of Dingle, continuing under the 'Phillip Ryan' alias, but by the time we'd mobilized the local authorities he'd gone. The closest neighbors in the vicinity hadn't seen his motorbike in the driveway for several days. Some documents he left behind led us to the shipping container with Kate's possessions, but I imagine everything of value got fenced long ago."
Conor ran a finger over the rim of Kate's glass of scotch. "I understand the Mumbai money-laundering piece, but why did he need Thomas to come to New York and pose as his cousin? Why fake his death at all, when he might have just disappeared? She nearly died, Frank. He left her broken and traumatized. What was the point of such cruelty?"
"A question only he can answer," Frank said. "I'm sure the plan somehow advanced his plans for getting her money, once she reached the age of inheritance. He was her husband, and of course she must have confided her circumstances to him before their marriage."
"Her husband." Conor reached for her glass. "Her husband, my friend, and as surely as the man who put the bullet in—my brother's murderer. And I am a trained MI6 operative who will just as surely see him dead."
26
He was in no fit condition for anything, never mind milking cows. Less than twenty-four hours removed from a hospital discharge, with a side full of stitches and the metallic taste of a hangover in his mouth, Conor should have remained where he woke—flat on his back and fully dressed on top of his bed. Only pure, masochistic instinct pulled him up and pushed him out the door at five in the morning. He trudged up to the barn without enthusiasm, but when Jared Percy appeared a half-hour later he'd established his customary rhythm.
Determined to finally bury the hatchet with the young man, Conor expressed admiration for his clever bits of work in the barn and offered profuse thanks for all his efforts. He insisted he could take the first shift on his own, but asked Jared to come back in the afternoon. Even if Kate hadn't sent him packing by then, he'd never manage the second milking. With his shy smile Jared offered a handshake before departing, and Conor tried not to worry he'd just made his last friend in Hartsboro Bend. After a short rest he got back to work, letting familiar routine produce the usual, zen-like trance.
He finished an hour later, and had become a sweating, trembling collection of parts he could barely control when Frank stepped into the barn, wearing a jacket and tie. He cradled a large thermos and two mugs in one hand, and carried his briefcase in the other. Conor hiked an eyebrow at the green thermos, obviously an old and well-used artifact.
"I take my mugs as I find them," Frank explained, "but one should never leave home without a proper thermos. The Stanley model is one of America's greatest contributions to civilization. Shall I pour? I'd hoped for a visit amongst your livestock, but perhaps you ought to sit down. I don't suppose you have a break room or some such?"
"No." Conor smiled. In the most grueling of circumstances, his boss never lost the power to amuse. "Let's get you out of here. My head is hammering as it is. Touring you around my cow barn will make it explode altogether."
They sat on the picnic bench, side-by side in friendly silence, sipping their tea and watching the morning fog roll up off the pasture.
"What's your stake in this, Frank?" Conor kept his eyes fixed ahead, setting his mug down between them. "I'm remembering our first dinner at your club in London. You talked about getting intelligence on a global money-laundering operation that props up terrorist groups. That was a load of shite and you knew as much, even then. It wasn't any global operation, no network of smurfs running around throwing cash into off-shore accounts. No international wizard. This is small beer, really. One criminal fucker and his two pathetic sidekicks snookered a man into breaking the law and joining them. A job for Interpol and local police. Why would MI6 care? If there's intelligence to collect and analyze it's like shooting a gnat with a feckin' howitzer. So why is British intelligence even involved in this? Or are they?"
Conor faced Frank, steeling himself for the answer to that last question. The agent's initial reaction was unsettling. He closed his eyes and dropped his head with a smile, looking relieved at finally being caught.
"Ah, Conor. As if you haven't suffered enough you have the torment of wondering whether all along you've been under the finger of a rogue agent, operating off the ledger. Not the case, I assure you. The mission has always been officially recognized by MI6. I will admit however, I used my position and seniority in the service to make it so."
He reached down and picked up his briefcase. Conor thought he would leave without further explanation. He'd experienced that sort of anti-climax before. Instead, Frank pulled out the folder from the previous evening and passed the photograph to him.
"The third man in the picture. Desmond Moore. You know his name, but not all of his story. He was a hard-living, hard-drinking criminal who drifted into the Irish National Liberation Army, and then to the Armagh branch of the IPLO. Unbeknownst to him, he was also an informant, passing information to British intelligence on the groups' ties to the international drug and arms trade. Desmond Moore was my younger brother."
"Holy mother of God." The blood drained from Conor's face before quickly flowing back in a rush of irritation. "You didn't think this was something I deserved to be told?"
Frank shrugged. "The story was tangential to your mission, and to be perfectly honest I was ashamed to tell you. I supported Desi, just like a big brother should. Money for him, and money for his causes. In return—although he never realized it—he supported me. My career became cemented on the back of my access to those two paramilitary organizations. When the IRA disbanded the IPLO, Desi mucked about with illegal bookmaking and small-time drug dealing and we fell out of touch. As you correctly observed, those sorts of activities are of small interest to MI6. Several years later he came to me, wanting drinking money for a trip to Geneva. He'd been recruited into a project so secret he wouldn't even tell me, but he was childishly excited. The matter didn't seem worth much attention. When he returned I dutifully tried to ply him with money and whiskey, and then more money, but to no avail. Later he disappeared, and I was relieved. He represented an unpleasant weight on my conscience. Then, a few years before you and I first met, someone discovered the remains of a mutilated body on the edge of an Armagh construction site."
Frank took the photograph back and slipped it into his briefcase. "Desi was no Thomas McBride. He was not a good man. Along with being a criminal he was a cruel and uncouth bigot, but he was my own
brother. My blood. I assiduously betrayed him over a number of years then tossed him aside when his value no longer compensated for my discomfort. After the discovery of his body I set about unraveling what he'd been getting up to, going back to the first period when I lost touch with him, which eventually led me to a pub in Dingle, and a story about a couple of lads from Armagh who had corrupted Thomas McBride and ruined his little brother's life."
He finished his tea, and brushed a few invisible specks of nothing from his trouser leg. "So you see, there is something personal for both of us in this journey, although mine is largely one of atonement."
"You're not alone in that either, Frank," Conor said.
They shared a long silence, each of them wandering in memories, until Frank sighed and rose from the bench. "My flight leaves Burlington in less than three hours." Watching Conor brace his hands against the bench and struggle to his feet he added, "You'd do well to crawl back into bed. We can talk when you've had a few days to recuperate from all this."
"No. Don't pull this on me again." Conor straightened. "Don't just disappear like the last time and leave me wondering. You have to deal me in on however this is going to end. I've earned that much."
"Of course you have, Conor. That, and a great deal more." Frank regarded him fondly. "Very well. I'll tell you the latest. Sedgwick has had some luck in picking up information on the DEA's traitor, Tony Costino. We believe the next move in this chess game centers around him. Costino hoped Durgan would help in finding you, but that was over two months ago, and Durgan's most recent aggression was not actually against you. This suggests he's been withholding assistance. Now things have changed. His master plan is off the rails and he must assume Ciaran Wilson, his last trusted associate, is in custody cooperating with the FBI. Since the Garda raided his house in Dingle he realizes his real identity has been exposed. We've located and frozen all his bank accounts, both legal and illicit, so he's living on whatever cash he had on hand when he disappeared. The Garda haven't the manpower for ongoing surveillance, but they've been doing regular evening rounds on his house as well as your old farmhouse in Dingle, but he's not turned up at either of them. He's on the run, trapped in Ireland, which is too small a place to hide for long. He needs help, and the only bit of leverage left to him is the information about you that Costino is looking for. I expect they will connect again soon, if they haven't already. If Sedgwick can find him, I'm quite confident he'll be able to 'persuade' Costino to lead us to Durgan. I'll be conferring with him in a few days and I promise to keep you involved. In the meantime, take good care of the lovely Kate, and for God's sake take care of yourself. She will need your support in the weeks ahead."
The Conor McBride Series Books 1-3 Page 55