The Virtuosic Spy 01 - Deceptive Cadence (43 page)

He opened his eyes and looked at Frank. “Should I be?”

“I should think not. I should think you’d realize that I of all people am in a position to protect you.”

“Protect me?” Conor snorted. “How’s that been working so far, do you think?”

Frank uncrossed his legs and bent forward, pitching his voice to an icy, even tone. “Let me make this plain for you. MI6 is releasing you. I have no authority to detain you further. If you feel strong enough to drag yourself to the airport, you can even leave tonight and go where you like. Be advised, however, that despite your lack of cooperation, this work will go on. I will ensure that it does. I will eventually learn the truth, and I will get what I want.”

“You make it sound quite personal, Frank.” Conor held his gaze without flinching. “Why does this interest you so much, I wonder.”

“My interests, personal or otherwise, don’t concern you,” Frank said. “But if I discover that your lies have been a ruse to mask complicity in the betrayal of this mission, there is no hole on earth that can hide you from me, and I will—”

“What? Torture me? Kill me? Or let someone else do it?” Conor fired the questions with intentional force, hoping to surprise a spontaneous reaction in the coldly controlled face. It worked, but not in the way he anticipated. Frank’s mouth dropped open in amazement—dumbfounded, guileless, and utterly innocent.

“For the love of God, why would you think that?” he said in a strained voice, as though the question was painful to ask.

Feeling the tension ebb away from him, Conor dropped forward to brace an elbow on his knee, shaking his head. He didn’t think it. If Sedgwick was wrong and MI6 wasn’t mixed up with Durgan, it was still almost certain he had a friend inside it, but his instincts told him Frank didn’t know a thing about it. For whatever reason—and it did seem oddly personal—the agent was clearly still committed and invested in the mission of tracking down the elusive “wizard” he had been talking about from the beginning.

Instincts can be wrong. He’d pointed that out once to Thomas. The thought occurred again now, but even though his brother wasn’t there to convince him, he decided to trust his gut. It was time to tell the truth. When he lifted his head, Frank was still watching him.

“I won’t believe that you and I are enemies, Conor.”

“We’re not.” Conor sat up with a sigh. “But I have them, Frank. A fair number, actually, and I think you and I share at least one in common. There’s a few would like to get at me for what I did to them and a few who think I’ve got something they want, even though I don’t.”

Conor thought about the compromised mission in Gulmarg. Sedgwick was missing. Was he still alive? Was Walker? And what about Costino? If he had escaped, he and Vasily Dragonov were no doubt concerned about a certain twenty million dollars that had disappeared. It had been lifted from the DEA’s account, and surely by now they’d noticed it wasn’t in Dragonov’s. Conor had the password for the South American account, but what was the likelihood of the arms dealer believing he had no idea which country—let alone, bank—Thomas had chosen for the deposit?

“And there’s one man who thinks he’s been betrayed and lied to for years, and he’s right about that.” Conor paused a few seconds before crossing the point of no return. “Your wizard’s name is Robert Durgan—at least, that’s one of his names—but I don’t know who or where he is or how to find him.”

“What happened at the beginning of February?” Frank asked again, gently this time.

“At the beginning of February, I found Thomas, and by the end of it . . . I’d lost him again.”

41

T
HE
MORNING
SUN
WAS
CLIMBING
TO
ITS
ZENITH
,
STRENGTHENING
as it ascended. It poured a lemon-colored light into Frank’s office, drawing a liquid glint from the polished wood of his desk. The chaos of London traffic five floors below was no more than a faint rumble in the background, giving the room an impression of tranquility. Conor sat in front of the desk and watched the relaxed figure behind it lean back into a tall leather chair, swivel slowly, and eye him with an air of speculative appraisal.

“I don’t think I care for your looks,” Frank said, flatly.
 

“That’s surprising,” Conor replied. “I was pretty sure you did.”

A slight flush colored Frank’s aristocratic cheekbones. He flicked his eyes over Conor and looked away with a sniff of impatience. “I refer to your present appearance. Wraith-like. You’ve gained no weight during recovery, and I think the physicians have exaggerated the state of it. Did they even look at you before chucking you into a taxi this morning?”

“Well—”

“Your skin has quite a sallow look about it.”

“Sallow?” Conor held out a hand and looked at it, curiously.

“And your voice still sounds as though you’ve come off a debauched night of whiskey and cigarettes. Is it painful?”

“No.”

“Well, it sounds dreadful.”

Conor rolled his eyes. “Jaysus, Frank, you’re very hard to please. Did you ask me here just to dissect me? I was under the impression you would have something for me.”

With a smooth motion, the leather chair glided back. Frank opened the middle drawer of the desk and removed an envelope. He slid it across to Conor with a rueful smile. “It may surprise you to learn that of the two petitions you put before us, this was by far the hardest. Several markers got called in to secure it.”

Conor opened the envelope and shook out the items inside: a US permanent residence visa, an Irish passport, and a piece of folded stationery.

“You know the drill for passports,” Frank said. “Don’t get caught traveling with more than one. The letter gives details for your alias, should you choose to use it—one F. James Doyle—and it has the refreshing stink of truth to it. Just try not to mention you’ve been dead for fourteen years.”

Conor studied the letter in silence and then tucked the documents into the inside pocket of his jacket. “And the second petition?” he asked, getting to his feet. “Is that secured as well?”

“Nearly there. I’ll overnight the final documents to Dingle. You’ll be there at least a few days before moving on?”

He nodded, and Frank folded his hands on the desk, regarding him with pensive concern. “Are you quite certain of this? Such a permanent, self-imposed exile? The service has an obligation to provide protection for you. We have a section for that.”

“What progress have you made in tracking down Durgan?” Conor asked. “Have you discovered anything yet?”

“Very little,” Frank admitted. “But let me again assure you that Agent Sedgwick’s poor opinion of MI6 is unwarranted— at least in this instance. No reciprocal relationship exists between the service and Robert Durgan. I’ve been perfectly honest with you. I’ve no idea who he is. We’re pursuing it. I’d hoped the Mumbai pub might lead to something, but everything was in your brother’s name. We’ve frozen the accounts so Durgan can no longer access them.”

Conor smiled, grimly. “I’ll bet that’s made him happy. Maybe the service itself isn’t involved, but you agree his knowledge of my recruitment suggests MI6 must have a mole in here somewhere?”

“It’s hard to draw any other conclusion. There’s a section for that as well, but I’ve started my own inquiries.”

“And Dragonov?”

“There, we don’t come off as honorably.” Frank dropped his head to stare at his hands. “I can’t touch him as long as MI6 wants to continue using him as an informant.”

“God, almighty.” Conor exhaled a humorless laugh. “How did I get mixed up with you lot? Britain’s best and brightest. So, are you seriously asking me to accept your so-called protection, go back to the farm, milk my cows, and wait for an assassin to crawl out of the woodwork? No. I didn’t think so.”

A wave of dizziness disturbed his train of thought. He tried to disguise it, putting a hand on the back of the chair, but the ploy was no match for a trained eye. Frank stood up and indicated the chair with a commanding snap of his fingers.

“Sit down. Have you eaten at all today you bloody fool? You’re prepared to fly to the earth’s four corners to escape men we’re not even sure are pursuing you, but it strikes me you’re rather cavalier about surviving this illness.”

Conor dropped back into the chair, pressing a thumb and forefinger against his eyes. “Survival is a tedious business, it turns out. I’m not sure it’s to my taste, but I wasn’t given a choice. On the whole, though, I’d rather slip away in a sallow, wraith-like sleep than be tortured to death.”

“Christ, what a macabre piece of idiocy.” Frank reached for the phone. “Gavin, a tray of sandwiches and a pot of tea, if you please. And have them bring round my car in an hour. I’ll be dropping our guest at Heathrow for his afternoon flight home.”

A
S
COULD
HAVE
been expected, Frank’s car was one smooth, comfortable ride, and as he slipped into the passenger seat, Conor couldn’t resist a mild dig.

“Of course, it has to be a Bentley. You never go against type do you?”

“I have an image to maintain.” Frank’s eyes gleamed with self-deprecation. “It can be hell, but I persevere. It’s pre-owned and not actually mine. Perhaps that makes me slightly less absurd?”

“Ah, you’re all right. I’m sorry.” Conor realized he was beginning to dislike himself in this mood of jaded cynicism. “Who wouldn’t drive a Bentley, if they could?” After a short pause, he added, “I do appreciate this, Frank.”

“It’s really no trouble,” Frank said. “I live just the other side of Heathrow in Windsor.”

“I don’t mean the ride. I appreciate that as well, but I meant everything else. It’s a lot of money, after all.”

Frank’s warm, hazel eyes swept over him before returning to the road. “It’s a lot of money, but good God, Conor, it’s only money, and the service has it. It hardly makes up for what we lack in other areas, and as I already mentioned, purchasing eighty-nine acres of farmland wasn’t as dicey as acquiring a green card. I only hope you don’t come to regret it.”

He already regretted it. He would never stop regretting it. He had never wanted the farm. There was a time when he couldn’t wait to leave it, but when he had returned to it, the land unexpectedly captured him. He grew accustomed to feeling bits of it under his fingernails, holding clumps of it in his hands, and feeling the give of it beneath his boots. At first, it was something he just got used to; he wasn’t sure when it turned into something he loved. There was a certain peace in lying down at night, knowing the land was there beneath the floors of the house. That it belonged to him, and he to it.

Selling it now was like tearing out whatever remained of his soul, but Conor didn’t know what else to do. He couldn’t remain there like a sitting duck, and he couldn’t let others go on tending it indefinitely. He also wouldn’t have a job once he left home, and wasn’t sure where he would find one. He needed the money, and Frank had wanted to do something. This worked for both of them, but it troubled his mind wondering what British intelligence would do with eighty- nine acres of land on the Dingle peninsula.

“They’ll resell it, won’t they?” he asked. “I mean, they won’t go turning it into something clandestine?”

“They won’t even know they’ve bought it,” Frank said. “Not for a good long time. Proverbially speaking, I will be keeping it on a shelf for a while. In case you change your mind.”

They arrived at Heathrow, and Frank brought the Bentley to a stop at the curb in front of the terminal. He cupped his fingers over his chin, regarding Conor doubtfully. “You will keep up with the treatments? A relapse could be particularly dangerous.”

“I’ve got a sack full of drugs. Haven’t missed a day yet.”
 

“You’ll need to be seen regularly, to be tested.”

Conor smiled. “Don’t worry. I’ll be okay.”

“Yes, I believe you will be, in time. I won’t embarrass you by asking whether you intend to stay in touch, but as I can’t phone you, and as I believe you’ve mislaid the one I gave you earlier . . .” With a typical flourish, Frank produced a card from his vest pocket and passed it to Conor. “A new number. You know what to say.”

“Thanks.” He accepted the card, and, removing his wallet, gave Frank an amused, sidelong glance as he tucked it into his billfold. “I wonder if there’s really any getting away from you, Frank. Like you said, ‘no hole on earth.’ I have a hunch we haven’t seen the last of each other.”

Frank laughed. “And your hunches are usually correct.”
 

Conor’s answering laugh was brief and wistful. “I am the son of Brigid McBride. My hunches are usually correct.”

They shook hands, but as he stepped from the car, Conor looked up at the terminal and was struck with a sudden memory. He bent to look back in at Frank.

“That parting gift you gave me last time, the silver cross—Thomas has it now. I left it with him.”

“Ah. Thank you for telling me.” Frank’s face brightened. “
Slán abhaile
, Conor, wherever it may be.”

“You as well, Frank.
Slán abhaile
.” Safe home.

42

D
AYLIGHT
WAS
FADING
TO
A
GAUZY
FILM
OF
DUSK
WHEN
HE
reached the cemetery. He took a shortcut when it came within view, leaving the road to walk out over a field that gradually sloped up hill to the main gate.

The grass grew long on the hill. Wet from the day’s drizzle, it soaked his jeans and caught at the toes of his boots as he climbed. Around him, the fields spread out in their characteristic patchwork pattern, displaying varying qualities of green.

The walk took longer than he’d planned, but the lengthening shadows didn’t bother him. This was Ireland, a place where darkness came slowly. It descended with lazy reluctance, stretching itself over hours of deepening twilight.

He gained the crown of the hill and paused to rest, looking down at the landscape. Tidy houses dotted the countryside, and here and there, a plume of smoke rose from a chimney and instantly mated with the mist rushing down to meet it. He closed his eyes and relished the luxury of inhaling deeply.