“What’s his excuse for not being here?” Kate asked. “He knows people are expecting him.”
“Delayed trauma? Exhaustion? He did get shot at last night. Maybe he really is a little gun-shy.”
“If that were the case he would have said something to us, or at least called to cancel.” Staring absently at the chapel’s altar painting, Conor bounced the strings of his bow lightly against his shoulder. He kept his expression impassive, but Kate picked up on his mood and moved closer to him.
“What is it?” she whispered.
Not looking at her, Conor responded with a barely perceptible shake of his head. He didn’t know what it was, but it wasn’t good.
Sonia returned, gesturing with the phone. “There’s no answer.”
“They could be on their way.” Eckhard floated the idea without much conviction.
“Could be, yeah. Maybe they’re stuck in traffic—sorry,” Conor added, when the conductor scowled at his sarcasm. “Sure look, there are really only three scenarios and we can’t do much about any of them right now. Either they’re on their way, or they’re at home and not answering the phone, or they’re somewhere else altogether. Whichever it is, we’ve no actionable information.”
He sympathized with Sonia’s alarm at the possible implications of the third scenario, but Conor couldn’t alter the facts, and although he was successfully hiding it from everyone but Kate, he also couldn’t shake the sensitivity to something acting on him like a bad smell. He couldn’t tell where it was coming from, or what it was.
“Maybe I could get some actionable information,” Lukas suggested. “The house isn’t far. Why don’t I walk down and see if anyone’s there?”
“To be honest, I’d rather have you here,” Conor admitted. “The belt-and-suspenders theory is growing on me, and I don’t think we’ve much choice but to carry on as planned at this point. Eckhard, you can stand in for Martin.”
“I?” The conductor’s eyes popped wide. “And I should say what? I’ve prepared no notes. I’ve not studied the sonata.”
Amused in spite of his worry, Conor gave him a bracing clap on the shoulder. “It’s an introduction, Eckhard, not a lecture, and if I could learn to play the bloody thing in less than a week, you should be able to spit out a few words about it.”
When she returned, the events director accepted the substitution without hesitation and quickly ushered Kate and Lukas from the room so the program could begin immediately. Pausing by the door, Eckhard preened, snapping the lapels of his suit and flicking his wrists to display a set of black onyx cufflinks. After offering Conor a playful grin he strode into the Concert Hall to polite applause, and—as expected—proceeded to charm his audience with a warm and eloquent welcome.
Sonia went next to begin the recital with a series of short solo pieces she’d prepared. Alone now, Conor roamed the chapel with the violin under one arm, head lowered like a monk at his prayers. The air stirred a scent of sun-warmed muslin from the tightly drawn window shades, and the muffled sound of the piano did nothing to alter the room’s thick, watchful silence He probed at the undefined thing tightening in his gut, hoping it would unfold and reveal itself. As a result, he nearly missed his stage cue. Racing back across the room, he paused with his hand on the doorknob, and then pulling the door open Conor walked out to join Sonia.
They got off to a good start with the sonata. The first movement had always been their strongest and it provided the confidence they needed for the second. Conor had suppressed any thoughts that would interfere with his concentration, but while adjusting his stance during a two-measure rest, a startled jump from Kate in the front row caught his eye. As a further disruption, the phone in his pocket came alive in two quick bursts of vibration just as he’d resumed playing. Someone had sent him a text message.
Sneaking another look at Kate, he saw she was discreetly handing her own phone to Lukas. The officer gave it a quick glance and a few seconds later left the room in the grip of a simulated coughing fit. Conor forced his gaze back to the music, but while delivering the final, extended note of the second movement he turned his full attention on Kate. She was staring at him, wide-eyed, tapping a finger against the phone she still held in her hand.
The pause before the start of the third and final movement generated the usual rustle of activity in the audience—the scrape of a chair, a few murmurs, some noisy throat-clearing. On the pretext of pocketing the cloth he’d used to wipe perspiration from the violin, he turned away and pulled his phone out far enough to see the screen. The message had come from Frank. Reading it, Conor felt his mouth go dry.
Recital threat active. Assassin still at large. Ghorbani says he refused the job.
In the few, brief seconds he had to consider options, Conor pushed aside the self-recrimination threatening to paralyze him. He’d allowed his empathy for Sonia to obstruct an assessment of the risk involved in her strategy, or any rigorous testing of the assumptions behind it. Questions regarding the specific details of Ghorbani’s meeting with Martin should have come up a lot sooner than this, but until now none of them had thought to question the conclusions they’d already drawn. The Iranian agent had refused the contract to kill the woman he’d once loved, so Martin had found a substitute.
They’d walked into a trap thinking they were clever, thinking they were only pretending to be clueless, and it was all for the sake of biding their time until they could get their hands on a baby. Talk about mission creep. If lucky, Conor would get a chance to berate himself later, but right now the danger was imminent, and he had decisions to make.
Approaching the point at which the silence would become awkward, he bought himself a little more time by adjusting the music stand. Glancing up, he saw Lukas had slipped back into the room through a door in the rear and was standing next to it. Conor met his eye, hoping for a little helpful advice. Lukas made a lightly closed fist and moved it rhythmically in front of his chest, as though waving a baton.
Keep playing.
Conor gave a curt nod, grateful, because his own instincts suggested the same. Between the two of them they had the small room covered. If an unknown killer was lurking in it, he or she must be feeling confident. An assassin with a sense of control was preferable to one who felt panicky and desperate. Staying the course seemed safer than any improvised action, at least for now.
He straightened from the music stand and looked back to see Sonia watching him with impatient curiosity. Smiling an apology and praying it was the right decision, Conor nodded for her to begin.
During her solo opening of the finale, he had about forty seconds to focus on his audience. Dividing the room into quadrants he quickly examined each of them and concluded it was an entirely innocuous crowd. He reminded himself the recital had been scheduled as an auxiliary event to the ministerial symposium. Most of those present had familiar faces he’d already studied at the reception the previous evening, and those who weren’t familiar appeared to be benefactors of the museum, seated in two rows of wider, more comfortable seats on the right side of the room.
There wasn’t a single person who came anywhere close to matching the profile he was looking for, but when the door at the back next to Lukas opened, Conor realized his focus had been too narrow. The events director poked her head into the room, apparently to assess how much time remained in the recital, and before she retreated and closed the door Conor caught a glimpse of the Balcony Room behind her—of floral bouquets and white tablecloths, and figures moving through carrying dishes and glassware.
The catering staff. Why invent new tactics, when the old ones still worked so well?
27
It wasn’t the most soulful interpretation of a sonata he’d ever given, but Conor held it together and did so while devising a post-performance plan, part of which—regrettably—again involved taking Sonia by surprise.
From the level of applause after the finale, he knew they’d get a curtain call. While escorting her from the stage, Conor communicated
what he hoped was a clear signal, directing Lukas to head for the opposite door leading to the staircase.
When Sonia closed the door inside the small chapel and leaned against it, the happy look on her face indicated she had no idea what was happening. He felt miserable for deceiving her, and for what he was about to do, but he needed the reins back and couldn’t waste any time struggling to get them.
“How long do you usually wait?” She was patting the door lightly, as though still hearing the music.
Conor smiled. “This is long enough. Let’s go.”
They swept back into the room on a wave of rising applause, a standing ovation, in fact. They might have easily coaxed a second curtain call out of the audience, but after their orchestrated bows—pulled off nicely, though they hadn’t rehearsed them—he wrapped an arm around Sonia’s waist and walked her quickly towards the exit.
“What’s wrong?” she demanded, resisting his grasp. “Where are we going?”
“Frank sent a text message. It wasn’t Ghorbani who accepted Martin’s contract.” He tightened his grip, forcing her forward. “I’m nearly certain it’s your friend Karl from the network who’s come to kill you, and that he’s in the Balcony Room, waiting for you to walk in to the reception.” In shock, Sonia briefly stopped struggling, which allowed him to rush her the remaining few steps to the staircase, where Lukas was waiting.
“It’s one of the catering staff,” Conor said to him. “You need to get her out of here. We don’t know where Martin is or how many back-up plans he’s got, and we can’t arse around with this anymore. Take her to the Embassy, and tell them to keep her there until Frank can arrange to get her to London.”
“What about you?” Lukas asked. “And what about the shooter?”
“I’ll sort him on my own.”
“Well, don’t kill him. I need a witness to nail Labut for all this.”
“I’ll do my best. No promises,” Conor added, grimly.
He expected Sonia to lash out at him as she’d done the last time he interfered with her plans, but when he cautiously loosened his grip to transfer custody to Lukas, he felt her muscles grow slack and saw her face turn hopeless. Lukas touched her arm and she nodded, allowing him to draw her forward without protest. Conor watched them move to the stairs, more disturbed by the listless surrender than he would have been by her fury.
“It’s for your own safety, Sonia.”
This was true, but they both knew he was also invoking operational procedure. Her cover was blown and her role was finished, and his own mission to assist the defection of a double agent had morphed into something unrecognizable. They’d become too deeply involved in a war that wasn’t theirs to fight. It wasn’t for MI6 to unravel how a government minister had plotted to assassinate his president through the auspices of a domestic terror network. That was a job for Lukas and his colleagues. As far as Conor could see, the only bit of business he had left was to confront the bastard who’d intended to kill a fellow agent.
He was calling for a retreat from this battlefield, and he knew Sonia believed he was insensitive to what might get left behind. He winced at the despair in her eyes when she looked back at him.
“The sweetness and pain. I thought you understood. I trusted you,” Sonia said.
“I do understand.” He didn’t bother trying to convince her; he simply made a promise. “We’ll find your baby, I swear it. I won’t leave this city until we do.”
Watching them descend the staircase and disappear, he considered the weight of the pledge he’d just made. Foolish, reckless—all that and more, but it was one he intended to keep. Conor started to move away, but then looked back. Like an apparition, Frank had appeared at the bottom of the stairs and was bounding up to him, taking them two at a time. Following behind was a man dressed from head to toe in black nylon and Kevlar with a machine gun strapped to his chest.
“We just passed them in the hall,” he said, reaching the top. “Thank God she’s safely out the way at any rate.” Frank gave a side nod at the officer next to him. “A detail from the anti-terrorism unit. There are four others in the courtyard, awaiting instructions from this chap. Brief us on your plan.”
Flummoxed by the demand for a formal synopsis, Conor puffed out a sigh. “It’s a pretty basic plan, Frank. We’re going to stroll into the reception, have a glass of champagne, and look for the waiter with a gun. I don’t think this ‘chap’ figures very comfortably into that strategy. Maybe he could stay here for a few minutes? See if we can do this without calling in an air strike?”
They secured the officer’s reluctant agreement and returned to the Concert Hall. The rear door stood wide open now. All the guests had passed through and were gathered around the refreshments, leaving behind a few recital programs scattered on the floor, and one forgotten sweater on the back of a chair. Kate and Eckhard stood near the piano, anxious and confused, and relieved to see Conor and Frank when they appeared.
“I don’t think Martin’s hired assassin was here,” Kate said. “Nobody even tried to follow you. As soon as you walked out everyone just piled into the reception room and—oh.” She stopped as the thought occurred to her. “Do you think he was planning to do it at the reception?”
Conor nodded. “I do, and I’ve a fairly good idea who he is. Remember Karl? Martin’s second-in-command? He was part of the catering staff at last night’s reception. He let Sonia in through the basement and then left once she was inside. I’m guessing he’s doing this gig as well.”
“How will we know which one he is?” Eckhard asked.
“I’m counting on Kate for that.” Conor took her hand and headed up the center aisle to the back door. “You were paying more attention to the staff than I was last night. Let’s go see if there’s anyone here you recognize.”
With an even larger painted ceiling and twice as much decorative stucco, the Balcony Room was a grander version of the Concert Hall. In some ways, the scene they entered was much like a replay of the previous evening. More wine and canapés, more erudite chit-chat. Again Conor was beset with admirers, but he nudged Kate forward, urging her to continue circulating. He excused himself several times, maneuvering in stages around guests and a large table laden with finger foods before finally rejoining her at the far end of the room.
“Anything?”
“I’m afraid not,” she said. “There are five servers and none look familiar. Maybe I didn’t see him last night, or maybe he’s already left.”
“It’s possible, but I’m more inclined to think he’s hiding and doesn’t realize yet that Sonia isn’t here. If it’s Karl, he knows she’d recognize him. He can’t afford to be swanning around the room serving hors d’oeuvres. Where are Frank and Eckhard?”
“Frank thought they should cover the exits.”
“Ah. Good point.” Conor swiveled to examine the crowded room again.
Before the recital, he’d taken an abbreviated tour after Lukas had returned from showing Kate the galleries upstairs, and had noted the palace was laid out in a square pattern around a central courtyard. The Concert Hall and Balcony Room comprised one side of the square, and directly ahead he saw Eckhard standing close to the doorway between these two rooms. In the middle of the wall to Conor’s left, another doorway led to a series of connecting salons, stretching one after the other for close to a hundred yards. Frank stood next to it, pretending to be engrossed by a landscape painting on the wall.
There was a third door on the right-hand wall, leading to the staging area for the catering staff. The servers bustled through it, emerging with trays of food in one direction and whisking used plates and glasses from sight in the other. Conor watched them moving among the guests and concluded none could be Karl. The extended visibility in the open room would be more than he could afford.
“I don’t think our assassin is one of these five—hang on, make that six. Check out the incoming waiter.” Taking her elbow, Conor turned Kate slightly to the left. Next to Frank, a stocky man with a blond
buzz cut had appeared who, like the catering staff, was wearing a black tie and vest over a white dress shirt. She gave him a quick glance and looked away, taking a sip from her glass.
“Yes. I recognize that one. It’s him.”
He stood a few feet behind the threshold of the door, and although holding a bundle of napkins in his hands he appeared to have no particular task to complete. As if on sentry duty, he swept his eyes back and forth over the packed room. After taking a step forward he hesitated, then walked quickly to the buffet table and began arranging the napkins on it.
Frank had given no sign that he’d noticed the man standing less than a yard from him, but now he slowly pivoted to face them, raising an eyebrow. Conor nodded and looked at Kate, who mercifully relieved him of the burden of giving a direct order.
“I’ll stay right here, boss. I promise not to move an inch.”
“Thank you. No ‘burning deck’ heroics, though. You’ve permission to move as needed.”
He gestured to Frank, a scooping hand signal indicating they should begin converging on their target, but after only a few steps Conor stopped, hearing a startled shriek, followed by more exclamations from the guests at the front of the room. He couldn’t tell what had happened. He saw Eckhard, head and shoulders above the crowd, speaking urgently to someone a good deal shorter, but the group gathered around him blocked any further view. They’d surged towards the conductor, but then just as suddenly reversed like a retreating wave, shrinking from whatever had drawn them forward. As they drew back the crowd thinned, and across a widening buffer zone Conor could now see Petra.
Wrapped in a green leather coat that reached below her knees, she slapped at Eckhard’s tentative hand on her shoulder and slowly walked into the no-man’s-land in front of her. The wooden floor popped with the sound of her heels in the sudden silence. She was bent forward in an awkward crouch as she moved, her hands balled into fists at her side. After a few steps she stopped and Conor heard a collective murmur as her coat dropped to the floor.
The Conor McBride Series Books 1-3 Page 92