Kate was startled by the vehemence of Petra’s response and suddenly had an insight, but not the one Petra had hoped to encourage. It explained a paradox she’d been trying to understand. Her love for Conor had no limits. That it would grow every day felt as certain as the steady expansion of the universe, but still she couldn’t seem to invite the proposal she knew he longed to offer. Until that moment she hadn’t understood her hesitation.
All that power.
Kate already knew her power wasn’t strong enough—not to break his heart, but to mend it. As much as she had, she would give, but what if it wasn’t enough? She couldn’t fix everything in him that had been broken, fill every place that was empty. He would realize that eventually, and … what then? Her eyes brimmed, and Petra saw her exhortation was not having the intended effect. She growled a husky laugh and brought a packet of tissues from the side pocket of her bag.
“This is a hopeless case, I see. You are too much in love already. Such a pity.”
Coming in from the bright midday heat, Kate let her eyes adjust to the dim interior before making her way down the aisle of yet another church. There was no end to them, it seemed, but Conor had been especially interested in visiting this one—the Church of Our Lady Victorious. Its main attraction was the iconic Infant Jesus of Prague, a small wooden figure coated in wax and clothed in royal attire. Apparently there was a reproduction of the doll on just about every mantelpiece in Ireland.
The original was in a glass case in a side chapel, difficult to see in the midst of its gold encrusted surroundings. She found Conor standing in front of it, reading a brochure. Heedless of the setting, Kate greeted him with even more ardor than usual, which surprised and delighted him.
“How long have you been waiting?” she asked, finally pulling away to look at him.
“Not long. I just finished having a look round the museum out the back. It’s full of all his little robes. He’s got about a hundred.”
“There are some rather odd things in this town.”
“Too right.” Conor put the flyer in his pocket. “Not just here though. A woman back in Dingle owns a pub with one of these behind the bar. A long line of whiskey bottles with the Child of Prague in the middle.”
“Did your mantelpiece have one?”
“Actually it didn’t. We were the exception. My mother wasn’t keen on knickknacks. She was all for holy wells and passage tombs and monastic ruins.” He smiled wistfully. “She was like St. Kevin—she’d let a bird build a nest in her hand.”
“I wish I could have known her,” Kate said. “Do you think she would have liked me?”
“She does like you.” He turned away from the doll-like figure and took her hand. “Sure I’d say she’s stone mad about you.”
Kate accepted the present tense construction without trying to rationalize it. It was one of those things she just trusted him to know.
“Come on,” he said. “Winnie should be here in half an hour. Let’s go sit on the steps and debrief the morning.”
The main staircase was already crowded with people who had the same idea, so they went to the more secluded side steps that connected to an adjoining building. They sat huddled together, speaking quietly, and when Kate finished the narration of her morning and its revelations, Conor whistled.
“Hard to decide who’s using who, isn’t it?”
“I think they all use each other as it suits them,” she said. “How does Petra’s story stack up against Sonia’s?”
“Fairly well, but they’re not a dead spit. Sonia admits Martin didn’t meet her at a recital in Plzeň. She says it was a jazz bar where she was playing here in Prague, but I’m not swallowing that either. Nobody is coming clean about how they really connected, which might be important. She says her colleagues in the New Přemyslids group don’t know about her and the Labuts. I can’t decide if she’s telling the truth, but I find it hard to believe she’s been turned and planted there by the network. She just doesn’t strike me as a white nationalist.”
There was also a discrepancy in the baby daddy tale. As Sonia told it, the pregnancy was an accident and she’d planned to get an abortion, but Martin begged her to have the baby. He promised to leave his wife, but then it became clear Petra had known about the affair and the pregnancy from the beginning. They offered to adopt the child, and expected her to move out once it was born.
“She thought it might be a solution, although she didn’t mention money had been offered,” Conor said. “She couldn’t tell Frank. The relationship violates every MI6 regulation in the book, and she wasn’t sure she wanted a baby anyway. She says she didn’t turn them down but never actually agreed to it either, and once she’d laid eyes on Leo she couldn’t bear to leave him. Now she’s never allowed to be alone with the baby. They ship him off somewhere when they need a babysitter, and Petra keeps the nursery locked when he’s in it. Sonia says she’s afraid of what they’d do if she tried to take him away with her, so she’s been placating them with sexual favors until she gets a better idea.”
Conor stood up to give passage to a troop of foot-dragging teenagers, all wearing the universal adolescent expression of bored exhaustion. He earned a grateful smile and a longer, backward glance from the female guide leading them.
“Catholic school trip,” he explained. Kate squinted at their retreating backs, wondering what clues he’d seen that eluded her. “I saw them doing the rosary inside,” he added, reading her mind and grinning as she yanked him down next to her.
“So we’ve got competing story lines. Who do you think is lying?”
“Everybody.” He grew serious again. “The one thing I do believe is they genuinely love Leo, or at least the women do. Martin probably thinks a baby is only something else to collect. I don’t really understand why Sonia is so paralyzed. She’s a spy, for fuck’s sake. I would have thought she’d been trained to crack harder nuts than this, and what could they do if she ran off with Leo? The Minister of Culture is going to sue his mistress for paternity rights?”
“This is a mess,” Kate said, after a short silence. “Even if she hasn’t been turned by this white nationalist group, it seems like she still might have a motive for wanting the Labuts dead. Maybe the New Přemyslids weren’t planning to disrupt the symposium or assassinate Martin until she gave them the idea for it. Sonia could be using it to give herself an opportunity to get rid of both of them. Maybe that’s her ‘better idea.’”
“Yeah, I’ve thought about that.” Conor sighed. “The problem is we can’t be sure, and this operation is happening in two days.”
“And we’re supposed to be helping her with it.” Kate turned to him as a new thought occurred to her. “How, by the way? Has she told you what we’re supposed to do?”
He confirmed that she had, and Kate was relieved to hear their role was limited. Sonia would attend the concert but beg off the reception by claiming the onset of a migraine, an excuse she’d apparently used in the past. She’d stop at the market on the ground floor and buy medicine to make sure someone had seen her, go up to the apartment for twenty minutes, and then sneak back to the reception at Old Town Hall.
“She’s got an accomplice from the network who will already be inside,” Conor said. “Some guy named Karl. He’s posing as a server from the catering company.”
He paused and shifted to let a few more tourists file past—Italians this time. “The entrance and escape route is through the basement and up the back stairwell to a balcony overlooking the hall. He’s making sure all the doors are unlocked for her, and our job is to make sure her way out is clear when the time comes. Her plan—as she describes it—is to fire a few random shots. She told us to hang about near a door leading to the back stairwell. If people panic and head for it, we’re meant to make a show of pulling at it and shouting at anyone who comes near that it’s locked so they’ll head in another direction. She says she only needs thirty seconds once she’s finished shooting up the windows or whatever the hell she has in mind.”
“What if she shoots up the Labuts instead?” Kate asked.
“Well, exactly. Then we’ve a different problem altogether.”
They reviewed their options and agreed none were good. Whatever her motive, Sonia might have fabricated the threat, and if the plan she’d presented to Frank was a cover for actually killing the minister and his wife so she could escape with her baby, they obviously needed to stop it from happening. That would ensure the safety of the Labuts, but if they were wrong the consequences for Sonia could be severe.
“This is her loyalty test,” Conor said. “If nothing happens she’s failed it and will be back under suspicion.”
Their other option was to assume Sonia had been honest in sharing the plot against the minister. If the simulated attack came off as planned she’d take flak for botching it, but her cover with the nationalist network would remain intact with no harm done to Martin. If they guessed wrong in this scenario both Labuts could wind up dead.
“How likely is that, though?” Kate reasoned. “She knows we’re going to be there. We’re supposed to be helping her, and if she blew off somebody’s head we’d obviously do the opposite. She’d be arrested and maybe even shot herself. Doesn’t that prove she must be on the level?”
Conor hesitated. He’d grown unusually tense over the past few minutes and now began rubbing a thumb over the calloused fingertips of his hand. Kate recognized it—a habitual, brooding gesture—and anticipated he was about to tell her something she wouldn’t like.
“It doesn’t prove she’s on the level,” he said, “but it might prove she’s too clever by half. Whatever she does, we’ll still have to help her because MI6 can’t afford to have her caught. Imagine the Czech police uncovering the fact that their Minister of Culture was assassinated by a British intelligence agent, and that she’d submitted the plan directly to MI6 ahead of time.”
“Oh God.” Deflated, Kate was out of ideas. She put a hand on his knee and spoke gently. “This is beyond us, Conor. It isn’t just ‘help desk’ territory. It’s Frank’s decision. We have to tell him.”
“No.”
“That’s crazy. Why not? We can’t—” She snatched her hand away as he turned to her, his eyes stripped of all expression.
“Because I said so. I’m in charge of this mission. I decide what’s beyond us, and I’m telling you ‘no’—so deal with it.”
She jumped to her feet and Conor quickly stood up as well. Muffled by the churn of blood rushing to her head, his voice sounded distant and weak as he reached for her.
“Kate, I’m sorry—”
“Don’t touch me.” She slapped his arm away and stumbled up the stairs, then whirled back to him. “How are you going to deal with me if I disagree? Use your ‘skills’ on me? Throw me face down in the street maybe? I’ve seen how good you are at that.”
He looked up at her, his face stricken. “You can’t believe that. Please, tell me you don’t.”
Kate remained quiet, but finally shook her head. She took a deep breath. Releasing it, she turned away from Conor and walked back towards the church. “Don’t follow me.”
Back inside she roamed up and down the aisles under the eyes of leering cherubs, drawing in air thick with the smell of damp plaster and candle wax, agonizing over how to face a crisis that wasn’t the kind she’d ever expected.
She’d seen it happen before: she’d watched the light in Conor’s eyes fade into a dangerous stare of detachment; she’d heard his lilting voice grow flat and cutting—she’d seen him turn into someone deadly. But Kate had never experienced it directed at her, and the impact of it rocked her like a physical blow. She knew he hadn’t meant to hurt her, but she wondered how much that really mattered.
She ended up at the side chapel of Teresa of Avila, studying a painting of the saint with her arms stretched out, reclining in the embrace of an angel while he, with tender serenity, prepared to thrust a needle-like spear through her chest. Kate read the inscription beneath the painting. Pierced by the Lance of God’s Love.
“Nope.” She swiveled away and marched towards the door. “Hell, no.”
Conor was on the steps where she’d left him, sitting with his back against the wall, knees raised, arms crossed over them and his head bowed over both. Forgetting how he reacted when startled, she touched his shoulder and he predictably shot up, nearly on his feet before he saw her. He fell back, regarding her sadly. Kate crouched in front of him, her voice low and fierce.
“I recognize your authority, but not your right to treat me like that. You can yell, whine, argue—you can tell me to shut the hell up, if you want. But if you ever want”—she faltered before continuing—“If you want a future with me, you need to always remember who I am, and you can’t ever do that again. You can’t talk to me, or look at me, like a … a …”
“Like a spy,” he said. “Like a fucked-up operative with blood on his hands.”
Seeing his misery, Kate softened her tone but nodded. “It’s hard enough when you do it to someone else—hearing your voice, watching you change—but I can tolerate it. When you direct all that at me, though … no. I won’t put up with that.”
“Jesus. Of course not. Why should you?” He rested his head against the wall and closed his eyes. “I’m so sorry, Kate.”
“I know you are, but saying you’re sorry doesn’t mean enough. You can’t ever do it again.”
“I won’t. I promise.”
“Is it a promise you can keep?”
“Easily.”
Satisfied, Kate relented. “You may think I’m through with this, but I’m not. This is not our last mission together.” She gave his chin a light pinch. So deal with it.”
Conor opened his eyes, and Kate welcomed the return of their familiar gleam. So dark and beautiful. So crowded with painful memories and mystic glimpses. With a smile he seemed afraid to trust, he nodded.
“I’m glad.”
17
For a minute, he’d lost her. Conor knew that’s how he would always remember it, like a person remembers the moment of death after being revived. Not as a narrow escape, or as something that almost or could have happened, but as something that did. She didn’t stay lost—unbelievably, miraculously—but it didn’t change the essential truth of the event. For a minute—a minute that lasted years—he’d felt her absence, complete and indelible. He would cut off his own arm to avoid feeling anything like it ever again.
Sitting next to Kate on the steps again, Conor began to recover an awareness of his surroundings. He heard the rumble of traffic and watched a tram roll to a stop in front of the church. It released a bundle of humanity and sucked in another before trundling down the street. The world was turning again—or at least he noticed it again—and he realized Kate was speaking to him.
“Why don’t you want to tell Frank?”
He fingered the edge of the step next to his knee, advancing the erosion of its cement repair work. “Because I know what he’ll do.”
“Call off the operation?”
“Not only that. Our first mission here was to help with a defection. I made a mess of it, but Sonia is really the one responsible for its failure. She burned her bridges with Frank when she exposed Ghorbani. If he thought he couldn’t trust her for this operation either, I’ve no doubt he’d return the favor by burning her.”
Kate looked confused. “You said MI6 couldn’t afford to have the Czechs know about her.”
“He wouldn’t give her to the police. Frank will blow her cover with the New Přemyslids and let them take care of her.”
“Would he really do that?” Her question came after a long, shocked silence and Conor didn’t answer. The truth was, his greater fear was that Frank would expect him to take care of Sonia. “So, you’re going to let her go through with it,” Kate said.
“I can’t do that either. She can’t be trusted.”
“What other choice do you have?”
Continuing to rub at the crumbling stone, he avoided her
eyes. “To do it myself. It’s only a matter of making a big enough noise, which I can do as well as she can. Her network colleagues won’t know it wasn’t her making it, so the operation works the way it should. She gets her cover, and everyone stays safe.”
Conor waited for the objections, which weren’t long in coming, but he could tell Kate was trying to remain dispassionate.
“You’d need a weapon. You can’t risk bringing the Walther in through the front door, so it would have to be hers. Even if she’s innocent I doubt she’ll want to just turn the whole operation over to you.”
“There are some loose ends, but I’ll work them out.” He brushed his dusty fingers against his jeans and finally looked at her. “Unless you can think of something else?”
He asked in all sincerity and Kate took it that way, but after some reflection she gave it up. “Nothing that seems any better. Or safer,” she added unhappily.
Hesitantly, Conor slipped an arm around her waist, relaxing as she shifted closer. “It’ll be all right, love. Trust me.”
“I do.” She leaned her head against his shoulder. “On top of all this drama, you’re performing the day after tomorrow and we haven’t even talked about that. How will you manage it? You were already nervous and this can’t have helped.”
“Oddly enough, it has. I think the nerves have been knocked clean out of me. I was never concerned about the Mozart, and I’m not worried about the Kreutzer anymore either. I’m more bothered about this damned recital with Sonia, assuming she’s still around by Wednesday to perform it.”
“Why? Doesn’t she play well?”
“Her playing is gorgeous, but the sonata we’re doing is meant to be romantic—Strauss was in love when he wrote it—and her interpretation is a bit over the top. She’s not finding the right sort of passion to fit the mood.”
“How ironic,” Kate remarked. “So unlike her accompanist.” She lifted her lips to him and Conor gave them a timid kiss, still inhibited by his earlier behavior, but she drew him closer.
The Conor McBride Series Books 1-3 Page 81
