10
During the return journey, Kate sat with her shoulder bag on her lap, the weight of two eight-round magazines and a box of ammunition pressing against her knees. It didn’t feel as bizarre as it would have a year ago—a good point of reference for how much her life had changed in the last twelve months.
The tram was nearly empty on the ride back, which allowed them to have a whispered conversation about the woman they’d just met, mostly driven by speculation about what calamity might have been responsible for the loss of her legs. By the time they reached the city center, they’d embroidered quite a colorful story for Harlow. Conor said their imaginations were probably still no match for reality.
Stepping off in front of the National Theatre they walked along the river’s edge, but were reluctant to venture anywhere near the hotel just yet. Whatever his motive, their follower had lost them for the moment and they decided to enjoy the rest of the day—and their possibly short-lived freedom—by staying lost for as long as possible. This was achieved without much effort in the labyrinth of Staré Mĕsto, the “Old Town” neighborhood on the right bank. They wandered the streets until evening, along with successive waves of tour groups that swarmed up the lanes like Visigoths. The hordes were most easily avoided by stepping into the closest building, which more often than not was a church.
“City of a Thousand Spires,” Conor said, as they ducked into another one. “I can see why they call it that.”
Kate adored the elaborate Baroque interiors, taking particular delight in the statues of bishops and saints with writhing demons pinned under their croziers. Amused by her fascination, Conor searched out the most gruesome specimens for her appraisal.
They had dinner at a restaurant beneath Charles Bridge, watching swans and ducks coast along the river, and for a while the world of espionage and surveillance faded away. Instead of the mission, they talked about everything else, alternating between the silly and the serious. They prolonged it by making a bottle of Malbec last for more than two hours, while across the water the illuminated castle walls and cathedral spires grew ever more dramatic against the dark sky.
In some ways, Kate felt the setting was irrelevant. They’d often had the same sort of conversation in the kitchen back home, but the captivating atmosphere of an old-world city added a deeper air of enchantment to the evening. She’d traveled to beautiful cities all over Europe, but unlike Conor, Kate had never visited Prague. She thought it might be the most romantic city she’d ever been in, but she wondered how much of that feeling could be attributed to the city itself. Maybe romance was something people carried in with them, like an exotic invasive species, planting it on moonlit riverbanks, leaving it to grow and spread.
It was close to midnight when they crossed back over to the Little Quarter. Like the churches, the bridge had its own lineup of saints, snakes, and sinners perched along its fourteenth-century walls, but darkness obscured the details, softening the figures into two columns of benign sentinels with a procession of lovers strolling between them.
Halfway across, Conor led Kate to one side and pointed across the water to a Neo-Renaissance building. “That’s the Rudolfinum,” he said, resting his elbows on top of the wall.
Floodlit to spectacular effect, the bow-front facade of the concert hall and the verdigris patina of its roof seemed to be lit from within. Kate circled her arm around his and they looked at it together. The river was still busy with touring boats, and soaring above them a huge flock of singing gulls curled across the sky like the long white tail of a kite. She put her cheek on his shoulder.
“Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“That I’m an awful feckin’ eejit,” Conor replied promptly, then smiled. “But I’m excited, as well. One minute it can’t come soon enough, and the next I just want to get the hell out of here.”
Before they began walking again, she looked more closely at the iron grillwork mounted on top of the wall next to them. It had more than a dozen “love locks” attached—padlocks in all colors and sizes with writing on them. Kate wondered how many young couples had stood before them on this spot, filled with emotions they barely understood, honoring them with these symbols of permanence. She lifted one, angling it to catch the light from the street lamp. After reading its message she felt an unexpected sting in her eyes and looked up at Conor.
“Never let me go.”
He cradled her face and kissed the tears that had spilled with so little warning. “Don’t worry.”
He seemed unperturbed and unsurprised by her sudden emotion. Conor often had perceptions that transcended anything natural, an aptitude he believed he’d inherited from his psychic mother. Wrapped in his arms, Kate wondered if he could sense the power of her confused feelings—the frightening strength of all her love, hope, desire and fear. She wondered if perhaps he understood it better than she did herself.
The next morning Eckhard arrived along with the members of the Salzburg chamber group that would be playing throughout the symposium. The opening concert was scheduled for the following Tuesday evening, and Eckhard was known for meticulous preparation. He immediately called for a conference to review the rehearsal schedule and do a complete read-through of the program. Conor was the soloist for Mozart’s Violin Concerto No. 5, which would be the final piece played, but the conductor wanted him for the entire meeting.
He was only too happy to comply, but it meant leaving Kate to explore on her own for several hours. This had always been part of the plan for the long stretches when he would be occupied either with practicing or formal rehearsals. She had her own objectives for making the most of that time, as evidenced by the French easel she’d brought along, a compact contraption that functioned as a traveling studio. He had too much respect for her—and art in general—to interfere with her work, but the surveillance added an element of risk they hadn’t anticipated, and it would probably be more difficult to spot now.
They’d made their evasion the previous day look as natural as possible, but the man tailing them had to assume he’d been noticed. He’d likely step up his game and try harder to remain out of sight. This wasn’t an immediate problem, since their clandestine activities were on hold for two days. If connected to their mission, the surveillance would likely be passive until the scheduled pick-up of Ghorbani on Saturday night. Apart from his intrinsic creepiness, Corner Boy might not be an immediate threat, but if he was, at least she had the Walther tucked next to her hip.
True, she wasn’t a marksman, but Kate had been trained and was a harder target than she’d been three weeks ago. She knew how to use a gun and how to defend herself. Most importantly, she’d been taught how to think and react quickly to a threat. Conor tried soothing himself with all this calm logic, but watching as she checked her art supplies it was hard not to beg her to stay in the room and paint whatever she could see out the window.
“I’ll be careful,” she assured him, even though he hadn’t said anything. “I’ll keep my eyes open, I’ll stay in crowds, and I won’t talk to strangers.”
“I believed you until the last bit,” Conor said. “You talk to everyone.”
They went together down to the lobby and then out onto the street.
“You’re going to be late,” Kate said. “I wouldn’t keep Eckhard waiting, if I were you.”
“I know, I know.” Conor sent her away with a quick kiss. “I’ll get better at this. I promise.”
He wasn’t sure how the other musicians felt about spending the whole afternoon in a hotel conference room with their conductor. Maybe they found it tedious. In pre-performance mode Eckhard certainly bore little resemblance to the genial host pouring drinks for his guests in Windsor. Maybe some day Conor would also come to view such a meeting as a necessary evil, but right now he couldn’t get enough of it. He felt like the member who’d returned to a club he’d once been asked to leave. Wary of acting the brown nosing eejit he’d always detested, he mostly remained quiet, keeping his giddy enthusiasm in check, b
ut he had more to say when they discussed the concerto and he could refer to comments he’d marked on his own copy of the score.
By the end, Eckhard seemed satisfied. As the others filed out of the room, he motioned for Conor to stay behind and the two sat together at the end of the long conference table. Once the room was empty his face relaxed into a smile.
“Very fine analysis, Conor. As though you’d never been away. Welcome home.”
“Thank you, Maestro.” Conor dipped his head in a gesture of sincere respect. “I wouldn’t want to disappoint you. You can be fairly intimidating, Eckhard.”
“I know. This is quite useful,” he said. “A pity it doesn’t work on everyone.”
They discussed the upcoming rehearsal of the Kreutzer Sonata with the Czech Philharmonic and reviewed some final questions Conor had jotted down on the plane. When they were finished, the conductor dropped his bomb.
“There has been an addition to the schedule since we last spoke. You will be playing the Strauss sonata next Wednesday.”
“Sorry, what?” Conor was sure he’d misunderstood.
“On Wednesday. The Strauss sonata for violin and—”
“No.” Conor shook his head, and kept on shaking it. “I can’t. I don’t know it.”
“Come now,” Eckhard said. “I know you have played it before.”
“I’ve played a lot of things before. That doesn’t mean I know them now, and I certainly can’t learn that sonata in less than a week.”
The conductor poured himself a cup of coffee and stirred two sugar cubes into it. “This is a recital performance and there’s no need to memorize. You are a masterful sight-reader. I believe you can do it.”
“All right, let’s just say I won’t, then.” Conor gathered his pages of sheet music and tapped the edges into an even pile. “You realize I’ve a few other things on my plate for this week, and they’re all more complicated than they were supposed to be. I’m sorry, but if you added it to the schedule, you can take it off again.”
“It wasn’t me who added it,” Eckhard said, frowning unhappily into his cup.
“Oh Christ.” Conor had started to rise but now sat again, dropping his hands on the table. “What is this about?”
“I realize this will seem to drift from the point, but it is connected: the threat to the symposium Frank learned of from his embedded agent has become more crystallized and he wishes to again expand your brief for the mission.”
Conor was surprised, not so much at the news but at the fact the conductor seemed privy to quite a lot of MI6’s “secret” intelligence. “Are you a spy as well, Eckhard?”
“No.” His brief laugh sounded hollow. “Though I often think I may as well be. I have put my name to the Official Secrets Act. I don’t listen—unless I am told I must—but even so, I know more than I should or ever wanted to. He has never trusted anyone else, but me he perhaps trusts too much.”
“Everyone needs at least one person in their life they can trust,” Conor said quietly. “I wouldn’t want that burden, mate, listening to all Frank’s secrets. He’s a lucky man.” He got up and gave Eckhard a thump on the back. “Come on. Let’s hit the hotel bar. I’ve a feeling I’m going to need a drink for this one.”
In the brightly lit cellar bar, happy hour had already started. It was noisy, filled with cigarette smoke, and jammed with a crowd Conor quickly pegged as elected officials. He thought this because they were within a few blocks of the Czech Parliament building, and because politicians looked the same all over the world. Little did they know they’d been infiltrated by an undercover agent. He enjoyed a rare subversive thrill at the thought, but figured there was a good chance he wasn’t the only spy in the room.
Eckhard wondered if they should find a more private location, but noise was actually the best kind of cover, especially in an Eastern European city with a history of intrigue. After getting pints of beer they went to a table in the back, adjacent to a group of loud pontificators.
“Let’s have it then,” Conor said, after a long swallow from his glass. “Connect the dots—and will you ever stop running your eyes about the place. They’ll think you’re going to either shoot them or put them in the tabloids.”
The conductor nervously lit a cigarette before beginning. “Frank’s embedded agent reported in yesterday. She presented her plan to the leadership of the white nationalist network, the ‘New Přemyslids’ as they call themselves. They approved it but gave her a different objective. Instead of causing a general disturbance as she suggested, they’ve instructed her to assassinate the Czech Minister of Culture.”
“And another ‘false flag’ operation spirals out of control.” Conor watched a bead of moisture roll down the side of his glass and pressed a finger to it. “I can’t say I’m surprised, but it seems like they’re aiming low. Why would they give a shite about the Minister of Culture?”
“Their agenda focuses on racial purity,” Eckhard said. “The minister is believed to favor leniency on migration policy, and he’s an old and close friend of the president. They fear his influence.”
A server who had threaded his way through the crowd approached their table to see if they wanted any food. They declined the menus, but since most of Conor’s beer was already gone he ordered them another round and motioned for Eckhard to continue.
“Given the target, Frank acknowledges the threat is too serious not to communicate to the Czech BIS, but his embedded agent fears the information will be leaked back to the network, putting her life at risk. To insulate her, he’s agreed to let her first proceed with a simulated attack at the opening reception. She’s to prepare to return to London, but in the meantime will be protected against suspicion when MI6 communicates its intelligence to the security services. Frank said she will make contact with you regarding the details of your role in the operation.”
“Since it’s become more complicated,” Conor observed.
Eckhard acknowledged the sarcasm with a sympathetic nod. “He indicated you should follow her lead on further developments.”
“Right.” He paused to let a burst of deafening laughter from the next table subside. “This is all fairly serious stuff, Eckhard, but I’m not seeing how it connects to an extra performance for me.”
“Yes, I know.” Eckhard raised his glass with a weary sigh. “This is how I have come to be involved.”
As they started on their second beer, he connected the dots for Conor. Some months ago, the Minister of Culture, Martin Labut, had a member of his staff deliver a recording to the symposium organizers at the Austrian Embassy. It was a piece played by a young pianist who’d been living in the Labut household for some time. The minister hoped a place might be found for her to perform. The Embassy added her to the participant list and forwarded the recording to Eckhard, who rejected the idea of a performance in the official program. Although talented, she was not yet playing at the level required. As a goodwill gesture, he suggested featuring her in an auxiliary recital event and said a member of his chamber orchestra would be happy to perform with her.
“The Labuts offered to board the musician in their home to maximize rehearsal time,” Eckhard explained. “Frank believes it would be useful if you and Kate were housed there instead, so he’s asked me to substitute you for the musician I’d selected.”
“I wasn’t trained for personal security.” Conor’s objection was obligatory. He might as well save his breath. As usual, through cajoling and manipulation, Frank Murdoch had worked his magic, improvising a strategy as elegant as the man himself.
“Frank asks you to be watchful and alert. Nothing more.”
“Except play a sonata I haven’t looked at in years.” Conor rubbed his eyes, which were burning from all the cigarette smoke hanging in the room. At one time he wouldn’t have noticed it. He would have been too busy inhaling his own. He’d been fourteen years old when he started on them and now, a year after quitting, he sometimes wanted a cigarette so bad he could eat one. Given his medical hist
ory, it would be safer than smoking it.
“What’s her name, and what’s her playing like?”
Eckhard looked relieved to move to another topic. “Sonia Kovac. I believe she is twenty-two years old. Her playing is quite good, but it depends too much on technique and not enough on a relationship with the music and the instrument. I think perhaps you will be good for her.”
Conor smiled at this naked appeal to his ego. “Ah, go away with your fine talk and flattery. What’s the minister like, Martin Labut?”
“We’ll both discover this tomorrow evening. He’s hosting a private program and dinner for the Austrian Embassy at the Clam-Gallas Palace—a special performance by the Opera Barocca. The chamber group is invited to attend along with their guests, so Kate is most welcome.”
“Kate.” Conor snapped to attention and looked at his watch. “Oh Jaysus, I was supposed to meet her back in the room at four o’clock.”
“Then go, for God’s sake.” Eckhard waved at him. “I will pay the bill. This is the least I can do. I seem always to bring disturbing news to you.”
“Never mind, Eckhard. Sure I wouldn’t know what to do with good news.” Conor worked his way through the bar but called back to the conductor before running up the stairs. “Don’t worry about the Strauss either. It’ll be fine. The piano does the heavy lifting in that sonata.”
When he came through the door to their hotel room, Conor saw the anxiety in Kate’s eyes turn to something ferocious in the space of an instant.
“You’re late,” she snapped.
He closed the door and stood next to it, thinking some distance might be safer. “I know. I’m sorry, I—”
“You follow me out the door like I’m a six-year-old going to her first day of kindergarten, but then leave me sitting here for an hour worrying what might have happened to you. How would you feel if I’d been late?”
“I’m sorry. I just—”
“My God, Conor.” Her anger rose another notch. “Have you been smoking?”
The Conor McBride Series Books 1-3 Page 74