“Which one?” She leaned across from the middle seat. “You have two homes, after all.”
Not really, Conor thought. He didn’t consider himself as having two homes or even one. The idea of home felt different to him, now. Limitless. The truth was, it existed wherever she was and nowhere she wasn’t, but that sounded too corny to say out loud.
“I was thinking about the vegetable garden. I should have asked Nate to get it plowed and fertilized.”
Kate straightened, smiling at him. “I love that you’re thinking about gardening as we descend into unknown peril.”
“Thanks for reminding me.”
Against his will, and despite every effort he’d made for a different outcome, “home” was traveling with him on this trip. After Frank had outlined a mission significantly more dangerous than first presented, Conor’s desire to have Kate as witness for his own artistic rebirth had been replaced by fear and a determination to put her on the next plane back to Vermont.
Not surprisingly, Kate had taken issue with this line of thinking, resulting in the longest, most heated quarrel they’d ever had. Behind their closed bedroom door he accused her of being foolish, petty, and insensitive, while she accused him of being chauvinistic and arrogant. At one point Kate appeared to yield, saying if he really thought her so weak and incapable she had no choice but to stay behind, but when Conor confirmed it was exactly what he wanted, the war was on again.
It ended in exhaustion, rather than agreement, and with the sheepish realization that they’d been screaming the house down for over an hour. The idea of having provided such a show for Frank and Eckhard brought on a fit of giggles, and when that was over they were too tired to fight anymore. She understood that he was not above using stealth to leave her behind, and he knew that she was not above chasing after him, so they reached a compromise: Conor agreed to accept her on the mission, and Kate agreed he was in charge of it. He’d treat her as a partner, but in any kind of crisis, she’d do what he told her.
After the plane had landed and they’d collected their luggage, they found the car rental office and Conor browsed a magazine rack while Kate, in her final task under the alias of Barbara Alder, dealt with the paperwork. He said it was only fair if she was to be the designated driver, but when they crossed the parking lot to the vehicle—a jet black BMW 7 Series—he gave her a mournful pout.
“Oh, here.” Kate tossed him the keys. “I’m good with maps too. What should we do first? We’re not supposed to be the Alders anymore, but we can’t check in to the hotel without our own passports.”
“Let’s go there first anyway,” Conor said. “They’ll at least store our luggage, and I’d like to get the Pressenda into a safe before we do anything else.”
Their drive from the airport began with a route through a landscape of construction sites and fast-food outlets giving way to a wasteland of cement-block apartment buildings. They lined the road for mile upon mile, and their grim Soviet-style design made the entrance into the city center feel all the more like stumbling into a fairy-tale village.
Conor had visited Prague ten years earlier at the age of twenty-three, having been offered the rare honor of joining his former teacher in a recording session with the Philharmonic. He’d fallen in love with the breathtaking beauty of the place—its architectural styles spanning eight centuries, its narrow cobblestone lanes, the great medieval-looking doors leading to cool stone courtyards. At the time, the country was five years beyond the Velvet Revolution that had peacefully ended forty years of Communist rule, and Prague was still coming to grips with democracy. In many ways the city looked as he remembered it, but from the abundance of cafes, restaurants and shops, it was clear capitalism had taken hold.
They drove down a long winding hill, the road banked on one side by the promontory which formed the base of Hradčany. The ninth-century castle complex, sitting high above the city, was Prague’s most famous landmark.
Their hotel was at the edge of a district on the left bank of the Vltava River called Malá Strana, or “Little Quarter.” The manager was dismayed at their early arrival, but relieved when Conor explained they didn’t need to check in yet. He had their luggage stowed, and accepted the violin as though it were made of glass. After an early lunch in the restaurant they were ready to face their first official task: turning in their traveling aliases and collecting their own identities. As Reg Effingham had indicated, they’d been posted to an MI6 “asset” in a southeastern district of the city. Frank had provided the address and directions to a pub called the “Ram Gorse” in their final briefing before departure.
“If you’ve an asset over there, why can’t he handle the rest of it?” Conor had asked, still looking for any means of escape.
“You’ll see,” Frank had responded, with a secretive smile.
Relaxed but beginning the switch to operational mode, Conor instinctively scanned the lobby as they walked through it, and from the corner of his eye saw something that ignited the nerves along his spine. He took Kate’s hand as they continued out and across the street to the BMW. Just before reaching the car he glanced to his left, confirming that the man he’d seen in a shadowed corner of the lobby had also exited. He was moving towards a silver Hyundai. Conor stopped Kate just before they reached the car.
“Hang on. We forgot to pick up a street map.”
“A street map? But we have—oh.” At the urgent pressure of his hand, her puzzled frown gave way to startled comprehension. “Right. I think I saw some on the front desk.”
Once inside, while leafing through a selection of tourist information Conor leaned in closer to her, speaking in a low voice. “We’ve got a tail.” Kate stiffened and he put an arm around her waist. “Easy now. He’s outside—short guy, bald on top with a curly fringe. I spotted him when we came through the lobby.”
She unfolded one of the maps and spread it on the desk. “How do you know? Was he on our flight?”
“No, but I’ve seen him before. He’s carrying the same copy of The Economist he had when he was three tables away from us in the Caffè Nero at Windsor. I’m guessing he was on an earlier flight and picked us up at the airport when we got here.”
“What should we do?” Kate asked. “Confront him?”
Conor considered the idea, then folded the map and handed it to her. “Not yet, but we need to lose him before going to the Ram Gorse. He’s got a silver Hyundai out in the car park. Let’s walk for a while—make him follow us on foot.”
When they exited again, the man was behind the wheel of his car, perusing his own map. Conor and Kate walked in the direction of the BMW, but continued past it to stroll over a stretch of green space in front of the hotel. It connected to a parallel street where electric tram tracks led over a bridge in one direction and uphill to the castle in the other. Before crossing, Conor risked a glance and saw the man was now a hundred yards to their left, reading the plaque below a sculpture in the middle of the green space. They started in the direction of the castle, and after a block, came alongside a high stone wall with an arched doorway.
“Stop here a minute,” Conor said. “What’s in there?”
Kate consulted the map. “It’s one of the entrances to Wallenstein Palace.”
“Tell me about it.”
She pulled the guide book from her shoulder bag and began flipping through it. “Do you mean pretend to tell you about it?”
“No, really. I’m interested.”
With one ear, Conor listened to her description of the grandiose gardens of Albrecht Wenceslas Eusebius of Wallenstein, whoever the hell he was. With the other ear, he listened for something else. When he heard it, he gently pulled Kate’s arm and they walked back in the other direction.
“Don’t hurry, and keep reading.”
Their follower was keeping his distance, still ambling along the crushed stone pathways of the park, but when the tram passed them and pulled up at the bus shelter fifteen yards ahead, he walked more quickly and then began running.
Conor grabbed Kate’s hand. They ran the final few yards and together jumped through the door of the tram just before it closed.
She fell into the seat next to him as the car lurched forward. “Who do you think he is?”
“Haven’t a clue.” He watched the retreating figure race back in the direction of the Hyundai. An unknown enemy with an unknown objective, sent by God-knows-who. He could think of few worse ways to begin an operation.
In a transparent attempt to reassure her and deflate some of the tension, Conor had christened their stalker before he was even out of sight: Corner Boy—Irish slang for a loiterer on the street with no obvious purpose. Kate wondered if they should contact Frank or someone else at MI6, but before suggesting it she recalled a hypothetical situation presented to her during her training—what to do if a source didn’t turn up for a scheduled meeting. Her proposed strategy of a phone call to headquarters was met with derision.
“We’re not the bloody help desk, darling,” the instructor sniffed. “Solving problems is the entire reason you’re out there, isn’t it? We don’t sit waiting for you to give us a bell and dump them on us.”
Reasoning that once in his car the man’s only option would be to chase after their tram, they got off at the next stop and ducked into the nearest coffee shop. At a small table in the back Kate sat down—cheeks flushed, heart pounding. Realizing the adrenaline rush had little to do with fear she looked up at Conor … and laughed. His worried frown resolved to a faint smile.
“Do you want anything?”
“Just water,” Kate said.
“Right.” He tapped the map in front of her. “Figure out how we can get there by tram.”
By the time he returned, she had the route planned. They were in a square called Malostranské Námĕstí; they could take the number 22 almost to the end of the line and be within a block of the pub. She looked up from the map and stared at the enormous slice of apple strudel in front of Conor.
“What?” He filled her glass with water and set the bottle on the table. “Counter-surveillance is hungry work.”
The tram took them through the main shopping streets of the New Town, and then once again to the land of block housing, more and more graffiti covering the walls the farther they went. Exiting onto a busy four-lane road, they crossed to a side street and walked the remaining block to the Ram Gorse pub. It was a smaller version of the prevailing cement architecture, painted a shade of absinthe green and sitting in the shadow of its five-story neighbor. Next to the front door, a Guinness logo appeared above the ubiquitous sign for Pilsner Urquell.
“Well, this looks promising,” Conor quipped, holding the door open for her.
The interior was surprisingly upscale—all shining brass and dark wood—and immaculately clean. The walls were covered with photos and mementos of British sports, mostly the Premier League football clubs. The pub was empty except for a table of three men on their lunch break, and from the look of their dusty clothes Kate guessed they were probably construction workers. She and Conor sat at the bar and exchanged greetings with the bartender, and once they had two pints of Guinness in front of them Conor delivered his line as instructed.
“Will you have the next Liverpool match on the telly? A friend told me this was the best place to watch it.”
The bartender, a heavyset man with deeply shadowed eyes and as much black hair in his ears as on his head, regarded them without expression. He nodded.
“You wish to see Harlow?” he asked in a thick Slavic accent.
“I do,” Conor said.
The bartender reached below the counter and brought out a small crock with a wooden spreader and a basket of bread. He set them in front of Kate and Conor. “Greaves,” he said. He lifted the hinged section of the bar and walked through, then plodded slowly to a door at the back of the pub.
“Greaves? What the hell is that, I wonder?” Conor sniffed at the greasy-looking mixture, then began spreading some of it onto a slice of bread.
Wrinkling her nose, Kate searched for an answer in the guide book and felt slightly sick when she found it. “It’s the unmeltable sediment left after rendering pork fat.” She looked up to see him taking a large bite.
“It’s not bad. Want to try it?” He offered her the bread.
“I’ll pass, thanks.”
The bartender appeared from the door at the back of the pub and beckoned them forward. “Walk in this door.” He pointed to the one straight ahead at the end of a hallway.
It led to a large, windowless one-room apartment. The only natural light came from a set of frosted skylights in the ceiling and the space was furnished simply—one wooden table with two chairs, one twin bed against the wall, one standing lamp in the corner. There were two exceptions to the utilitarian theme. The first was a traditional Russian samovar tea service sitting on a small table next to the lamp. It was made of gleaming bronze and looked to be about three feet tall, including the teapot on top. The second was a massive steel door built into the wall on the right side of the room. It was as high and wide as a standard doorway and had a five-pronged brass handle. Next to it, in a large alcove, a gray-haired woman in a wheelchair sat at a desk with her back to them, peering at a computer screen.
“Enter, enter,” she sang out in a crisp British accent. “Bring the chairs along if you could, please.”
They each picked up a chair, and when Conor looked at Kate, his widened eyes confirmed he was as surprised as she was. As they entered the alcove, the woman spun the chair to face them, and Kate saw why the MI6 asset in Prague couldn’t do the job Conor had been assigned. She looked at least seventy years old, and although she was wearing a simple khaki skirt, the material lay almost flat against the chair, draping an empty space below it. Both of her legs had been amputated.
With an energetic movement, she pulled the glasses from her face and threw them on the desk, then extended a hand. “Conor McBride,” she announced cheerfully. “Your legend precedes you. My God, you’re gorgeous. The boys in London never give me the most important information.”
“That’s largely been my experience as well … Harlow?” Conor still sounded uncertain as he took her hand.
“Harlow, that’s right. Just today. Just for you.”
“I see.” He moved aside to give Kate room to step forward. “I’d like to introduce my partner, Kate Chatham.”
Harlow took her hand, giving her a dazzling smile. “Yes, I assumed as much. Christ, even more gorgeous. They’ll be wanting you both for the training videos. Please, sit down. Tell me how you’re getting on so far.”
They’d been told not to discuss the details of the mission, and Harlow seemed not to expect any, but as they chatted about Prague, where she’d lived for the past ten years, Conor occasionally darted a glance at Kate. She knew he was trying to decide whether to tell their contact about Corner Boy.
After a few minutes of conversation, Harlow took an envelope from the center drawer of the desk. “I hate rushing you out the door, but I’ve a Yank turning up any time now. You don’t want to be crashing into each other in the hallway, I expect.”
Kate handed over the belongings of Malcolm and Barbara Alder and accepted an envelope in exchange, which she placed in her bag. Conor waited for the completion of this transfer before speaking again.
“I realize this wasn’t approved ahead of time, but there’s something else I need, and I’m guessing you’re probably the right person to ask. We’re under surveillance. Short, middle-aged male who looks like he’s been sent by someone else. I don’t know who, or why. As far as I can tell, he picked us up in London.”
Harlow closed the desk drawer, her face suddenly sober. “Did he follow you here?”
“No,” Conor said. “We ditched him, but he knows where we’re staying. It’s not a threat we planned for, so I’m hoping—”
“Yes, I know what you’re hoping.” She waved a hand and tapped a fingernail against the arm of the wheelchair, frowning in thought.
Harlow gave Conor a firm nod. “All right then. Come along.”
Wheeling from the alcove, she positioned herself in front of the vault door and placed her hand against a small square of glass next to the lock. Kate saw her palm briefly illuminated by an infrared flare. There was a low electronic hum and a click, and Harlow swung the door open to reveal a narrow room about twenty feet long. Its walls were lined with shelves stacked with boxes and bags of various sizes. She entered, flipping a light switch, and the room exploded into bright fluorescent light.
“There. On the top shelf.” Rolling to a stop she pointed, and Conor reached up for the black plastic case. “I’m told you prefer the Walther,” she said. “Are you an Ian Fleming fan?”
“No.” He didn’t return her smile. Bringing the case down to a middle shelf, he flipped up the lid and removed the gun and its accessories from the foam-molded interior.
As she watched Conor strip the gun and lay each part gently in front of him, Kate was struck by the stillness of his face, the deft movement of his hands, and the absolute concentration that rated no detail too small for attention. She’d once told him the way he treated his violin seemed to mirror the approach he took with a gun. He’d been horrified by the comparison, but after reflection had admitted the truth in it. There was a similarity of method, he acknowledged, but his attitude to each was very different: he felt reverence for one and for the other, mistrust.
Conor reassembled the Walther, and after fitting it into a concealed holster under his waistband, he met Kate’s eyes with a resigned shrug. She knew what the weapon represented for him—a painful combination of security, guilt, and shame—shame for a skill he’d never wanted to learn but now somehow felt compelled to perfect.
The Conor McBride Series Books 1-3 Page 73