“Conrad.” His father put his hand on his arm. It was all he could do not to punch him. “You have to let this go. National security means you can’t be told any more.”
“Fuck you. Fuck all of this. He’s dead. Murdered in broad daylight. Anyone could have been hurt.”
Wait a minute. Within the electric storm raging in his head, one lightning strike lit up his brain. A member of an elite secret squad had murdered Archer in front of a public building. In front of witnesses. Conrad had been allowed to walk away without even giving his name. Something was missing here.
“I want to speak to Kinsale.” The calmness of his voice surprised him. “I think I’m entitled to ask a few questions, don’t you?”
“No, I don’t.” His father looked left again. Saying one thing, meaning another.
Conrad stormed out of the room, through the secretary’s room and almost turned left, but instead went right, banged hard on the first door he came to, then the next before he turned and hammered his fist on the door on the left of his father’s office. All the time he was shouting, yelling Kinsale’s name. Conrad kicked the door opposite the one he suspected led to the truth and then kicked the one he needed to open.
“I’m not leaving here until I’ve spoken to Kinsale,” he yelled into an empty space. “You want me to go to the press and tell them everything? Get out here now.”
Doors opened up and down the corridor, mostly men emerged but there were a few women.
“Call security,” one of the women shouted.
A man emerged from the room on the left of his father’s, a bald guy in his fifties. Kinsale? If Conrad couldn’t break him, he was going to walk away with nothing. Worse than that. Archer was the wronged one here and he had to prove it.
“Archer’s dead. Shot in the chest in front of the British Library.” Except Conrad wasn’t certain that was true. “How did you manage that?”
“I didn’t. Don’t be ridiculous. When is someone going to remove this lunatic?” He glared at Conrad’s father. “You’re not supposed to have your son in here.”
Thank you. Conrad’s heart leapt. His voice and that slip.
“How do you know he’s my son?” asked his father.
Kinsale paled. “Well you…look like each other. Your nose.”
“Our noses look nothing alike.” Conrad allowed himself a small smile.
Kinsale’s eyes flickered from side to side. Conrad knew he’d unsettled him.
Oh God. I have to wing this. If I’m wrong… “The hit you arranged on Archer in Paris. You made a mistake. The shooter had a photo of him taken in Moscow. On a mission you sent Archer on. You told the assassin Archer had gone rogue and when Archer survived you told him the guy’s name was Connor. That he was a freelance American.”
“Recognize him?” Conrad’s father held up a photograph. “One of ours. His DNA is on a photo of Archer that you supplied.”
“Come into my office,” Kinsale said.
Conrad shook his head. “No, I think I’d rather do this in the corridor with an audience.”
“This is preposterous.” Kinsale glared at him.
“You used Archer and when he’d served his purpose and unwittingly set the arms dealers against each other, you pursued him, stalked him, persecuted him and had him killed.”
“You’re talking nonsense.”
“You’re a lying, manipulative bastard,” Conrad said. “You might think they’re well hidden but nothing is completely secure. The details of money transfers? Deleted emails? Deleted texts? You think you’ve been careful, but have you been careful enough? I doubt it. Can you trust everyone who did your dirty work for you? Not if they think they’re going down with you. You tried to have Archer killed in Paris so your deal with Lomidze would stay hidden. Lomidze feared he was next and killed Kipiani and you blamed Archer. You thought you were being clever but you’re not infallible. I heard your voice. I heard you talking to Archer. I’m proof that you’re his broker, that you sent him to make unauthorized hits. And you really shouldn’t have known this was my father. I didn’t even know he worked here. You’ve lost. It’s over.”
“This is not something to be discussed in a corridor,” Kinsale snapped. “Yes, I’ve been working on bringing down several arms dealers. Archer was careless. He knew the risks.”
“I asked,” Conrad’s father said. “No authorization was given for three of those hits.”
“Then I didn’t order them.”
“I played Archer a recording of your voice,” his father said. “He was able to identify you as Phoenix. We have emails you sent to him. Emails you sent to Lomidze. What was it, George? Money? We’ve not found it yet, but my son is right. We will.”
Conrad watched as realization crept over Kinsale—his shoulders dropped and his jaw tightened. Men came down the corridor and took hold of Kinsale’s arms. Conrad leaned back against the wall, people went back into their offices and doors closed. The only ones left in the corridor were Conrad and his father.
“Well done,” his father said.
What was well done about any of this?
“You engineered this confrontation.”
“Indeed. My office isn’t on this floor.”
“You expected me to bang on the doors?”
“I gave you enough hints. I thought you might figure out a way to trip him up.”
Conrad felt as though his heart was being twisted. “Archer isn’t dead, is he? I just had to think he was.”
“I’m sorry, Conrad. Archer is dead.”
“You’re lying.”
His father shook his head. “No.”
A fresh burst of pain stabbed his heart. “Why didn’t this place take better care of him? Why did they let him get killed?”
When he felt his father’s arm on his shoulder, he shrugged him off. “Can I bury him?”
His father hesitated. “No.”
Conrad stiffened. “Can I at least see him?”
“That’s not possible.”
Conrad was halfway down the corridor when his father called his name. He kept walking.
A guy handed his phones back at the door and minutes later Conrad was on the street. He didn’t have enough in his pocket for a cab to his cleaner’s house, so he walked back to Vauxhall tube station. All the way there, he kept telling himself Archer was gone. He’d seen him die. Despite everything he’d thought, all the reasons he might not be dead, he found it hard to deny what he’d seen with his own eyes.
Maria was at home, which was a relief. Conrad picked up his keys and went back to his house. He bolted the door and slid to the floor. Conrad wasn’t a guy who cried but his eyes filled and tears rolled down his cheeks. He cried so hard there wasn’t one part of him that didn’t ache. He’d lost Malachi and he’d grown to be okay with that because he understood he’d not loved Malachi with the same commitment he’d been willing to give to Archer. But now he’d lost Archer too. Fucking careless. The non-joke made him cry harder. He’d sit in the cold hall for as long as it took to cry himself out. He’d cry for what he’d had, what he’d lost, for what might have been.
Gradually, he came out of it and thoughts began to coalesce. He guessed it would take a while for everything to be sorted out, blame apportioned, the guilty in some way punished, but effectively this was over. He fretted that Kinsale would twist things and show he’d done the right thing in getting rid of three, no four arms dealers—forget the collateral damage. The world owed him a favor. The money he’d been paid was destined for the department. The Georgians would never come to trial. If he’d lived, Archer would never have been safe.
Archer had been molded by a loveless childhood, difficult teenage years, passed around the system like an unwanted virus. Abused, raped and eventually sucked into a job no one should be asked to do by Conrad’s father and then not allowed to turn his back on it. But
he’d just been starting to live and now it was all over.
Conrad thought back to when they’d first met and reran everything. He had to go back to find his way forward, looking for something he’d missed, some chance to put things right that had slipped through his fingers. His brain wasn’t at a hundred percent. Marred by grief and confusion, he lacked his razor-sharp awareness.
But he knew there was something he was missing.
He was off the hall floor and halfway through his third coffee when the cup slipped from his fingers onto the kitchen table. It didn’t break but the liquid spread out.
He’s not dead.
That call Conrad’s father made in the hotel…what had the pair set up? Archer might have said the threat was reduced but there was no way he’d have lowered his guard. Conrad was surprised he took a direct route to the bathroom. A wide-open piazza outside the British Library was hardly safe. They could have had breakfast somewhere much more suitable than that. Conrad had been distracted with the worry that Archer was going to leave him or he’d have seen the truth.
Archer had misdirected with the suggestion they eat indoors until he’d seemingly randomly chosen to sit outdoors. He’d disappeared long enough on the bathroom trip to rig up some blood splatter with help, maybe from someone sent by his father. Even ripping a bullet hole in his sweater.
When Conrad had walked toward the café, no more than a couple of the outdoor tables had been occupied. He had no choice of where to sit when he came out again. He doubted anyone in that square had been a member of the general public. The whole thing had been staged. His father couldn’t have known he’d make for the SIS building, but he knew Conrad would be furious and seeking answers. If he hadn’t gone, he’d probably have had a call asking him to. Oh fuck. His father had needed him furious, in confrontation mode. In his barrister’s wig. He’d fucking used him.
No wonder they wouldn’t let him see the body. There wasn’t one. But why had his father still insisted Archer was dead? Because Conrad couldn’t be trusted with the truth? He mopped up the spilt drink. At the end of the day, the only thing he had was the people he trusted. He’d thought he could trust his father but Archer had told him not to trust anyone. And he’d included himself in that. Don’t trust me. Shit.
Fifteen minutes later, Conrad had talked himself into the exact opposite scenario, believing that wishful thinking and skewed logic had convinced him of the impossible. Archer was dead.
Another ten minutes and he was back to disbelief but unsure whether he even cared. Fuck, yes I care. But Archer could have told him, warned him. I could have pretended. So would he come now, creep into his house in the night, into his bed? Or was he already on his way to some secret location, scooped into a witness protection program from which he’d never emerge? None of this could ever come out.
He called Sev, hoping there might be a simple way to find out the truth.
“Hi,” Conrad said.
“No, whatever the question. I’m in enough trouble.”
“Archer’s dead.”
Silence at the other end of the phone.
“He was shot outside the British Library this morning.”
“Christ. That was him? I saw something online. Sorry. Shit.”
“Do you still have Deefor?”
“Yeah.”
So Archer had deserted Deefor too.
“Can you bring him over? I’m at home.”
“Okay.”
Conrad put down the phone. Archer had been saying goodbye to him since the moment they’d met. All Conrad had to do was let go of the rope.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Two weeks of going to the gym every day and walking Deefor twice a day left Conrad almost as physically fit as he’d ever been. Mentally not so much. Apart from a long debriefing session in a hotel—the SIS’s Legoland building an ivory tower that he’d never again enter—the only talking he’d done had been to the dog. Deefor was a good listener.
Every morning Conrad hoped and every night he was disappointed. How long was he supposed to wait for Archer to come? Or if not turn up, then call him or email? Deefor wagged his tail when Conrad said Archer’s name and it made Conrad smile until he remembered he was pissed off.
He didn’t have any interest in going to work. He wasn’t due back for a couple of months. He’d originally planned to go on holiday but the thought of going alone, looking at ruins alone, lying on a beach alone, kept him in the UK. The one thing he did need to do was drive to Northumberland, collect his things and arrange for the gym equipment to be shipped to London.
It was a long a journey. Deefor seemed to grow more and more excited the closer they drew to their destination. It didn’t seem possible but Conrad wondered if the dog knew where they were going. He called in at a supermarket to collect a few essentials then continued the drive north. It was dark by the time he arrived at the cottage. His heart was pounding faster than he’d have liked. No point telling himself it was because two men had died here when he was hoping for a live one. But there was no sign of Archer.
The place had been cleaned. No indication anything had ever happened. No bloodstains, broken door or scattered possessions. Conrad put the food in the fridge, fed Deefor and went to bed. Upstairs.
How long was he supposed to keep hoping? Another month? The rest of the year? He expected to lie awake cursing himself for feeling miserable but he fell asleep quickly, Deefor on the bed next to him.
Archer woke at five as usual and lay on his back looking up at nothing, no reason to get up, no dog to let out, no Conrad to mess around with. He was meant to be alone. He’d fooled himself for a while into thinking that wasn’t the case, but it was beginning to feel right and real, and he knew it was what he deserved. But even when he’d agreed to Conrad’s father’s plan and allowed the mock-shooting, he’d hoped for a different outcome. In a way Archer had died because he was here alone and Conrad hadn’t come.
Deefor was better off with Conrad. He knew Conrad would have kept him because he was that sort of guy. A better man than me. Allowing himself to get close to another person had messed Archer up, let him make mistakes and people had been hurt. He wasn’t meant to have the things that others had—friends, a home, someone waiting for him who cared whether he was cold or hungry or sad. He was better off without any of it. He felt safer now, calmer inside. Just not happy.
Conrad hadn’t come. Yet. But Archer hadn’t deserved him so he shouldn’t have hoped. He didn’t know what his future held but that was the way it had always been and he’d survived. It was time to move on. He’d done too much dreaming for the past month.
Maybe he’d visit New Zealand, pick up some money in Switzerland on the way, and a new identity. He rolled out of bed and began to pack. He didn’t have much, a single bag’s worth of stuff. He’d not broken his habit of never completely unpacking. He’d just drive past Marram Cottage one last time on his way south. One final run on the beach when dawn broke, and he’d be on his way.
Then he did what he’d done every time he’d had this conversation with himself. He took his things out of his bag, put his toiletries back in the bathroom. He wasn’t leaving. Not yet. He’d wait as long as it took. He’d drive past Marram Cottage as he usually did and he’d hope and if there was no one there, he’d keep hoping and drive past another day. This wasn’t his final run. He’d keep running in place until Conrad came. His lips curved in a smile. That thought made him happy.
It was a cold morning, not a cloud in the sky. Archer set off from the small flat he’d rented at Beadnell, making a mental note to tell the landlord he wanted to extend the lease, ran over the dunes and down onto the beach. He knew this stretch of sand well but the sea was always changing it, channels there one day and not the next, banks of ripples smoothed with a turn of the tide. He remembered how Deefor had run through one of the puddles left behind by the retreating tide and had disappeared ove
r his head, the water deeper than he’d thought. As he ran around the headland, he recalled how Conrad had hidden in the cave, had trusted him that the place was safe. Archer didn’t think about what might have happened if Conrad had instead gone back to the cottage.
Once he’d rounded the corner onto Shennan Sands and saw the empty beach stretching away in front of him, he ran faster. He glanced at Marram Cottage as he passed. Had he been a fool for thinking Conrad might have worked out he was alive and he’d come here? Maybe Conrad had worked it out, but was too pissed off with him to care. No, he cared. He’d come. Archer held on to that with everything he had.
Conrad jogged out onto the beach with Deefor at his heels. Shit it’s still freezing up here. But not so long ago the idea of running anywhere had been a dream and here he was, running over the sand. He wasn’t the only one. He could see a figure farther down the beach, travelling away from him. Conrad didn’t want company. He set off in the opposite direction expecting Deefor to join him, but the dog raced the other way.
“Deefor,” Conrad called as he jogged backwards. “This way.”
The dog kept going straight toward the runner and Conrad’s heart lurched. He stopped, stared and then began to chase Deefor. The guy had his back toward him, but he was tall with dark hair, the right build. It didn’t have to be Archer but—oh God. Conrad ran faster.
Deefor almost tripped the guy up. He stumbled, righted himself, then turned and looked straight at Conrad whose lungs locked solid. Deefor jumped up to let Archer stroke him and then ran back toward Conrad. Archer followed.
Not a mirage. Not a figment of Conrad’s imagination.
As they closed the gap between them, his heart shifted into hyperdrive. When they finally came to a halt in front of each other, Conrad felt as if he was about to explode like a shaken bottle of champagne.
Breaking: Fall or Break, Book 2 Page 31
