The Conor McBride Series Books 1-3

by Kathryn Guare

  “Splendid. Yes. You seem like the sort who can put up with a bit of adventure.” He lapsed into another reverie, beaming and squinting at her before switching his myopic gaze to Conor’s fingers discreetly drumming on the table. “Mr. McBride, meanwhile, will be busy preparing for Prague. You’ve met Maestro Eckhard, I believe?”

  “I have, briefly,” Conor said. Dr. C Eckhard von Hahnemann, the conductor for the Salzburg Philharmonic, had spent a night at the inn the previous summer. At the time, he’d been acting in a role he clearly found distasteful—serving as a courier for Frank—and he’d hinted at a desire for some future collaboration with Conor “on the concert stage, a milieu I believe we each feel more suitable to our talents.”

  “Of course he’ll be at the house in Windsor also,” Effingham said. “My understanding is that he’s to bring a chamber group to Prague for an event being sponsored by the Austrian Embassy. You’ll get more detail on performance arrangements from him, I expect. I’ve no idea what he has in mind.” He took a slow, contemplative sip from his teacup and placed it back in the saucer, now sitting level with his chest.

  In the silence that followed, Conor could hear the methodical tick of a grandfather clock in the adjacent foyer. He exchanged a glance of weary impatience with Kate and pushed his own cup to the middle of the table. “Information and treasures, you said. Will we be getting to those any time soon, Reg?”

  “Certainly. Yes, I beg your pardon. I so rarely get to spend a quiet half-hour with a cup of tea.” Effingham put his cup down and folded his hands on the table, suddenly looking fully awake and alert. “First, to be clear: apart from facilitating the connection, British Intelligence has nothing to do with the Philharmonic, its agenda in Prague or its performance contract with you. It’s an entirely separate matter from our interests.”

  “Understood,” Conor said, pleased by the delineation. The wider the gulf between his artistic life and any clandestine activity the better.

  “Your assignment for us is simple. You’ll be facilitating the defection of a double agent who is a high-ranking officer with the Iranian intelligence service. We’ve been working with him for years.”

  Kate took in a sharp breath. “That doesn’t sound very simple to me.”

  “Nor to me,” Conor agreed.

  “It’s absolutely straightforward,” Effingham said. “Little more than the work of an evening. His superiors have already sent him to Prague on assignment. You’ve only to make contact with him at an agreed location and drive him north to the Czech-German border. It’s a place called Hřensko—glorious scenery, I’m told. The Elbe River, sandstone canyons, rock bridges—”

  “What happens at the border?” Conor interrupted, anxious to prevent another whimsical detour.

  “Oh, you’ll just hand the chap off to our staff from the Dresden station. They’ll drive down and collect him from you at the Hotel Labe in the middle of town, and that’s the entire mission—done and dusted.”

  “Don’t you already have people in Prague who could do this?” Kate asked. “Or couldn’t your staff in Dresden go there to get him?”

  “Yes, that’s a good question, isn’t it?” Effingham nodded approval at her. “Why on earth should we need you? To answer I must remove the veil, as it were, and share some of the dysfunctional politics and petty feuds often raging below the surface among intelligence networks. It’s not a pretty picture, I’m afraid.”

  “I think we can handle it,” Conor said. He was still waiting for a pinch of evidence that intelligence networks were anything but petty and dysfunctional.

  “You see, we’ve recently had a disastrous falling out with the BIS—the Czech counter-intelligence service. Someone in their ranks leaked information of a similar defection operation we were running last year. When MI6 complained, the head of BIS got sacked, but next thing we knew, the Czech Republic’s leading media outlet was broadcasting the name of our head of station on television and had camera crews surrounding his house in Prague. As you can imagine, the station is in disarray. It’s impossible to involve them in this operation so soon after that debacle, and we dare not cast any Dresden staff into the soup until it’s sorted, so someone new to the theater, without baggage or profile, perfectly fits the bill for this assignment.”

  “What happened to your station chief?” Conor asked.

  “Still in Prague, poor fellow. Low profile and all that. But I doubt he’ll stay much longer. I mean, really. What’s the point?” Effingham shook his head sadly. “I’m afraid that’s all the information I have—London is working out more precise logistics—so let’s move on to the treasure, shall we?”

  He leaned forward and removed a thick zippered bank bag from the tea tray. “I have passports for you. You’ll be traveling as …” He removed the booklets from the pouch and squinted inside the front covers. “… Malcolm and Barbara Alder. Wretched names. They don’t suit you at all. No matter. It’s only to obscure your movements in the Customs databases. You’re booked as yourselves at the hotel in Prague, so your own passports and Conor’s green card will be sent ahead for collection when you arrive, and please remember to post them home before you leave. It’s irksome for us when agents get blown carrying more than one. You have two wallets here as well.” He pulled them from the bag. “A few hundred dollars each, credit cards, photos of baby nephews and whatnot—choose names you’ll remember. Ah, Mr. McBride, you’ve ticket stubs from a concert at Avery Fisher Hall. Nice touch, that. Let’s see, what else? Oh, boarding passes—mustn’t forget those.”

  He dove back into the bag like a boy rooting through his Christmas stocking. Conor sat back and returned Kate’s smile of bemused wonder. Reg was obviously a man who relished the minutiae of his work.

  “You haven’t answered the most important question,” Kate said. “When do we leave?”

  Effingham pulled his head up and, blinking, looked from Kate to Conor and back to Kate again. “What an extraordinary question. You leave tonight, of course. Your flight departs JFK at nine o’clock.”

  “What?”

  “Tonight?” They shouted at him in unison, which had little effect.

  “It was perfectly clear in your letter of instruction,” he said. “Unmistakable, really.”

  “It most certainly was not,” Kate said. “We decoded the letter and there was nothing about a departure date.”

  “In the penultimate sentence,” Effingham insisted. “He’ll not return to the office again before departure.”

  “Oh, for—you call that unmistakable?” Conor dismissed any reply with a wave of his hand. “It doesn’t matter what you call it, we’re not leaving tonight.”

  The MI6 officer’s eyes held a gleam of amused pity before his face changed, smoothing to the flat indifference Conor had so often witnessed among his kind. “I’m afraid you’ll do as you’re told, Mr. McBride. I must remind you, your contract with the Salzburg Philharmonic is not the only document you put your name to when you signed up for this enterprise.” He zipped the bag and slid it across the table. “Do keep track of expenses, and collect receipts for anything above ten pounds.”

  Conor stared at the bag for a long moment then rose from the table. From the corner of his eye he saw Kate stiffen in dismay as he picked it up. With a satisfied smile Effingham stood also, one hand extended at an ambiguous, crooked angle, as though inviting him to compound his humiliation by bowing over it. Conor took the hand in a strong grip. Chubby and flaccid, it yielded under his fingers like a damp package of meat. He gave it a quick wrench, pinned Effingham’s arm behind his back, and pushed him face down on the conference table. Conor leaned down to speak in his ear, his voice level and quiet.

  “You all seem to think my name on a piece of paper gives you leave to take the piss out of me whenever you like, but I’m a little tired of it, so listen to me now. We are not flying to London tonight. I don’t even have my violin with me, which is sort of an important prop in this so-called ‘enterprise.’”

  Effingham
made a feeble attempt to shift Conor’s hand from the back of his neck. “Are you aware of the penalty for assaulting an intelligence officer?” His high-pitched voice was muffled against the table. “I could have you ruined for this.”

  “Ruin what, now? Ask Frank if he thinks I’ve much left that’s worth ruining. I’d suggest a better idea is for you to get busy re-booking our flights and tell him we’ll be there in two days’ time. You can send him the fucking receipt yourself, or you can shove it up your arse. Your choice.”

  Removing his hand, he gave Effingham’s shoulder a clap for encouragement and turned to Kate, who looked taken aback, but also relieved.

  “Right.” Conor gave her a brisk nod. “What time is your gran expecting us? We don’t want to be late; I’m trying to make a good impression.”

  5

  Most of what Kate knew about Frank Emmons Murdoch came from their brief but intense encounters the previous fall. The rest came from Conor, who didn’t know much more than she did, so between the two of them they had a synopsis of the man that would fit on an index card.

  Noteworthy on the list of known items was that although Frank had perfected a mannered British persona, he’d apparently grown up in County Monaghan, Ireland, in humble conditions. As improbable as it seemed, he’d managed to reinvent himself and get a job with the British Secret Intelligence Service. How and—more importantly—why he’d done it was a riddle swaddled in mystery.

  Facts about the man were thin on the ground. They didn’t even know what place Frank occupied in the MI6 hierarchy, but they had an instinctive fondness for him and accepted him—cautiously, as they would an affectionate but feral animal.

  Contrary to his hazy background, Frank’s chosen identity mimicked that of the iconic English Gentleman, which came with all the predictable habits of the stereotype. He drove a Bentley, his hand-stitched suits were made to order, his sleek, silver hair was never out of place, and apart from its unexpected location, his house was exactly as Kate had imagined it.

  She’d assumed it would be a gated estate tucked in an isolated part of the countryside, but instead the driver who met them at the airport brought them to a five-story Georgian home in the middle of town, not far from the High Street and the ramparts of Windsor Castle. It was fronted by a brick wall and courtyard on the street side, and had a charming walled garden at the back. Restored to eighteenth-century glory with twenty-first-century conveniences, its spacious rooms were tastefully decorated for both comfort and style.

  The house was empty when Kate and Conor arrived, but the driver—a young Brazilian who seemed familiar with the house and the habits of its occupants—conducted a quick tour and led them two flights up the central staircase to their bedroom. He left them with a key to the front door and a promise that Frank would appear later in the afternoon.

  With his jacket still on, hands in the pockets, Conor looked at the bed and then at her. “Are you sleepy?”

  Understanding the question had not been posed with amorous intent and confident of the answer he was hoping for, Kate shook her head. “Not really. “I’d like to stretch my legs and get some breakfast. Aren’t you hungry too?”

  “Hungry? Jaysus, I’d eat the wing off a low-flying duck.” He grabbed the key off the dresser. “Let’s go.”

  After breakfast at a cafe on the High Street, they explored the town and strolled along a pedestrian path called the Long Walk, then returned to the house and napped for a few hours. By late afternoon they were showered and ready for the knock that came at four o’clock. Frank swept into the room with a smile of welcome and an immediate question.

  “What on earth did you do to Reg Effingham? He’s taking three days leave and demanding hardship pay, and he seems to want you thrown into the Tower.”

  “I didn’t leave a mark on him,” Conor said. “It was a small disagreement about the terms of my employment.”

  “Oh, really?” Frank’s brow twitched in annoyance. “Hardly his place to comment on that. Nosy little man.” His face brightened as he turned to Kate. “Kate. My dear, you look blooming as ever.”

  She took his outstretched hands and accepted the kiss on both cheeks. “And you are as charming as ever, and even more handsome.”

  “Conor. Wonderful to see you.” Frank studied him as they shook hands. “Why are you so thin?”

  Conor dropped his gaze, imitating Frank’s scrutiny. “Am I?”

  “Quite skinny. You’ve not been ill again?”

  “Not a bit. I’m grand.”

  “That great, barrel-chested cook of yours—Agatha? Adelaide?—feeds you properly?”

  “Abigail. Stuffs me like a Christmas goose.” Conor’s eyes narrowed. “I’m no skinnier than the last time you saw me, Frank.”

  “Hmm. I’m not convinced, but perhaps you’re just in need of some conditioning.” Frank offered an arch smile. “Drinks at six and dinner at seven, yes? I’ve a few hours of work left, but make yourselves at home. Diego showed you where to find cups and saucers and such? Marvelous. Until six, then.”

  “Conditioning.” Conor watched the door close then turned to Kate, hands on his hips. “Do I look skinny to you at all?”

  Amused, she came and slid her hands under his shirt to press against the hard muscle of his stomach. “No, my dear. Far from it.”

  “What’s he on about then?”

  “He was teasing you, and I think he might be a little envious.”

  “Envious? Of what?”

  “Of me.”

  “Oh.” Conor looked startled, then laughed and rested his forehead against hers. “Maybe you’re not such a lousy profiler after all. They’re going to love you at the Fort.”

  Conor was itching to get at his violin and tweak anything that might have been disturbed after five hours at thirty thousand feet. Kate decided he and the Pressenda needed some time alone, so she took herself off for another wander around the house. She went first to the very top floor to look at the smallest bedrooms, which she assumed once housed butlers, cooks and housekeepers. On the ground floor she browsed through the light-filled library and formal dining room, both of them crammed with antiques and interesting works of art. Tucked in another wing she found a cozy room with a baby grand piano. Passing through, she reached a glass conservatory and continued out to the garden. Frank found her there a half-hour later, taking in the aroma of spring and green things growing.

  “You’ve discovered my favorite spot.” Cigarette in hand, he took a seat next to her on the wrought-iron bench and crossed his legs—an ordinary gesture made graceful by his languid elegance. “A bit of country in the middle of the city. Unless it’s lashing rain, I spend a few quiet moments here every evening. To wash off the day, as it were.”

  Kate tried to picture Frank engaged in such a contemplative activity. “Do you meditate?” she asked.

  He gave a short laugh. “God no, though perhaps I should. I could do with an emptier mind. For the most part, I just sit and smoke. Where is our fine Irish lad now? Sleeping off the jet lag?”

  “No, he’s with the other woman in his life … the Pressenda,” she added, seeing Frank’s confusion. “I’m sorry we missed your signal and had to reschedule the flight. We could have come without luggage, but there was no way Conor would make the trip without his own violin. We also had a dinner date with my grandmother. It would have been awkward to cancel.”

  “Ah, the princess Sophia-Marie,” Frank said. “How I wish I could meet her. She’s well, I hope?”

  “She is, thank you. We had a nice evening together.” Kate traced a finger over the filigreed pattern of the bench, remembering the secretive gleam in her grandmother’s eyes when she’d greeted them at her Upper West Side apartment.

  “I think, perhaps, you have something to tell me?” she’d said, once they were seated in a quiet corner of Café des Artistes with drinks in front of them. With her lovely silvered hair swept up and secured with jeweled combs, Sophia-Marie had a regal bearing softened by a warm demeanor, but she
tended to be frank in her conversation and expected the same in return. Kate realized Guido Brottman had already contacted her with his concerns regarding her granddaughter’s suitor. Once again, filled with horror and embarrassment, she had been rendered speechless, and once again Conor stepped into the breach.

  “I expect Mr. Brottman rang you,” he’d said. “It’s a misunderstanding. We decided to have him on, just for the craic—a bit of goofing around. Silly of us really. I’m sorry if it’s caused you trouble.”

  He’d looked at Kate with a rueful longing that made her feel like weeping, and if he’d said anything kind or gentle at that moment she would have, but he only winked and reached for her cocktail. “Can I try it? I’ve never had a dirty martini.”

  Her grandmother was anything but a fool, but she’d long ago mastered the art of a tactful retreat. She’d waited until after the meal—when they were together in the opulent salon of the ladies bathroom—before raising the subject again.

  “My dear, I hope you didn’t misunderstand me. Guido is beside himself, but I’m not. I like Conor. I liked him as soon as I met him last year. An instinctual response, I’ll admit, but I do trust such impressions. In my experience they hold up as well as any others. Still, there would be papers drawn up and a tedious number of things for him to sign, but I can’t see he’s the sort who would mind very much. Do you want to marry him?”

  Kate had twisted the paper towel in her hands, in no way prepared for this discussion. “I do. I think. I’m just not ready.”

  “Your husband has been dead for over six years, my dear.”

  Kate dropped her head, remaining silent, and her grandmother sighed. “Do you love him?”

  “With all my heart,” she had said, her voice trembling.

  “Well. That’s all right then. Ah, little mouse. Wipe your tears.” Her grandmother had patted a tissue against her face. “It will all come right in the end. From the look in his eyes, he’s certainly not going anywhere.”

  The sing-song blare of a police car beyond the garden wall shook Kate from her daydream and she looked back at Frank. “I’m so sorry. What were you saying?”