The Conor McBride Series Books 1-3

by Kathryn Guare

  After a slight hesitation, Costino replied without raising his head. "Of the game. Of never being able to tell the truth, never getting to go home. Tired of feeling shitty about myself. You're told you're one of the good guys. You keep convincing yourself it’s true. When you have to admit it's not, you tell yourself there are no good guys. That's what I'm tired of; aren't you?"

  A startled pause followed before Sedgwick shifted uncomfortably on the step and exploded. "Who gives a fuck what he's tired of? We need to get back on track with this."

  "Look, there's something important here and we're missing it." Conor turned again to Costino, who seemed to be regretting his confessional moment. He'd twisted himself around on the stairs to stare up at them, nervous and alert.

  "Never mind. Doesn't matter, anyway."

  "Yeah, well I think it probably does. Time to come clean. Tell us what we don't know." The aggressive approach getting no response at all, Conor tried a different one, angling his head in sympathy. "You're tired, Tony. You just said so and you sure as hell look it. Why not say what we're missing? Where's the right place to start?"

  He said nothing more; he could see it was coming. Costino's resistance crumbled like a landslide in slow motion. Conor gripped Sedgwick's good shoulder, holding his impatience in check while their captive inched toward surrender. It was worth the wait.

  "The right place is with Robert Ryan Fitzpatrick, alias Michael Fitzpatrick, alias Robert Durgan. I supplied the passport for that last one. I was his CIA case officer. My first assignment." Costino scratched at his unkempt beard and dropped his head again. "I never worked for the DEA during the Dragonov operation. The CIA embedded me in your team and my job was to keep them briefed. My second assignment, and the last."

  The silence around them became absolute. Conor couldn't tell if something had happened to his ears or if everything in the universe had been struck dumb, incapable of speech or sound. He and Sedgwick eventually emerged from the void with different but simultaneous objections.

  "You expect us to believe Robert Durgan is a CIA agent?"

  "Langley would never have the balls to embed a covert operative in a federal agency."

  "The DEA knew," Costino replied quietly. "They just didn't tell your boss. Walker never knew a thing." He looked at Conor. "I wouldn't call Durgan an agent, no. He's a psychopathic criminal, but the Agency thought he could be useful."

  "This is a load of crap," Sedgwick said.

  Costino shrugged. "Tell yourself that, if you need to. I don't blame you. The truth is pretty pathetic. Conor got sent to India to convince his brother to help MI6 catch a guy they didn't even realize was the same paramilitary informant they gave a passport to twelve years ago. A passport they got from the CIA, who then used him and his Indian mafia connections for their own operation. When the DEA stumbled into it, they decided playing ball and covering their ass was more important than taking out a Russian arms dealer. Seems like the definition of an inter-agency cluster-fuck. What do you think?"

  Next to him, Conor detected the rank odor of sweat soaking through Sedgwick's shirt, mingling with what had dried earlier. He sensed his partner's intense fury winding up, getting close to a point of no return. The Glock pistols had been stowed in the backpack on the platform behind them. Conor turned quickly with the intention of securing the bag, but Sedgwick shot out a hand, fastening on his wrist.

  "Don't," he said hoarsely. "Just . . . don't. We need to hear this from the beginning."

  "You feckin' thought it was me going to shoot him?!" Conor pulled his hand free.

  His rage punctured, Sedgwick blinked at him. "You thought I was?"

  "Oh merciful hour, what are we like?" Conor rubbed his eyes and waved at Costino. "From the beginning. Go on, for fuck's sake. We're all ears, and apparently neither of us is going to shoot you."

  Pulling at his beard, Costino rose and began a restless circuit back and forth in front of them. "It started seven years ago. The CIA wanted to assess the Mumbai mafia—their reach and potential for serving as a financial conduit for extremists. They assigned me to collect intel on Pawan Kotwal and infiltrate his inner circle. So, I get started. I find out the FBI had targeted his New York restaurants for money-laundering as part of an investigation on a guy named Michael Fitzpatrick. Along with being tight with Kotwal, he's washing money for a bunch of other restaurants, and has a reputation for being a scary bastard who works alone and might have killed at least three clients who got on his bad side. I throw the name into the CIA database and out came the story: MI6 had struck a deal with the IRA, if you can believe that. The IRA was going to dismember the IPLO, and they wanted a US passport and safe passage for their informant, Robert Ryan Fitzpatrick. The passport got issued in the name of Michael Fitzpatrick. I do more research, find out where Fitzpatrick works, where he lives, that he's landed himself a rich wife descended from a royal family. Bavarian or something—"

  Costino whirled at the sound of a loud rustling. Conor squinted at the adjacent Jain temple, and caught a glimpse of the shadowy line of figures moving amongst the trees.

  "Only monkeys," he said, stretching his 'talent for repose' to its limit. "Keep going."

  Costino released his breath. "Eventually, I barge in on the FBI operation spouting a lot of national security bullshit and tell them Fitzpatrick is ours. We get a team together and scoop him up at his office one evening, throw him into a van, and drag him and all his files off to a safe house. The stuff we pull off his computer shows he clearly did kill those three restaurant clients, and he's got an elaborate scheme for getting rid of his wife after—"

  He angled his head at Conor, appearing curious. "After she'd turned thirty and inherited a fortune. You said something about that earlier. Do you know her?" Not trusting his voice, Conor met the question with silence and let Sedgwick vent a little steam before his indignation smothered him.

  "Stop pacing and twisting and pausing," he roared. "If you can't stand still then sit the fuck down. We haven't got much time before dawn."

  Costino sat at the foot of the steps, but otherwise ignored the outburst. "The bastard made me sick. I suggested throwing him back to the FBI, but the word came down that we wanted him. So I tell him he can cooperate on our Kotwal operation, or end up extradited to a prison in Northern Ireland where some loyal republican would probably stick a shiv between his ribs. I also tell him that life under his current alias has to end and he can never go back to that name. Michael Fitzpatrick is finished."

  He spread his hands in a hopeless gesture. "I was trying to protect the wife, inoculate her. If we killed off Michael Fitzpatrick, he couldn't inherit her fortune. He might think of some other way to get at it, but maybe not involving murder. It was the only part of the scenario he didn't like, and of course he couldn't tell me why. I tell him to sleep on it and lock him down for the night, but two hours later he asks to see me, and says he'll play ball. He's got another alias he'd started using with Pawan Kotwal—Robert Durgan. Even better, he's already got a plan for working with him in Mumbai—an Irish bar that will be the central hub for processing all Kotwal's money. He just needs a couple more months to secure the capital that he'd agreed to bring to the deal. Instant infiltration. It was like a gift, and I grabbed it."

  "The capital was the grant money," Sedgwick mused. "He was waiting for the application Thomas submitted to be awarded."

  Costino nodded. "Although, I didn't know anything about Thomas at the time. The exit strategy was pretty simple. The wife's family has a place on Long Island Sound. He was supposed to take one of their boats out, make a production out of swamping it and falling overboard in case any witnesses saw him. I'd be in a boat nearby with a few other staffers. We'd discreetly haul him out, stow him below, and then call the Coast Guard. We set a date for the end of August, but on the day, he shows up in the Sound with the wife and some other guy on board. Freaked us out, but it didn't matter. The whole thing actually appeared more convincing with the other guy sailing because he clearly didn't
know what the hell he was doing. I guess that was Thomas. Obviously, he and I never discussed it."

  "Sorry. I need a break." Conor abruptly got to his feet. Keeping his voice steady he added, "Don't stop. I'll catch up in a minute."

  He headed away from them, walking up the steps and around to the rear of the shrine. Bracing his back against the cool stone he slid to the ground, acknowledging an emotion he'd avoided until now. His brother never told him of his involvement in the macabre business of "killing off" Michael Fitzpatrick. On the first day of their reunion in Mumbai Thomas had confessed everything else about his entanglement with Robert Durgan, but had kept this episode entirely hidden. Because of his shame? Undoubtedly. He'd played along in a reckless plan involving an innocent woman, a scheme that inflicted lasting trauma and nearly resulted in her death. Of course he was ashamed. Conor was ashamed of him as well, and felt guilty for it, and heartbroken that he'd never be able to confront his brother and clear the air.

  "He saved her, though," Conor said aloud, as if advocating for his brother's soul. "He saved her, and stayed with her." He remembered Kate's words as she described her harrowing experience and its aftermath.

  He let me rage at him—hit him even—and then he held me while I cried. He never left my side that day, but he hardly ever said a word.

  31

  After a few minutes, Conor returned and got an update on what he'd missed. Following the escapade in Long Island Sound, Costino left New York on a flight to Mumbai with the newly christened Robert Durgan in a seat six rows in front of him. They met once a week in clandestine locations while Thomas and a team of carpenters worked on the pub. Costino knew of Thomas by then, but the two of them remained strangers, and he was certain Thomas never had an inkling of Durgan's involvement with the CIA. When the pub opened and the money—and intelligence—began flowing, Costino returned home, and discovered on a return trip in October that Durgan had vanished. He was no longer in Mumbai, but had left a note behind assuring his continued cooperation.

  "I should have reported he'd disappeared, but I didn't. I thought it would wreck my career," Costino said. "I didn't want to admit I'd screwed up my first assignment, especially since the intelligence kept coming. In the note, Durgan said Thomas would send the reports on the business to him, and he'd continue to forward everything using the channel we'd established. Which is exactly what happened, and he sent decent stuff—all the transactions, all the players involved—so I decided to ignore the fact I had no idea where he'd gone. The next time I had any contact with him was when we set up the Geneva meeting to try and recruit him for the Dragonov operation. When Walker and I first met with Kotwal, he handed over Durgan's email address without even blinking. That was a little embarrassing."

  "Yeah, the Dragonov operation. About that." Sedgwick dropped a cigarette butt on the growing pile at his feet.

  "Right. About that." Costino got up to pace, then apparently remembering it had been an irritant, sat down again.

  The temple complex still lay shrouded in darkness, but far below they heard the distant sound of an occasional horn, and the tractor-like growl of auto rickshaws as the town rose from sleep. Obviously uncomfortable from the shoulder wound, and perhaps anticipating further torment, Sedgwick began picking at his bandages. Conor pulled his arm away.

  "Leave off. You'll pull it to pieces and the kit's at the bottom of the hill. Go on," he added to Costino, rubbing his eyes wearily. "Let's have part two, and we need to hurry. It's nearly five o'clock."

  "Right after Walker presented his plan for the Dragonov operation to the DEA, Langley got briefed," Costino said. "Through a leak or official channels, I'm not sure which. In theory, the CIA had no problem with the idea of capturing Dragonov, but like most other agencies they'd been using him as an informant so they had conditions. First, they wanted their own man on the inside to keep them briefed—they picked me, since Walker's plan involved recruiting Pawan Kotwal to buy guns from Dragonov—and second, they wanted veto authority on any capture strategy."

  He broke off with a hollow laugh, face twisted in disgust. "Ironic, right? We'd been spying on Kotwal for a year and turned up squat, but now the DEA wanted to turn him into an extremist, and I was pumped for it. My first cover assignment overseas. Get a taste of field experience. The only fear was getting myself blown in a face-to-face meeting with Durgan, but the danger went away when Walker came back from Geneva saying we couldn't work with him. Turned out to be the beginning of the end of Durgan's relationship with Kotwal. Pawan-bhai was pissed, thought the whole thing made him look bad. He followed up with Durgan, chewed him out and halved his commission, and gradually cut him off completely. Since we had Thomas, none of us needed Durgan. I didn't even need him for the CIA piece anymore. I could get the intel from Thomas by pretending I was collecting for the DEA operation. So I was home free, and totally up for it." Costino peered up at them, as though inviting comment on his naiveté. "I didn't get how shitty it would be, lying to people you respect, every day for five years. Making sure they think you're a ladder-climbing idiot so they'll forget to be careful around you. Knowing you're good at what you do even while you hate what you're becoming."

  In mid-drag, Sedgwick sucked in a whoop of air and cigarette smoke and choked. He fumbled behind him, reaching for the backpack with a sardonic glance at Conor. "Water. I'm just going for the water."

  "Can I have some?" Costino asked without looking, as though expecting a refusal.

  "Come on up." Conor accepted the bottle from Sedgwick and took a swallow. "I won't waterboard you."

  They passed the water around like a peace pipe, Costino now sitting on the step below them. "You started out with the CIA, too." He offered the bottle to Sedgwick. "They said you did an undercover gig in St. Petersburg that really fucked you up."

  "Yeah, but I was lying to a bunch of heroin addicts, not my own colleagues." Sedgwick snatched the bottle and threw it into the backpack. "We're not here to talk about me. Get to the part that matters."

  "The Gulmarg meeting." Costino nodded. "Walker didn't have clearance, Sedgwick. Remember, we went to DC a few months before the meeting so he could present the capture strategy. When he'd finished, I stayed behind with some excuse about paperwork, and went into another room full of senior officers from both agencies. The CIA vetoed his plan. Not the right time. Walker got the news the same night, but when I asked, he said he hadn't. We went back to Mumbai, and a day later, as you recall, he gathered us together and said we were 'go' on the capture strategy. He was off the reservation. I didn't know what to do, because I liked Walker, I admired him, and I'd wanted the fucking thing to be a 'go', as much as anyone. If I reported him, his career would be finished, but I worked for the CIA, and the CIA wanted Dragonov free. So, I tried to come up with a way to save face for everyone."

  "You tipped off Dragonov," Sedgwick said.

  "Not him personally, an anonymous tip to his middlemen. I thought I'd been clever, but Dragonov plays informant for every intelligence agency in the world. He's got a lot of resources at his disposal. Nothing happened for a while. No word from his people to cancel the meeting, no sign Walker would reconsider. We did one more trip to DC before the meeting, his last attempt to get the DEA behind him, and when we came back the two of you were on the train to Rishikesh with Thomas. The next day, I got an email with a zip file attached. Looked like spam, but I'm on a secured network so . . ."

  Costino's face suddenly crumpled. "They were pictures of my family. All of them. My parents on their back deck, my sister with her kids at the grocery store. Her husband. My younger brother—they had a picture of him taken right inside his office. I didn't even get it, at first. I'd only seen them about three times in the last five years and I was happy—ah, shit." He rubbed at his face. "It was just so fucking good to see them."

  Sedgwick released a long, whistling sigh and pulled the water out again. He placed the bottle on the step next to Costino and gave Conor a nudge. "Let's take a walk."

  They s
trolled over to the wall and looked out at the bulky, rounded hillside across from them, watching its shrubs and boulders come into focus under the gradually brightening sky.

  "Stupid bastard," Sedgwick breathed. "He did everything wrong."

  "Would you have taken a mission like his?" Conor asked. "If you'd stayed with the CIA?"

  "Probably. Crap assignment, but yeah, I probably would have."

  "What would you have done about Walker?"

  "Turned him in," Sedgwick said, without hesitation. "I admired him too, but Jesus, you've got to understand when you can color outside the lines and when you can't. He was obsessed with Dragonov. Killed his judgment, and Costino was in over his head from the beginning. What are you going to do once the enemy is holding your family hostage?"

  "Whatever he tells you to," Conor said.

  They stayed at the wall until the rhythmic, sonorous tolling of a temple bell sounded, followed by the higher pitched jingle of hand bells. The morning puja ritual began with the dawn; they would need to be on the road soon.

  "Sorry," Costino mumbled, when they rejoined him on the steps. He'd regained his composure, but the water bottle had been twisted into an unrecognizable lump of plastic.

  Whether from exhaustion or compassion, Conor couldn't muster any fury against him. "Look, we can figure out most of the rest from here—Dragonov forced you to sabotage the capture strategy and set the trap in a way that allowed him to still get his twenty million dollars."

  Costino nodded. "I didn't expect them to attack us. They told me they'd send someone expendable to the meeting who would pretend to be Dragonov. We'd transfer the money and arrest him and find out later we had the wrong guy. Not too bad, I told myself. I never questioned the idea they'd give up one of their own so easily. I guess I didn't want to. I was scared stupid."