The Conor McBride Series Books 1-3

by Kathryn Guare

  He smiled. “Nothing whatsoever. I was watching you drift. Are you nervous about the program we’ve cooked up to ‘indoctrinate’ you?”

  “I guess I should be, but I’m not really. I’m curious and a little excited.”

  “Let’s hope it won’t disappoint. There’s a great deal in this line of work that comes down to protocols and paperwork. You’re more likely to hear the operatives down there whinging about their subsistence than reliving feats of valor.” Frank cleared his throat and his tone grew more formal. “Along those lines, Kate, I have some documents for you to sign later confirming your status as a contractor. Much as I’d like to keep the arrangement casual, there is a bureaucratic beast to be fed and I am not immune to its requirements. Will this be a problem?”

  “Not at all,” Kate said. “I don’t mind signing papers.”

  “Excellent.” Frank relaxed, giving her a glance of appreciation. “Have you given any thought to what your role will be in this partnership?”

  “To keep him sane. To prevent him from being any more damaged than he already has been, and if necessary, to protect him from you. I can’t do any of that unless I can see it from the inside.” She laid a hand on his arm. “Don’t take it personally.”

  “Certainly not. It’s rather what I had in mind as well, although I’ve an inkling you’ll bring more to the table than that.” Frank rose from the bench. “Speaking of tables, may I have the pleasure of taking you in to dinner? I’m gasping for a gin and tonic.”

  He extended his elbow to her. She stood up, and before taking his arm, impressed him with a perfectly executed curtsey, just as her grandmother had taught her.

  The Pressenda had weathered the journey with a tolerance Conor had come to depend upon but tried never to take for granted. Responding beautifully to his attentions, she quickly recovered the rich, textured voice he knew so well. After laying the violin back in the case an hour later, he realized he was alone, and vaguely remembered Kate saying she was going to poke around the house. He now went through it himself from top to bottom without finding her, and ended up one floor below ground level, in the kitchen.

  He assumed the basement level had once been the domain of the household staff. The stone flooring looked original, but the rest of the room was a modern work of wonder—the sort of kitchen Abigail would drool over, Conor thought, admiring the professional Aga range. At the granite-topped central island he discovered not Kate but Eckhard von Hahnemann, beating something in a bowl with fierce energy.

  “Aha, at last.” Eckhard greeted him with a warm smile and an apron. “There are vegetables to chop, and my sous-chef has deserted me.”

  Conor well-remembered the rumbling purr of the conductor’s voice and its soft, Austrian accent. He’d spent only one night at the inn the previous summer, delivering a message—or rather, a summons—from Frank, but he’d made a lasting impression. His physical presence alone was imposing. At a muscular six-feet four inches he was a square-jawed mountain of a man, but his dimple-cheeked smile and dark eyes full of impish good humor took the edge off his intimidating size. Like Frank, he presented himself with a sophisticated panache, and his dramatic hairstyle—a tangle of wiry dark curls streaked with gray—seemed as integral to his personality as Frank’s sleek, silvered mane.

  Eckhard poured him a pint of ale to compensate for his enlistment, but gave him little opportunity to drink it. Conor had worked up a sweat by the time Frank and Kate came in from the garden.

  “I see I have been usurped,” Frank said as they entered.

  Conor raised his glass from the counter, saluting them. “I’ve flown across the Atlantic only to be bullied by another chef. Say the word and I’ll gladly stand down.”

  “There is still plenty for Frank to do.” Eckhard thumped his enormous hands on Conor’s shoulders, pinning him in place before extending them to envelope Kate’s. “First you must fix a cocktail for our Kate, and then I have saved the sole for you to fillet. It’s on ice in the pantry.”

  “Splendid.” Frank shot Conor and Kate a sly grin. “I do enjoy that.”

  Once he was relieved of his duties Conor joined Kate on an antique love seat placed against the wall. From there, he watched their hosts trading quiet instructions, working together with the ease of long habit. He saw Kate’s face grow pensive and imagined her thoughts were similar to his.

  This was the very heart of Frank’s private life, unveiled without fanfare or drama, and Conor was moved by the trust such a gesture represented. Frank had chosen to include them in what must be a very small circle—those who got to see him this relaxed, enjoying a simple evening at home, preparing a meal with his partner and sharing it with friends.

  Earlier in the day, Conor had expected a very different sort of evening. When he saw the formal dining room, he’d pictured a fussy dinner with too much cutlery and had glumly wondered if he’d need to unpack his tuxedo early. As it happened, dinner was a casual affair, served in a candlelit room off the kitchen, on a rustic oak table. There were only three utensils to keep track of and the freshly caught Dover sole, which he’d watched Frank gut and filet with frightening precision, was superb.

  After dinner they remained at the table. Eckhard uncorked a honey-colored Sauterne and presented a selection of cheeses, then excused himself as the conversation turned to business.

  The covert assignment Frank described was essentially a more detailed version of what Reg Effingham had already told them. For several years, an Iranian intelligence officer named Farid Ghorbani had been passing secrets that strengthened the hand of the UK, France and Germany in negotiations over Iran’s nuclear program. But things had changed this year and Ghorbani expected the reformist insiders who’d protected him to be ousted in the Iranian summer election, and his treason to be exposed.

  “He wants to defect, and if we don’t bring him over now we’ll not likely get another opportunity,” Frank said. “He’s on assignment in Prague, cultivating a network of extremists—white nationalists, to be precise—for various joint projects.”

  “Why would Iran want to work with white nationalists?” Kate asked.

  “Terror makes for strange bedfellows, Kate.” Frank crumbled some Stilton over a slice of apple and handed it to her. “Multiculturalism is the common enemy. God forbid we learn tolerance and begin to like each other. Ghorbani’s been in the city for the past three months and his superiors expect him back in Tehran at the beginning of May. It’s time to get him out, and the Prague station is in no position to take this on, for reasons I’m sure Reg made clear.”

  “And the joint projects?” Conor asked. “What happens with those when Ghorbani is gone?”

  “We have other eyes on that—an agent who has already infiltrated the network. But none of that concerns you. Your task is simply to drive a car to the side entrance of the Mandarin Oriental’s restaurant at eleven o’clock on the evening of April 23rd. Stop in front of the door and signal by rolling down the right rear window. Ghorbani will get in and you’ll proceed ninety minutes north to the German border at Hřensko. One of our officers from Dresden will be waiting for you in Room 6 at the Hotel Labe. He’ll be booked there under the name Marshall.”

  Conor had to admit it sounded dead simple, which only made him wary. “Does your embedded agent know about Ghorbani?”

  “None of our people in Prague know about Ghorbani. Nor will they know anything about you.”

  “Really?” Kate looked startled by this revelation and the glimpse it offered of the shell games MI6 played with information, even with its own officers. Conor remembered when this perpetual deceit would have surprised him as well, but those days were long gone.

  “We’ll have a final briefing on this and provide all the paraphernalia just before you leave.” Frank’s tone, placid but conclusive, indicated further inquiry would be useless. He went to invite Eckhard to join them for a nightcap, and when the two of them returned he redirected the conversation. “I’d hoped to give you another day of leisur
e, Kate, but I’m afraid your training is scheduled to begin tomorrow afternoon. A car will be collecting you at eight in the morning.”

  “I’ll be ready,” Kate said, after a slight pause.

  This was sooner than they’d expected, and for the first time Conor saw a hint of uncertainty in her face. He reached under the table to take her hand. “Can I ride down with her?”

  “Ah. Well.” Frank shifted his gaze to Eckhard, who glared in warning. “Actually, no. Eckhard has a full schedule planned for you tomorrow as well.”

  “I’ve booked a pianist to arrive early and spend the day working with you,” Eckhard said. “We have much to do to prepare for your performances.”

  Conor sat up straighter. “Performances? As in plural?”

  “Yes, certainly,” Eckhard said. “The Mozart and the Beethoven. You’ve had the scores for months. Surely you’ve been practicing them?”

  “Of course I’ve been bloody practicing them, Eckhard, but I thought I’d be polishing only one of them. Are you saying I’m meant to play both?”

  “Both, yes.” The conductor’s voice was as categorical as his partner’s. “There is a five-day symposium with Ministers of Culture from Germany, Austria, and Hungary. The Austrian Embassy in Prague is underwriting the musical events. You are the soloist for the ceremonial opening program, and for the closing concert with the Czech Philharmonic at the Rudolfinum, which will be attended by the Czech president.”

  “The Rudolfinum.” Conor felt a cold sweat blossom on the back of his neck. It was one of the oldest, most celebrated concert halls in Europe. Dvořák himself had conducted its first concert.

  “I did try to tell you this would come as a surprise to him, Eckhard.” Frank smiled and moved his glass in gentle circles on the table, keeping his eyes fixed on the wine swirling inside. He seemed delighted to see Conor’s consternation directed at someone else for a change.

  A few hours after bidding their hosts good night they gave up trying to sleep, and Conor allowed Kate to lead him on a midnight visit to the conservatory. They gathered a few cushions and sat on the floor, Conor with his back against a wicker sofa and Kate seated in front of him. The house was quiet, and the occasional street sounds beyond the garden wall outside seemed far away. He circled his arms around her waist, looking up through the glass roof at the sky.

  “How did you know the stars were out?”

  “I didn’t. We got lucky.” She was quiet for a moment, then sighed. “Three weeks.”

  “I know.”

  “For three weeks you’ll be living here in pampered splendor while I shiver in a Fort Monckton dorm room.”

  Conor laughed. “Losing your nerve? It’s not too late to change your mind.” He pushed aside the thin strap of her pajama top and put his lips to her shoulder. “You can stay here with me. I’ll make it worth your while.”

  Kate tilted her head to one side as his mouth traveled up her neck. “Is this my first test?”

  “It is.” He moved to a spot behind her ear, knowing from experience it would draw a reaction. Her breath caught, as did his, feeling her stomach quiver beneath his hand.

  “You secret agents are very sneaky.”

  “You don’t know the half of it.”

  “No, but in three weeks I will.” She peeked back at him, her eyes promising mischief, then rolled over to lie on top of him and wrapped a hand around his neck.

  She kissed him, and as the motion of her hips grew less subtle Conor’s response became more urgent. He pushed into her mouth, greedy for its heat, while his hand on the small of her back pulled her in more tightly. Her top inched higher, and Kate paused long enough to remove it along with his own dampening t-shirt. When her mouth moved from his lips to begin a wider exploration, he had little self-restraint remaining, but used the last shreds of it to question their judgment.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t do this here,” he said, as the tip of her tongue slid along the scar at the base of his throat. Her low laughter blew hot against his neck.

  “Losing your nerve?” Kate gave a playful tug at the drawstring of his light cotton pants and reached down farther. “Ah. No, I guess not. You relax now, McBride,” she whispered, pushing him back. “I’ve got this.”

  Conor groaned as her fingers brushed lightly over him. The trail of kisses advanced down his stomach, and he dropped his head back against the sofa. How the hell was he going to get through the next three weeks?

  6

  She could end it with one phone call. Not that she had a phone, but surely someone had brought one, or a radio of some kind. Would they use it if she asked, or just laugh at her? She could try playing the “spoiled rich girl,” say her father played golf with the Chair of the Foreign Relations Committee. She didn’t know if the senior member from New York was even on that committee, but he’d been in the Senate for thirty years so he must be on something. They probably wouldn’t know the difference … but then again, they might. They were the “Increment” after all, the Secret Intelligence Service’s elite black ops unit, a perfect combination of brains and paramilitary brawn. Hard to fool, harder to kill.

  Elbows to the ground, Kate wriggled a few more inches up the hillside on her stomach, holding the sniper rifle in front of her. She was trying to ignore how cold and wet she was as the rain pelted against her camouflage bush hat. The brim had tipped back, sending a stream of rainwater straight down her neck. She wanted to rip it off, but knew the excess movement would earn a rebuke from the hulking figure pressed against her shoulder. Lance Corporal Milbank angled his head at the pasture in front of them, misty and colorless under the first light of dawn.

  “There—behind the gorse,” he said, his voice pitched just above a whisper. “Do you see him? He’s headed for the clearing. Wait until he gets there.”

  She nodded and shifted a few millimeters away from him. He reeked of campfire smoke and body odor, but Kate imagined she didn’t smell any better. They’d all been in the same clothes for days. Fort Monckton felt like a place she’d visited in another lifetime, a continent away. In fact, she’d left it only four days ago for the three-hour drive to their present location in Herefordshire, camped on the edge of a forest in Brecon Beacons National Park.

  The first few days of her MI6 training had been filled with lectures—the history of the service, the functions of each directorate, a thorough review of policies and protocol. The tedium of those lessons was relieved by a daily ninety-minute class in self-defense that left her bruised and aching, followed by a session on the firing range that made her hands tingle for hours afterwards. Things got more interesting at the end of the week when she began some of the covert exercises Conor had mentioned—gathering information from strangers, talking her way into private offices and coming out with photographs. These assignments required a glib tongue and an ability to slip into an alter ego—to become an actor playing a part. It was a lot harder than it sounded and she knew her performance had been uneven. It made her appreciate why Conor’s trainers had been so dazzled by his skill in this area.

  She wasn’t a crack shot like him either, nor could she remember the names of the weapons she was directed to field strip and reassemble, but Kate was pleased—or, rather, relieved—to discover she excelled at a few things. Placed in a random setting, she could retain information and create a detailed sketch of the scene hours later. She was also good at absorbing data from maps and drawing them on her own, so she spent a few hours each day studying the streets of Prague. None of this was unusual, given her artistic interests, but her superior performance in one class—and the one she enjoyed most—caught the instructors by surprise: Vehicular Pursuit and Evasive Driving. At the end of her two-hour introduction to the slalom course they’d been sufficiently impressed to bump her up to an advanced level.

  At times she felt the entire business was a mistake and that she had no business being there, taking up resources and rubbing shoulders with people more capable than her. When these thoughts intruded, Kate reminded hersel
f that her objectives, while perhaps unorthodox, were still valid. She wasn’t here to become a super spy, but to do her part to keep the one she loved whole, and human.

  At the beginning of her third week, Kate appeared for a final check-in with her training coordinator, a petite, dark-haired woman with a severe expression and the physique of a bodybuilder. She’d displayed an attitude of bored contempt in all of their previous meetings, and the last was no different. As soon as Kate was inside the door, Joanna Patch dropped a pair of army boots on the floor in front of her.

  “Right then, Chatham. Go fetch that rucksack in the corner. See if you can manage to get it off the floor and onto your back.”

  Sitting on the floor, the bulky pack reached as tall as her hip. It was like trying to wrestle a well-fed toddler onto her shoulders, but Kate managed it and braced herself for whatever was coming next. “Think you can hump that for twelve miles over rolling terrain?”

  “I have no idea, Joanna, but I assume the point is to find out.”

  “It is, actually.” The officer gave her a tight smile. “You’re going on bivouac with a team from the Increment. They’re testing some new field equipment. You won’t be coming back here, so pack up your kit and leave it inside the door of your room. We’ll send it back to Windsor by courier. A set of fatigues and everything else you’ll need is in the rucksack. Go and change. Then meet Lance Corporal Milbank out front in an hour.”

  George Milbank and his colleagues were professionals accustomed to obeying orders. As he introduced her to the five other team members at the Brecon Beacons launch point they’d greeted Kate with jaded skepticism, but hid the disappointment they must have felt at having their camping lark disrupted by a female civilian.

  When they got underway, Kate had done her best to keep up with the pace. She was in good physical shape and suspected the team members modified their stride to accommodate her, but after nine miles she’d been staggering under the weight of her pack. Milbank dropped back and removed it from her shoulders without comment.