The Virtuosic Spy 01 - Deceptive Cadence (38 page)

The BGAN set-up worked, but the connection was much slower than in Rishikesh. Maxim loitered near the hotel entrance, looking impatient and unhappy, but there was no hurrying the technology. Anyway, Conor reasoned, if he knew what was coming next, he wouldn’t be in such a rush.

It took almost ten minutes to access the DEA’s bank account and set up the transfer. As the transaction began processing, a status bar appeared on the screen, tracking its slow, incremental progress toward completion.

“This is going to take a while.” Thomas got to his feet in nervous frustration. He took a walk around the table while Conor monitored the screen.

“Don’t pace,” he whispered, when his brother paused to peer over his shoulder. “Makes you look nervous.”

“At this point, I don’t much give a shit.”

They both snickered softly as Thomas straightened and began another aimless stroll in the opposite direction. A minute later, the laptop’s screen saver appeared, and Conor tapped at the track pad to clear it, but Thomas mistook the movement. He raised his eyebrows in inquiry.

“Transaction completed, then?”

Conor’s head snapped up to stare at him, his brain frozen in alarm. His brother immediately registered the unconscious error. His mouth dropped open with a soundless oath. Inadvertently, in the form of a question, he had given the verbal cue signaling the officers at the listening post to move in for target apprehension.

Before either of them could decide what to do or say next, Maxim raised a fist to his mouth, and Conor saw a microphone wire tucked into the sleeve of his jacket. The Russian spoke urgently, first in his own language, and then in English, repeating the announcement.

“Transaction complete. Transaction complete.” His voice scraped sharply in the cold, thin air and as his hand went into his jacket, Conor automatically reached under his shoulder, grabbing at the empty space where his holster should be.

“Thomas, Jesus Christ, look out!”

He threw the picnic table onto its side and lunged from the bench, connecting with his brother as he heard the crack of the gunshot. The two of them tumbled to the ground. Frantically, he tore open his brother’s coat and ripped out the Walther. More shots erupted around him, shattering the front window of the hotel lobby. In the next instant, he heard the muffled sound of more gunfire, coming from the upper floors somewhere inside the hotel.

Peering over the top of the table, he saw Maxim lying across a shower of broken glass in front of the pulverized window. Looking left, he saw Sedgwick and Walker also braced behind an overturned table, their guns still trained on the lifeless Russian.

“What is it?” he shouted. “What the fuck just happened?” With a quick check of the front door, Sedgwick ran across the open space, landing on his knees next to him. “It’s a trap. Dragonov has more men with him. They ambushed the officers at the listening post next to his suite.” His voice was level, but his lips pulled back in an anguished grimace. “The bastards knew it was a set-up. They knew before we got here. Dragonov must have friends at Interpol who saw the warrant and tipped him off. Fucking two-faced traitors. Someone will get a cut, I’m sure. They made sure to wait until the transfer was finished.”

The laptop and satellite hook-up had slid from the table to the ground. With the barrel of his gun Conor tipped up the now-static screen and looked at the status bar. In the last few seconds before the connection terminated, the transfer had gone through to the account Thomas had opened two days ago.

More gunshots sounded from inside the hotel, not quite as muffled this time. They ducked behind the table again.

“Who’s doing all the shooting? Does everyone in the feckin’ hotel have a gun?”

The question, sounding strained and unnatural, came from Thomas. With an icy premonition, Conor spun around to look at him. He was on hands and knees, crouched behind them. As Thomas lifted his head, Conor could see it in his eyes—the expression he’d suggested to cap the performance of a lifetime.

His brother looked more surprised than anyone.
 

“Thomas. Oh God, no. Sedgwick, he’s hit. He’s been shot.”

36

T
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WASN
’
T
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BLOOD
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AT
LEAST
NOT
YET
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NOT
THAT
he could see. Together, he and Sedgwick leaned Thomas against the makeshift barricade and quickly stripped off his coat and shirt to assess the damage. The bullet had gone in above his left hip, opening up a pulpy hole about the size of Conor’s thumbnail.

“Here’s the exit wound.” Sedgwick lightly probed an area on Thomas’s back. Looks like it came through cleanly, at least.” He looked at Thomas. “How much pain?” Thomas shook his head uncertainly.

“None. Just feels peculiar. Cold, like the rest of me. I’d appreciate the shirt and coat back on, if that’s all right.”

“We should bandage it somehow, in case the bleeding gets worse.”

“Here, use these.” Conor handed his gloves to Sedgwick. “We’ll need tape, string, something. I’ll go look.”

“McBride, wait! Shit. Be careful.”

Eluding Sedgwick’s frantic grasp, he sprinted for the front lobby. Sporadic sounds of a gunfight continued somewhere above him. It was impossible to tell what floor, but it sounded closer than before, and from the lingering echo after each shot, he thought the battle might have moved to the stairwell.

The front desk manager had understandably deserted his post. At the desk, and then in the office behind it, he rifled through drawers and cabinets until he found what he needed: a roll of brown packing tape. When he returned with it, the scene had consolidated. Walker and the young CID officer who had been stationed farther across the field had gathered closer. Walker was repeatedly trying to raise Costino on the radio, directing him to bring the Range Rover.

“He’s not answering the radio?” he asked, handing over the tape. Sedgwick shook his head grimly.

“Incompetent son of a bitch. He’s got it on the wrong setting or else he broke it. No sign of the SUV anywhere, either.”

Conor sank down next to Thomas and gave him a close look, trying to disguise a rising panic as Sedgwick improvised a bandage with the gloves and tape. Shivering, his brother managed a wan smile.

“Probably still trying to get it up the hill. Bloody wanker.” Spitting an obscenity, Walker lowered his radio and turned a questioning glare on the young officer. He had been monitoring the second channel and the communications of the CID officers inside. In response to Walker’s implied query, he delivered a situation report in a clipped, professional tone.

“Second team has engaged the men who ambushed listening post. They are still on fourth floor. Dragonov is still in suite, number of men with him unknown. The perimeter team has reached, entering through rear door. They are in stairwell between third and fourth floor, Dragonov’s men shooting from stairs above. Officer in charge requests reinforcement to opposite side of fourth floor with strategy to flush from top to bottom.”

Walker stood with his arms folded, staring out across the clearing. With a deep breath, he turned to Sedgwick. “How bad is it? Is he stable?”

For the first time, Sedgwick’s poker face wavered. He raised his hands helplessly. “I don’t . . . it doesn’t look bad, but it’s still a bullet wound, Greg. Who knows what it might have hit going through him. We need to get him out of here. Back to Srinagar.”

“But is he stable?” Walker asked again.

“I’m right here, you know,” Thomas spoke up sardonically. “Supposing you wanted to ask, I’d tell you I’m feeling fairly stable. Tell us what needs to happen.”

Walker pulled the wire-rimmed glasses from his face and rubbed a hand quickly over his eyes. Replacing them, he came to balance on one knee in front of Thomas. Ignoring the others, he put the case to him directly and succinctly.

“I need to take this officer and get inside and see if we can get the initiative back before it’s too late. You need to get away from the action. I think the safest and closest option is across the field and down the path. Do you think you can make it?”

“I do.” Thomas looked back at him with stony resolve. “Let’s get on with it.”

With a nod at Sedgwick and Conor, Walker got to his feet. He was already running toward the hotel with the CID officer close behind as he barked out orders. “Go. Get him under cover, and when you find the SUV get him out of here.”

Conor and Sedgwick helped Thomas to his feet. Supporting him on either side, they moved as quickly as they dared, wary of aggravating whatever might be bubbling beneath the deceptively small surface wounds.

They intended to place him well down the trail in the area where they’d stopped earlier and then Sedgwick would look for the car. As they neared the spot, Conor stopped, catching sight of Costino a little farther below. He was moving with an indecisive step along the path but hurried forward when he saw them, his mouth falling open at the sight of Thomas. Conor unloaded on him before he could utter a word.

“Where have you been, you useless bastard?” He had a nearly uncontrollable desire to bounce the agent’s callow face off the nearest tree trunk. “I see the earpiece, but where’s your radio? Where’s the car? Where are your fucking brains? I’ve an itch to crack you open like a walnut, to see if you have any at all.”

Costino stopped short. A spasm of nebulous emotion shuddered over his features. “It doesn’t work.” He lifted the radio and showed it to them, holding it as though it were a foreign object he’d found on the ground. “I tried every channel. I couldn’t reach you and couldn’t hear anything. The car got stuck on the ice again. It’s down there, in about the same spot. What’s happened? I heard gunshots. Thomas, are you—”

“Give me the keys,” Sedgwick snapped. He snatched them from Costino’s fingers. “All you need to know is the shit has hit the fan. Dragonov is up there with a battalion. Are you armed?”

The younger man stared as if hypnotized and nodded slowly. “Yes. I have a gun.”

“Well, where is it?” Sedgwick yelled. “Get it out for Christ’s sake, and go cover the top of the trail while I help them down to the car.”

Costino tugged at his coat and timorously drew a pistol from its inside pocket, looking as dazed as he had earlier in handling the radio.

Conor’s eyes met Sedgwick’s. He watched the agent’s eyebrows arch with fatalistic irony and knew they were sharing the same uncomfortable recollection from their conversation the previous evening.

“Dumbass analyst,” Sedgwick said and turned back to Costino with a resigned sigh. “Put it away before you shoot yourself. Wait here for me. Keep your head down, keep out of sight, and stay put. Got it?”

With mute obedience, Costino put the gun back into his pocket. They left him there and continued down the path toward the car. As they rounded a bend, Conor spared one last look up at him. He was standing on the edge of the trail, eyes lowered, shifting from one foot to the other.

Thomas leaned more heavily on them as they descended. Conor caught him wincing as they jostled over a section of uneven ground, and he moved in closer, trying to transfer more of his brother’s weight onto his shoulders.

“The pain is worse now, is it?”

“Feeling it a bit more,” Thomas admitted. When they reached the small shrine, his stoicism finally weakened. “Let’s just sit down there for a few minutes, right? Have a bit of a rest.”

Maneuvering across the trail they eased Thomas down onto the platform. Conor was grateful himself for the break, hoping it would diminish a persistent slurp in his chest that he was doing his best to ignore. Facing the shrine, he braced his hands against the stone and dropped his head, peering into the interior. The marigold he had placed there earlier was still snugged up against the foot of Shiva; the god’s young disciple was nowhere in sight.

He stared in at the small, lithe deity, unable to form words of prayer in any language. The image dominating his mind was his brother’s wound, blood beading up from it like drops of moisture on a pipe about to burst. He turned with his back to the shrine and sat down next to Thomas. In a desperate attempt to contain his fear, he hammered a door shut in his brain, isolating a choir of anxieties shrieking for attention. A static chill moved in to numb his rapidly thumping heart, and a tenuous composure took hold.

It allowed some space to think and reflect on what had gone wrong. Sedgwick thought someone within Interpol had tipped off Dragonov, but something wasn’t adding up in that explanation.

He had known it was a trap, yet the arms dealer had come to Gulmarg anyway. Why? For the money? The temptation of a twenty-million-dollar haul was compelling, but was it worth the risk for a man already awash in millions? He recalled the image of Dragonov as a blurry character with shifting expressions, almost camouflaged beneath a bushy abundance of black hair, rolling across the room toward them with a bulky swagger.

Almost camouflaged?

From that tantalizing thought, his mind took a leap and then another one, traveling back several weeks to the scene in the Mumbai train station. Then it returned again to the moment he saw Maxim raise his wrist to speak into the microphone buried in his sleeve. The images came together like puzzle pieces; a picture at last emerged.

“It wasn’t anyone at Interpol.” Conor’s anesthetic fog dissolved in a rush of astonishment. “This sting operation got stung a long time ago.”

Sitting on the other side of Thomas, Sedgwick leaned forward and looked at him sharply. “What makes you say that?”

“This is unbelievable.” Conor sprang to his feet, nearly shouting now. “Of course they knew what we were up to, that’s obvious enough. They loaded up on guns and manpower and tricked us to come here, prepared to turn the tables and blow us away. They knew more than that, though, didn’t they? They knew our strategy. That’s why they got nervous about the BGAN and going outside. It wasn’t part of our plan. It was a contingency, and someone forgot to tell them about it.”

“They knew the verbal cue we would use as well,” Thomas said. Spots of color displaced the pallor on his cheeks. “You could see Maxim recognized it. He was repeating it just before he shot me.”