The Conor McBride Series Books 1-3

by Kathryn Guare

  “What? No. I’m about the only one who hasn’t been.” Ignoring the denial, she came forward and sniffed his shirt, clearly suspicious, and Conor jerked away with a flash of irritation. “For fuck’s sake, Kate. I haven’t been smoking, but if you can leave off chewing me to pieces I’ll tell you what I have been doing.”

  She stepped back, startled, and he immediately regretted the outburst. “Sweetheart, I’m sorry.” He pulled her back. “I just lost track of the time, but you’re right. If I’d come back and you weren’t here I’d have been up the wall.”

  “Where were you?” Kate asked.

  “With Eckhard. We’ve got another ‘development’ to tackle.” He rubbed at a smear of green paint on the back of her hand. “I’ll tell you about it, but first show me what you did today.”

  11

  “What do you play?”

  The deep, raspy voice sounded close, but otherwise no different from all the other chatter going on behind him. The drawing room of the Clam-Gallas was filled with government officials and representatives from the Austrian Embassy, all enjoying some conversation and refreshment before the start of the opera. Conor didn’t realize the question was meant for him until he turned and barely avoided dumping two glasses of champagne onto a petite woman in a skintight evening dress.

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” He swept the glasses away before they could spill and reversed a step, his back connecting with the bar. “I play violin. I’m one of the musicians with the Salzburg chamber group.”

  “How modest you are, Conor McBride. You are the soloist. As I’ve just learned from Maestro Eckhard.” The woman’s hazel-green eyes gleamed as she came forward another step. “I was curious as to the provenance of your … instrument.”

  Her bosom, covered in a fabric studded with gold beading and sequins, inched closer to his chest, and an aura of smoke and perfume came with it. The low-cut dress looked like it could have been fashioned from bits of gilded stucco pulled from the walls around them.

  “It’s, ehm … an 1830 Pressenda. It was left to me by my teacher.” Still pinned against the bar, he made his escape with a pivot to the left. “He was Czech, actually. From Brno.”

  “Ah, so you must know all about us. I am Petra Labut. My husband is Martin, the Minister of Culture.” She took one of the glasses of champagne from him and held out a hand. “I believe you will be staying with us for the next week.”

  “Right, we’re coming to you tomorrow I think. Really kind of you. We’re looking forward to it.” Conor already knew that was an outright lie as he shook her hand. The woman looked ready to swallow him whole.

  “Yes, you and your friend—Kate, I believe it is?” Still holding his hand, she turned him slightly to the left and gestured with her glass. “That’s my husband talking to her now. I wonder if he knows yet who she is? Or if merely by chance he’s found himself speaking to the most beautiful person in the room—as he does. As we both do, I should say. Shall we join them? But you should bring her some champagne.”

  Frank, you bloody old son of a bitch. His boss never ran dry on ways to make his life difficult. Conor returned to the line at the bar as she walked away.

  The introductions were quickly completed after he joined them and offered Kate a glass of champagne. She did look spectacular. She was wearing a strapless black gown that he alone knew she’d spent an hour ironing. The only jewelry she wore was a slim diamond bracelet with matching earrings, but despite the simplicity, or maybe because of it, there was something about her manner in a setting like this—her graceful posture, the lift of her face, the polite warmth of her conversation—that showed the influence of her grandmother. She was regal in the most genuine sense of the word, but the evidence of her straightforward spirit kept Conor from being altogether awestruck. She brushed a kiss against his cheek. …

  “They’re both vampires,” she whispered. “I’m going to kill Frank.”

  He covered his sputter of laughter with a cough. They were quite pretty vampires all the same, and unlike the undead they appeared to be sun-worshippers. Along with the killer green eyes and ample bosom, Petra had a lovely face with high cheekbones and a shapely figure, but her skin showed the effects of too much tanning—and probably too many cigarettes, judging from her voice. Her husband was also tanned, fit, and handsome. With shoulder-length salt-and-pepper hair and bangs sweeping across his brow, Martin looked like a gracefully aging hipster—the original Bohemian.

  They chatted together until the signal came to move to the next room. The conversation was ordinary but their body language unsettling. Martin did most of the talking. Petra watched them with a lazy smile as she leaned back against him, stroking his arm while he gently massaged her stomach.

  “Oh dear God,” Kate said, when they’d finally moved away.

  “Maybe we should pick up some garlic before moving in with them,” Conor suggested.

  “I doubt it would work. They’d just use it to marinate us.”

  The opera took place in the sort of intimate atmosphere Mozart might have played in; in fact it was possible he’d appeared in that very room—someone had mentioned to Kate earlier that both he and Beethoven had performed in the Clam-Gallas.

  The audience was seated on three sides of the parquet floor, framing the low-hanging chandeliers in the middle of the room. When the orchestra appeared through a door at the back they were in period dress—powdered wigs, white stockings, and short breeches buttoned at the knee. As the audience applauded their arrival, Kate leaned over to Conor.

  “I think you’d look good playing in a wig and knickers.”

  He made a face. “You’d have to get me good and drunk first.”

  The program was delightful, centering around the motif of Arcadia, which for the female singers meant elaborate hooped skirts covered in flowers and fruit. The men in the company took the form of mischievous, cavorting—and somewhat lascivious—fauns. When the performance was over, men and women in beautiful brocade costumes and decorative masks led the guests down the torch-lit central staircase to dinner.

  Kate enjoyed every minute, but as the evening concluded with coffee and liqueurs in yet another candlelit drawing room, she reached the limit of her capacity for small talk. Conor, whose Irish “gift of the gab” ensured he would never run out of things to say, held up her end as well as his own, but when she felt the urge to yawn as they started another round with the Austrian ambassador, she politely excused herself.

  After serving herself another cup of coffee from a silver urn, Kate drifted to an empty area of the room and observed the conversation from a distance. She liked to watch Conor when he wasn’t aware of it, trying to see him as a stranger might—someone who didn’t already know the entire geography of him. It was impossible. She couldn’t look without seeing everything, all the little things a stranger wouldn’t know. Right now, seeing his frequent sips from a glass of water, Kate could tell his voice was going. It was always a bit hoarse, damaged by an emergency tracheotomy performed with primitive tools during his first undercover mission. Pitching it to be heard in a noisy atmosphere for any sustained period strained it to the limit.

  “I could have killed him easily tonight.”

  The voice at her ear made Kate jump, and when the chilling words registered she gasped. Before she could turn, she heard a soft rustle of fabric and one of the costumed staff members stepped forward carrying a tray of cordials. She made a slow pirouette in front of Kate, her dress flaring before settling back into perfectly arranged folds. She held out the tray with a smile.

  “What did you say?” Kate stared. The woman’s golden mask was sprinkled with rhinestones, and behind it her eyes were cool and ironic. She tilted her head to the left.

  “Him. No screening, no security, but in a few days it will be quite different, won’t it?”

  Kate looked in the direction she’d indicated, and saw Martin Labut talking with musicians from the Salzburg chamber group. “Who are you?”

  “You know that, of
course. We recognize each other, yes? All of Frank’s children?” She pushed the tray forward again. “Call me Greta. I’ve always liked that name. You must at least look interested in the cordials for us to continue speaking. Choose one, and I will describe it to you.”

  Lifting one of the small glasses from the tray, Kate held it up to her. “Why are you here, Greta? We weren’t expecting you until the opening reception.”

  She bowed and smiled again. “A piece of urgent news concerning Frank’s Iranian golden boy. He is blown.”

  Kate froze with the glass in her hand, but recovered quickly. She put it down and picked up another, sniffing it. “How do you know about him? Frank said the Prague station didn’t know Ghorbani was a double agent.”

  “He has been careless. The New Přemyslids know he’s a British agent and they think he’s spying on them. It’s amusing, yes?” Greta winked. “This is helpful to me, not so good for him.”

  “He’s defecting. We’re transporting him tomorrow night.”

  “Yes, I know. Did I not say he has been careless? But if you wait until tomorrow you will deliver a dead man to Hřensko. You must collect him tonight. Midnight. In the main square of Pohořelec. You know this place?”

  “Yes,” Kate said, remembering it as a small neighborhood near the castle complex.

  “There is a bar called Praŝná Vĕž. In English it is Powder Tower. A picture is above the door. I promise you he will be there. I cannot promise he will be sober.” Greta took the glass and placed it back on the tray. Kate put a hand on her arm as she turned away.

  “How did they find out? How was Ghorbani exposed?”

  Greta looked thoughtful. “Frank wants to pull me from this assignment and relocate me, but this is my home. The network has found its traitor. They won’t look for another one. Do try to find him before they do.”

  Kate stood rooted in place as Greta walked away and when she finally turned, Conor was coming towards her.

  “There you are. Had enough of the ball? You look fairly knackered. Will we head back to the hotel now?”

  “What time is it?”

  He looked at his watch. “Nearly half-eleven.”

  Eleven thirty. She visualized the route in her head and made a quick calculation of the travel time. “No.” She sighed, looking down at her dress. “We’re not going back just yet.”

  The BMW was parked nearby, in a reserved spot around the corner from the palace. Conor had the keys, and Kate was surprised when he tossed them to her as they raced down the dark central staircase. He pulled up short near the bottom.

  “How long will it take to get there?”

  “Maybe ten minutes?” Kate said. “Pohořelec is across the river in the Castle District, but there won’t be much traffic at this hour.”

  “Right.” Conor glanced at his watch again. “That should leave us enough time. There’s something else we need to take care of first. Corner Boy.”

  “Do you think he’s still around? We haven’t seen him since the first day.”

  “I’m almost positive he’s around,” he said. “I can feel him. I’ve got a theory, and anyway, we can’t let him follow us, so now’s the time to—Christ, Kate, mind your feet.” She’d grabbed his arm as her heel caught in the hem of her evening gown. “I wish you had time to change. You’re going to break your neck in that dress.”

  “I’ll manage.” She struggled with the slippery fabric and impatiently yanked a handful clear of her feet. “Do you want me to try losing him in the car?”

  “No.” He pulled at the iron ring on the door that led from the inner courtyard to the street. “We need something more aggressive, but we’ll head for the car first. That’s where he’ll be waiting.”

  They turned right outside the palace and walked up to the square where the car was parked. Unlike Old Town Square, where tourists would be congregating in their hundreds, this was a quiet area without any entertainment to attract them. There were few cars remaining in the lot and no pedestrians in sight. Hand in hand they walked through the square and made another right turn onto a long, straight street.

  “Good. Make him work for it,” Conor said. “He’ll wait until we turn the corner, and then he’ll have to sprint after us.”

  They walked about a hundred feet after turning, and then Conor pulled her into the recessed opening of a small hotel entrance. Pressed against the wall in the shadows, Kate held her breath, feeling him turn rigid and withdraw into remote, operational readiness. They didn’t need to wait long. In less than a minute she heard footsteps. As the short, thin figure passed them, she couldn’t even be sure it was the man they’d seen before, but Conor had already surged forward. He slammed the man face down onto the paving stones, and by the time Kate had stepped from the hotel entrance he’d pulled him up again and was hustling the man across the street to a covered arcade. He dumped him over a low iron railing spanning one of the archways then vaulted over it. Dragging him farther into the shadows, Conor pinned the man on his stomach with one knee, and wrenched his arm back, all without making a sound. Panting heavily and with his face turned to one side, Kate could see the man was indeed none other than Corner Boy.

  “Who sent you?” Conor’s voice was eerily calm, almost conversational. Getting no reply, he grabbed the man’s ring finger and pinky and bent them back. “You’ve ten seconds before I break them all and start on the other hand. Who do you work for and what do they want?” Stifling a yelp the man began to struggle, and Kate cringed as Conor pulled the fingers back harder. “Five seconds.”

  “Okay, okay. Ease up.” The man groaned as Conor released his fingers. “Zimmer House.”

  “Bingo.” Conor swung around to Kate, his smile at odds with the dark anger in his eyes. “That was my theory, but I couldn’t figure out how they knew we were in London.”

  “They’ve got their own private investigator,” the man said, and now Kate could hear his working-class British accent. “He tracked you to JFK before handing it off to me. He said you were a gold digger, that you’d been arrested for financial fraud, and you were traveling out of the country with one of their clients using fake passports. I picked you up in London.”

  “Shit.” Conor’s cold reserve finally cracked.

  Kate’s heart sank as he pulled his knee away from the man and leaned back on his heels, his head bowed. Other than the “gold digger” assumption, every word was true. Guido Brottman had not wasted a minute in putting his investigator on the case to root up Conor’s past and reach all the wrong conclusions. She sat on the ground next to him as their stalker rolled away and sat up, looking surprised.

  “What have you told them?” she asked.

  “Sweet fuck-all, to be honest.” He scuttled back against the wall as Conor’s head jerked up. “I followed you both to Windsor, and then I followed her down to you-know-where. Once I saw where she was headed I hoofed it right back to Windsor and watched you muck about for three weeks. I just pretended she was with you. I’m not a complete moron, mate. It’s good money, this gig, but I’d like to get out of it alive. I’ve been creeping about here like a little girl in a funhouse, scared shitless of walking into something. Which I guess I just did.”

  He drew up his knees and nervously watched them, massaging his fingers. Kate put a hand on Conor’s back. “We’re running out of time. What are we going to do?”

  Conor shrugged. “Damned if I know. Ordinarily, I’d be dragging him to the head of station. They’d process him, make him sign his life away and send him home, but the bloody head of station doesn’t know we’re here.” He went silent and for a long minute Kate stayed quiet while he thought. “What’s your name?” he finally asked the little man, still cowering against the wall.

  “Winnie.”

  Conor snorted. “You’re joking me. Winnie?”

  “Short for Winston. Me mum thought he was God.”

  “Jaysus.” Conor looked at Kate. She bit her lip, but it didn’t work. She broke into laughter and he joined her soon afte
r. “Okay, Winnie.” He got to his feet and gave Kate a hand up. “It’s mad altogether, but what else is new? You’ll have to come with us.”

  Kate thought they made an odd trio walking back to the car—two people in formal evening wear flanking a slight figure in jeans and a rumpled sports jacket, his chin bleeding slightly. When they reached the car, their captive moved towards one of the rear doors, but Conor stopped him.

  “Look, I’m sorry, but we can’t let you sit with us.” He signaled for Kate to pop the trunk.

  Winnie looked startled, but then shrugged. “All things considered, I think I’ll be happier riding in the boot.”

  Conor waited until he’d settled himself as comfortably as possible and then closed the hood. He gave it a final glance, shaking his head.

  “Next item,” he said, sliding into the passenger seat.

  “Will he be safe riding like that?” Kate asked.

  “Sure why wouldn’t he be. It’s the boot of a luxurious BMW. Do you need me to read the map?”

  “No.”

  She shifted the car into a quick reversing arc and they sped out of the square.

  12

  “This is actually better,” Kate said. “We’re closer to the highway from here.”

  “That’s the spirit.” Conor gave her a light punch on the knee. He was happy to hear of any silver lining in their position, perched on the lip of volcanic disaster. As always, Kate was putting up a brave front, but he could tell she was anxious. He removed his black tie and tailcoat.

  “What’s that building in front of us, do you know?”

  “Believe it or not, it’s the Ministry of Foreign Affairs,” she said.

  “Oh, I believe it.” Conor finished rolling up the sleeves of his tuxedo shirt. He looked around the dark empty street in front of the Ministry. Not knowing who else might be lurking in the square outside the bar, it seemed safer to park a few blocks down the street, but he felt uneasy about leaving Kate alone—or almost alone. Wee Winnie didn’t really count, although he was holding up well. He’d checked on him after they’d parked, and the little guy seemed to be weathering the ride just fine. Conor didn’t know what the hell they were going to do with him. He pushed the problem and all its ancillary questions aside, until he could focus on it properly.