"Does somebody live there?" Conor craned his neck to look back as they sped away.
"No clue," Sedgwick said, "but I've got a guidebook in the hotel room and you'll have all day to read it."
A few minutes later they'd left the city center and were in a more thinly settled area. Sedgwick pulled the van off the road and parked next to a waist-high concrete wall marking out a wide, rectangular boundary. Inside, a wider expanse of concrete and a few fragile trees formed a courtyard, serving as a second perimeter. A building shaped like a cinder block sat in the center, four stories tall.
"Hotel Tamarind," Conor read aloud. The neon sign, running down one side of the building in electric pink, was all that relieved the scene's barren ugliness. "He's inside right now?"
"I would have heard something if he wasn't. Come on, let's check in with my partner." Flashing an enigmatic grin, Sedgwick pulled himself up and over the wall, and when Conor had followed he added, "That's him in the auto rickshaw."
Except for a distant echo of barking dogs, there wasn't a sound anywhere around them. A small cluster of cars was parked at one end of the courtyard and the hotel was completely dark, no light or stir of activity even in the lobby. About twenty yards ahead, the rickshaw sat in the shadow of a tree, snugged up to its trunk and facing the front entrance. The figure inside was clearly a large man, although he couldn't be seen in full. He'd stretched one leg out of the vehicle to brace a booted foot on the ground, and his hand had reached up to languidly grasp the rickshaw's yellow canvas roof. The body language was of someone relaxed but ready to spring, and something about the posture looked eerily familiar. When the man shifted, the light from the hotel sign glinted off a thick iron bangle circling his wrist—one of the articles of faith worn by men of the Sikh religion. Conor sucked in a soundless, astonished whoop and pivoted to Sedgwick.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" he hissed. "Why is he here?"
"He wanted to help, and I needed some. We drove down from Mumbai in the van together."
"How is that even possible? He never trusted you."
"Still doesn't. Not much, anyway."
"Nor do I at the moment," Conor snapped. "You shouldn't have dragged him into this. He has a family, for fuck's sake. He has teenaged daughters."
"He also has a drawer full of commendations and medals from the Indian Army. He's more than meets the eye, as I only recently discovered myself."
Conor swallowed an automatic retort and took a breath. "Bishan Singh is in the army?"
"Was," Sedgwick corrected. "Sikh Light Infantry, an elite regiment. He retired with full honors eight years ago after some counter-terrorism action in Assam. Feats of heroism and three bullets to the gut. Wouldn't say much about it. Blushed like a little girl when his wife brought out the medals."
This Conor could easily picture, and he smiled in spite of himself. Bishan Singh, the Mumbai tour guide he'd met on his first day in India, was a brave, humble man of deep emotions, and a good friend who'd helped him out more than once.
"What were you doing at his house?"
Sedgwick dropped his head back to stare at the sky and spoke with exaggerated patience. "Again, I was looking for you. No stone unturned, right? I went to him six months ago and left the poor guy sobbing, thinking you were dead. First chance I had to go again was when I got back from Vermont last month. I gave him the good news, and one thing led to another . . .”
"And you told him everything." Conor dismissed the rest of the story with a wave of resignation, already walking toward the auto rickshaw, moving quietly until he was close enough to whisper inside. "Arrey. Are you sleeping in there, yaar? What sort of watchman are you?"
The auto rickshaw pitched violently as Bishan Singh emerged with great energy but little noise.
"Here he is, mind-blowing MI6, 007 man." His voice was a hushed, melodious rumble. "Something shocking I tell you, absolutely. It's good to see you are still living, my friend."
He wore a turban of jet black, and a matching shirt stretched over his powerful chest. As always, his beard was immaculate, and his smile flashed bright in the darkness. He seized Conor's forearms at the elbows and held them in a tight grip. A restrained display of affection, but so heartfelt it carried more impact than a bear hug.
Although still appalled to think his friend had been drafted into the operation, Conor had to admit he was glad to have him on board. His friend matched gentle affability and compassion with an imposing physical presence, giving Conor more confidence for the whole enterprise. Military service was a celebrated part of Sikh heritage; he shouldn't have been surprised to discover his erstwhile tour guide was a decorated veteran.
"It's good to see you as well, Bishan Singh. Sorry I didn't call or write."
They reminisced quietly for a minute, until Sedgwick abruptly shut them down. "Yeah, this is really touching, but Bishan is still on duty." He dropped his cigarette to the ground and stepped on it. "Since I'm relieving him at six in the morning, I'd like to get some sleep. Let's go, McBride. Bishan booked the room but they lock up at midnight. We'll break in through the back and sneak up the stairwell."
With a long-suffering sigh, Conor turned to follow, then looked again at the deserted courtyard and the dark, silent hotel.
"Hang on." He grabbed Sedgwick's arm, pulling him to a stop. "Let's do this now. Why wait?"
"Why wait?" Sedgwick snorted. "How about because I don't want you falling asleep in the middle of everything. You've been traveling for almost twenty-four hours. The plan is for you to get a good night's sleep—"
"I slept on the plane," Conor lied.
"And we'll make sure you eat a nice big breakfast—" Sedgwick continued as if he'd not spoken.
"And then we'll sit and watch a cricket match on the telly? Waiting for two in the morning to come around again?" Conor shook his head. "Come here now, listen for a minute and look around you. It's dark and dead quiet. We're all here and we know our man is inside. The conditions are brilliant. They'll never get better, so why risk them getting worse? Let's do this now."
Scowling, Sedgwick took a few steps away and surveyed the courtyard. After a tense moment he looked at Bishan, grinning sheepishly.
"Son of a bitch. He's right. The fiddle-playing farmer is right." He reached into his pocket and pulled out the keys. "Go get the van, Bishan. I'll open the gate."
The muscular Sikh caught the keys in one hand. Conor heard him chuckling as he walked toward the van, shaking his head.
"Mind-blowing MI6 man."
29
With a set of lock-picking tools, Sedgwick made short work of a padlock on the seven-barred gate blocking the hotel courtyard. Bishan drove the van inside, and after parking in a corner about fifty feet from the entrance he pulled two Glock pistols from under the seat and passed them through the window. Conor kept one and gave the other to Sedgwick, then followed him to the rear of the building. He trained the gun's tactical light on the back door as the agent went to work.
"I sent Bishan in yesterday to book a room and do the recon," Sedgwick said. "The manager's suite is on the ground floor, down a hallway next to the front desk." He swiveled the tension wrench, and the bolt slid soundlessly back into its assembly. "He says the place is a block of hollowed out marble, everything echoes. So, be light on your feet and don't even whisper."
They crept into the hotel, which was like entering a mausoleum—everything faced in polished white marble, lobby walls glistening as though under a curtain of water. By contrast, the front desk and wall behind it were of stainless steel, combined with tiles in the same electric pink that appeared on the building's exterior. The air, clean and cool compared to the humidity outdoors, carried a slight aroma of incense.
Sedgwick moved behind the desk to the end of the wall and held up a fist, signaling Conor to stop. He slid an eye around its edge, uncurled his hand to show two fingers, and sketched a quick outline in the air. Two bodyguards, posted at the door. He turned to Conor, and with a contemptuous smirk cro
ssed his arms over his chest. Sleeping.
Tucking his Glock behind his back, Sedgwick held out a hand and Conor handed over his own gun. The agent grabbed the muzzle, cleared his throat loudly, and stepped away from the wall, hands raised. Getting no reaction from the sleeping pair he impatiently knocked the butt of the Glock against the wall's stainless steel edge, raising a sound like a gong being rung, and got immediate results. Conor heard sluggish exclamations and a scrape of chairs.
"Hi, boys. Speak English? Hindi? Marathi?" Sedgwick offered the options with a few words in the corresponding languages before adding in English, "I hope at least one of those works because I can't speak a friggin' word of Kannada."
"Who are you?" A throaty voice challenged him in English. "Throw the gun away! Throw it away!"
"How about if I lay it down?" Hands still raised, Sedgwick slowly crouched and placed the weapon on the floor. "Okay? We're good? Maybe you can stop pointing that one at me?"
He wiggled one finger for emphasis and Conor nodded. Only one gun.
"I've got a friend with me," Sedgwick continued. "We want to talk to you for a minute. Don't shoot him. He's not armed."
Conor took a breath, and raising his hands stepped away from the wall. The men at the end of the hallway shifted nervously as he came into view. Their faces were indistinct but he could make out their general shape—not as big as he'd feared, not as small as he'd hoped.
"It's all right. Pawan-bhai sent us." Sedgwick added quiet words of reassurance as he started down the hall. Conor matched his pace, hands still raised, chest-high. Gradually, the features of the bodyguard in front of him grew clear—large, but more fleshy than muscular, pockmarked face, one droopy eye pointing at the wall while the other one stared at Conor. He was also the one with the gun. When they came within four feet, Sedgwick stopped, and offering both men a casual smile murmured, "Okay, now."
Conor went for the hand holding the gun, cracking the back of it on the doorjamb, and used the side of his other hand to deliver a hard chopping blow to the Adam's apple. The man made no sound, at first. His droopy eye popped wide open as he staggered back, and by the time he'd gathered enough breath to begin gagging he was pressed face-first against the wall with his own weapon jammed under his ribs. Conor looked down to his left and saw Sedgwick squatting on the floor with one knee on the second bodyguard's back. Unlike his older colleague the man was young and fit, but with a gun pointed at his head he appeared eager to obey the command to remain still.
"Shabash," Sedgwick said—the Hindi expression for "well done"—and grinned up at Conor. "I'm guessing yours is the guy in charge. Turn him around." Conor obliged, keeping the gun in place, and Sedgwick addressed the older man in a conversational tone. "Look, sorry to ruin your snooze, but we're taking the manager on a trip, with Pawan-bhai's blessing. I don't expect you to take my word for it, and since car chases aren't really my thing, let's give the big boss a call, make sure we're all on the same page. Sound good? Here, you can use my phone. Save your minutes."
The man accepted the mobile, fumbling as he continued to choke and groan pitifully. He placed the call, and from the conversation it appeared he was moving through Pawan Kotwal's command structure. At last, he stood a bit straighter, listening.
"Yes, bhai. Thank you, bhai." He forced some energy into his strangled voice. "Good night, sir." He closed the phone and nodded to the young man on the floor, then dug a hotel room key from his pocket and offered it to Sedgwick. "Late night food bazaar is there, near railway station. We will be taking chai for some little while."
"Fantastic idea." Sedgwick beamed at him. "Just the thing for a sore throat."
"Pawan-bhai is saying your friend is lucky you reached first. Others will be coming."
"Thanks. Good to know. Sounds like he's about to be in hot demand."
With muttered resentments, the two bodyguards retreated up the hall and out the back. Conor retrieved his own gun from the floor near the front desk and Sedgwick eased Costino's door open. It moved a few inches before catching on the chain lock.
"Aha." The agent gave the chain a playful poke. "I guess we're done with the quiet part."
Conor's ears were still ringing from the marble-amplified explosion of Sedgwick's foot on the door when he heard the agent—already at the far end of the suite—send a boot crashing against another one. Hurrying to catch up, Conor raced over the polished floor of the living room, dodging an obstacle course of rattan chairs and glass-topped tables. He followed Sedgwick into the bedroom and found him already pulling Tony Costino—naked and terrified—from a cocoon of yellow silk sheets. The agent dragged him across the king-sized bed, dumping him on the floor and delivering a kick to his abdomen. Costino cried out and rolled into a fetal position, his face hidden. Sedgwick bent to grab a handful of hair and lifted him up to look in his eyes.
"Surprise, Tony," he said, low and sinister. He slammed Costino's face down and straightened. "Love the Sasquatch thing you've got going on. Put on some fucking clothes. We're taking a ride."
Conor could see the man was in fact a wilder, hairier version of the DEA agent he'd met in Mumbai, ten months earlier. At their first disconcerting meeting, Tony Costino had appeared as a neatly pressed bureaucrat with a 1950s haircut, complete with a razor-sharp part down the side. Slender, apple-cheeked, eager to please—the type of dark-suited young man who turns up on doorsteps, offering pamphlets. Now, he appeared older, and had gained at least ten pounds of paunch. His light-brown hair had grown into a waving mane that almost reached his shoulders, and a thick beard obscured his face and neck. Small, half moons of pink skin peeked out below his eyes, which appeared unchanged. Round and pale blue, they'd often defaulted to a deceptively credulous expression—the gentle simpleton amazed by everything he sees—but they seemed genuinely stunned when they came to rest on Conor's face.
"I was told you'd left India." He gasped a little as he climbed to his feet. "Where's Thomas? Did he come back with you?"
Conor slowly shook his head, and slammed a right hook against Costino's jaw. It toppled him backward, and his skull connected hard with the marble floor.
"No," he said, breaking the silence he'd maintained since entering the hotel. "Thomas isn't coming back."
"Might have been better if you hadn't knocked him senseless."
Sedgwick was at the wheel of the van once more, Bishan in the seat next to him, and Conor was again sitting cross-legged in the rear with little visibility, but he recognized their route as the one they'd come in on when the Gothic structure of St. Philomena's church loomed ahead of them.
"I seem to remember you getting in a few shots as well. Anyway, I'm fairly sure he's faking now." He braced a foot against Costino's back to keep him from rolling off the futon. The captive remained unresponsive, lying with his face to the wall of the van, wearing the handcuffs Sedgwick had slapped on after they'd managed to get him dressed. When they were into the more remote village areas with Mysore a half-hour behind them, Bishan offered a suggestion.
"Perhaps you could be sharing some water with him, yaar. Good refreshment for head-clearing, na?"
Taking a bottle from the backpack, Conor pulled at the thatch of beard and splashed a little water into the open mouth that appeared. Costino wrenched away and bolted up, coughing with melodramatic force.
"You're waterboarding me."
"If you call that waterboarding, I don't think you know how it works." Conor offered him the bottle. "Drink some, asshole. Might help the headache. And get busy talking. We want the status of your relationship with Robert Durgan."
Costino gave him a blank look. "That guy Walker met in Geneva? The one Thomas was working for? Don't know him."
In a swerving move that threw them all off balance, Sedgwick pulled the van to the side of the road and stopped. He put an arm on the back of his seat and turned to stare at Costino through the steel mesh barrier. "Listen. I doubt waterboarding was part of McBride's operational training. Even if I'm wrong he's got too many scru
ples to try it on you. But me? You know me better, don't you, Tony? What you also need to understand is that there's a stagnant pond two miles up this road. It's probably got a thousand kinds of bacteria that will eat you from the inside out, and in five minutes I'll be throwing the shit down your throat in buckets if you don't stop dicking around. Think you can help us out, here?"
Costino slouched in submission and nodded. "Sure. Why not? I'm so damned tired of all of this."
"Excellent." Facing forward, Sedgwick put the van in gear. "Your witness, Agent McBride."
"Let's not waste time on what we already know," Conor said. "You sold out the DEA's operation to capture Dragonov—" The shaggy head begin wagging in protest and he grabbed a handful of Costino's tangled hair, pulling his neck back sharply. "Spare us the Little Boy Blue act, you minging wanker. You sold out your team; two of them are dead because of you—your boss and my brother, and a lot of other people besides. Dragonov promised you a cut of that twenty million I'm sure, but you found out pretty quickly he never got the money, that the whole thing was a massive fuck-up and that you were in trouble."
"Because you and Thomas stole the money instead."
"We didn't steal anything."
"Where the hell is it, then?" Costino shouted.
"You're the one in handcuffs, Tony." Conor released Costino's hair and sat back. "You don't get to ask the questions. So, you wanted to find us, and at the end of August you sent Durgan an email saying you'd make life difficult for him if he didn't help you. He said he'd get back to you. What happened next?"
"This isn't even the right place to start, but fine. Whatever." Sighing, Costino rubbed a hand against his head and winced. "After I got his first response I set up a more secure communication channel, and after that he gave me the run-around. Told me you'd gone to Ireland at the end of March before leaving for the States. He knew exactly where to find you, but you were too close to something he had in the works and he wouldn't risk having me come in at the wrong time. He said I'd have to wait for a couple of months."
The Conor McBride Series Books 1-3 Page 58