The Conor McBride Series Books 1-3

by Kathryn Guare

  "Well, anyway, we don't need your plan." Conor indicated the laptop sitting on the coffee table. "Tony's been communicating with Durgan through the chat function of an online service. The site is ehm—"

  "Wait a second." Fresh bandage secured, Sedgwick slithered from Kate's grasp and bounced from his chair, landing next to Conor on the couch.

  "It's a porn site," Conor resumed, cautiously. "The messages are coded into the photographs."

  "Naturally." Kate dropped into the empty chair. Men were nothing if not predictable. She pitched the roll of tape at them, which Conor successfully dodged while continuing the narrative.

  "Durgan is waiting for a response to the offer he made a week ago: information about me in exchange for a passport and a lot of cash and a plane ticket to his destination of choice. He'll be getting an answer tonight, but not the one he expected. We're flipping this relationship back to the beginning, when Costino had the upper hand. Sedgwick speaks CIA, so he'll get onto the site using Tony's user name and password—"

  "Jennifer24/7," Sedgwick chimed in.

  "—And send the message."

  "And what will you be telling him, Jennifer?" Kate asked.

  "That he's finished. Over. Robert Durgan is toast. His name, picture and arrest warrant are all logged with Interpol for conspiracy to kidnap an heiress and possible terrorist connections, and he's in every immigration and enforcement database in the world. My supervisors want to throw him under the bus, but I've convinced them he might still be useful. They've agreed to an extraction, with zero negotiation. If he wants a fresh start, he should be at the bar in Kerry Airport a week from tomorrow. An agent carrying a copy of A Brief History of Time will be there to bring him in. If he's not there, game over."

  Kate nodded, fascinated by the cinematic quality of the scene he described. "Why that book, in particular?"

  "Skinny, easy to recognize, and guaranteed to be the only one in the room because nobody ever fucking reads it. I'll be the agent waiting for him in the bar. We'll have tickets for Dulles, connecting through London, but when we get off the plane at Gatwick, Frank Murdoch will be at the gate with MI6, 5 and whoever else, greeting him with a set of handcuffs. Durgan might be extradited back to the States, but it seems fair to give the Brits first crack since the CIA owns the blame for this whole cock-up. So . . .” The agent trailed off and gave Conor an inquisitive glance, as if inviting him to jump in, but Conor stared down at his folded hands, thumbs tapping together. "So, yeah." Sedgwick suppressed a smile and turned back to Kate. "That's the plan. What do you think?"

  "I'm certainly no judge, but it seems solid to me. Will he show up?"

  "He's got no choice, and he'll have plenty of time to travel from wherever he's been hiding. Probably Dublin. Easier to stay invisible in a bigger city."

  The thumb tapping picked up speed. He was clearly anticipating Kate's next question, and she felt a little sorry for Conor, because she was already several steps ahead of him. "Are you going to do this alone?" she asked Sedgwick.

  "Um, well . . ."

  "No." Conor pulled his hands apart and sat forward, taking the plunge in a rush. "He can't. He needs backup. I'll be perfectly safe though, Kate. Durgan will never even see me. I'll be way off stage, practically in the bushes, monitoring everything on the radio."

  "In case something goes wrong," Kate said, stating the obvious.

  "But nothing will go wrong. It'll be fine."

  "Because it's all gone so well up to this point?"

  "Well, no."

  She let him grope for a more credible argument for a few seconds before smiling. "Relax. I understand."

  "You do?"

  "Of course. I never imagined you wouldn't go with him."

  "Oh. Good. Brilliant." Conor released his breath and exchanged a glance of surprised relief with Sedgwick. "We were afraid you might not agree."

  "I can see that, but after everything that's happened, after all you've been through, how could I not let you have this closure? How could I try to make you stay home?"

  Kate beamed bright, sympathetic understanding at both of them. Had they caught on, yet? No. No, they hadn't, and that was probably just as well. It was getting late, and she didn't want to start an argument right before bedtime.

  33

  "It’s not exactly a fool-proof disguise. What if somebody recognizes you and comes knocking? What will you tell them?"

  "I'm just back to meet with the estate agent. Sorting the boundaries—that's a safe one. People are always giving out over boundaries around here."

  "But I thought you sold everything before you left."

  "The sale wasn't posted." Conor rubbed at his forehead and pulled the bill of his cap a little lower. "I signed a load of papers and sent them back to Frank. I don't know whose name is on the bloody deed, but the farm belongs to MI6. He said they've kept the house habitable."

  "I can't wait." Kate wriggled in her seat and Conor shot a sour glance at her over his sunglasses. "What's wrong?" she asked.

  "You look like Jigger, bouncing around over there. We've flown half the night and we're nearly three hours in the car, now. Aren't you tired?"

  "I think I'm overtired. Makes me spastic. Anyway, lighten up." Kate gave his knee a slap, and let her hand remain on his thigh. "You've had enough time to be tense and surly about this. You're past the expiration date."

  Eyes still on the road, Conor smiled a little. "These are not the circumstances under which I thought I'd be introducing you to my birthplace."

  "Believe me, I do sympathize."

  Sure she does. Conor brought her hand to his lips. But not enough to stay home.

  He should have seen it coming, and he'd berated himself for yet again underestimating her, thereby making the success of her campaign a foregone conclusion. At first, he'd been patient, solicitous even, indulging every argument until she'd talked herself hoarse, and then refuting all of them with solid logic. He fought gently and—he thought—shrewdly, but as the battle continued and he realized he was losing, his panic ignited a pompous rage which he used as his last remaining weapon. He unleashed it on her two days before departure while they emptied the trash, the fumes from that evening's seafood entree hanging in the air.

  "Your arguments are all ridiculous, Kate. You wouldn't be making me or anyone else safer. Exactly the opposite, in fact. You've no experience and you're not trained for it. You're an unacceptable risk and you'd be a liability to the entire operation."

  "I don't care." She remained maddeningly calm, refusing to face him as she tossed the final bag into the dumpster. "You've had liabilities before; you'll deal with this one."

  "We shouldn't have to fucking deal with it." He brought the lid down with a crash and slammed his fist on top for good measure. "You're being completely unreasonable and selfish."

  "Selfish?" Kate's quiet, controlled emotion extinguished his anger in the space of a heartbeat. Conor had already surrendered before she said another word. "He took everything from me—family possessions, my art, trust in my own judgment. My courage. Don't I deserve to at least get a look at him, even if only from the bushes? Is that selfish?"

  "Of course not. No." He slipped an arm around her shoulders, conceding defeat. "A load of rubbish, you know." He kissed her forehead. "That bit about courage. You've more than anyone I've ever met. That's what scares me so much."

  He dithered over how to break the news to his partner, and delayed for as long as he could. Sedgwick was already in London, immersed in meetings with Frank and his colleagues, and would arrive at Kerry Airport the day before the meeting with Durgan. Frank had suggested using the farmhouse in Ventry as their safe house, and as the venue for an early morning briefing with the special Garda units called in to assist. The former McBride farm was within an hour's drive of the small, regional airport, and isolated enough to ensure privacy. Conor would fly to Ireland earlier to open up the house before picking up Sedgwick. Only when he and Kate were sitting at the JFK departure gate did he finally c
all to present the operational wrinkle. Sedgwick picked up on the second ring.

  "How are things going?" Conor asked.

  "Fine. The food's as bad as I remember, except for the curry."

  "Did Frank book you at the Lanesborough?"

  "The Lanesborough? Hell, no. He's got me in a dive over the Bayswater tube station. How about you? Everything on schedule?"

  "Yeah, sure. Right on time." Conor decided he should come to the point. "I need to warn you of a small complication I've failed to avert. There will be two of us picking you up at the airport tomorrow night. Kate's with me." He waited for the agent to explode, but after a long pause Sedgwick startled him by laughing instead.

  "I suppose we're just lucky she plays for our side."

  The agent's composure had done nothing to relieve his own concerns, but despite his sullen mood Conor took reluctant pleasure in Kate's introduction to Ireland. Her enthusiasm for the experience was apparent as soon as they'd stepped out of Shannon Airport into a cool morning of misting rain. While he loaded their bags into the rental car she stood with her nose turned up, water collecting on her face, mist clinging to her dark green sweater in twinkling droplets.

  "I'm getting the smell of it," she explained. "Every place has its own fragrance. New York has vented subway air and pretzels. Right now, home smells like snow, even though there isn't any yet. Here, I'm getting something like a campfire after you've thrown water on it. Also, a little like wool."

  "That would be your sweater, don't you think?" Conor brushed some of the moisture from her shoulders. "Did you not bring a rain jacket? You're taking optimism to the limit. We'll stop in Tralee for breakfast and buy one for you." He bobbed his head at the car. "Right, so. In you get. Nope. This side."

  The rain had stopped as they left Tralee after a late breakfast, and now the skies cleared as they started for the farmhouse, which lay several miles past the town of Dingle. A pang of nostalgia hit Conor as they crossed the bridge over the River Lee, and he saw the rolling, emerald outline of the Slieve Mish mountains running up the spine of the peninsula. He decided he should obey Kate's command to lighten up. The emotional sledgehammer she faced—with a courage she wouldn't allow herself to acknowledge—was heavier than anything he had in front of him. He'd shared a deep bond of friendship and more than a few pints with the man he'd known as Phillip Ryan, but they hadn't joined their lives together. If she could sit beside him, cheerful, wide-awake and absorbed by every sight and "fragrance" around her, who the hell was he to be sulking? When he came to a fork in the road, he abandoned the N86 route and stayed to the right, following the narrow R560 toward the Conor Pass.

  "I know I don't speak Irish, but wasn't that a sign for Dingle?" Kate twisted around to look behind them.

  "An Daingean," Conor confirmed, feeling a warm fellowship with the ancestors who had invoked its name before him. He tossed his sunglasses into the center console and winked at her. "I'm taking the scenic route."

  They coasted along the northern side of the peninsula where the North Atlantic sparkled under a brightening sky, and then turned inland, climbing bit by bit until the road suddenly shrank to a narrow track, carved out of the rock of the most spectacular mountain pass in the country. The route rolled forward in a winding, vertiginous loop, clinging to the side of moss-covered cliffs rising on their left. To the right, a majestic, glaciated landscape stretched into the distance, dotted everywhere with corrie lakes—dark, mirror-flat basins of icy water, reflecting the clouds above them with photographic intensity.

  At the highest point on the pass, Conor pulled the car into a lay-by. Next to them, a slender waterfall spilled out over a tabletop arrangement of boulders, and in front the panoramic view spread out before them like a living postcard. As they stared together through the windshield he could sense Kate's speechless wonder, but when she slipped out for a closer look Conor didn't follow right away. He switched off the engine and sat back as she crossed to stand at the low rock wall lining the road. This moment was all he wanted—simply to watch her, to experience this place for the first time through her eyes. Eventually, he got out of the car and went to stand behind her, circling his arms around her waist. They were alone on the road, and the only sound came from the rain shower melody of the waterfall behind them.

  "I'm not going to describe this very well." She took his arms and drew him closer. "The little bit of cloud out there above the lake seems alive, and I'm floating with it, even while I'm planted here, holding on to you and feeling the gravel under my shoes. I'm out there, and right here, part of everything. Such an odd sensation. I guess it must be jet-lag."

  "It's not," he whispered. "It's Ireland."

  The house offered another opportunity for his heart to stumble and shake inside him, and Conor wondered why he hadn't prepared more carefully for the sentiment this homecoming would evoke. After passing through Dingle and the small village of Ventry—essentially an intersection with a post office and two pubs—he turned the car from the main road onto a smaller one, no more than a paved path. They climbed uphill, past acres of empty fields, then turned again to bump through a gate and along a short, muddy driveway to the farm itself. He parked behind the tractor shed, ensuring the car was hidden from sight, and on their way to the house they paused to gaze across the pasture at the view of Ventry Bay.

  "So?" Conor asked. "Did I give an accurate description?"

  Kate smiled. "Just like Lake Rembrandt, but with the ocean at one end. It's perfect."

  He led her down a flight of stairs to the flagstone terrace at the back of the farmhouse, and with the key he'd used all his life, opened the Dutch-style door and let it swing inward. They stepped into the tiny kitchen, too small for a dining table but large enough for the enormous antique dish cupboard squeezed against one wall. Happy and surprised it was still there, Conor absently brushed his fingers over the shelf before the shock of realization floored him: everything was still there, looking exactly as it had on the day he'd left. Fully habitable, Frank had told him, and now he understood. MI6 wasn't using the place at all. They hadn't touched a thing.

  Conor sniffed the air—cool and damp, but not as stale as he'd expected. They went through into the large, sunlit space where the McBride family had lived out its life—its eating and drinking and visits with friends, its naps by the soot-stained fireplace. Its fiddling and songs.

  Receiving his vague nod and directions, Kate went upstairs to use the bathroom while he remained in place, lost in memories. When she returned, he noticed her spastic energy had run its course, and she was cold. She stood by the fireplace hugging herself, and gave a wide, shivering yawn.

  "The central heating's turned off; I should probably get the boiler running again. Or, I could get a fire going if you like," Conor suggested.

  "Wouldn't we be warmer in bed?" she asked sleepily.

  "Without a doubt. Good idea. My room's up on the right."

  The worn springs and faded patchwork quilt of his bed provided a sharp contrast to Kate's pillow-topped luxury, but she stripped and tumbled in as though she'd been waiting for it all her life. Conor wasted no time in following. Within a few minutes they had warmth enough to spare, and before long drifted off to sleep.

  He woke later with a violent start—breathless, nerves sizzling, his head a jumble of spiking, incoherent static. He didn't know where he was, and for a paralyzing instant he didn't know who he was. After several deep breaths, Conor faced the more ordinary mystery of what time it was. He sat up, getting reacquainted with the room and its homely furnishings, while next to him Kate slept on, flat on her stomach. Her breathing was so light that he perched over her on one elbow, holding his own breath until he'd tracked a few cycles of her inaudible intake and release. He'd expected it to be surreal and maybe a little awkward having her here—in his home, in this bed—but he felt only a boneless sense of relief, as if something painfully wrenched out of joint had clicked back in place.

  He found his watch resting on the pile of clot
hes on the floor. Three o'clock. They would leave in another hour to pick up Sedgwick. Pulling on his jeans, he left Kate to sleep a while longer and went to the bathroom. Out of habit, he twisted both faucets, but was astonished a minute later when the water got hot. Had he never turned off the bloody boiler, after all? Yes, he definitely had. His memories about everything on that last day were as vivid as a picture book.

  Conor shut the water off and studied his reflection in the mirror, the old unmistakable tingle traveling up his spine. He stepped to the second floor landing and stopped, listening, then trotted down the stairs to survey the living room, this time with an eye for something other than nostalgia. He walked into the kitchen and heard what he hadn't earlier—the faint, gremlin buzz of the refrigerator. A natural, well-remembered sound that he shouldn't be hearing at all. He remembered unplugging it. He pulled the door open. A package of sausages sat on the top shelf, and a liter of milk on the door. He picked up the milk, confirmed it was fresh and closed the door, his gaze wandering along the counter to see what else he'd missed. Tucked into a corner by the stove he saw a small loaf of bread next to a red-capped jar of Bovril.

  Bovril's your only man for puttin’ the life back into you.

  "Oh my God, are you joking me?" His hushed disbelief vanished in a shout as Conor wheeled away from the refrigerator. "Kate, wake up! We need to get out of here!"

  As he raced through the doorway, headed for the stairs, a shape loomed on his left. Before he could react, he both heard and felt the excruciating crack on the back of his head, and then nothing more.

  34

  There was no electric jolt propelling him awake this time; there was only a slow, relapsing climb from darkness into more darkness. His effort to interpret the ghostly light illuminating it finally brought him around. He lay on his side on the floor of the living room, with his hands tied behind his back. Slowly, Conor registered the pale blue gleam he'd taken for moonlight as the glow from a laptop sitting on the large oak dining table. The last moments of a fading daylight remained visible beyond the drawn curtains. Fighting a stomach-churning pain, he lifted his head and saw Kate, tied with a length of orange electrical cord into a straight-backed chair, arms pinned to her side. Beside her, relaxing against the table, her husband stared down at him, his face hidden in shadows.