The Virtuosic Spy 01 - Deceptive Cadence (37 page)

“Then you won’t bring him in there at all,” Walker shot back.

“Walker,” Sedgwick began in a tone of warning, but Conor waved him to silence.

“If I don’t bring him, nobody does. Period.”

Walker went rigid with fury, but before he could explode, Thomas put a restraining hand on his shoulder. “I’ll wear it,” he said. “We already know they’re not going to search me.”

Looking at Conor, he added, “You’ll know where to look if you need it. You’re quick as a short-tailed weasel. You’ll have it off me about as fast as wearing it yourself.”

Conor saw it was the best deal he was going to get. He slipped off his coat. As soon as Thomas had the holster in place, Walker urged them to hurry up the final stretch of trail to the hotel.

He was dragging behind again by the time they reached the clearing. Thomas turned back to give him a hard look. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” he panted. “I wasn’t prepared to run half-way up the Himalayas this morning, that’s all. I’m a little out of shape.”

“You’re wheezing.”
 

“I’m okay.”

“It’s a crattling sound. I can hear it from here.”

“Yeah, I can hear it too, Thomas, as it’s me that’s making it. It’s the cold air.”

Cold Kashmiri air
. He wondered if his impulsive surrender of the scarf had been entirely wise.

T
HE
G
ULMARG
A
LPINE
Cottage was a modern, three-story structure of white pine clapboard, and its empty lobby was like the audience hall of a maharajah. It was long and narrow, lined on either side with low couches. Its ceiling was resplendent, painted with a colorful design of vines and flowers that simulated the traditional
pietra dura
technique of polished stones embedded in marble.

To register, the prospective guest had to traverse the long space like a supplicant and approach the presence of the front desk manager, who affected the manner of a maharajah himself. Installed behind a half-wall of elaborately carved wood, he observed the approach of Thomas and Conor with regal indifference.

“How are you?” Thomas offered the greeting with a nervous grin. “We’ve an appointment to see Mr. Vasily Dragonov. Would you ever ring his room, please, to let him know we’re here?”

“Sir, sorry, sir.” The manager’s eyes fluttered shut; his head moved in random directions. “Not possible.”

“Not possible?”

“It is power cut. No telephoning, sir. Sorry-sorry.”
 

“Oh, shit,” Thomas breathed.

Conor understood the broader meaning of his dismay. Walker had confirmed the hotel was wired for Internet access, but a power cut in Gulmarg had the same effect on its accessibility as it did in Rishikesh.

Fortunately, the complication was one they actually had planned for—he was carrying the BGAN kit in his backpack. They could connect it to make the bank transfer. Thomas’s panicky expression was an overreaction, and it worried him. With a quick, surreptitious movement, Conor placed the side of his boot against his brother’s, and pressed.

“Maybe you could have someone take us to him,” he suggested. “He’s expecting us. I don’t think he appreciates being made to wait.”

The haughty little manager appeared to conclude the remark was valid. With a peremptory snap of his fingers, he summoned the bellman to bring them to the suite.

“
Tóg go bog é
.” Conor patted his brother on the back as they followed their guide into the stairwell.
Take it easy
.

They continued conversing quietly in Irish as they climbed the stairs, safe in the knowledge that oceans and continents separated them from the nearest living soul who could understand them.

“We’re doing all right here,” Conor said. “It’s going to be fine.”

“I know. I guess.” Thomas used a glove to sponge a layer of sweat from his forehead. “Foolish of me. It was always meant to come to this, but I didn’t think of it until now. It’s harder than I would have thought.”

“Because they’ve trusted you.”

“They had no reason not to. We bought things. We paid for them. Sure it’s rubbish, but I always felt I was playing it straight with them. Until now.”

“Play it straight now,” Conor urged. “At least pretend you are. They needn’t know, not right away. When the hammer drops, and the cops come in, just you look more surprised than anyone.”

“
Déanfaidh mé iarracht
,” Thomas mumbled, with a sigh.
I will try
.

35

I
T
MOVED
QUICKLY
AFTER
THAT
. I
N
THE
NEXT
MINUTE
, they were on the top floor; an instant later, they were at the door. It opened, and before Conor could even steel his nerves, it was underway, and his brother was greeting the two men he had known for years.

He scanned the room as they stepped into the suite, a large, impersonal space dominated by accents of glass and steel. Like the Jyoti flat in Mumbai, the suite’s saving grace was what could be seen from it—a stunning view of forest pines and the snow-covered Gulmarg meadow far below. What was missing from the room was equally noteworthy. Dragonov was nowhere to be seen.

Conor automatically began cycling through options for addressing that development, but then realized it wasn’t up to him. The leading part belonged to Thomas. The success or failure of the day rested on his broad shoulders and on his relationship with these men and his ability to tease from them certain words and actions.

He nervously turned to see how his brother would manage under the weight of this and suddenly found it difficult to stay in character. A wave of admiration threatened to undermine his façade of detachment. Thomas had buried his earlier discomfort and stepped into the performance with wholehearted and courageous commitment, displaying an unexpected ease with his role. Releasing a natural-sounding growl of pleasure, he gave warm handshakes to both men, who were Nicholas and Maxim.

In contrast, Conor felt unconstrained by the pressure of conforming to expectations. Their hosts had none where he was concerned. They had no previous experience by which to measure him and showed only mild interest in forming any. They greeted him warmly as the brother of a long-time colleague and client, but for them, his significance ended there. In an indication of how little importance they afforded him, neither showed any interest in frisking him. He floated on the periphery of their attention, a largely ignored spectator free to observe the action without participating in it.

Standing apart, he studied the two of them while pretending not to. Nicholas and Maxim were quite ordinary- looking men. Russian accents certainly, but not overly thick. Middle-aged, average height, paunchy middles, and baggy eyes. Interchangeable.

They led the way into the living room to a set of sofas facing each other next to a window. Rather than sitting with Thomas on the sofa, Conor took a straight-backed chair and drew it back a little to a vantage point that allowed him to keep everyone in view. His disconnection from the scene generated a sensation of vertigo, but also a peculiar feeling of safety, as though he were a disinterested bystander watching strangers through a window.

The meeting began with social pleasantries. There was lighthearted conversation. Laughter. There was vodka. At exactly the right moment—sooner would have looked anxious, any later would seem discourteous—Conor saw Thomas manufacture a bland smile of curiosity. What of their leader? Hopefully, he had not been detained?

No. Vasily was here, of course. He was in the bedroom, resting. He would join them shortly. More vodka. Glasses raised. Salutes. Thomas tossed him a wink and a cheerful smirk. Conor caught the implied message and returned it: the son of a bitch had better show up soon.

Vasily Dragonov finally did appear, abruptly emerging from the bedroom and filling the room with a charged atmosphere. As he advanced toward them, Conor found it impossible to get a fixed read on him and didn’t believe it was the vodka impairing his analysis. The man appeared as a slippery physical oddity that defied intense scrutiny, not so much nondescript as indistinct. Precise features were hard to define amidst an abundance of black hair—a thick shock of it on his head, two bushy lines of it across his brow, an all- encompassing growth of it beginning at cheekbone level and descending down over his neck like a silky pelt. He projected a large man’s presence, but was under average in height, with a frame that looked solid and dense.

Beneath all the hair, his face shifted like a trick photograph, morphing with every adjustment in angle. Conor noted that his arrival prompted a perceptible change of emphasis in the meeting. The conversation became more formal and sedate; the bottle of vodka was removed to a cupboard.

Thomas talked for a brief period about the ashram and about Kavita. For the most part, Dragonov listened politely, asking few questions. For a man who had traveled upward of eighteen hours from Moscow with the hope of meeting his true guru, Conor thought he displayed a surprising lack of inquisitive interest. Was that suspicious, or merely an indication of a detached, incurious personality?

When the talk turned to business, he felt the prevailing mood change again. The discussion continued with easy cordiality, but everyone suddenly seemed more attentive, Dragonov included. Again, Thomas led the discussion. As he made his way through the agreed script, Conor mentally tracked the reactions it was designed to elicit. Each recorded response from the arms dealer served as a gift-wrapped piece of evidence for the prosecuting attorneys who would be chaperoning the production through its next phase.

Thomas secured Dragonov’s verbal understanding that the weapons were being purchased with laundered mafia money, that they would be targeted against Pakistani installations, that the intent was to destabilize the Line of Control and the larger Jammu-Kashmir region, and that the strategy would include targeted attacks on Western tourists, including Americans.

Sprinkled over the accomplishment of this gruesome laundry list were the esoteric details—almost surreal in their banality—of manufacturer end-user certificates, shipping methods, delivery dates, and destinations.

Finally, it remained only to seal the transaction with a bank transfer, which required an Internet connection. Conor watched Dragonov reach toward the lamp next to him and try the switch. Nothing.

At that moment, in what might have been the first spontaneous emotion he’d shown since arriving, Dragonov turned to Maxim and unleashed an intense, furious tirade, entirely in Russian. Clearly, it was meant to be a tongue- lashing, which Maxim immediately took to heart. He surged to his feet and offered a weak, apologetic smile.

“We have been without power since morning. There is no sense of urgency with these people, you know. I must go see if some other means of persuasion might—”

“I think we can help you out,” Conor broke in quickly.

It was the first time he had volunteered any comment since the initial exchange of greetings. His voice sounded unfamiliar, even to himself, and every eye in the room swung toward him, as though the chair itself had spoken. Thomas recovered first, covering his momentary lapse with an expansive sigh.

“He’s right. I’ve no head for this shite, but my little brother is determined to teach me a technological thing or two. He’s got a battery-powered satellite gizmo in his backpack. We can use that to connect. All we need is a patch of clear sky.”

Dragonov exchanged a glance with his two lieutenants. His face was inscrutable, but theirs were not. For a few seconds they hesitated, their eyes shifting indecisively, and for Conor, it was a few seconds too long. His radar went up, and his nerves engaged. They suspected something.

He felt an overpowering intuition building, insisting that they needed to get out of the room. With a herculean effort of self-discipline, he resisted the urge to move closer to Thomas, closer to his gun. Looking at Dragonov, he forced a disinterested shrug.

“Just an option. We can wait for the power to come back if you’d rather.”

“Nonsense.” Dragonov passed his eyes over him, as if only now deciding he was worthy of closer attention. “Foolish to wait, when you have the means to get it done quickly. Also foolish, however, for all of us to freeze. I assume we may wait here while you search out your patch of clear sky?”

“Of course.” Conor nodded and tipped his head casually at his brother. “I’ll need you, though. You’ve got all the account information.”

A ripple of irritation slipped almost imperceptibly over the arms dealer’s features and then disappeared beneath an answering smile. “Bundle up well,” he purred amiably. “Maxim, go along to keep our friends company. Bring the vodka if you like. No harm in a small glass to stay warm.”

Moving a few steps ahead of Maxim, Conor and Thomas took the stairs back down to the lobby. As they exited the front door of the hotel, they were met with the spectacle of Sedgwick and Walker, enjoying a picnic lunch.

“Nice for them,” Thomas whispered in gruff amusement. They sat at one of several tables scattered around the snow-dusted clearing, with an array of thermos containers and orange peels spread before them. The officers listening in via Thomas’s body wire had presumably radioed Walker to warn of the altered plan. Neither he nor Sedgwick gave any indication of noticing them. A bit farther off, Conor saw an additional hiker enjoying some midday refreshment. It was their “cook” from the previous evening. The young officer had apparently received a new assignment from his superiors.

Conor selected a spot about ten yards away, a table closer to the front door. Dropping onto the bench, he offered a prayer of gratitude for unpredictable power cuts. Because of this one, the denouement in the suite would come with them safely stationed here outside, with only Maxim to subdue and five bodies on the scene to tackle him.

It had little effect on the air temperature, but the sun was now shining brilliantly, setting off a diamond-bright twinkle on the field’s blanket of frozen crystals. The brightness made it difficult to see the screen, but at least there was no need to step through MI6’s tedious login hierarchy. They were using Sedgwick’s laptop this time.