The Secret Chord: The Virtuosic Spy - Book 2 (24 page)

"Sorry to bore you."

"Ah, you are never a bore, my friend. Many things, but never that." Frank's face quickly sobered. "Do you know who did this?"

Conor's brow creased with the effort of patching together an oral brief. “Fella . . . from Armagh. Heard the accent. Big fucker. Crew cut. Shot . . . shot him twice. Right leg . . .”

"Yes, all right. Well done." Frank ran a hand over his forehead again, the cool touch an instant of luxury, too quickly consumed by the furnace burning through his skin. "We're coming very close now, Conor. Our elusive wizard has bungled his position. He's lost the initiative, and we'll not let that advantage slip away."

Conor managed a small nod and closed his eyes. He had no more strength to spare, but as he slipped back to focus on his goal of sustained respiration he realized he'd neglected something—the most critical piece of information in his whole report. The thought provided a short-lived jolt of adrenalin. His eyes shot open and fixed on the agent.

"He wasn't after me. He wanted Kate. She just inherited a fortune. Durgan found out, somehow. Don't let anything—swear to me, Frank. Swear you won't let anything happen to her."

He struggled to hold onto consciousness for a few more seconds, but he'd exhausted all his reserves. Conor fell into darkness, still waiting for Frank's promise.

F
ROM
THE
CORNER
of her eye Kate noticed Gideon removing a phone from his pocket. As he spoke to the caller, his eyes met hers and glanced away. Something was wrong. Her shoulders trembled as she tried to read some message in the agent's flat expression. He clapped the phone shut and turned to her.

"What's happened? Is something wrong?"

"No ma'am." He spoke in the same emotionless tone, either oblivious or impervious to her state of mind. "The gentleman you've been expecting just arrived."

"Who? What gentleman?"

"Unknown."

Kate scowled. "Gideon, can we please talk like normal human beings for a minute? What does 'unknown' mean?"

This time the agent offered her a wide, apologetic smile. "It means I don't know the guy's name, Kate, but he's on his way down so we'll both find out soon."

When he did appear she had an immediate hunch as to his identity, but doubted her instinct. The handsome, silver-haired figure didn't look like someone who'd just flown through the night across the Atlantic. He carried a leather briefcase shined to a glossy finish, and the suit draping his lean frame fit with tailored perfection. A regimentally folded handkerchief peeked from its breast pocket and his shirt—snowy-white shot through with pin-striped burgundy—was equally precise. Not a single crease appeared where it should not. He stopped to confer with Agent Reynolds and Kate came forward to greet him.

"Frank Murdoch?" she asked doubtfully.

Offering a slight bow, the older man smiled and took her hand. He regarded her in silence for a few seconds, his hazel eyes meeting hers with a mixture of irony and warmth. "Ginger-haired, indeed. Eckhard mentioned as much, but I'd no notion it would be so beautiful. Your blouse sets the color off to marvelous effect."

"I . . . thank you." Kate ran her hands over the shirt, attempting to smooth its wrinkles. "Can I offer you something?" She indicated the various stations of the cafeteria.

"Please allow me to offer
you
something." Frank took her elbow and led her back to the table. "I believe you could do with a bit of breakfast."

"No, I'm not hungry, and I have this coffee I haven't even touched."

"Nonsense." He gave the cup a frown of distaste and turned on his heel. "Agent Reynolds, would you be so kind? Bring whatever appears least gruesome. Buttered toast perhaps, and a quantity of hot tea, preferably in a pot of some sort." Having handily dispatched the federal agent Frank turned his attention back to Kate. "Now, shall we have a chat? I've just come from Conor, who offered brief comments before inconveniently falling asleep."

"You saw him? How is he?"

Frank paused before offering a reassuring smile. "Well he's looked worse, my dear. Tell me what the doctors are saying."

She attempted a dispassionate narration, but exhaustion and fear finally caught up with her. The words tumbled from Kate in a monologue fractured by sobs, and once begun they seemed unstoppable. Frank offered the pristine handkerchief from his pocket and put an arm around her, murmuring encouragements that gradually succeeded in calming her. When she was quiet he guided her into a chair and poured out cups of tea. With dull surprise, Kate realized Gideon had managed to find a stainless steel teapot.

She sipped the tea and nibbled at the toast Frank insisted she eat, and at his gentle prodding began describing the events of the past twelve hours. By the time she'd finished, the cafeteria had filled. Outside over the mountains a pale autumn sun burned through the mist, and although it was still quite early the breakfast aromas of eggs and toasting bread began subsiding under a pervasive smell of stewing tomatoes.
 

Frank removed an envelope from his briefcase and placed it on the table between them. "Kate, I realize this is all extremely frightening, but the window of opportunity for action is shrinking and I must ask for your assistance." He slid the envelope across the table, his hand still pressed on top. "These photographs represent classified documents, but I need you to tell me if the man who tried to kidnap you last night is in any of them. You mustn't ask about the subject or content of the photographs, and you must tell no one you've seen them. Do you understand all this?"

Kate nodded, and Frank removed his hand. He sat back in his chair and crossed a leg over his knee. She unfastened the clasp and slipped a dozen photographs out on the table. All featured men in groups of two or three, taken in a variety of settings, at different times of day. A few were interior shots in what looked like a bar.

The first six photos contained faces she'd never seen before, but when she flipped to the seventh Kate immediately shuddered. A group of three men stood under the Guinness sign of an Irish pub, and she recognized her kidnapper as the one in the middle. The man on his left was a stranger, but as she focused on the third figure in the photograph a deeper chill shook through her. Even turned slightly in profile the face was unmistakable.

"My God," she whispered. "It's Phillip Ryan."

"What? Phillip Ryan?" Frank sat forward, startled.

"Yes." Kate turned the photo to give the agent a better view. "This man in the middle is the one who tried to kidnap me last night, but this man on his right is Phillip Ryan. He's Irish. He was my late husband's cousin and he lived over here for a while, but later he became the manager of Conor's farm in Dingle. He's the one who first wrote to me about Conor."

"This man?" Frank pointed, watching her closely. "You're certain it was this man? When did you see him last?"

"Six years ago." Kate felt lightheaded. "We exchange Christmas cards, and he sent an email last April saying Conor needed a place to stay. I don't understand. What is Phillip doing with the man who—"

"Just a minute," Frank said sharply. He pulled the photo closer, staring in silence, then abruptly pushed it back at her. He removed a slim notebook from his briefcase and uncapped a fountain pen. "Phillip Ryan." He wrote the name at the top of a blank page. "Tell me everything you know about him. Everything. Quickly."

23

I
NITIALLY
,
HER
SHOCK
PRODUCED
AN
ANESTHETIC
DETACHMENT
, helping Kate comply with Frank's command. She spoke deliberately and calmly, telling all she remembered of that horrific summer weekend—of the accident and its aftermath, of every detail she recalled about Phillip—while the agent filled his notebook.

The constrictive daze gradually lifted, and as the significance of what she'd learned sank in Kate lost focus. Her eyes shifted, irresistibly drawn to the photograph. He'd saved her life and had been so kind to her, but Phillip Ryan was not who he'd appeared to be. What had he really come for that week? Had he known about her money, even then? And how?

The questions cascaded, leading to the one her mind barely touched before scuttling back in horror. Was her husband's death an accident? Or had he learned something about his cousin that week? Something that made him an unacceptable threat.

"It's him, isn't it?" She pushed back from the table, fighting an urge to run, to get away from the photograph and all it represented. "Phillip Ryan is Robert Durgan. A murderer. Conor said he had someone tortured and killed. A man named Desmond."

"Desmond Moore." Frank rested a finger next to the one face in the photograph Kate had not recognized. "The other man—your would-be kidnapper—is Ciaran Wilson. Both from Northern Ireland. Armagh."

Kate looked up at the note of strain in his voice but he gazed past her, bemused and sad.

"How did I miss this? I ransacked every department in the service, looking for a mole that never existed. It was the bloody farm manager all along." He glanced at the photograph with a puzzled frown. "And who the hell is he, I wonder?"

"Conor's best friend. Are you going to tell him? He's already so weak and this will break his heart."

"Certainly not." Frank swept the photographs together and back into the envelope. "Far better for this to remain between us two at present. I need to make a number of phone calls. You've confirmed Wilson as your abductor, and I'm eager to provide information to the local authorities to ensure his capture."

He rose from the table and nodded at Gideon, who had seated himself at a discreet distance. The agent immediately stood and came forward.

"I'm sure you're anxious to return to the patient's bedside." Frank smiled at her. "When I'm finished, perhaps I'll join in the vigil, if you'll allow me? I'm rather fond of the fellow myself, you know."

"Please do. I'd appreciate the company."

Kate accepted the hand he extended to lift her from the chair, her heart unexpectedly warming to the man. His manner was cloaked in a theatrical persona he'd clearly taken pains to perfect, but a twinkle at the corner of his eye suggested humorous self-awareness, and occasionally a flash of something more pensive.

She arrived at the ICU to be introduced to another new set of faces who provided an update even more somber than she'd feared. With Conor's soaring temperature a source of increasing worry, they'd started a fresh combination of drugs, but he'd grown progressively weaker. Before leaving her alone with him a large, muscle-bound nurse with tattooed arms and a diamond earring tried to provide a few words of comfort.

"He's tired, but still battling." He set a chair down for her. "Just keep encouraging him. He may not respond, but he'll know you're here and I'm sure that's going to help."

Kate thanked him with a smile. She stood next to Conor and took his hand, its heat quickly absorbing the chill from her own. He didn't move or open his eyes, but she sensed a faint answering pressure when she kissed his forehead and began speaking softly.

F
LOWERS
AGAIN
. Always marigolds.

So many this time. Feathery bunches pillowed beneath his hands, yielding to his fingers. Spread all around, under his arms, over his chest.
 

Like a bright blanket of light.
 

Like the offerings of Taj pilgrims on the tomb of the Mughal empress.

He's with her now, a pilgrim with only himself to offer. He feels the stone-cool air moving in the darkness of the lower crypt. The relief of coolness. Darkness. He can press his hot face, his blistered lips, against the smooth, polished marble. Touch row upon row of scripted calligraphy. Trace out the ninety-nine names of God.

He can rest.

He hears her, the beloved ornament, in her seclusion. In her everlasting loneliness. Calling him.

Stay with me. I love you. I've waited so long. I've waited for you.

Like a gentle wave, caressing and retreating, pulling him with her.

Repeating over and over for as long as she needs to.

Until he finds the way.

T
HE
CONVERSATION
FLOATED
above Conor like a ghostly radio signal—fuzzy, but growing stronger as he emerged from a world of fog and curious dreams.

"I'm telling you, I've never seen a fever break like that."

"Unbelievable."

"Seemed like he just punched his way out."

"Looks like he punched through Hoover Dam. He's drenched."

"No shit. Been going on for twenty minutes. He was headed down, all his levels dropping, then all of a sudden his back arches right up off the bed. Next thing, the sweat just starts pouring out of him. He fought hard for twelve hours but I didn't think he had anything left."

"Fighting Irish, huh?"

"Seriously."

"Where's the girlfriend?"

"Went to call home with the good news. I'm not sure she's the girlfriend, though. He muttered some crazy shit for a while, and she and I both tried to figure it out. Sounded like some other girl's name. Awkward, right? And crazy, 'cause if he doesn't want her . . . you know what I'm saying?"

"Yeah, yeah. Calm down."

"Anyway, whatever. I thought this one was gone. Figured we'd be calling it in another hour."

"Okay, Danny. Shut up. Look, he's awake. He can hear us."

Conor blinked, trying to clear his eyes, but water kept streaming into them, stinging and blurring his vision. Where was he? Where was Kate? Where was all this fucking water coming from?

A towel descended, scrubbing at his face and neck. When it was removed he stared up at a bull-necked, red-haired man in scrubs, with a diamond stud in one ear. Conor drilled him with a hard stare.

"Where is she?"

The question came out as an abraded rasp, but had some energy behind it. A snort of laughter erupted from the foot of the bed.

"Tough luck, Danny. Sounds like he wants her."