The Conor McBride Series Books 1-3

by Kathryn Guare

  The reception was on an upper floor in a two-storied ceremonial hall once used as the city’s assembly room. The ubiquitous parquet here was laid in a square-basket pattern, and apart from two monumental wall paintings facing each other, the room had a simple, understated style. The lights had been dimmed, giving greater effect to the votive candles scattered around on high cocktail tables. The only other lighting came from two spotlights trained on a podium standing in front of a set of windows with a mirrored panel between them.

  The balcony was on the opposite wall, facing the podium. Once the room had reached critical mass and the reception was underway, Conor ran his eyes over it with greater attention. The entire area was obscured by dark velvet drapes from end to end, just as Sonia had described it. Apparently, the heavy curtains had been put up to hide extensive renovation work from tour groups.

  “She was right about the security as well,” Conor said as they browsed the buffet table. “There isn’t any in here at all.”

  Kate stayed focused on the skewer of prosciutto and melon she was adding to her plate. “I guess cultural ministers and UN officers don’t rate much protection.”

  At first, a steady stream of guests approached to express admiration for Conor’s performance. Gratifying, but also alarming. He hadn’t anticipated being the center of attention, and was relieved when it finally subsided. After spending a few more minutes discussing the art of Alfons Mucha with the director of Prague’s National Museum—an exchange he was happy to let Kate handle for both of them—they retreated to a table in the corner. He noted the Labuts were at a comfortable distance, conversing with another group of guests near the windows.

  “I need to do a little reconnaissance,” he said. “It’s getting late.”

  Looking worried but resigned, Kate nodded. “Should I wait for you here?”

  Conor poured the rest of his wine into her glass. “No, move around a little. Remember Sonia said someone from the network is disguised as a server? Have a look without seeming keen about it; see if you can spot which one is a fascist. I won’t be more than five minutes.”

  He left through the door they’d been standing near, which led directly into a second ceremonial room, with another door on the right leading into a stairwell. This was the door Sonia had instructed them to guard. Moving up the stairs he arrived in a foyer—empty except for a coat rack in one corner—and found the door to the balcony propped open with a gallon can of primer. He made a quick inspection of the area—tricky in a darkness made even deeper by the heavy drapes. Although the seats had all been removed the floor was littered with drop cloths, tools and more paint cans. It smelled faintly of turpentine. Careful not to disturb any items that would clatter, he picked up one of the folded cloths and made a mental note to stay well away from everything else. With one finger he moved the drapes aside, exposing a sliver of light from the reception hall, which seemed bright by comparison. He surveyed the activity below and saw Martin standing near the buffet table talking to Kate.

  “Oh, feck off,” Conor breathed. In a moment of solidarity, he forgave Sonia for wanting to do away with the promiscuous Minister of Culture—if, indeed, she did.

  As if hearing Conor’s command, Martin gave Kate’s shoulder a caressing squeeze and walked away. He disappeared through a door in the far corner of the room, and at the same time Conor’s phone began to vibrate: Eckhard’s alert that Sonia was coming over the Charles Bridge. It lasted the length of one ring and stopped.

  Conor went back into the foyer and hung the drop cloth over the coat rack, then tested the carpeted floor for any random creaks before hurrying downstairs to Kate.

  “The first signal came through. I’d say she’ll be here in about ten minutes. What’s wrong? You look agitated.”

  “We have a small complication,” Kate said. “The president is here.”

  “The president?”

  She nodded. “Of the Czech Republic.”

  “Jaysus. No one said he was coming.”

  “Nobody thought he would. He was invited but his scheduler only confirmed him for the closing dinner and final concert. The organizers are trying to figure out how to entertain him and Martin wants to introduce you. You’re the closest thing they have to a celebrity, since Eckhard isn’t here.”

  “Bloody hell.” Conor scanned the room. “Well, it has to be now and quick, so where is he?”

  Kate indicated the door Martin had disappeared through a minute earlier. They went to it, announcing themselves to the security officer guarding the threshold. As he escorted them through, Conor noted that even the president’s security detail was light, at least by western standards—one at the door and two inside it. The muted atmosphere was in sharp contrast to the noisy chatter in the spacious hall next to it, and the room itself was the most ornate Conor had seen yet. Decorated in a Gothic style and with heraldic insignia lining the walls, it was lit by chandeliers hanging from a painted coffered ceiling. In the middle, Martin stood with the Czech president, a burly man with a drooping white mustache that gave him a permanent frown. Around them, a knot of government functionaries anxiously hovered. They seemed to be feeling the strain of amusing a man who looked impervious to any such effort.

  Unlike them, Martin seemed at ease. It reminded Conor of earlier information Eckhard had provided—that Martin was an old and close friend of the president, and that the minister’s influence on migration policy had made him a target for the white nationalists. Conor wasn’t convinced their fears were valid—the president didn’t look like he would be easily influenced.

  Since other guests had also been invited for presentation they waited inside the door for their introduction, Conor impatiently fiddling with the phone in his left hand. At last, Martin beckoned them forward with a smile.

  “Here is our very talented virtuoso, Mr. President. This is Conor McBride and his lovely lady, Kate Chatham. You are in for a treat at the Rudolfinum this Saturday.”

  The president looked dubious but extended a hand, his lips barely moving in response to Conor’s greeting and expressions of deep honor.

  “A British musician? We rarely see them at the Rudolfinum.”

  “You won’t on Saturday either, sir. I’m Irish.” He produced his best artificial smile, and kept it glued in place while his left hand jumped as though electrified. The second signal, meaning Sonia had reached the square outside. Conor smoothly passed the vibrating phone over to Kate.

  “Oh?” The president’s small eyes brightened. “We have many Irish pubs here in Prague.”

  “You have. Unfortunately, I’ve only seen them from the outside.”

  While the assembled company chuckled at his incomparable wit he darted a glance at Kate, begging her to think of something as she stood staring at the phone.

  “I enjoy a glass of Irish whiskey at times,” the president droned on, and then launched into an oration on the “Troubles” of Northern Ireland while Conor squirmed. Even without a ticking clock he would have despised this conversational sinkhole. More often than not it was informed by boozy romanticism instead of any practical knowledge of Irish history or current events.

  “I wonder what has become of Maestro Eckhard,” Martin cut in when his friend at last paused to draw breath. “He has been very long with his phone call. I hope he won’t miss my public words of welcome.”

  Conor fastened on the comment like a man grabbing a lifeboat. “Sure look, I think he’s back now.” He turned to Kate. “Wasn’t that him at the bar? Just as we came in here?” Without waiting for her reply he swung back to the president. “Will I track him down for you, Mr. President? He’ll be delighted to meet you.” He offered an obsequious bow and took Kate’s arm, already turning away. “It’s been such an honor, sir. I look forward to playing for you on Saturday.”

  They were almost clear when, on the way out the door, they nearly collided with Petra coming in the opposite direction. She looked flushed and happy and was on the arm of a ruddy-cheeked soldier.

 
“I see you’ve met the ‘Old Stick.’” She flashed her wide, suggestive smile. “Only my nickname for him, of course. This is my friend Lukas Hasek of the Castle Guard. He’s on leave from the motorcycle unit.” She gave the man’s hand a firm pat. “I’m afraid he speaks no English. He doesn’t speak much at all, but this is not a problem.”

  Nodding a quick greeting, Conor explained his obligation to find Eckhard and abruptly walked away, leaving Kate on the hook with the vampire and her paramour. He’d be paying for that, later.

  Although tempted to sprint, he doggedly kept an even pace while crossing the room, but after passing through the door in the rear corner he did begin to run, noiselessly. As he stepped into the foyer adjacent to the balcony, Conor heard a rhythmic swish of fabric echoing in the stairwell below him. Moving from the stairs, he pressed himself into a shadowed corner behind the coat rack.

  When she appeared, Sonia turned to the left and continued on through the balcony door without glancing in his direction. Conor watched her examine the platform in the darkness as he’d done earlier, and when she parted the velvet drapes an inch-wide shaft of light illuminated both her face and her remarkable, chrome-plated hair. Still dressed as she’d been at the concert—a sleeveless black gown in a billowing pleated fabric reaching down to her calves—she managed to look like the perfect assassin and at the same time the farthest thing from it.

  He’d allowed Kate to think he would try gaining Sonia’s cooperation, but in fact conversational debate formed no part of Conor’s strategy. Whether from pride or ill-intent, the woman wasn’t about to be persuaded. A session of hand-to-hand combat was too risky for both of them—neither could afford to cause a racket—so he’d placed his hopes on an unconventional tactic. If it didn’t work, he’d try debate.

  Still watching her, Conor carefully took the drop cloth from the coat rack where he’d left it earlier and silently inched along the wall to the right of the door. Stepping into the opening, he whispered urgently.

  “Sonia, we’ve got a problem.”

  It worked better than he’d dared to hope. She gave a start at the sound of his voice, but didn’t register the threat until she’d turned to face him, and by then it was too late. Before she could recover, or even raise her arms, Conor stepped forward, enveloping her with the cloth as through taking her into a protective embrace. By the time her shock had transitioned to rage he had it snugly twisted around her from shoulders to thighs—a makeshift, paint-spattered cocoon.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” Her whispering scream blew against his ear, which she then tried to bite as Conor scooped an arm around her waist.

  “Relieving you of duty.”

  He lifted Sonia, struggling not to drop her while she kicked and thrashed, and set her down in the foyer, amazed that an old farming trick he used for transporting calves could work so well on a human being. After making certain the wrapping job would hold, Conor lowered her as gently as he could manage and she would allow, and propped her against the wall. He went back to close the door, then hit the switch next to it. Returning, he squatted in front of her, and under the weak yellow light filling the foyer, turned her face to him.

  “Look me in the eye and tell me you weren’t planning to kill someone here tonight.”

  She met his eyes without flinching. “This is insane, Conor. Of course not. For God’s sake, let me out of this thing and go back downstairs. Go down and do what you were assigned to do.”

  Conor bowed his head and stared at the floor between his knees, realizing how much he’d wanted to be wrong, shaken by the implication of being right. “You’ve misplayed it, Sonia. You were supposed to look surprised.”

  She did look startled then, but in the next instant exploded in quiet fury. “It is my operation. Frank assigned it to me, not you, yes? I could do it alone but he told you to help me. To help me,” she said again, spitting the words at him. “It’s not for you to do. You don’t understand. You’re not capable.”

  “You think I’m not capable of making a little harmless noise? Because that’s what Frank is expecting. This is a simulation. You remember that, right?” Conor took a deep breath, dreading what he needed to do next. “I’m going to take the gun from you, now.”

  He knew it was in a holster on her thigh; she’d told him about that earlier in the day. As soon as his fingers touched the edge of her dress, Sonia launched a new strategy.

  “Does it make you feel like a strong man? To tie up a woman and put your hands up her dress?” She spread her legs apart, her eyes mocking and hard, daring him to continue.

  Conor sighed, lowering his hands. Beyond the closed balcony door he heard the sound of an amplified voice and of the reception crowd gradually settling down to listen. The speaker was introducing Martin. “I’m going to take the gun from you now,” he repeated quietly. “You can do as you like, but you’ll only make it worse for both of us.”

  He tried to keep his hand from touching her as he searched for the gun, swearing under his breath when he didn’t find it on her right leg. Switching sides, Conor repeated the motion and connected with the holster halfway up the inside of her left thigh. After some awkward fumbling, he realized the complicated construction was necessary to handle not only the weight of the gun, but also that of a silencer and tactical light, tucked into adjoining slots.

  “You weren’t intending to make much noise at all, were you?” He removed the Ruger and its various attachments. Looking at Sonia, he saw her face had lost its jeering scowl. She looked terrified.

  “Please. I will end up dead because of you.”

  Her genuine fear unsettled Conor. “Listen. I’ll make it look convincing—a solid near miss, I promise. Sure I’ll even keep the silencer, and they’ll never know it wasn’t you. The point was to prove your loyalty by planning the job and making the attempt. That can still work.”

  “My loyalty was never in question, but it will be now. Farid was the only threat. He suspected I was with MI6, he hinted at it. It’s why I exposed him first—to guarantee he would only appear vindictive if he tried later to do the same to me.”

  He put the weapon’s attachments in his pockets and helplessly spread his hands. “This is the plan you designed, Sonia. You told Frank you needed this operation, and it isn’t my fault you lied about it. We can call the whole thing off, if you like, but I can’t let you kill the guy, for fuck’s sake. You must understand that?”

  She closed her eyes, shaking her head. “It’s you who doesn’t understand.”

  “Right,” Conor said, heading for the balcony door. He knew he was missing something but had no alternative.

  “Wait. Please,” Sonia called, panicking now. “It’s not Martin. He’s not the target.”

  He froze with his hand on the wall switch, and slowly turned to stare at her. “Who is the target then?”

  “The president,” she said, avoiding his eyes. “He was my assignment.”

  “Your assignment was the president?” Conor let the news sink in, and then was back across the foyer in two long strides. He wrenched her head up to look at him. “Are you insane? Did you think we were going to make the road clear and all the lights green for you after you’d assassinated a head of state?”

  “No? What would you have done, then?” She sounded tired now. “Turn your MI6 colleague over to the Czech police? Kill me yourself? It doesn’t matter. I wasn’t going to shoot him, but I don’t expect you to believe it.”

  “How can I?”

  “Yes, it’s impossible,” she agreed listlessly. “Only, if it is to be a near miss, make sure to aim carefully and miss the correct target. This is all I meant.” Sonia nodded at the door. “You should go now.”

  Straightening, Conor stood looking down at her for several seconds, then reached around to loosen the wrapping at her back. “Start working your way out now. By the time it’s off I’ll be done and we’ll both get the hell out of here.”

  He walked away and hit the lights, looking back at her. Sonia lay s
lumped against the wall in the darkness, limp and motionless, not even trying to get free.

  19

  Once on the balcony, Conor eased the door shut behind him and put his back against it, wary of moving in any direction until his eyes adjusted and his stress level settled. In the hall below, the introductory remarks continued, and for once he was thankful for long-winded bureaucrats. He took the silencer from his pocket and screwed it in place, making sure the fit was airtight while listening to the speaker alternate between Czech and English in a sonorous tenor.

  When he felt confident of his footing and his nerves, he moved forward and put an eye to the thin crack between the drapes. Apart from the man at the podium the scene hadn’t changed much since the last time he’d looked. People were still where they’d been standing when called to order, bunched together in small groups. They were listening quietly but showing signs of restlessness; one bejeweled woman at the front was trying—unsuccessfully—to stifle an emphysemic cough.

  Methodically scanning the room, Conor allowed himself to sink into the mentality of an assassin, trying to visualize what Sonia had been planning, knowing he didn’t have the whole story. He didn’t doubt what she’d told him; frankly it made more sense. The New Přemyslids wanted a bigger disruption than could be achieved by killing a minor official in an obscure ministry. Whether she’d have gone through with the assassination or not was an open question, but whatever her intentions towards the Czech president, Conor remained convinced Sonia had been planning to kill Martin.

  Looking down, he studied the minister’s chiseled profile. He was standing near the wall with the same officials Conor had seen earlier with the president. They hadn’t strayed far from the room where he’d met them, and since the security officer hadn’t left his post by the door he assumed the president was still inside—no doubt preparing for his dramatic, surprise entrance.

  Surprise entrance.

  With vivid comprehension, Conor realized the piece he’d been missing. He jerked back from the curtain, barely avoiding a collision with a toolbox on the floor.