The Secret Chord: The Virtuosic Spy - Book 2 (33 page)

"Lucky night for you after all, Tony." Conor tossed the Russian passport at his chest. "If we hadn't come along, Dragonov's hitmen would have killed you by now. Looks like Pawan Kotwal's protection isn't what it used to be. "

30

"Y
OU
SAID
A
'
PILGRIMAGE
SITE
'. Y
OU
DIDN
'
T
SAY
THE
place was at the top of a bloody great hill. Why do your plans always involve mountain climbing?"

"You sound like we're scaling the Khumbu Glacier. It's not that high, and there's a staircase."

"Which we can only climb after taking our shoes off."

Sedgwick glared back over his shoulder at Conor. "Who's going to know if we don't?"

"I will."

He bent to untie his boots before shifting to do the same for their shackled prisoner, while Sedgwick set about picking another gate lock to get them into the grounds of the shrine. At close to three in the morning they'd reached the shuttered, sleeping hamlet of Shravanabelagola, fifty miles from Mysore and far more modest than its elaborate name suggested. The town was squeezed between two dome-shaped hills, the tallest topped by one of the Jain religion's most important centers of pilgrimage. Seeking distraction while Bishan parked the van in a less conspicuous location, Conor read the Tourist Board’s sign posted at the front entrance, by the light of a still-glowing full moon. In addition to a complex of ancient temples spread over the hillside above them, the site held India's largest megalithic monument—an enormous tenth-century statue carved from a single piece of granite, depicting the enlightenment of a prince called Bahubali. As he took in the historical details he kept one eye on Costino, but it was hardly necessary. The captive had slumped into a plastic chair in front of the gate and was gazing at the worn, uneven staircase carved into the barren hillside. Conor couldn't deny a quiver of fellowship with his glum resignation.
 

They were all exhausted at this point, and Sedgwick—without fooling anyone—was irritably pretending his shoulder wasn't a source of constant, throbbing pain. He hadn't suffered a bullet injury, as Conor at first assumed, but a knife wound, accidentally inflicted by the young carjacker as Conor yanked him to the ground. Miraculously missing the agent's jugular, the knife had carved a deep, ugly laceration along his shoulder. This required a quick rearrangement of roles and priorities as they hurried to escape the scene, leaving two dead Russians and a collection of stunned villagers in their wake. Bishan took the wheel, Costino the passenger seat, and Sedgwick joined Conor in the rear of the van. To Conor's relief a well-stocked first aid kit proved as ubiquitous an item for Curtis Sedgwick as the Stanley thermos was for Frank Murdoch. He washed the wound as best he could, and when the bleeding had slowed, Bishan switched on the light in the cargo area and pulled into a small grove of palm trees off the main road. Conor snapped on a pair of latex gloves and picked up a package containing a pre-threaded surgical needle, while Sedgwick smoked and watched with nervous attention.

"Your training included this?"

"Yeah, of course." Conor tore open another package he'd lifted from the kit. "Here's an injectable dose of codeine, which you're going to need. Hike down your trousers a bit. I'll stick the needle in above your hip."

"No shots. Get on with it, I'll be fine."

"Look, the only thing I ever stitched was a pig's foot, so leave off the heroics and let me—"

"This isn't about heroics, it's about survival."

Conor reflexively jerked his hand back, startled by his vehemence. Sedgwick relaxed, and with a shrug of apology took the syringe and tossed it into the kit. "More than that, it's about a promise. Codeine is an opium alkaloid, Conor. I can't risk the stuff."

"Damn. I wasn't thinking. I'm sorry." Conor removed the curved needle from its packaging. "Really sorry, because I think this will hurt like hell."

"Yeah, thanks. Impressive bedside manner, dude." Sedgwick put on a game smile. "Pig's foot, huh?"

"An embalmed one, and I wouldn't even say I paid much attention. The first-aid teacher was my weapons instructor, and at the time I was trying to get her into bed with me."

Sedgwick's smile widened. "And?"

"Didn't go quite the way I expected. Just as well, really. We weren't suited." Conor took a firm grip on the shaft of the needle and added quietly, "First time I've understood what that means."

After the procedure and by unspoken agreement, they deferred the interrogation of Costino and completed the drive in silence, giving Sedgwick a chance to rest and allowing their combined tension and adrenalin to dissipate. From the agent's movements now, Conor could tell the shoulder was stiffening, but the stitches were holding. Sedgwick slowly straightened from the lock and the entrance gate swung open with a low, rusty groan.
 

When Bishan reappeared Sedgwick asked him to remain below and stand guard. Costino had not left his seat, but now shifted to rest his head in his hands, long hair falling forward to obscure his face. "If this is all so you can shoot me and drop me off a cliff, I'd rather skip the death march and take the bullet right here."

"Well heck, why didn't I think of that?" As though released from a spring, Sedgwick flew over to him and planted the muzzle of his Glock against Costino's exposed neck.
 

The younger man stiffened, but made no sound. He stared straight ahead at Conor, his water-blue eyes expressionless. After a few seconds Sedgwick removed the gun, speaking more gently as he bent to pull at the laces of his own boots. "You're at a holy site, Tony. Have a little faith. After all, we already saved your ass once tonight."

S
EDGWICK
DISTRIBUTED
penlights for navigating the staircase, afraid anything brighter might draw attention. They didn't need them, anyway. The moon continued to guide their footsteps, tracking their progress while gradually withdrawing to the horizon. They spared no energy for conversation, which gave Conor a little too much time to be alone with his thoughts.

He'd not been able to avoid looking into the face of the man he'd shot, or—why not the blunt truth? —the man he'd killed. The latest man he'd killed. An image of the Russian's staring, lifeless eyes took hold, growing larger as though rising through water. He tightened his jaw and caught at the railing along the staircase, the chilly iron steadying him as he squeezed the vision from his mind.

"You all right?" Sedgwick asked, from behind.

"Fine. You?"
 

The agent spat a short-tempered affirmative, panting with exertion. Near the summit, a rough-hewn, columned passage served as the entrance to the walled complex. Moving through the humid, mineral odor of its interior, they continued up the diminishing staircase until it sank into the hillside, and walked onto an expanse of rock that looked like the pockmarked surface of an alien planet. In front of them, the first Jain temple sat loftily atop a terrace supported on all sides by stone buttresses. To their right, a second flagstone terrace with a small shrine formed a lookout point, providing a view of the sister hillside and the town nestled in between. A temple tank dominated the vista below, a massive square acre of water standing out from the darkness like a polished, moss-green jewel. When they reached the shrine, Sedgwick sank against the side of its covered portico and Costino flopped on the stairs next to him, chest heaving.

It made a change for Conor, realizing for once he'd come through in better shape than his companions. While waiting for them to catch their breath, he ducked into the shrine's tiny sanctuary and turned his penlight on the object of worship. The dark, tombstone-shaped slab featured haloed figures carved in relief, resembling a blend of pagan and Christian symbolism. As his gaze lingered over the image, he sensed the approach of something ancient and transcendent, the response to a subconscious summons. A current pulsed at the surface of his skin, but Conor's muscles contracted in resistance. He felt its heat pull away from him like a wave subsiding, leaving a sharp, forlorn chill hanging in the air. He took in a quick, shivering breath and stepped outside.

With his socks catching on rough bits of stone he walked further up the terrace, peering at the summit. The serene head and shoulders of the colossus Bahubali gazed out above the walls of the central temple. There was no noise of birdsong or other night sounds—the air was wrapped in deep, primordial silence, which made a sudden stirring in the trees seem much louder. A spectral procession of figures emerged, crawling over the ground in spasmodic rhythm, a halfhearted imitation of human movement. The unearthly tableau made the hair on his neck stand at attention, until one of the figures paused and turned a flat, silver-bearded black face toward him. A gray langur monkey, out for a pre-dawn excursion with his troop. Conor expelled a half-groaning gust of air, and gave a start as a voice shattered the silence even more dramatically.

"McBride, what the hell? Are you taking a leak or something?"

Conor returned to the shrine, an aura of heightened awareness still tingling through him. He descended a few steps and took a seat next to Sedgwick, who sensed his mood and flicked the penlight in his face.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong." He chewed his lip while studying Costino, struck once again by the change in the man. Not a trace remained of the boyish, cherubic innocence he'd affected. The pretense had been dropped, and something in the attitude of his hanging head and rounded shoulders suggested a bone-deep weariness Conor wanted to understand. "Earlier, you said you were tired of it all. Tired of what?"

After a slight hesitation, Costino replied without raising his head. "Of the game. Of never being able to tell the truth, never getting to go home. Tired of feeling shitty about myself. You're told you're one of the good guys. You keep convincing yourself it’s true. When you have to admit it's not, you tell yourself there are no good guys. That's what I'm tired of; aren't you?"

A startled pause followed before Sedgwick shifted uncomfortably on the step and exploded. "Who gives a fuck what he's tired of? We need to get back on track with this."
 

"Look, there's something important here and we're missing it." Conor turned again to Costino, who seemed to be regretting his confessional moment. He'd twisted himself around on the stairs to stare up at them, nervous and alert.

"Never mind. Doesn't matter, anyway."

"Yeah, well I think it probably does. Time to come clean. Tell us what we don't know." The aggressive approach getting no response at all, Conor tried a different one, angling his head in sympathy. "You're tired, Tony. You just said so and you sure as hell look it. Why not say what we're missing? Where's the right place to start?"

He said nothing more; he could see it was coming. Costino's resistance crumbled like a landslide in slow motion. Conor gripped Sedgwick's good shoulder, holding his impatience in check while their captive inched toward surrender. It was worth the wait.

"The right place is with Robert Ryan Fitzpatrick, alias Michael Fitzpatrick, alias Robert Durgan. I supplied the passport for that last one. I was his CIA case officer. My first assignment." Costino scratched at his unkempt beard and dropped his head again. "I never worked for the DEA during the Dragonov operation. The CIA embedded me in your team and my job was to keep them briefed. My second assignment, and the last."

The silence around them became absolute. Conor couldn't tell if something had happened to his ears or if everything in the universe had been struck dumb, incapable of speech or sound. He and Sedgwick eventually emerged from the void with different but simultaneous objections.

"You expect us to believe Robert Durgan is a CIA agent?"

"Langley would never have the balls to embed a covert operative in a federal agency."

"The DEA knew," Costino replied quietly. "They just didn't tell your boss. Walker never knew a thing." He looked at Conor. "I wouldn't call Durgan an agent, no. He's a psychopathic criminal, but the Agency thought he could be useful."

"This is a load of crap," Sedgwick said.

Costino shrugged. "Tell yourself that, if you need to. I don't blame you. The truth is pretty pathetic. Conor got sent to India to convince his brother to help MI6 catch a guy they didn't even realize was the same paramilitary informant they gave a passport to twelve years ago. A passport they got from the CIA, who then used him and his Indian mafia connections for their own operation. When the DEA stumbled into it, they decided playing ball and covering their ass was more important than taking out a Russian arms dealer. Seems like the definition of an inter-agency cluster-fuck. What do you think?"

Next to him, Conor detected the rank odor of sweat soaking through Sedgwick's shirt, mingling with what had dried earlier. He sensed his partner's intense fury winding up, getting close to a point of no return. The Glock pistols had been stowed in the backpack on the platform behind them. Conor turned quickly with the intention of securing the bag, but Sedgwick shot out a hand, fastening on his wrist.

"Don't," he said hoarsely. "Just . . . don't. We need to hear this from the beginning."

"You feckin' thought it was
me
going to shoot him?!" Conor pulled his hand free.
 

His rage punctured, Sedgwick blinked at him. "You thought I was?"

"Oh merciful hour, what are we like?" Conor rubbed his eyes and waved at Costino. "From the beginning. Go on, for fuck's sake. We're all ears, and apparently neither of us is going to shoot you."

Pulling at his beard, Costino rose and began a restless circuit back and forth in front of them. "It started seven years ago. The CIA wanted to assess the Mumbai mafia—their reach and potential for serving as a financial conduit for extremists. They assigned me to collect intel on Pawan Kotwal and infiltrate his inner circle. So, I get started. I find out the FBI had targeted his New York restaurants for money-laundering as part of an investigation on a guy named Michael Fitzpatrick. Along with being tight with Kotwal, he's washing money for a bunch of other restaurants, and has a reputation for being a scary bastard who works alone and might have killed at least three clients who got on his bad side. I throw the name into the CIA database and out came the story: MI6 had struck a deal with the IRA, if you can believe that. The IRA was going to dismember the IPLO, and they wanted a US passport and safe passage for their informant, Robert Ryan Fitzpatrick. The passport got issued in the name of Michael Fitzpatrick. I do more research, find out where Fitzpatrick works, where he lives, that he's landed himself a rich wife descended from a royal family. Bavarian or something—"