The Conor McBride Series Books 1-3

by Kathryn Guare

  Outside, Conor saw they’d been in the middle of a much larger training complex, with ramshackle buildings standing in a semicircle, all marked with targets. They got into the police car and drove a few hundred yards to where a group of men and women stood waiting, their postures anxious. Conor and Kate accepted the horrified apologies from the young cadets and followed them into the canteen, where Kate excused herself to go wash up. The rest went through the buffet line, and while Shelton stayed behind to eat with the cadets, Conor and Frank went to a private room in the back.

  Once seated, Conor leaned across the table facing his boss, toying with the idea of taking another swing at him. “A simulated kidnapping? Do you have any idea what that did to her? What the fuck is wrong with you, or is it actually your intention to turn all your agents into basket cases?”

  “I’d like to amend my earlier statement.” Frank pressed a tea towel filled with ice to his mouth. “I did sign off on an exercise—I requested it in fact—but not this one. To begin with, the entire thing was supposed to happen yesterday, when this facility was closed. It was meant to be a final assignment for Kate, with you added in to see how the two of you would get on, working together. You arrived on schedule. Kate did not. We didn’t realize she’d been sent off with the Increment. It wasn’t part of the agreed curriculum. You were both to report back to Fort Monckton, and we only learned this morning that you hadn’t.”

  Conor rose as Kate appeared and took the chair next to him. “I didn’t know if you were still feeling queasy. Will I get you something?”

  “No. Sit.” Kate pulled him back down. “I’m okay, but I don’t know how much I feel like eating. Can I just mooch some of yours?”

  He pushed his plate over to her. “Mooch whatever you like.”

  Frank, watching them with a wistful smile, grew solemn as he addressed her. “Kate, I am deeply sorry for this. I hope you’ll believe I would never have authorized exploiting your past experiences for the sake of a training exercise.”

  “I believe you. It seems pretty clear this was something Joanna did on her own. The question is why.”

  Both of them looked at Conor and he sat back, raising his hands in surrender. “Okay, yes. It happened. The day before I left Fort Monckton we ended up in her flat and I spent the night. I left for London the next morning, both of us thinking we’d probably never see each other again. And we haven’t,” he added, casting a glance at Kate, who looked amused by his defensive confession.

  “Is that all you have to say on the matter?” Frank asked.

  “To you, yes—except that we parted on friendly terms, so if she’s got something against me, I can’t imagine why.”

  “Well”—Frank took a sip of water before continuing—“Joanna Patch has a troubled past. Several years ago she lost an agent—apparently also her lover—while serving on the Johannesburg station. She was in hospital for a time, and then we posted her to Fort Monckton. It hasn’t gone altogether well. She resented the assignment, and I understand she’s also developed a serious problem with drink. Even before this incident there had been discussion about finding some other assignment for her.”

  “What will happen to her now?” Kate asked.

  “Dismissal,” Frank said immediately. “There’s no question of it. It’s unfortunate, but the Service doesn’t have room for sentiment. As you’ve seen today, things go pear-shaped on a regular basis, which demands a certain psychological resilience. We senior officers have enough trouble keeping ourselves from going mad without worrying about potty juniors lapping up the sherry and fucking about with the recruits.”

  He lowered the ice pack and touched his lip. “I’ve staunched the bleeding, I believe. I’m grateful you didn’t crack a tooth, Conor. I’m told my smile is one of my better features. All finished with lunch then? We’ve a lot to discuss and I’d like to get back before dark.”

  On the drive back to Windsor, Frank occupied himself with dossiers and phone calls while Conor sat in the back with Kate curled up next to him. She’d fallen asleep with her head on his lap before the car made the first turn onto the main road. He looked out the window, absentmindedly twirling a lock of her hair around his finger, then caught Shelton’s cheeky wink in the rearview mirror.

  “The reports came yesterday with her training scores,” he said.

  “And?”

  “I wouldn’t want her covering me in a shootout, but her numbers on the driving course were right through the bloody roof. Pursuit, evasion, cutouts—she aced them all. Nailed the one-eighty escape in one go. So if I were you, mate, I’d give her the wheel.”

  Conor smiled, watching the hedgerow expand into a smear of green as the car picked up speed. “Sure it’s a good idea. I drive like an old man.”

  8

  Back in their room in Windsor, Kate thought her first priority was a bath. Conor disagreed. Although skeptical of his insistence that the unwashed tang of her skin was intoxicating, she was persuaded by the evidence, and after her long soak in the tub he again convinced her the fresh-scented glow of it was just as alluring.

  In truth, she needed little coaxing. Kate wanted to touch every muscle, find and kiss each remembered freckle, and feel the rough texture of his fingertips wandering over her. More than anything, she craved the music of his husky voice, and the simple contentment of having him near. For three weeks, she’d felt Conor’s absence like the ache of a phantom limb, as if something too easily taken for granted had been suddenly removed, and it had shaken her.

  He certainly isn’t going anywhere. Her grandmother had assured her of this, and she knew it was true, but Kate also realized that, until now, she hadn’t fully appreciated what Conor had trusted her enough to surrender. He’d given her his heart, as easily and generously as he’d offered his plate during lunch, and while she dithered he waited—hoping for the signal that would show she understood how special it was. His first proposal the previous November had been only half-serious; they both sensed she wasn’t ready for it. Since then he’d hinted at it but never pressed her—probably his above-average intuition told him she still wasn’t ready. Kate knew her hesitation troubled Conor. She wished she could reassure him, but she didn’t understand it herself.

  He emerged from the shower with a towel around his waist, and seeing her still in bed, raised a questioning eyebrow. She stretched out an arm and lifted a corner of the duvet. “I’m not ready to get up yet.”

  Tossing aside the towel, he slipped in next to her. The caress of his mouth instantly raised a shiver, and to keep the tenderness from escalating into something unstoppable, Kate gently pushed against his shoulders. “I was actually thinking we could just talk for a while.”

  He groaned, laughing, and kissed her forehead before settling back on one elbow. “Go on, so. I’m mad for a bit of chat.”

  Kate shifted to face him. “Tell me what you’ve been doing for the past three weeks. I assume you’ve been practicing?”

  “Jaysus, it’s about all I’ve been doing—eight or nine hours a day—sometimes more.”

  “How do you think it’s going?”

  “Fairly well, in general.”

  “But?” Kate could tell there was a ‘but’ from the tension in his eyes. Rolling onto his back, Conor frowned at the ceiling.

  “But … the Kreutzer is giving me the skitters. It’s a sonata Beethoven wrote for violin and piano, but I’m to play it with a full orchestra. Exciting idea, but I hadn’t expected it, and it’s more nerve-wracking than dealing with just one other instrument. That’s why I ended up at Wigmore Hall. He saw I was a bit twitchy over it, so Eckhard rounded up a chamber group to rehearse with me.”

  “Did that help?”

  “It did, yeah. It’ll be fine. I suppose.” He sighed.

  “It will be fine. I know it will.”

  “How do you know?” Conor’s smile was half-hearted.

  “Because I know you.” She ran a finger over his dark eyebrows, and the furrowed line between them relaxed.

/>   “True enough. Better than anyone else ever will.”

  He was quiet for a moment, then in a movement too quick to fend off he tipped Kate onto her back and burrowed under the covers.

  They were a bit late getting downstairs for the cocktail hour. When they finally appeared in the conservatory, Frank was sitting with his feet up on a pillowed footstool, and a whiskey glass on the table next to him. Conor was surprised to see him again holding an ice pack to his lip.

  “Sorry I lamped you so hard.” He sat down next to Kate on the opposite couch. “Does it hurt that much?”

  “It doesn’t hurt at all,” Frank assured him. “A concern was expressed about swelling. It seemed best to humor him.”

  His wisdom on that point became clear when the conductor entered. With a heavy-looking drinks tray in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in the other, his physical size seemed even more imposing than usual. Seeing the dark frown on his face, Conor cautiously got to his feet.

  “Now where are you going?” Eckhard demanded, setting the tray on the coffee table in front of them.

  “Nowhere,” Conor said. “Only trying to be ready if you’re planning to beat the shite out of me.”

  Eckhard exchanged a glance with Frank and the two erupted in laughter.

  “I was in more danger of that than you,” Frank said. “Bad enough Eckhard’s rehearsal was cut short, but then came the news his soloist had spent the night with his hands pulled behind a post. If you hadn’t split my lip already, he would have done it for you.”

  “And why not? Mein Gott, such foolishness. Conor, sit down, for heaven’s sake.”

  He obeyed and accepted a glass of whiskey. “It’s all right, Eckhard, I’m in great form. No tendons ripped.”

  “Even so, I’ve booked you for a massage tomorrow morning—for both of you, in fact.” Eckhard poured a martini for Kate, and before retreating to the kitchen he set the bottle of Jameson’s in front of Conor. “Probably you will need more of this.” He hitched his head in Frank’s direction as he departed.

  Conor stopped with the glass halfway to his mouth and put it down again. “Oh? Why’s that, now?”

  Frank tossed the ice pack onto the table next to him. “There have been some unexpected developments in the past several days.”

  “Have there?” Conor looked at Kate. “This never happens.”

  She rolled her eyes at his feigned astonishment. “What kind of developments?”

  “Stop a minute. Let me guess,” Conor said. “‘Developments that will almost certainly complicate the objectives of your mission.’ That’s the next line, right? Then we’ll ask another question, and you’ll give us some slippery rubbish and generally drag the arse out of it before we get to the point.”

  “Am I really so predictable?” Frank asked.

  “Yes,” Kate said. “So surprise us this time by skipping the rubbish. What, specifically, are the unexpected developments, and how do they affect us?”

  Impressed by her smooth self-assurance Conor glanced at her in appreciation. He saw a flicker of the same in Frank’s face before he swept his legs from the footstool and sat forward.

  “Very well. As I explained before, we have an undercover agent who’s already infiltrated the network Ghorbani has been working with, a group of white nationalists calling themselves the ‘New Přemyslids.’ The name goes back to the first ruling dynasty in ninth-century Bohemia. They’ve an agenda concerning racial purity and Bohemian ascendancy and a good deal of other dangerous nonsense. In their dreams, they hope to advance a program of ethnic cleansing, primarily aimed at the Jewish and Roma communities and anyone else they care to add to the list. Thankfully, they seem to be largely a collection of thickos and misfits with little political power and few champions, but two days ago our agent reported the group might be planning a disturbance during the ministerial symposium.”

  Conor gave a low whistle. “A ‘disturbance.’ That’s fairly vague. Does he know what they have in mind?”

  “It’s ‘she’ actually, and no, she doesn’t. In fact, there’s a good chance they’ve nothing at all in mind. The whole thing might be cooked—disinformation planted by design.”

  “Why would they do that?” Kate asked.

  “To trap her. She’s indicated her colleagues in the network may have grown suspicious of her. If she’s been fed disinformation it’s not been communicated beyond a small circle, so if a rumor of it surfaces she’ll be exposed as the only person who could have leaked it. It’s a common ruse when an agent or source is suspected of playing a double game.”

  “But it might not be a ruse,” Conor said. “This network might really be planning something. It’s a credible threat—you can’t just ignore it.”

  “Of course not,” Frank said. “Under ordinary circumstances we’d pass the intel to the Czech security services for their action, but our relations with the BIS are strained and we can’t rely on their discretion. Within the past year their blundering destroyed one of our operations and exposed our head of station. If they were to be careless with this information—”

  “Your agent would be blown, I get that; but why don’t you just get her out of there now and then tell the BIS?”

  “Because cultivating extremists within the Czech Republic is a pet project for both the Russians and Iranians. That agent has provided invaluable information about players and activities within the Russian GRU, and once Ghorbani is gone she’ll be our best—perhaps only—source for a look inside Iranian intelligence.”

  “If she stays alive,” Conor said. Impatient with the clinically impassive mood of the discussion, he shifted forward. “Jesus Christ, Frank, what if there’s an attack and the Czechs find out MI6 had intel that wasn’t shared?”

  “It would destroy our relationship with all of Eastern Europe for years to come.” Frank fixed him with one of his icy, professional stares. “I’m well aware of the stakes, Conor.”

  A misting drizzle had begun a few minutes earlier, fogging the glass walls of the conservatory. As Frank took a hooked pole to close the awning windows above them, Conor heard one of the “hammer blows” in Mahler’s 6th Symphony coming from the kitchen. He hoped it was coincidence and not prophecy.

  “So what will you do?” Kate asked, as Frank pulled the last window shut. “I mean, you must have a plan or you wouldn’t be telling us all this, right?”

  Instead of answering, Frank posed his own question. “Kate, how do you suppose the Czechs would react if they knew about this threat?”

  “Cancel the symposium?”

  “Extremely unlikely. Governments frown on allowing terrorists to control events. Capitulation sets a bad precedent.”

  “Okay. If they wouldn’t cancel it, I’m sure they’d at least try to make it as safe as possible. More security? More screening? All those things you do on ‘red alert’ or ‘DEF-CON 4’ or whatever it’s called these days.”

  “Indeed.” Frank came to stand in front of them. “All appropriate and precisely what we’d expect. The challenge is how best to elicit such a response.”

  “You want them at their highest level of readiness without disclosing a threat.” Conor shrugged. “I don’t see how you can do that.”

  Leaning on the window pole, Frank gazed down at him with a crafty smile, looking like the satirical version of a Bethlehem shepherd. “Do you know China Airlines is rated the most dangerous in the world? What would you suppose is the safest day to fly on it?”

  When the answer occurred to him, Conor began feeling a prescient tingle of dread. “The day after they’ve crashed. I don’t like where this is going.”

  “I don’t even understand where it’s going,” Kate said. “What does China Airlines have to do with anything?”

  “It’s merely a metaphor to illustrate a universal truth,” Frank said. “We are at our most vigilant just after a disaster.”

  “Frank, please tell me I’ve got this wrong,” Conor begged. “Instead of warning them about a threat, you’re going to e
ngineer a disaster?”

  Frank twirled the pole in his hand. “Not a disaster. A false flag operation. Our first option was to wait and see if the network followed up with specific information and a plan, but then our embedded agent suggested a different strategy. Instead of ceding the initiative she will bring a plan to them, and will request the honor of implementing it at the reception following the symposium’s opening concert. It won’t succeed, naturally, and it will have three desired outcomes.” He tapped out each objective. “Our agent’s credibility with the network will be reinforced. The group will likely not have enough time to plan a second attempt. Even if they do, the national police will react to the manufactured disturbance, so the security will be increased to the level it would have been had they known of a specific threat.”

  “Are you completely off your nut?” Conor shouted. “I’m playing the Mozart concerto at the opening concert. Kate and I will be at that reception.”

  “Of course. You’ll have an additional assignment that evening—helping to ensure implementation of the plan and our agent’s safe escape from the building.” Frank smiled. “As you surmised earlier, your mission has become a bit more complicated.”

  “Sure I knew it sounded too easy. Bloody hell.” Conor picked up the glass of whiskey, drained it, and reached for the bottle.

  9

  The plane had begun its final descent into Prague a few minutes earlier. Conor watched the cloud cover thinning to reveal the wide belt of farmland surrounding the city and then sat back to give Kate a better view.

  “Makes me think of home,” he said, admiring the artful geometry of the fields below.