The Secret Chord: The Virtuosic Spy - Book 2 (32 page)

"Surprise, Tony," he said, low and sinister. He slammed Costino's face down and straightened. "Love the Sasquatch thing you've got going on. Put on some fucking clothes. We're taking a ride."

Conor could see the man was in fact a wilder, hairier version of the DEA agent he'd met in Mumbai, ten months earlier. At their first disconcerting meeting, Tony Costino had appeared as a neatly pressed bureaucrat with a 1950s haircut, complete with a razor-sharp part down the side. Slender, apple-cheeked, eager to please—the type of dark-suited young man who turns up on doorsteps, offering pamphlets. Now, he appeared older, and had gained at least ten pounds of paunch. His light-brown hair had grown into a waving mane that almost reached his shoulders, and a thick beard obscured his face and neck. Small, half moons of pink skin peeked out below his eyes, which appeared unchanged. Round and pale blue, they'd often defaulted to a deceptively credulous expression—the gentle simpleton amazed by everything he sees—but they seemed genuinely stunned when they came to rest on Conor's face.

"I was told you'd left India." He gasped a little as he climbed to his feet. "Where's Thomas? Did he come back with you?"

Conor slowly shook his head, and slammed a right hook against Costino's jaw. It toppled him backward, and his skull connected hard with the marble floor.
 

"No," he said, breaking the silence he'd maintained since entering the hotel. "Thomas isn't coming back."

"M
IGHT
HAVE
BEEN
better if you hadn't knocked him senseless."

Sedgwick was at the wheel of the van once more, Bishan in the seat next to him, and Conor was again sitting cross-legged in the rear with little visibility, but he recognized their route as the one they'd come in on when the Gothic structure of St. Philomena's church loomed ahead of them.

"I seem to remember you getting in a few shots as well. Anyway, I'm fairly sure he's faking now." He braced a foot against Costino's back to keep him from rolling off the futon. The captive remained unresponsive, lying with his face to the wall of the van, wearing the handcuffs Sedgwick had slapped on after they'd managed to get him dressed. When they were into the more remote village areas with Mysore a half-hour behind them, Bishan offered a suggestion.

"Perhaps you could be sharing some water with him,
yaar
. Good refreshment for head-clearing,
na
?"

Taking a bottle from the backpack, Conor pulled at the thatch of beard and splashed a little water into the open mouth that appeared. Costino wrenched away and bolted up, coughing with melodramatic force.

"You're waterboarding me."

"If you call that waterboarding, I don't think you know how it works." Conor offered him the bottle. "Drink some, asshole. Might help the headache. And get busy talking. We want the status of your relationship with Robert Durgan."

Costino gave him a blank look. "That guy Walker met in Geneva? The one Thomas was working for? Don't know him."

In a swerving move that threw them all off balance, Sedgwick pulled the van to the side of the road and stopped. He put an arm on the back of his seat and turned to stare at Costino through the steel mesh barrier. "Listen. I doubt waterboarding was part of McBride's operational training. Even if I'm wrong he's got too many scruples to try it on you. But me? You know me better, don't you, Tony? What you also need to understand is that there's a stagnant pond two miles up this road. It's probably got a thousand kinds of bacteria that will eat you from the inside out, and in five minutes I'll be throwing the shit down your throat in buckets if you don't stop dicking around. Think you can help us out, here?"

Costino slouched in submission and nodded. "Sure. Why not? I'm so damned tired of all of this."

"Excellent." Facing forward, Sedgwick put the van in gear. "Your witness, Agent McBride."

"Let's not waste time on what we already know," Conor said. "You sold out the DEA's operation to capture Dragonov—" The shaggy head begin wagging in protest and he grabbed a handful of Costino's tangled hair, pulling his neck back sharply. "Spare us the Little Boy Blue act, you minging wanker. You sold out your team; two of them are dead because of you—your boss and my brother, and a lot of other people besides. Dragonov promised you a cut of that twenty million I'm sure, but you found out pretty quickly he never got the money, that the whole thing was a massive fuck-up and that you were in trouble."

"Because you and Thomas stole the money instead."

"We didn't steal anything."

"Where the hell is it, then?" Costino shouted.

"You're the one in handcuffs, Tony." Conor released Costino's hair and sat back. "You don't get to ask the questions. So, you wanted to find us, and at the end of August you sent Durgan an email saying you'd make life difficult for him if he didn't help you. He said he'd get back to you. What happened next?"

"This isn't even the right place to start, but fine. Whatever." Sighing, Costino rubbed a hand against his head and winced. "After I got his first response I set up a more secure communication channel, and after that he gave me the run-around. Told me you'd gone to Ireland at the end of March before leaving for the States. He knew exactly where to find you, but you were too close to something he had in the works and he wouldn't risk having me come in at the wrong time. He said I'd have to wait for a couple of months."

"Until after her birthday," Conor said under his breath.

"Whose birthday?"

"Never mind. What happened next?"

"I tried some arm-twisting but I think he could tell I had no leverage. He stopped communicating, and I figured I was screwed. Then, he got back online with me a week ago. Said he'd trade information for a passport and some cash, and a plane ticket. I guess he couldn't travel under the name that—" Costino faltered, appearing undecided about how to continue, before finishing with a shrug. "So that was the deal. He needed someone to hook him up."

"And he thought a DEA agent desperate for his help could do that for him."

"Sort of, but not exactly." Costino gave an odd, ironic smile. "Like I said, this isn't the right place—"

"Yeah, sure, not the right place to start. I got that the first time," Conor replied acidly. "And so why don't you stop smirking and feck-acting and tell us where the right place is."

Instead of a reply, the next thing Conor heard was a remarkably explicit obscenity from Bishan Singh. He felt a transient weightlessness as Sedgwick—also swearing—hit the brakes. Conor sailed forward, stopping only when his shoulder bounced off one of the steel posts on the wire-caged partition. Costino tumbled up next to him and caught a knee against his recently sutured left side, landing in the exact spot that was still the most tender. Conor doubled over, gasping, and chimed in with his own piece of profanity.

"What the hell is this?" Sedgwick said, when the van had fishtailed to a stop.

In front of them a car sat sideways across the road surrounded by at least a dozen people, all of them talking and gesturing in animated bursts. The car was a white Ambassador, nearly as common on the roads of India as the yellow-topped auto rickshaw, its vintage bulbous shape a copy of the UK's beloved Morris Minor. Although the vehicle appeared undamaged the driver's side door was open, and a man—presumably the driver—was propped on the ground against the rear tire. If injured, he was getting little assistance. The onlookers were paying the man scant attention, but as Sedgwick snapped on the high beams to illuminate the scene they all suddenly took a keen interest in the Maruti van. Bishan sucked in his cheeks and released them with a smack. He growled another oath in Hindi and put a restraining hand on Sedgwick's arm.

"
Arrey
, don't be leaving the car, man. This is some rubbish going on, here."

Sedgwick nodded. "I get it, don't worry. It's like a Bollywood set piece. Problem is, I don't think we can go around them."

"What's happening?" Conor rubbed a hand over his ribs and gave Costino an irritable shove.

"Traffic accident scam," Bishan said. "A racket for some of these villagers. This chap lying down is playing hurt or dead. They will be saying we have done this, and will demand money for injuries or funeral. If we refuse, they will threaten with police and lawsuit, and maybe more if we are getting outside this car. So remain inside, Conor, and lock the door."

"Stay in and stay down, but lock and load," Sedgwick added. "Both guns are in jail back there with you, in the backpack. Operational failure. My bad."

"Jesus and Mary." Conor pulled the bag forward, the zipper squealing a pointed note of protest as it scraped over the metal floor. "Overly complicated. As I think I said. Overly. Bloody. Complicated. Oh, and by the way, the lock on this sliding door is broken."

"Undo these and let me have one of the guns." Costino rattled his handcuffs. "I can help."

"Steady on there, Jesse James." Conor pointed with the Glock to the rear of the van. "Shift yourself that way and keep your head down."
 

While Costino scuttled to the back Conor peeked through the partition, warily eyeing the villagers as they milled in and out of the headlight beams like circling moths. How many were active participants and which merely spectators was impossible to judge, as was the question of whether any of them had weapons. Most of the figures were wrapped in colorless homespun shawls that might be concealing anything.

For a few minutes, it appeared the thing would be resolved without any more drama than was already in play. Sedgwick rolled down his window to the apparent ringleader—a youth who seemed to fancy himself an action hero. He wore tight-fitting jeans, and a red-and-blue madras shirt unbuttoned to his navel. The effect was undermined by his narrow, skeletal chest.

The discussion proceeded in Kannada with Bishan translating for the young man, who described a predictably implausible scenario. His uncle had been blinded from afar by the van's bright headlights. He'd struck a boulder, had lost control and was thrown from the car. He was gravely injured, and it would need some twenty thousand rupees to make him well.

At this, Sedgwick laughed out loud. "Tell him to knock off a zero and we'll have a deal."

Bishan translated the counter-offer, which got an immediate and extremely negative reception. The crowd surged forward and Sedgwick hastily rolled up the window as they started rocking the van back and forth, beating at its sides. The handle next to Conor began to turn and he shot out a hand to hold the sliding door in place.

"Maybe you should up the offer," he suggested.

"I was going to need to take a collection for the first one. I've only got about fifteen hundred in my pocket." Sedgwick looked at Bishan, who offered a placid head wag.

"At most, three hundred, but this is expected. They will be wanting to drive one of us to nearest cash machine."

"Hmm, I wonder if that's why the black sedan has been tailing us." Sedgwick peered into his side rearview mirror. "I picked it up ten miles back, and it just pulled over about twenty yards behind us. Time to get your Rambo on, McBride. Are you up for it?"

At that, the side window next to Sedgwick exploded under the blow of a steel-tipped stick and several pairs of hands fastened on the agent's head and shoulders, trying to drag him through the shattered opening. Bishan grabbed him around the waist to hold him inside, spewing threats and invective, while Conor, releasing his grip on the handle, had barely enough time to spin onto his back and raise his feet as the door slid open with a violent crash. He planted both boots squarely in the solar plexus of the figure who appeared in the doorway, and launched himself out. The man cried out, hurtling backward and taking down those directly behind him. Belatedly, Conor remembered the second Glock. He put his left hand back, scrabbling along the floor, and snatched up the gun before Costino reached it. He slammed the door shut and turned to brandish both weapons at the crowd, firing two rounds into the ground and giving what he hoped sounded like a convincing vengeful roar.
 

However it sounded, he was offering hotter action than the villagers had in mind. They began scattering off the sides of the road, melting into the darkness, except for the ringleader. Conor quickly circled around the front of the van to the driver's side, and found Sedgwick half out of the window with his head against its frame, the point of a kitchen knife pressed to his neck. Agitated, the young man was babbling at Bishan in Kannada.

"He's afraid you will shoot him," Bishan explained. "He says if you don't surrender the guns he will cut Sedgwick's throat."

"Right. Tell him he's got it arseways. If he doesn't drop the knife, I
will
shoot him."

Bishan translated this proposition, appearing to add several thoughts of his own in a stern, commanding tone. Conor kept a close eye on the knife, but suddenly saw two bulky figures ahead in the darkness moving into crouched positions. Not villagers. He was pretty sure they were not even Indian.

"Get down!" Conor hit the ground himself, urgently waving at the youth. "Bishan, tell him to—"

The first shots sounded before he'd finished. Luckily, they went wide of the mark, since the young hoodlum in front of him was frozen in place. Returning fire, Conor crab-walked forward, yanked him down and rolled him under the van. One of the figures had slumped to the ground, but the other had disappeared, darting behind the back of the van.
 

Conor pitched one of the Glocks up through the shattered window. "A little help here, Bishan. One is down, and the second is coming around to you."

He moved cautiously forward, weapon poised, and confirmed the man was dead as several more rounds of gunfire erupted. Conor stood motionless in the tense silence that followed until Bishan gave the all-clear signal, then he took a shaking breath and bent to search the man's pockets. When he'd found what he was looking for he worked his way up to the black sedan, gun forward, confirming no other passengers were inside or lurking nearby, and then joined the others. He found Bishan engaged in a similar pocket-picking exercise while Sedgwick, bleeding steadily from a shoulder wound, sat in the doorway of the van. The still-handcuffed Costino was sitting next to him.