The Conor McBride Series Books 1-3
The Conor McBride Series
Books 1 - 3
Kathryn Guare
Contents
Now Available
Book One - Deceptive Cadence
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Acknowledgements
Book Two - The Secret Chord
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Acknowledgments
Book Three - City Of A Thousand Spies
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Acknowledgments
Now Available
About the Author
Montpelier, VT
Copyright © 2017 by Kathryn Guare
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental
Now Available:
The family history of Conor McBride
It’s 1952, and change is coming quickly to a rugged island off the west coast of Ireland. It’s coming even faster for the two young people about to meet there.
Complimentary Review Copies Available for a Limited Time
Get it Here
February 2004
Jammu/Kashmir, Indian Subcontinent
She’s come for me.
He woke with the words on his lips, his eyes searching the dim room, looking for someone to tell. It seemed important to tell someone.
Turning his head, he felt the fibers of a rough, homespun blanket catching at his unshaven jaw while a residue of acrid smoke scraped at the back of his throat. He gagged, struggling weakly as pain seared the interior of his chest. Sounds of tense, frenetic activity surrounded him followed by unfamiliar voices, hollow and distorted.
“He’s nearly out again. He’s in a lot of pain, and both lungs are bad. My guess is pleurisy along with pneumonia and— well, check out these pills I found in his pocket.”
“Oh, man. That makes it interesting. What about getting him away from this stove? He’ll die of smoke inhalation.”
“No time. He’s not inhaling anything right now. This guy is going down if we don’t trach him.”
“Using what, for instance?”
“Dammit, Craig, I don’t know. Give me your knife. Go look for something—drinking straw, garden hose, whatever.”
As he sank further into the shadows, he remembered where he was: a small, Kashmiri village called . . . what? Bunagam. It was called Bunagam. A Samaritan-souled resident had heaved him into an ox cart to bring him here and then summoned two American doctors from the next village.
He sensed their determination but resisted it, drifting further away, a weary guest trying to slip off unnoticed. The pain was already gone, and when the knife punctured the cartilage of his neck with a sharp, resolute slice, he barely felt it.
They didn’t understand, and he couldn’t tell them. He didn’t want their help. His mother was there. She’d waited for him, and it was time to go. He could see her now, standing near his elbow and then by the foot of the bed. Then she was moving away. He stared after her, and like a lost child running toward reunion, reached out, struggled to follow—and was too late. They had dragged him back.
He surfaced to renewed agony and a stupefied sense of loss. Again, he heard the fuzzy murmur of voices.
“Did the phone number work?”
“Yeah. I talked to three different people. They obviously know who he is but wouldn’t tell me. They’ve already got a medevac on the way. I think you’re right, Nick. He must be some kind of agent.”
“That would explain the gun.”
His gun.
The muscles of his arms locked in spasm, and he opened his eyes. Two concerned faces stared at him, and the larger of the two crouched closer, his shaggy blond beard coming into sharper focus.
“You’ve been pretty sick, haven’t you? You’ve got pneumonia on top of everything else, but you’re going to be all right. We found a card in your wallet—a guy named Frank Murdoch? They’re sending a medevac up to get you.”
Frank won’t be happy.
The thought floated through his mind like an inscrutable riddle before he remembered who Frank was, and an instant later, he remembered everything else.
No, Frank wouldn’t be happy that the card was in his pocket long after it should have been memorized and destroyed, but that aggravation would pale by comparison if he ever discovered how far astray his amateur operative had drifted. According to Frank’s definition, the mission had failed, but he didn’t give a damn what Frank thoug
ht.
He was still moving among ghosts, hovering at the edge of a boundary he longed to step across. But she kept pushing him back, gentle but insistent, and he couldn’t find it without her. His mother had always known and walked in such places, like a goddess crossing over worlds.
She would go on without him. She knew the way.
1
Seven months earlier
Dingle Peninsula, Ireland
When he heard the faint, friendly trill, Conor didn’t know what the hell it was; he didn’t recognize it. He’d only had the mobile phone for two weeks—the last man in the country to buy one, it seemed—and nobody had called, so it hadn’t rung.
On the second ring, he turned an inquisitive face to his friend and farm manager, Phillip Ryan. They were on the ground at the edge of the pasture, their legs hanging over the drainage ditch they had been digging at all morning. It was nearly noon and the August afternoon had grown warm but not too warm for the flask of tea they had just polished off before lighting up their cigarettes.
Phillip jerked his head at Conor’s jacket with a smirk of friendly derision. “It’s the mobile, you bleedin’ eejit.”
“Is that what it sounds like? I thought it was a cricket.” Frowning, Conor dove for the jacket and slapped at its pockets to locate the phone. It chirped out a fourth ring before he could answer it. “Is that you, Ma? What’s the matter, are you all right?”
He spoke in Irish, or Gaeilge, as it was called in the ever-shrinking corners of Ireland that still kept it in daily use. It was the language his mother preferred, and it had to be his mother calling, because she was the only one who knew the number. He’d purchased the phone for the peace of mind and freedom of movement it brought him. Since her diagnosis, he had become nervous about how often she was left home by herself.
“Fine, fine. Sorry to frighten you, love.” Brigid McBride’s voice was calm and light. “It’s only there’s a gentleman from London come to see you, and he’s so dressed to the nines I hadn’t the heart to send him down to that muddy ditch.”
A vague anxiety carved a deeper wrinkle in his brow. In his experience, unexpected visitors often carried unwelcome news. “From London? Who is he? What’s he want?”
“Well, he wants to see you, doesn’t he? I didn’t quiz the man, Conor.”
He smiled at his mother’s tone of mild reproach. “All right, then. Tell him I’m coming.”
He snapped the phone shut and tossed it onto his jacket with a dispirited oath.
“Everything OK?” Phillip asked.
“I doubt it. There’s a man in a suit come to see me. From London.”
His friend whistled in mock sympathy. “Can’t be good. Still, it could be worse. At least it’s not the Garda.”
“Ah, shut up, ya fecker.”
He tossed the end of his cigarette into the ditch with a resigned sigh and started for the house, following a path worn thin from regular traffic, both human and animal. On his left, a long rock wall divided the field into parcels, and on his right, the pasture rolled into the distance, bisected by the main road before continuing on to the rocky shoreline. The weather was fine, but he could see clouds coming together over the ocean. Rain was on the way within the next hour, he estimated.
Trotting down the stairs onto the backyard’s flagstone terrace, he saw his mother standing in the open doorway. She looked tiny and frail, dwarfed by the massive farmhouse that framed her. He had stopped asking her every day if she felt all right. He knew she lied, and it made them both uncomfortable. Instead, he had learned to read the lines on her face as a more honest answer to his unspoken question. Looking at her as he came through the back door into the kitchen, he felt the heaviness in his heart lighten a bit. It was a good day.
Wordlessly, Conor raised a questioning eyebrow at her. His mother shook her head and spread her arms, impatiently nudging him forward. He stepped through into the large living and dining room, still brightly lit from the sun that poured through the casement windows opposite the fireplace. A tall, silver-haired man stood at one window, a teacup cradled in his hand as he looked out at the green pastures and the distant ocean. He appeared to be lost in thought. Conor made his presence known with a discreet shuffle of feet before speaking.
“How are you, sir? I’m Conor McBride. I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.”
Without a hint of being startled, the figure gracefully turned to face him, a smile of welcome on his face. For a fleeting moment, Conor had an impression of role reversal, as if he were the one paying a visit.
“Conor. It’s very good of you to see me.” The man’s voice had a deep, rich timbre. The accent was quintessential public school English, and his attire—beautifully tailored suit; tasteful, striped tie; and gleaming cap-toed shoes—indicated a fastidious sense of style. “I’m taking you from your work I’m afraid.”
“You are indeed.” Conor smiled. “Don’t think I’m not grateful. Will you take another cup of tea?”
The offer was graciously declined. Conor invited him to take a seat next to the fireplace and sat down in the one across from it. He waited for the visitor to introduce himself. The visitor seemed in no hurry to do so.
“I had the opportunity of hearing you play last evening in Tralee,” he said, crossing his legs and looking as if they were already old friends. The unexpected opening startled Conor.
“I hope you enjoyed it?”
“I enjoyed it immeasurably.” The large hazel eyes widened for emphasis. “I have rarely heard Locatelli’s capriccios played so confidently or so well. It was an extraordinary display of virtuosity.”
“Thank you.”
“I must admit I was quite astonished. Do you play often with that ensemble?”
“No. No, they’re just over from Dublin for a few nights. I’d played with them before, and the manager rang last month to ask me to be in the program.” Conor twitched a self-deprecating grin. “Most nights you’re more likely to find me fiddling for the crowd down at the pub here.”
“Certainly a far cry from the National Symphony Orchestra, isn’t it?” The elegant stranger inclined his head in sympathetic appraisal. “What a waste. I didn’t fully comprehend it until I heard you last night. Not your fault, of course, but what a criminal, bloody waste.”
Offered in a silky undertone, the observation struck with precision, like a concealed switchblade sliding between his ribs. It left Conor speechless. The voice across from him continued in a low murmur. “How bitter that must have been to lose your seat in the first violins, not to mention your growing career as a soloist. To trade hard-won success and recognition for this . . . pastoral obscurity on the edge of the sea, all because someone had to do penance for your brother’s crimes.”
Conor’s face had already lost its polite smile and most of its color. At this last remark, he came up out of the chair, rigid with anger. “I half expected something like this,” he said coldly. “Who the hell are you?”
The mysterious visitor seemed content with the reaction he’d provoked. He too rose, produced a card from an inside pocket of his suit, and presented it. “I beg your pardon,” he said, smiling an apology. “Small talk is not my strength. My name is Frank Emmons Murdoch. I am an agent with the British Secret Intelligence Service, more commonly known as MI6.”
Made of thick stock, with letters embossed in a tasteful font, the card was an appropriate match for its owner and equally inscrutable. No address or phone number. No contact details whatsoever. Conor examined it with a frown.
“MI6. Are you a spy, then?”
“Certainly not. I’d hardly be doling out business cards if I were, would I?”
“It’s not much of a business card. Don’t you have a badge or a warrant card, or something?”
The question prompted an indulgent smile. “And how would you authenticate it if I produced one? Have you ever seen an MI6 warrant card?”
“No, I suppose not.”
Conor continued glaring down at the card. The anxi
ety he’d felt earlier settled into an undefined dread. He turned his attention back to the extraordinary specimen in front of him. His speech, demeanor, and appearance were like those of a character pulled from an Edwardian drama. Conor had his own clichéd assumptions about the British upper class, but even he found it hard to believe their ranks could produce such a comprehensive stereotype. Was the man a genuine anachronism or was it an act?
“So?” he prompted, irritably. “I expect you’ve not come all the way from London to chat about my short-lived musical career. Let’s have it.”
Frank sighed, his mouth twisting sardonically. “It’s your brother, as I believe you’ve surmised. Thomas has made rather a bad mess for himself, I’m afraid, and he’s going to need your help. The matter is urgent, and your assistance will be required almost immediately. For an extended stretch of time, I’m afraid.” Frank took the card from Conor’s hand and began writing on the back of it. “You’ll need to be in London one week from today. The afternoon flight from Kerry to Stanstead is already booked, and so is your room at the Lanesborough Hotel. Quite nice, you’ll like it. Meet me in the hotel bar at six o’clock.”
“Hang on a minute,” Conor sputtered in slow-witted confusion. “What do you know about Thomas? Where is he, and what kind of mess—”
“All excellent questions, but I haven’t the time to go into them just now.”
Frank handed the card back. He reached for his briefcase, appearing to consider his errand complete.
“That’s it? You’re off your nut.” Conor stared at Frank incredulously. “I can’t just go flying off to—”
“Yes, quite.” Frank gave a perfunctory nod. “A good many arrangements to make, no doubt. I’d best leave you to it. Until next Thursday, then.”
His mother had, of course, been listening from the hallway. She stepped forward to see the visitor to the door while Conor stood, nailed in place, in the middle of the living room. He saw Frank’s patronizing smile falter as he turned to her, his lips straightening to a sober line of deference.
Anyone with a shred of intelligence needed only a glance at the fathomless gaze of Brigid McBride to recognize it as something unusual. It radiated a powerful, undefined force that seemed too big for such a small frame. Some looked and felt a twinge of uneasy fear and others a sense of wonder. Conor saw that Frank fell into the latter category. So far, it was the sole point in his favor.