The Secret Chord: The Virtuosic Spy - Book 2 (12 page)

He played caprices, the musical equivalent of a long run in the rain. Moving through them without pattern, his mind emptied of everything that was not concerned with the placement of his fingers and the movement of the bow. He stopped when his arm was limp and burning, and when he could no longer ignore the additional distraction lurking in the darkness behind him. Conor massaged the back of his shoulder and spoke without turning.

"Care to offer a critique? I'd say the pace was a bit ragged myself, but I wasn't planning on an audience."

"Ragged perhaps, spirited nevertheless." The soft voice with its deep mellow notes easily carried above the sounds of the brook. "I'd hoped not to disturb you. I'm sorry you perceived my presence."

"Just as well I did. I tend to react badly when I'm startled." He turned from the water and walked toward Professor C, who was sitting on the garden bench next to his violin case.

"I took such care to be silent, but you are more accomplished than I in these matters, yes?" Professor C winked at him.

"If it makes you feel any better I didn't hear a thing. I smelled the smoke." Conor sat down, nodding at the cigarette perched between the conductor's muscular fingers. "Give me one of those, will you? I've an idea I'm going to need it."

The conductor produced a silver case and lighter. Conor hesitated after picking out a cigarette, already regretting the lapse of willpower, but he put it to his lips and accepted the offered flame in surrender. The first smoky exhalation ended in a groan and Professor C smiled.

"Better than sex?"

Conor breathed a laugh. "Hard to tell. I've gone without that for a while, too." He read the label stamped below the filter tip and studied his companion's face. "Same brand. How is he, then, our mutual friend?"

"He is well, and pleased at hearing you also are well."

"How did he find me?"

"Are such things important?"

"Might be, yeah," Conor replied evenly.

"In truth, I do not know." A brief flash of annoyance gave credence to the assertion. "I am merely the courier. My role is quite limited."

"Uh-huh. What about your sidekick?"

Professor C pursed his lips in distaste. "Leonard is a boring young harpsichordist, nothing more. I would have happily left him in Sherbrooke but he quite conveniently had a car, while I—inconveniently—do not drive."

"Do you do this kind of thing a lot?"

"I prefer not to, but as you are aware our friend's charm and power to persuade can be devastating."

"I think you find it more charming than I ever did," Conor said. "So, what's he want?"

"To deliver a message to you."

"I gathered as much. What is it?"

"He wants to see you."

Conor shifted impatiently. "Oh, for Christ's sake. We're going to be at this all night. What does the man want and why isn't he here to tell me himself?"

"I don't know. Yes, yes." Professor C raised a hand, anticipating Conor's irritation. "For both of us this is frustrating, but I can give only the information presented to me. He wishes the meeting to be discreet; he wishes it to take place elsewhere." He drew a small, narrow envelope from his shirt pocket and handed it to Conor. "Tomorrow evening. Arrive at six o'clock. You will look for a pair of low folding chairs, in red-and-white striped canvas. You will sit in one and wait."

"Will I?" With a thumb and forefinger, Conor parted the envelope and squinted at the ticket inside. "Suppose I choose not to show. What then?" Receiving no response, he looked up and saw Professor C's smile of weary patience.

"Forgive me, but truly this is not a serious question, Conor. I have delivered such messages before. You are no different than the rest. All of you fear something and cannot afford the indulgence of choice. All of you come when you are called."

Conor absorbed this assessment—brutally honest and accurate—without visible emotion. He dropped the cigarette to the ground, grinding it beneath his heel. They sat in silence until Professor C heaved an expressive sigh and stood up, offering him the silver case.

"A parting gift. Accept it with my apology. I have presented you with an unwelcome task."

With a small grin Conor declined the offer. "Another indulgence I can't afford. I accept the apology, though."

"Excellent. I hope we may meet again—perhaps on the concert stage, a milieu I believe we each find more suitable to our talents."

Conor hoped so as well. He watched the enormous figure gradually merge with the darkness, climbing the stone steps in the hillside like one of Jacob's angels. A mystery only partly revealed.

12

H
E
WASN
'
T
A
TOURIST
OR
A
DINNER
GUEST
;
SHE
COULD
tell that as soon as she saw him. Kate tried not to judge by appearances, but in this case she made an exception. The rail-thin man loitering in the doorway of her dining room looked like trouble. A pair of green cargo pants sat low on his hips, held notionally in place with a woven belt, and his t-shirt had the mottled color of something in heavy use and infrequently washed. His boots offered a contrasting impression—they were well-worn but an expensive brand—and she fastened on them with a glimmer of hope. He might simply be a hiker looking for directions.
 

She motioned for him to wait and finished seating a table of four before returning to the restaurant's check-in desk. He watched her approach, squinting in weariness, and although the evening was warm he shivered a little.

"I need to speak with Kate Fitzpatrick. You, I'm guessing?"

Okay. Not a hiker. She met his eyes—they were an unsettling shade of nickel gray—and gave a composed smile. "Yes. How can I help you?"

The man's rigid stance relaxed and he swayed to the left. He caught himself, frowned and stiffened again. "I'd appreciate a glass of water before anything else."

"Of course." Kate eyed him with cautious concern. "Maybe you should sit down in the living room and I'll bring you one. Are you feeling ill?"

"Starting to." He pushed away a portion of straight blond hair falling across his eye. "I've got about an hour before it gets worse. The living room won't work, though. I need to talk to you about Conor McBride." Digging into the pocket on his right thigh, he pulled out a slim wallet and flipped it open for her. "Curtis Sedgwick. Special Agent with the US Drug Enforcement Agency."

"I see."
 

At least they keep sending the 'special' ones, Kate thought. Her wan amusement lurched into queasiness as she examined the ID. The number of federal agencies tangled up in Conor's life had just doubled, and she wondered how many more might be waiting in the wings.

"If you're looking for Conor he isn't here." She masked her unease behind a cold formality. "And I honestly don't know where he went. He left word with my chef not to expect him back until late."

"No worries, I know where he is." He pocketed the wallet again.

"If that's the case, you should go find him there. I don't know how I can help you, Agent Sedgwick."

"I don't need to find him. He'll be back soon enough, and in a bad mood I imagine." The lines of fatigue in the agent's face deepened in amusement. "Just plain 'Sedgwick' is fine. Nobody calls me Agent-anything unless they're dressing me down."
 

"I don't know how I can help you—Sedgwick," Kate repeated.

The sardonic smile widened, but faded as he angled his head in appeal. "How about that glass of water? And two or three of whatever you've got for a headache. If we start there I'll be in better shape to tell you."

Reluctantly, Kate steered him into her office, to a chair across from the desk. She asked Dominic to take over for her and returned with a pitcher of water and some ibuprofen. She found Sedgwick standing at the antique breakfront behind her desk, eyeing the contents of its shelves.

"Handsome piece of furniture," he observed without turning, casually opening one of the side drawers. "Matches the desk. Victorian?"

"Biedermeier," Kate said curtly. She gave him the ibuprofen. "If you're going to search my office, don't you need to show me a warrant?"

"I'm not actually searching. Just snooping." Sedgwick shook three pills from the bottle and accepted the water she offered. He drained the glass while sauntering around the room, his eyes like a recording device, sweeping over the braided oval rug on the floor, the green-and-cream striped sofa in front of the window—another Biedermeier—and the framed Audubon reproductions on the walls. After this tour he returned and silently presented his glass. She poured again, then pointedly took a seat behind her desk and waited, trying to appear calm.
 

For many reasons Kate had accepted Conor's secrets on faith, assuming his grounds for keeping them were sound and honorable. Her belief structure was not yet under active assault, but she felt the chill of a threat.

The agent emptied the glass a second time. Placing it on the desk, he brushed a few fingers against chapped-looking lips and releasing a slow breath sank back into the chair.

"Thanks. Helped more than I expected." He crossed his arms and regarded her speculatively, a scrutiny she wasn't prepared to tolerate.

"Well? If you want a question answered you need to ask one."

"What do you know about Thomas McBride?" he asked.

"Very little. If this concerns Thomas you need to wait for Conor to come back. I'm not comfortable answering questions about his brother."

"I didn't come here to interrogate you." Sedgwick was still watching her with a trace of laughter. "I'll be doing most of the talking. I'm just trying to get a baseline so we don't waste time. What did he tell you?"

"That his brother was tricked into stealing money from the European Union and Conor was convicted as a conspirator, that Thomas disappeared, and that he's dead." Sedgwick flinched, a muscle rippling along his jaw. "Oh. You didn't know?"

"Yes. I did. Did Conor mention Thomas disappeared into India, and that he went there looking for him?"

"Thomas died in India?" she asked.

"Jammu-Kashmir. From a gunshot wound."

"Did you shoot him?"
 

"Of course I didn't shoot him, for God's sake."

"Well, I'm sorry," Kate shot back with equal intensity. "How was I supposed to know? I don't know anything except what I just told you."

"That's okay, Kate." Sedgwick's glare softened to a sly grin. "I'm here to fill in the blanks."

"Maybe I'd prefer to leave them empty," she countered weakly.

"Sorry, not an option. I need your cooperation but first I have to brief you on what's going on, so you've got to hear it."

She briefly considered trying to stop him anyway, instinctively knowing their conversation would carry consequences beyond anything she could predict. Despite her outburst, she felt unequal to the task of matching wits with the lean, weathered professional in front of her. He was a different specimen than the freshly laundered agents from Williston. Like a tempered blade that had seen its share of battles, he looked sharper and more dangerous.

T
HE
SETTING
WAS
beyond spectacular. Its backdrop was a series of gently rounded mountains nestled in uneven rows receding into the distance. In the foreground a performance tent floated above the field like a dollop of meringue, its roof plucked into stiff white peaks. Colors and convivial sound spilled out in front of the stage as concertgoers continued to arrive, spreading blankets and chairs, opening baskets, uncorking wine.

Conor was in everyone's way. He'd paid little attention to his surroundings while parking the truck, concentrating instead on the yellow-vested volunteers waving him along, but once he'd arrived on the threshold of the Trapp Meadow he'd been struck motionless, utterly gobsmacked by its beauty.

This was one of the things he was coming to love about Vermont, because it reminded him so much of home. Every craggy corner was stuffed with unanticipated wonders, and whether natural or manmade they radiated an indescribable spirit, mirroring the soul of its people.

And those people were, to a large degree, tolerant and unhurried—additional characteristics he admired. They'd arrived for this concert in a caravan of cars, winding their way up from the village of Stowe, past the alpine grandeur of the Trapp Family Lodge, to arrive at a rapidly filling meadow. Now, his immovable body stood at the gate between them and their destination, but with only a few curious glances they patiently streamed past him like water around a boulder.

Collecting his wits Conor stepped forward to present his ticket. Once inside he moved away from the foot traffic to scan the crowd, half-hoping not to find what he'd been told to look for, but the two empty chairs jumped out at him immediately. A rush of adrenalin propelled him down the field, but after sitting alone for fifteen minutes his heart rate had slowed and his attention wandered to a wicker basket the size of a steamer trunk placed between the chairs. He was inspecting the contents packed inside when he heard a familiar voice above him.

"You've not drunk up all the wine, I hope. It's rather a special vintage and I've been looking forward to a glass all day."

"I might have done, if you'd been much longer." Conor paused as he peered up over the basket's lid, grinning at the novel sight of the elegant Frank Emmons Murdoch in a red polo shirt, khaki shorts and sandals. His silvered hair gleamed in the afternoon sun but he seemed younger than Conor remembered, perhaps because the summer attire revealed him to be surprisingly toned and fit.

"How are you, Frank? You're looking well. The all-American style suits you."

"As it does you, my boy. You positively glisten. Quite an improvement from the haggard shell I dropped on the curb at Heathrow five months ago." He dipped into the basket and came out with a chilled bottle and corkscrew, both of which he handed to Conor. "Do the honors for us now, and we'll toast our reunion."

"Hmm. An Austrian Riesling." Conor shot Frank a deadpan stare. "Who recommended that, I wonder?"