The Secret Chord: The Virtuosic Spy - Book 2 (15 page)

"What did you tell her?"

"Everything, pretty much. The basic facts, I mean." Sedgwick studied him, eyelids at half-mast. "Relax. I left out the gory details. I think she could have handled them, though. She's quite the piece of work. Quite the piece of something else too, isn't she? Is she a natural red—"

"Shut the fuck up."

"Hmm, yeah. Thought so."

Conor ignored the remark. "What happened after Thomas and I left Gulmarg? On the path?"

They exchanged a long look of understanding. Sedgwick was the first to grimace and glance away. "Leave it alone. I said I would take care of it, and I did."

"But, how—"

"Leave it alone."

"Fine." Conor held his breath for several seconds—shamed by the thought of it escaping as a sigh of relief. "What happened back up at the resort?"

"Frank was supposed to tell you." Sedgwick settled his head deeper into the pillow and closed his eyes.

"He never got the chance. I left in a hurry. Wake up and give over. What happened?"

"Bloodbath." Lips pursed, Sedgwick frowned at the ceiling. "By the time I got back up the hill the only ones still alive were two Srinagar police officers."

"What about Greg Walker?" Conor had last seen the senior DEA agent sprinting in the direction of the gunfire as they carried Thomas away.

"Dead. AK-47 spray. Most of his face was gone."

"Costino?"

"Disappeared. I tore most of the town apart looking for the double-crossing piece of shit. Eventually, I discovered he'd hiked down to Drung village and paid someone to drive him to the nearest rail station. Then he went to ground, which seemed weird at the time. He would have assumed Walker and I were both dead, because the news stories about the Gulmarg shootout reported no survivors. He probably figured you and Thomas had left the country, and anyway he had no reason to think anyone had guessed what he'd done. He'd just helped an arms dealer score twenty million and presumably earned a nice commission. Why hide? Unless he'd somehow lifted the twenty million for himself and was hiding from Dragonov. The trail went cold for months but he finally made a mistake, which is when I discovered I was only partly right. He was hiding from Dragonov, not because he'd stolen the money but because it was missing. So, where was the twenty million? Only one explanation made any sense and it knocked me back a little."

Conor deflected the agent's inquisitive gaze with a glare. "Is this what it's all about for you, trying to get the DEA's money back?"
 

Sedgwick worked at the sheet covering his chest, gathering it into his hands and releasing a slow breath. "For God's sake, Conor. Is that what you think?"

"I don't, no." He regretted the remark, recognizing it as a bit of opportunistic redirection. "We didn't take the feckin' money," he said flatly.

Sedgwick raised his head, looking more alert. "Care to elaborate?"

"Not at the moment."

Conor got up and moved to the room's open window, which offered a view of the parking lot. A group of dinner guests stood chatting in the moonlight near their cars, reluctant to call time on a pleasant summer evening. He leaned an arm against the sill, listening to their relaxed laughter mingle with the piercing call of nighthawks, feeling like a man staring from a prison.

"You said he made a mistake. What was it?" Getting no reply he turned and saw Sedgwick dozing off again. He returned to the bedside, giving the agent's leg a light slap, and repeated the question. Sedgwick's eyes opened more slowly this time.
 

"We set up an email account at the beginning of the DEA operation to communicate with Dragonov's people. Costino and I both had access; we wrote the messages and signed them as Thomas. Obviously, Costino used a different channel once he decided to rat on us, but I still checked our original account every day. Earlier this month it paid off, but he didn't write to Dragonov's people. He sent a message to Robert Durgan, and I traced Tony’s IP address to an internet cafe in Bangalore."

"Tony knows where Durgan is?" Conor asked sharply. Sedgwick looked dubious.

"Not sure we can assume that much, but he knew how to reach him. Costino was the one who contacted Durgan to set up the meeting with Walker in Geneva. He got the email address from Pawan Kotwal."

"Yeah, since we're on this topic—it wasn't Durgan who showed up in Geneva."

Sedgwick squinted at him. "What do you mean? I told you about the meeting. Durgan was an asshole. Walker said he'd never be able to trust him."

"Wasn't him," Conor insisted. "Thomas said Durgan suspected a trap so he sent a stand-in named Desmond Moore, one of the farm assistants who conned my brother into the grant fraud. When he figured out later that Desi had bollixed the meeting he tortured and killed him, and sent Thomas the photos as a warning."

Sedgwick was too weak to muster more than a fretful complaint. "Why didn't Frank fill me in on any of this?"

"How the hell should I know? Anyway, come on, now." Conor mopped the agent's face with a wet cloth to keep him awake. "Costino contacted Durgan. What did he say?"

"Okay, okay." Sedgwick swatted the cloth away. "This time he tried a threat. Told Durgan his man in India had screwed up, said you and Thomas had stolen federal government money and if Durgan didn't cough up your location a team would be mobilized to bring him in and string him up. Risky move, but Tony knows he can't hide from Dragonov forever. He's betting Durgan knows where you are, and thinks if he can find you he'll find out what happened to the twenty million dollars. To be honest, I can't argue with his logic."

"What happened?" Conor asked, ignoring this pointed remark.

After an appraising stare Sedgwick settled his head back on the pillow, all remaining energy sapped. "Durgan actually replied. Said he had no information about Thomas but might have an address for you. The threat didn't scare him, though. He said Costino would have to make his cooperation worth something, and told him he'd be in touch again later. His message was the first confirmation I had you were even alive . . . and that Thomas probably wasn't. By this time I was on the way to Bangalore. I watched the internet cafe around the clock for a few days, but Costino never showed and didn't access the email account again. Then I got malaria. Thought I had food poisoning at first, since I puked most of the day. When I finally got off my knees it seemed more important to find you than to waste any more time crawling around Bangalore, so I got in touch with Frank."

"When was this?" Conor asked.

"Two weeks ago. Should have contacted him a long time ago, I suppose. Never trusted the old son of a bitch, but in the end I had no one else to call."

"What about the DEA? Aren't they interested in finding Costino as well? You must have reported back to them?"

"Yeah, funny thing. I tried but they didn't want to hear it."

Sedgwick's lips were barely moving now, and before this tantalizing bit of information could be explored he crashed into sleep. Conor let him go this time and slumped against the chair, equally exhausted by a narrative that had raised as many questions as it answered. Within minutes sleep had pulled him under as well, but at the touch of a hand on his shoulder, he snapped awake with a gasp.

"Shit. What's the time?"

"Calm down. It's only eleven o'clock." Kate stood in the circle of light cast by the bedside lamp, holding a covered plate in one hand. "How is he?"

"Should be okay, assuming my drugs work better than his." Conor gestured at the plate. "He's probably not going to eat anything for a while."

"I brought it for you," Kate said.

"Oh. You did?"

"It's just a sandwich."

"No, that's . . . thanks." He reached forward but Kate swung away, plate firmly in hand.

"Let him sleep, now. You can eat upstairs. While we talk."

"Right. Okay."

Conor watched her disappear into the hallway, his hands gripped on the arms of the chair. He pressed hard against the back of it and the dovetailed joints strained against the wood, releasing a high-pitched creak. E Minor, he thought mechanically. After a minute, he stiffly rose and followed her.

I
N
K
ATE
'
S
APARTMENT
they faced each other across a tiny café table in the kitchenette—an alcove more than a room, barely big enough for both of them. To buy a little time Conor forced down some of the sandwich, but the bread churned in his throat like wet concrete, nearly gagging him. He gave up after a few bites, which fortunately left his airway clear when Kate addressed him with icy precision.

"You used me, and you used my home as a hide-out."

God knows he'd had enough time to prepare, but the accusation and its undeniable truth left Conor searching for breath. In one simple sentence she'd captured everything. He'd used Kate to his own advantage—used her need, her compassion and her tolerance—and betrayed her trust. He'd violated her home by cowering in its safety, hiding from her and everyone else, including himself.

"I suppose this is my fault as much as yours," Kate went on bitterly. "I asked but I never demanded, and I projected on to you what I wanted to be true. I thought we shared something in common, because I assumed we were talking about trauma and grief, not spies and secret operations."

"Those things aren't mutually exclusive." Conor dipped his head at her responding stare. "No. I understand that's not the point."

"How long did you think you could do this, especially after last night . . . at the pond?" Kate's voice caught. "Didn't you realize silence wasn't going to work forever? That you'd have to give me something? Even if it was a lie?"

"That's what they trained me for, sure." Conor picked at the sandwich, unconsciously crumbling the bread into a pile of rubble on the plate. "To lie, and become good at being somebody I'm not. I wanted to believe I'd be lousy at it. Turns out the whole business slips over me like a comfortable old coat. A perfect fit. I got used to lying, and yes, I figured I'd be giving you more of the same—but I didn't. I never did lie to you, Kate. I've wriggled like a snake, trying to keep you in the dark, but I didn't lie. From the minute I ever laid my two eyes on you I knew I wouldn't be able to."

He risked a peek at her face, and the anguish he saw did him greater damage than her anger.

"Maybe you didn't lie, but you weren't honest. Not really."

"No," he acknowledged. "Not really. Honesty wasn't an option. The only thing I could do was leave, which I should have done a long time ago, but—"

"I wanted you to stay. I asked you to."

"And I convinced myself it would be okay. I was tired of losing things, tired of leaving everyone I care about behind me and just . . . feck it. Tired."

Conor sensed control escaping him by degrees, like air whistling through a knife-pricked hole. Pushing up from the table as though yanked by an unseen hand, he picked up the plate and stared at the wreckage.
 

"Jesus. I've made a mess of this. Sorry."

Recognizing the irony, he looked at Kate and gave a miserable shrug. Her responding smile—brief and sad—hinted at the possibility of forgiveness, a gift so generous it shuffled him that much closer to the edge. She rose and took the plate from him, pressing him back down into the chair. After tossing the mangled bread into the garbage and leaving the plate in the sink, she returned to her seat.

"There are some things you need to tell me, now."
 

Conor nodded, and winced at the pain throbbing in his head.

"Did you take the money—the twenty million dollars these people are trying to find?"

"Not exactly." The equivocation lit a dangerous spark in Kate's eyes that he rushed to subdue. "The meeting with the Russian arms dealer—Dragonov—was supposed to include an electronic transfer of the money from the DEA to an account they shared with him. Costino was the operation's legal analyst and he'd convinced Greg Walker—the senior agent in charge—a transfer had to happen to make the case stick in court. Now we know why. It was a convenient way for him to make sure Dragonov got his money. Even at the time the idea sounded mad altogether and Thomas didn't like it, so he opened an account at a bank in South America to receive the transfer instead. He asked me to set the password but I don't even know what country he picked, much less the bank. I never imagined I'd need to. It was all so we'd be able to transfer the money back, not get blamed for losing twenty million dollars if something went wrong. Of course, it did— everything went wrong."

Conor stopped. He couldn't control what happened in his dreams, but many months had passed since he'd allowed his waking mind to exhume the chaos of that day in Gulmarg. The passage of time had not softened the panic cascading along his nerves, a sizzling fuse racing toward ignition. He rocked forward, catching his head in his hands, and surrendered to the weight of memories.

Somewhere beyond the ringing in his ears Conor heard Kate murmuring his name. He felt the pressure of her hand massaging the back of his neck, but couldn't respond. The tableau was repeating again and he was powerless to stop it—as he always was. The figure in white comes into focus, turns to him in astonishment, and the forest explodes.

15

K
ATE
MADE
IT
UNTIL
TEN
O
'
CLOCK
THE
NEXT
MORNING
BEFORE
giving in to curiosity and aggravation. The previous evening she'd felt embarrassed and ill used, and had been spoiling for a fight with Conor—an objective frustrated by his immediate capitulation. In the end they'd both been too worn out to take the argument further, so she'd settled for Conor's account of the meeting with his MI6 superior, Frank Murdoch. At midnight, she'd left him still mumbling apologies outside his room while she made a brief trip downstairs to check on Sedgwick, who was also mumbling—in his sleep.

Her own sleep had been fitful and uneasy, and as the morning wore on Kate grew increasingly on edge. She'd been cheated of the opportunity to vent a cleansing fury, and now had been excluded from whatever discussions she presumed were going on without her. Neither of the two "agents" sheltering under her roof had made an appearance as yet. For once, Abigail had taken the morning off, but Ghedi, the Somalian sous-chef assigned to the breakfast shift, reported Conor had not shown his face at all, nor could Kate find him in any of the usual places. She assumed he and Sedgwick were holed up in the agent's room, exchanging information they may or may not choose to share with her.