The Virtuosic Spy 01 - Deceptive Cadence (3 page)

Leaning against the wall, Conor cradled the Pressenda in the crook of his arm and stared out at the ocean without seeing it, unable to make himself move. At last, he pulled the case forward, gently lowered the violin into its velvet-lined cocoon, and closed the lid.

Back on the terrace, his mother appeared to be sleeping, but her eyes opened immediately when he approached and touched her arm. A silent understanding passed between them before he spoke.

“Just off now. I left the mobile with Phillip. I’ll ring you when I get to the hotel.”

She passed her fingers lightly over his face, pushing away the dark hair that fell across his forehead. “I’m thinking you need a haircut.” Her shadowed eyes grew bright with tears. “Isn’t it silly? Such a foolish thing to be saying to my fine, grown son when he’s come to say good-bye to me.”

Conor lowered his face, afraid he would not be able to look at her again before leaving. With a fierce tightening of his jaw, he raised his head and forced out an answering smile. “I’ll get it done in London. I’ll come home looking so grand, you won’t know me.”

His mother sat up and took his face in her hands, and he felt their familiar, tingling heat. Holding him in a firm grip, she stared into his eyes, whispering a fragment of prayer. Her hands traveled down under his chin and rested protectively against his neck and chest. She closed her eyes, her brow creased in concentration. There was a flavor of ceremony in her movements, and he had witnessed it often enough to know what was happening.

“What do you see?” he whispered.
 

“Pain.” The calmness of her voice contrasted with the disquieting pronouncement. “Pain that a mother should be allowed to stop, but I won’t be. I’m afraid it will be a long journey for you, my little love, but he needs you. Without you, he’ll be lost. He’ll be too afraid. He mustn’t be lost, Conor. You must tell Thomas to come to me.”

He eased her back into the chair and kissed her cheek. “Don’t worry, Ma. He won’t be lost. I’ll find him and tell him you’re waiting here for him.”

He winced at the sudden strength of her grip on his wrist. His mother’s dark eyes, so like his own, swallowed him with their intensity. “You’ll know what to do,” she whispered. “Tell him I’m waiting.”

H
E
ARRIVED
AT
the hotel in London in the late afternoon with just enough time to drop his bag on the bed before venturing downstairs again. He walked into the Library Bar and wished he had taken an extra minute to make himself more presentable. The dark, paneled room was sprinkled with smartly dressed examples of the moneyed class languidly getting started on the cocktail hour. His tatty wool sweater and crumpled pants provided a contrast that the host in the doorway did not appear to appreciate.

“May I help you, sir?” he asked, nostrils flaring. Conor wondered if he might be getting a whiff of something off the sweater.

“Thanks. I’m just meeting someone here.” His Irish accent produced an immediate effect. He wryly watched the man’s demeanor become even more glacial, but before their relationship could further deteriorate, Conor saw Frank waving to him from the end of the bar. He slipped past the frigid little character with an apologetic shrug.

As he might have expected, Frank was immaculately dressed and wrinkle-free. He was smiling with pleasure at the sight of him. “Ah, Conor,” he said, offering a firm handshake. “Welcome to London and to the Lanesborough. All settled in? Room all right?”

“It’s very grand. A bit rich for a government budget, isn’t it?”

“Not as rich as you might think. We’ve had a room here for years. Long story. You might get chivvied along, though, if someone more important turns up, so enjoy it while you can.”
 

“I might get chivvied along anyway,” Conor said, observing the glances along the bar aimed in his direction.

“Nonsense. What can we get you to drink?” Almost imperceptibly, Frank raised an index finger from the lustrous surface of the bar, and a bartender instantly responded.

Conor hesitated. He was panting for a pint of stout but thought it was what everyone within earshot was expecting the “Paddy” to order. He hitched his chin at the frothy cocktail sitting at Frank’s elbow. “One of those will be fine,” he said shortly.

The icy drink soon appeared. At least it was cold. He lifted the glass and took a sip, squinting against a withering tartness.

“It’s called a whiskey sour.” Frank’s tone was professorial.
 

Conor set the glass on the bar with a grimace. “I’m aware of that. I didn’t know anyone over the age of eighteen drank them. That’s the last time I did, and they’re as foul as I remember.”

Frank laughed. “Would you rather have a Guinness?”
 

“I would.”

With the earthy, dark elixir soothing his taste buds, he began to feel a bit more at ease in his surroundings and a bit more kindly toward his host. Frank lit a cigarette and offered one to Conor, sliding the box and lighter across the bar.

“Here is your first lesson. Given the choice, it is advisable to do what is expected of you, because it is easiest and—most of the time—it is safest.”

Conor lit a cigarette and passed the lighter back. “Should I be getting out my notebook, now?”

“Not yet. Plenty of time for that.”
 

“Is there?” Leaning back on the stool, Conor aimed a doubtful squint through the smoke. “I’d have to disagree with you there. I need to know how long this is going to take. I don’t have a lot of time to be dawdling around London in flash hotels. I’ve got things to attend to back home that won’t wait.”

“Yes, of course,” Frank said. “There’s another year to go paying back the farm assistance funds Thomas chiseled out of the European Union and a few more payments to the solicitor who kept you out of bankruptcy, and out of prison. We know about all that.”

“Yeah, well there are a few other things that I’ve—”
 

“Your mother’s cancer. We know about that, too.”

Conor’s face became very still. He took a long pull at his drink and withdrew from the conversation, letting his eyes travel vacantly around the room.

Frank’s unctuous manner dissolved. He put a finger to his temple and cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Conor. I didn’t mean to—”

“No.” Conor cut him short. “Listen to me. You want to show off how much you know about me and how you’ve studied every bit of me going back to the first solid food I ever ate. Fair play to you. It’s about what I expected, and it doesn’t particularly bother me. I’d be grateful, though, if you didn’t spit out the details of my life as if they were just so much trivia.”

He spoke without raising his voice, but its clipped intensity brought a flush to the agent’s face. Frank ground his cigarette into an ashtray and folded his hands together, staring at them as the silence grew between them.

“It doesn’t come naturally, you know,” he said, finally. “A breezy disdain for the concerns of decent people takes years of practice. One needs time to . . . harden the callous. I apologize. It was unforgivable.”

Conor’s posture relaxed. He didn’t trust him, but he found it difficult not to like the rare old dazzler with his glossy hair and spit-shined shoes. He allowed himself a small grin. “It’s not unforgivable, just bloody rude. Order another round, and I may lose the urge to fight about it.”

The next round appeared. It soon grew apparent that Frank had resolved to avoid “shop talk” on this first evening, which left them with limited avenues for interaction. The subject of classical music proved easiest to pursue—an area in which their incongruous personalities found common ground.

At the end of an hour, Conor was no better informed about his brother’s situation than when he’d arrived, but when Frank rose to leave, he indicated he would be more forthcoming when they met for dinner the following night.

“We’ll go to my club in Portman Square. I’ll pick you up at seven, and for God’s sake, wear a jacket and tie.”

“I didn’t bring a jacket and tie.”

“What on earth did you bring, apart from your decaying sweater?” Frank’s lip curled, surveying the offending garment.

Conor grinned. “I’ve got a fairly respectable pair of khakis.” With a sense of déjà vu, he watched as Frank removed a card from his jacket, wrote something on the back of it, and handed it to him.
 

“Go to the first address on Jermyn Street at eleven o’clock tomorrow. Quinn will deal with the evening attire. When you’re done there, go to Bethany at the Grosvenor Gardens address. Her assignment is to outfit you for traveling. I’ll ring them both in the morning, so they’ll be expecting you.”

“Outfit me for traveling where?” Conor asked.

“Tomorrow.” Frank brushed a manicured hand over Conor’s arm. “We’ll have a good dinner and a bottle of wine, and I promise we will tackle all the details. Now I’m late. Don’t forget—seven o’clock. I trust Quinn implicitly. You’ll look suitably stylish, I’m sure.”

“Stylish,” Conor repeated, watching the silver-headed figure glide through the room and out the door. Turning back to the bar, he wiggled his empty glass at the bartender and was pleased to see him respond to his signal just as quickly as to Frank’s.

He watched the nitrogen bubbles churning in his glass, and when the cloudy brown mixture had settled into a uniform darkness, he raised it to his lips with a salute to the room and its stylish patrons.

“
Slainté
. Here’s to your health . . . and mine as well, God help me.”

3

T
HE
PRETTY
BLOND
SERVER
WAS
BACK
AGAIN
. S
HE
LIFTED
the bottle of mineral water from the table and topped off Conor’s glass, offering a coy sidelong glance as she poured.

“Is everything all right, sir? Can we tempt you with anything else this evening?”

He offered a meaningful smile. “Ah, well, you can always tempt me.”

“We’re absolutely fine for the moment.” Frank’s assurance had a waspish edge. “You’ve been extremely efficient with the water service—yes, thank you for noticing my glass as well— it’s quite commendable. But I believe we are equal to the task now.”

With a parting smile for Conor and a haughty look at Frank, the woman replaced the bottle on the table and drifted to the other side of the dining room.

“It’s the suit you know,” Frank said, eyes glittering. Conor gave a grunt of laughter. “Don’t laugh, it’s true. You cut quite a dashing figure when you care to try. A pity the entire kit has to be returned tomorrow. I knew Quinn wouldn’t disappoint, but I am surprised he trusted you with cufflinks.”

“Contrary to what you seem to believe, it’s not the first time I’ve worn a suit. I even have two fairly sharp tuxedos in a closet at home.”

“Oh yes, I know,” Frank said with gleeful mischief. “Now, can you tell me the last time you wore one of them in London?”

Conor rolled his eyes. “I suppose I could remember if I tried, but no doubt you’ve got the facts on the tip of your tongue. There’s something of the stalker about you, Frank. It’s a bit creepy. Go on and tell me.”

“The Savoy, eight years ago. It was a gala charity event for the University College hospitals. You were the soloist for the Tchaikovsky concerto.”

“Oh. Right.” Conor grew thoughtful. He absent-mindedly pushed stray breadcrumbs around the table, grinding them into the cloth under his finger, and looked out onto the street.

They were seated in a secluded corner of the second-floor dining room next to a window overlooking Portman Square. Suffused with soft lighting and a subdued ivory-and-beige color scheme, the restaurant’s atmosphere seemed especially snug compared with the scene outside. An unseasonably cold rain obscured the small park below them. Waves of gusting wind shook leaves from the trees, and raindrops beat against the windows with rolling, staccato pops. Frank leaned forward to pour more wine, watching Conor’s profile with curiosity.

“It’s not a pleasant memory?”

“No, it is.” He shifted his gaze away from the window and smiled. “That was a good night. My . . . friend, Margaret Fallon, came over with me, just for the
craìc
. That means a bit of fun,” he explained.

Frank nodded. “I’m familiar with the term.”

“You’re also familiar with the details about Maggie, I’m sure.”

“Of course.” Frank’s response was immediate, but his tone was neutral. “Something a bit more than a ‘friend,’ wasn’t she? You had plans to marry, I believe.”

“Oh, I had a lot of plans a long time ago.” Conor waved his hand, a conscious parody of Frank’s habitual gesture. “Anyway, like I said, that was a good night. I nicked two bottles of champagne from the after-party. We drank them in the hotel room with a couple of cheeseburgers. Yeah, it was good . . . ”

He trailed off, remembering that night in London—the gorgeous Art Deco theatre with its shimmering, multicolored curtain, the energy of the orchestra, and the current of connection he’d felt running from himself to the other musicians, to the audience members, and to Maggie Fallon.

She was a black-haired, emerald-eyed beauty inhabiting a self-contained universe of pleasure and fun that he’d been happy to believe was real and could last. She wasn’t made to deal with trouble—at least not the sort of trouble he ended up bringing. He couldn’t blame her, really. At least she’d sent a letter. He wondered where she was now.

While still lost in thought, another memory of that evening came to mind. He emerged from his reverie with a slight smirk.

“You’re wrong, Frank. That’s not the last time I put on my tails in London. The Lord Mayor came backstage after the concert and asked if I’d come play at his house the next night. He was throwing a little party.”

Watching Frank’s twitch of surprise gave him a devilish satisfaction.

“A private recital?”

“Yep. That one must have slipped by your lads in the office. Makes you wonder what else they might have missed, doesn’t it?”

“Champagne, cheeseburgers, and a command performance for the Lord Mayor.” Frank shook his head. “You’re a rather unorthodox virtuoso, my boy.”