The Conor McBride Series Books 1-3

by Kathryn Guare

  Today the weather was mild enough to return to the better acoustics of his gambrel-roofed studio, but as he headed in that direction, Conor remembered the envelope in his back pocket. Making a detour, he again poked his head into Kate’s office and found her sitting at her desk, hunched over a three-ring binder.

  “How’s yer man in New York? Seducing you with bank statements? Finding castles you didn’t know you owned?”

  She looked up at him, her face drained of color, and he stepped quickly into the room. “What’s the matter? Is it bad news?”

  “It’s … I’m not sure. I just … I don’t know.” Kate gestured at the binder, speechless. “You’re not far off,” she finally added.

  “About what, the castles? Jaysus, Kate, are you joking me?”

  Conor dropped into a chair in front of the desk and stared at her, wondering what kind of revelation he should be preparing for now. When he’d met her, it had come as no surprise to learn the young widowed innkeeper of the Rembrandt Inn had money in her background. In some ways Kate was fairly transparent about it. From early conversations about her family and childhood it was clear she’d had a privileged upbringing, though not always a happy one. Her mother had died when she was a baby, and her father, an investment banker and pioneering hedge fund manager, had a taste for marrying often and for selecting ever-younger brides. Kate spent much of her childhood living with her grandmother.

  Up to a point it wasn’t an unusual story, but there were some pertinent details Kate failed to divulge. Conor eventually learned of them months later—under less than ideal conditions—and confronted two equally bewildering facts. The first was that Kate’s grandmother, Sophia-Marie, was one of five children from the marriage of a Luxembourg princess and the Crown Prince of Bavaria. The second was that having just turned thirty, Kate was of age to assume control of a trust fund totaling forty million dollars. He had managed to fall in love with a royal heiress. Nearly six months later, he still felt disoriented.

  Kate never acted the part of an entitled woman of wealth; quite the opposite in fact. At the moment, she looked so pale and frightened Conor thought she might faint.

  “Okay.” He leaned forward. “Take a deep breath and tell me. What does it say in those books?”

  “It’s more,” Kate blurted out, her breath hitching. “More. It’s way, way more.”

  “More than forty million? Right.” He scrubbed his hands over his jeans, which were filthy with sawdust and pine pitch. The conversation was preposterous. “Well, how much more, for fuck’s sake?”

  “It’s a hundred and eight-five million dollars. Not counting the real estate.”

  Conor sat back, feeling light-headed himself. “Holy mother of God. Not counting the real estate. That would be the castles, I imagine.”

  “Not castles. At least I don’t think so. There’s land in Luxembourg and Germany, and a building in New York—and some kind of villa in Italy.”

  “How did all this happen?”

  “It isn’t just the trust fund. It’s my grandmother’s entire portfolio. She’s turned everything over to me.” She shook a few sheets of paper at him. “That was outlined in these two pages. All this other crap is just a client’s guide to the ‘Zimmer House Difference.’ Do you know what an open architecture product platform is?”

  Conor snorted. “Seriously?”

  Kate looked miserable. “I’m supposed to go to New York on Monday to get a briefing from the advisors, and then have dinner with Oma. Actually, she wants to have dinner with both of us. What are we going to do?”

  She picked up the binder and tossed it aside, threatening the equilibrium of the remaining stacks on her desk. Conor quickly steadied a pile near the edge before it could slide to the floor.

  “What are we going to do?” he said. “Don’t look at me—you’re the heiress. I’m happy to have dinner with your grandmother, but beyond that I’ve nothing to do with it.”

  “That’s not true!” Kate protested. “We’re in this together. What’s mine is yours. Or will be. Someday.”

  “No, sweetheart. It’s not, and it never will be.” He softened his tone, realizing how rattled and confused she was. “Even if I ever manage to get you to the altar, what’s yours will stay yours.”

  “What if I don’t want it?”

  Conor shrugged. “Tell them so. I’m sure they’ll find someone who does.”

  Kate propped a fist against her cheek and was silent for a long moment. “Would it bother you?” she asked, finally.

  “If you give it all away?”

  “Or keep it. Either case.” More composed, she stood up and came around to lean against the desk in front of him. “In the circle I grew up in, there were good people completely unaffected by money and others who were made small by it, but I never saw it make anyone a better person. Right now you’re being noble and I appreciate that, but how do you think you’ll deal with this later, in the long term, I mean?”

  Stung by the question and what it seemed to imply, a mask of indifference settled over Conor’s face. “Feels like a test. If you’re asking if I’d come to resent you for refusing a fortune, the answer is No. I wouldn’t know what I was missing and wouldn’t care much. If you’re asking if I’d feel emasculated by your stupendous wealth, the answer is also No. I don’t know what you expect me to say, Kate, and to be honest I’d have hoped you already knew the answers to those questions. As to whether being around money will make me petty, I guess I can’t answer that, but if you don’t trust me …”

  She sprang forward and took his face in her hands. “Of course I trust you. I’m sorry. I’m not questioning your integrity, I hope with all my heart you believe that, but this is new territory for us both. It needs to be talked about, and you’re part of the discussion because you’re part of my life.” Kate lowered her face to his.

  After a brief resistance Conor pulled her down to straddle his lap, appeased. “I’ve no villa in Italy, but I’m not a pauper myself, you know.” He fingered the top button of her blouse. “Plenty of women would think me a fine catch. I own two hundred acres of Irish farmland and a violin worth a quarter of a million dollars—and I’ve all my own teeth. I’d be a star at the matchmaking fairs back home.”

  “You’re already a star right here.” Laughing, Kate put her mouth to his ear. “I’ll buy you a Stradivarius.”

  “You could do, but the Pressenda would never forgive me.” After a prolonged kiss Conor pulled back. “By the way, you’re not the only one with news today.” To her questioning look he offered a wink. “Back pocket.”

  Kate reached around and pulled the folded envelope from his pocket. She stared at it, wide-eyed.

  “Looks like we finally got our marching orders,” he said.

  “Madison, Wisconsin.” She ran a finger over the address and turned over the envelope. “You haven’t opened it yet.”

  Conor smiled. “Not without you, partner.”

  Once they’d looked inside the envelope Kate realized it would be foolish to drive to New York on Monday because now they were scheduled to be there on Thursday. Frank’s letter, exasperating in its brevity, was written according to a coded framework:

  Conor,

  Confirming Gordon’s visit with you. He’s meeting a Chamber of Commerce group on regional tourism on the 30th but should reach you no later than four in the afternoon. I shall forward the travel documents for his upcoming trip to you directly, as he’ll not be returning to the office before departure. He looks forward to it.

  Regards,

  Bill

  “Gordon” was the code for the MI6 station at the British Consulate in New York. Once deciphered (all dates mentioned were to be moved ahead one day and all times back one hour), the rest of the message instructed them to report there at three in the afternoon on March 31. For purposes of the Consulate visitor’s log they were there as representatives from a Chamber of Commerce group concerned with regional tourism. This was a verifiable story because Kate did belong to su
ch a group. The real objective was to receive their travel documents prior to departure for London.

  “Travel documents,” she said. They were sitting on the couch in her office now with the letter between them. They’d given it plenty of space, as though making room for Frank himself. “Does that mean our flight information?”

  “Fake passports,” Conor explained. “Credit cards, driver’s license. Probably a whole wallet full of fabricated ephemera to make it seem more legit.”

  “Oh.” She felt an odd little shudder in her midsection, something between excitement and apprehension.

  “It’s just for traveling, I suppose. As far as I know we’re not using aliases in London or Prague.”

  “Sure.” Kate nodded and picked up the letter again, aware of his eyes on her, watching for any sign of hesitation. “Who do you think Frank has in Wisconsin to send letters for him?”

  “He said there’s an honorary consulate there. I expect it’s somebody connected to that.”

  “It hardly seems worth the effort. He hasn’t even told us when we’re leaving. Why is he giving us so little information?”

  “Och, if I had a pint for every time I’ve asked that.” Conor took the letter from her and slipped it back into the envelope. “We could look at it all day, but it won’t give up any secrets. Anyway, we need to do something about this Zimmer House business. What are you going to tell them, and your grandmother?”

  Kate shrugged. “I’ll call and say I’ve got a stomach flu and ask them to push the meeting to Thursday at eleven. That should give us enough time before the meeting at the Consulate. After that we can have dinner with my grandmother.”

  He gave a low whistle. “Well, that’s all worked out, then. Fair play.”

  “I do feel bad about lying to her,” Kate said. “I guess that’s something I’ll have to get comfortable with, right?”

  Conor fidgeted with the envelope before returning it to his pocket with a tight-lipped frown. “Not necessarily. I never have.”

  Kate winced at the gentle reproach, an important reminder that Conor was a reluctant recruit for the job he’d accepted. Intelligence work had not been a career move for him; he’d been drawn into its orbit by bizarre circumstance. She knew his decision to remain in it sat uneasily on his conscience, and that he’d been appalled at her rejection of the firewall he’d wanted to create between that choice and his life with her.

  It took months to persuade him she was serious about playing a role. Because so much had been taken from him already, Conor’s fear of loss was very real and Kate understood his anxiety, but she had fears as well. He was good at this business. She could vouch for his skills because she’d seen them in action and they’d saved her life, but a man could become haunted by the things he’s good at. Kate knew the weight of guilt Conor carried into each day, and the memories that could occasionally—even a year later—propel him from sleep into breathless, sweating panic. He wasn’t far removed from the risk of losing himself, and the fear knotted at the root of her resolve was that if she let him begin this journey alone, they might lose each other.

  3

  Before sunrise on Thursday, still half asleep, Kate stepped out to greet a cold, dark morning and two inches of fresh snow. Conor had already been up for a while. He’d started the chores before handing them off to his assistant, Nate Percy, and was sweeping the snow off Kate’s Subaru, his face comical in its disbelief.

  “What the hell is all this about? It was sixty degrees a few days ago.”

  “Which you thought meant it was spring? That’s cute.” She tossed her overnight bag into the car. “I think that’s probably good enough.”

  “Yeah, nearly there. Hop inside. Should be warm by now.”

  Kate groaned and fell into the front seat, closing the door with a shiver. “Neat freak,” she said, when he finally climbed in beside her.

  “Good morning to you as well, oh pulse of my heart.”

  “Five o’clock is too early to call it good.” She opened her mouth in a jaw-cracking yawn.

  Conor fastened his seatbelt and gave her a sidelong look. “How late were you painting last night?”

  “When I left the studio it was a little after midnight.”

  “Hmm. No wonder you’re grumpy.”

  Kate put on a peacemaking smile and handed him the travel mug she was cradling between her knees. “I made tea for you.”

  “Thank you.” He accepted the mug. “Now, take a nap.”

  When she woke two hours later the sky had grown brighter, the car wasn’t moving, and she was alone. It took a few woozy seconds to work out that they’d stopped at a McDonald’s. Kate could see Conor inside having an animated conversation with the young woman behind the counter. No doubt he was sweet-talking his way to an early batch of french fries. She took a bracing walk around the parking lot and was in the driver’s seat when he returned. He raised an eyebrow as he offered her a cup of coffee.

  “I was getting a little antsy,” she said.

  “In your sleep?” Conor adjusted the passenger seat for his longer legs. “I didn’t think we were behind schedule.”

  “We’re not, but I’m afraid we will be. You drive like an old man.”

  He opened the bag, filling the car with the smell of bacon and french fries. “That’s quite a feeble dig. You’re no good with insults. You should give them up.”

  “You drive like a nervous goose.”

  “Also weak. Geese are mean, not nervous.” He passed her a breakfast sandwich.

  “Okay. Let’s hear yours. How do I drive?”

  “You drive like a …” Conor grinned and shook his head. “Can’t do it. It’s against the law.”

  “Another one of Bobby’s rules?” Kate rolled her eyes and drove back onto the highway. Bobby Gilligan was her friend Yvette’s longtime partner. He and Conor had been sharing relationship survival rules, looking for cultural differences. Apparently, there were very few.

  “You scoff, but they’re around for a reason.”

  “So this one says to let me make fun of the way you drive?” Ahead of them, a tractor trailer was kicking a spray of dirty road slush onto the windshield. Hitting the accelerator, she shifted lanes.

  Conor took back the sandwich and nudged her empty hand towards the steering wheel. “In a manner of speaking. You could also comment on my expanding gut.”

  “That one’s definitely from Bobby. Yvette is always harassing him about his.” Kate eased back into the travel lane and glanced at Conor as he placed the sandwich back in her hand. “Yours never expands at all, despite the amount that goes into it.”

  “Ah, see? You can say that, but I couldn’t say it to you.”

  “Are you implying I eat too much?”

  “I’m not, and you know that.” He pointed an accusing fry at her. “Do you see, now? How quickly it all goes downhill? You follow the rules and it balances out, like an exchange.”

  “Where’s the exchange part? What do men get out of these rules?”

  “Television.”

  She laughed. “I’m glad we had this chat.”

  “Me, too. You drive slower when you’re talking.” He popped a french fry into her mouth. “Get that into you. You’re too skinny.”

  Conor stood with his back to her in front of the gilt-framed portraits of Johan and Ludwig, the Munich-based founders of Zimmer House. Their bank—the second oldest in the world—had managed the private wealth of the European aristocracy since 1695. Kate thought the Zimmer brothers looked rather complacent, as if their seventeenth-century eyes could see across the years to the comfortable niche they would occupy in the New World.

  The New York branch, wholly dedicated to private banking, was in a 1960s-style skyscraper on Maiden Lane, in the heart of the Financial District. They had arrived with fifteen minutes to spare and were waiting in the empty reception area, which Kate noted was a homage to Bauhaus design. Its sparse collection of furniture was made of tubular steel and glass, giving the large room an e
ven greater sense of space. Conor, who’d made it clear he’d rather not be in the room at all, had just finished a restless tour of its perimeter. Understandably, he’d been drawn to the portraits. The dark tones of the late-Renaissance paintings added some warmth to the otherwise chilly atmosphere.

  “I should have worn a suit,” he said.

  “You look fine,” Kate said. “Especially from this angle.” In chinos and a lightweight navy sweater—both a deliciously perfect fit against his lean frame—he was more than fine as far as she was concerned.

  Conor shot her a glance full of tantalizing potential. “I’m only saying, if I’d known I was coming in here with you I would have worn a suit.”

  He turned as an elevator chimed the arrival of a group of well-tailored men. They spilled into the lobby and disappeared down the hall in loping strides, as though conquering new territory with every step. Conor crossed the room to where she was sitting on the couch, and after pushing aside their coats, he sat down next to her.

  “Everyone else here is wearing a suit.”

  “So what? You don’t work here. You’re fine,” she said again, resting a hand on his thigh.

  The elevator trilled again, and this time the sliding doors revealed the advisor Kate was scheduled to meet—a man with the improbable name of Guido Brottman. Tall, blond, and solidly built, he seemed like an extension of the Bauhaus theme. His high forehead formed the top of a rectangular face, which extended down to join a wide, u-shaped chin.

  As he advanced to greet them with the same confident gait as the other suited men, Kate realized she hadn’t thought this moment all the way through. With little time to address the lapse, she looked at Conor.

  “How should I introduce you?”

  “Just tell him I’m the hired man.” With an enigmatic smile, he slipped her hand away and they rose from the couch.

  “Guido Brottman,” the advisor said in a generic European accent. He took her hand in both his own. “Such a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Fitzpatrick. So sorry to have kept you waiting.”