Read sample Deceptive Cadence

Prologue

She’s come for me.

He woke with the words on his lips, his eyes searching the dim room, looking for someone to tell. It seemed important to tell someone.

Turning his head, he felt the fibers of a rough, homespun blanket catching at his unshaven jaw while a residue of acrid smoke scraped at the back of his throat. He gagged, struggling weakly as pain seared the interior of his chest. Sounds of tense, frenetic activity surrounded him followed by unfamiliar voices, hollow and distorted.

“He’s nearly out again. He’s in a lot of pain, and both lungs are bad. My guess is pleurisy along with pneumonia and— well, check out these pills I found in his pocket.”

“Oh, man. That makes it interesting. What about getting him away from this stove? He’ll die of smoke inhalation.”

“No time. He’s not inhaling anything right now. This guy is going down if we don’t trach him.”

“Using what, for instance?”

“Dammit, Craig, I don’t know. Give me your knife. Go look for something—drinking straw, garden hose, whatever.”

As he sank further into the shadows, he remembered where he was: a small, Kashmiri village called … what? Bunagam. It was called Bunagam. A Samaritan-souled resident had heaved him into an ox cart to bring him here and then summoned two American doctors from the next village.

He sensed their determination but resisted it, drifting further away, a weary guest trying to slip off unnoticed. The pain was already gone, and when the knife punctured the cartilage of his neck with a sharp, resolute slice, he barely felt it.

They didn’t understand, and he couldn’t tell them. He didn’t want their help. His mother was there. She’d waited for him, and it was time to go. He could see her now, standing near his elbow and then by the foot of the bed. Then she was moving away. He stared after her, and like a lost child running toward reunion, reached out, struggled to follow—and was too late. They had dragged him back.

He surfaced to renewed agony and a stupefied sense of loss. Again, he heard the fuzzy murmur of voices.

“Did the phone number work?”

“Yeah. I talked to three different people. They obviously know who he is but wouldn’t tell me. They’ve already got a medevac on the way. I think you’re right, Nick. He must be some kind of agent.”

“That would explain the gun.”

His gun.

The muscles of his arms locked in spasm, and he opened his eyes. Two concerned faces stared at him, and the larger of the two crouched closer, his shaggy blond beard coming into sharper focus.

“You’ve been pretty sick, haven’t you? You’ve got pneumonia on top of everything else, but you’re going to be all right. We found a card in your wallet—a guy named Frank Murdoch? They’re sending a medevac up to get you.”

Frank won’t be happy.

The thought floated through his mind like an inscrutable riddle before he remembered who Frank was, and an instant later, he remembered everything else.

No, Frank wouldn’t be happy that the card was in his pocket long after it should have been memorized and destroyed, but that aggravation would pale by comparison if he ever discovered how far astray his amateur operative had drifted. According to Frank’s definition, the mission had failed, but he didn’t give a damn what Frank thought.

He was still moving among ghosts, hovering at the edge of a boundary he longed to step across. But she kept pushing him back, gentle but insistent, and he couldn’t find it without her. His mother had always known and walked in such places, like a goddess crossing over worlds.

She would go on without him. She knew the way.

Chapter 1

When he heard the faint, friendly trill, Conor didn’t know what the hell it was; he didn’t recognize it. He’d only had the mobile phone for two weeks—the last man in the country to buy one, it seemed—and nobody had called, so it hadn’t rung.

On the second ring, he turned an inquisitive face to his friend and farm manager, Phillip Ryan. They were on the ground at the edge of the pasture, their legs hanging over the drainage ditch they had been digging at all morning. It was nearly noon, and the August afternoon had grown warm but not too warm for the flask of tea they had just polished off before lighting up their cigarettes.

Phillip jerked his head at Conor’s jacket with a smirk of friendly derision. “It’s the mobile, you bleedin’ eejit.”

“Is that what it sounds like? I thought it was a cricket.” Frowning, Conor dove for the jacket and slapped at its pockets to locate the phone. It chirped out a fourth ring before he could answer it. “Is that you, Ma? What’s the matter, are you all right?”

He spoke in Irish, or Gaeilge, as it was called in the ever-shrinking corners of Ireland that still kept it in daily use. It was the language his mother preferred, and it had to be his mother calling, because she was the only one who knew the number. He’d purchased the phone for the peace of mind and freedom of movement it brought him. Since her diagnosis, he had become nervous about how often she was left home by herself.

“Fine, fine. Sorry to frighten you, love.” Brigid McBride’s voice was calm and light. “It’s only there’s a gentleman from London come to see you, and he’s so dressed to the nines I hadn’t the heart to send him down to that muddy ditch.”

A vague anxiety carved a deeper wrinkle in his brow. In his experience, unexpected visitors often carried unwelcome news. “From London? Who is he? What’s he want?”

“Well, he wants to see you, doesn’t he? I didn’t quiz the man, Conor.”

He smiled at his mother’s tone of mild reproach. “All right, then. Tell him I’m coming.”

He snapped the phone shut and tossed it onto his jacket with a dispirited oath.

“Everything OK?” Phillip asked.

“I doubt it. There’s a man in a suit come to see me. From London.”

His friend whistled in mock sympathy. “Can’t be good. Still, it could be worse. At least it’s not the Garda.”

“Ah, shut up, ya fecker.”

He tossed the end of his cigarette into the ditch with a resigned sigh and started for the house, following a path worn thin from regular traffic, both human and animal. On his left, a long rock wall divided the field into parcels, and on his right, the pasture rolled into the distance, bisected by the main road before continuing to the rocky shoreline. The weather was fine, but he could see clouds coming together over the ocean. Rain was on the way within the next hour, he estimated.

Trotting down the stairs onto the backyard’s flagstone terrace, he saw his mother standing in the open doorway. She looked tiny and frail, dwarfed by the massive farmhouse that framed her. He had stopped asking her every day if she felt all right. He knew she lied, and it made them both uncomfortable. Instead, he had learned to read the lines on her face as a more honest answer to his unspoken question. Looking at her as he came through the back door into the kitchen, he felt the heaviness in his heart lighten a bit. It was a good day.

Wordlessly, Conor raised a questioning eyebrow at her. His mother shook her head and spread her arms, impatiently nudging him forward. He stepped through into the large living and dining room, still brightly lit from the sun that poured through the casement windows opposite the fireplace. A tall, silver-haired man stood at one window, a teacup cradled in his hand as he looked out at the green pastures and the distant ocean. He appeared to be lost in thought. Conor made his presence known with a discreet shuffle of feet before speaking.

“How are you, sir? I’m Conor McBride. I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.”

Without a hint of being startled, the figure gracefully turned to face him, a smile of welcome on his face. For a fleeting moment, Conor had an impression of role reversal, as if he were the one paying a visit.

“Conor. It’s very good of you to see me.” The man’s voice had a deep, rich timbre. The accent was quintessential public-school English, and his attire—beautifully tailored suit; tasteful, striped tie; and gleaming cap-toed shoes—indicated a fastidious sense of style. “I’m taking you from your work I’m afraid.”

“You are indeed.” Conor smiled. “Don’t think I’m not grateful. Will you take another cup of tea?”

The offer was graciously declined. Conor invited him to take a seat next to the fireplace and sat down in the one across from it. He waited for the visitor to introduce himself. The visitor seemed in no hurry to do so.

“I had the opportunity of hearing you play last evening in Tralee,” he said, crossing his legs and looking as if they were already old friends. The unexpected opening startled Conor.

“I hope you enjoyed it?”

“I enjoyed it immeasurably.” The large hazel eyes widened for emphasis. “I have rarely heard Locatelli’s capriccios played so confidently or so well. It was an extraordinary display of virtuosity.”

“Thank you.”

“I must admit I was quite astonished. Do you play often with that ensemble?”

“No. No, they’re just over from Dublin for a few nights. I’d played with them before, and the manager rang last month to ask me to be in the program.” Conor twitched a self-deprecating grin. “Most nights you’re more likely to find me fiddling for the crowd down at the pub here.”

“Certainly a far cry from the National Symphony Orchestra, isn’t it?” The elegant stranger inclined his head in sympathetic appraisal. “What a waste. I didn’t fully comprehend it until I heard you last night. Not your fault, of course, but what a criminal, bloody waste.”

Offered in a silky undertone, the observation struck with precision, like a concealed switchblade sliding between his ribs. It left Conor speechless. The voice across from him continued in a low murmur. “How bitter that must have been to lose your seat in the first violins, not to mention your growing career as a soloist. To trade hard-won success and recognition for this … pastoral obscurity on the edge of the sea, all because someone had to do penance for your brother’s crimes.”

Conor’s face had already lost its polite smile and most of its color. At this last remark, he came up out of the chair, rigid with anger. “I half expected something like this,” he said coldly. “Who the hell are you?”

The mysterious visitor seemed content with the reaction he’d provoked. He too rose, produced a card from an inside pocket of his suit, and presented it. “I beg your pardon,” he said, smiling an apology. “Small talk is not my strength. My name is Frank Emmons Murdoch. I am an agent with the British Secret Intelligence Service, more commonly known as MI6.”

Made of thick stock, with letters embossed in a tasteful font, the card was an appropriate match for its owner and equally inscrutable. No address or phone number. No contact details whatsoever. Conor examined it with a frown.

“MI6. Are you a spy, then?”

“Certainly not. I’d hardly be doling out business cards if I were, would I?”

“It’s not much of a business card. Don’t you have a badge or a warrant card, or something?”

The question prompted an indulgent smile. “And how would you authenticate it if I produced one? Have you ever seen an MI6 warrant card?”

“No, I suppose not.”

Conor continued glaring down at the card. The anxiety he’d felt earlier settled into an undefined dread. He turned his attention back to the extraordinary specimen in front of him. His speech, demeanor, and appearance were like those of a character pulled from an Edwardian drama. Conor had his own clichéd assumptions about the British upper class, but even he found it hard to believe their ranks could produce such a comprehensive stereotype. Was the man a genuine anachronism or was it an act?

“So?” he prompted, irritably. “I expect you’ve not come all the way from London to chat about my short-lived musical career. Let’s have it.”

Frank sighed, his mouth twisting sardonically. “It’s your brother, as I believe you’ve surmised. Thomas has made rather a bad mess for himself, I’m afraid, and he’s going to need your help. The matter is urgent, and your assistance will be required almost immediately. For an extended stretch of time, I’m afraid.” Frank took the card from Conor’s hand and began writing on the back of it. “You’ll need to be in London one week from today. The afternoon flight from Kerry to Stanstead is already booked, and so is your room at the Lanesborough Hotel. Quite nice, you’ll like it. Meet me in the hotel bar at six o’clock.”

“Hang on a minute,” Conor sputtered in slow-witted confusion. “What do you know about Thomas? Where is he, and what kind of mess—”

“All excellent questions, but I haven’t the time to go into them just now.”

Frank handed the card back. He reached for his briefcase, appearing to consider his errand complete.

“That’s it? You’re off your nut.” Conor stared at Frank incredulously. “I can’t just go flying off to—”

“Yes, quite.” Frank gave a perfunctory nod. “A good many arrangements to make, no doubt. I’d best leave you to it. Until next Thursday, then.”

His mother had, of course, been listening from the hallway. She stepped forward to see the visitor to the door while Conor stood, nailed in place, in the middle of the living room. He saw Frank’s patronizing smile falter as he turned to her, his lips straightening to a sober line of deference.

Anyone with a shred of intelligence needed only a glance at the fathomless gaze of Brigid McBride to recognize it as something unusual. It radiated a powerful, undefined force that seemed too big for such a small frame. Some looked and felt a twinge of uneasy fear and others a sense of wonder. Conor saw that Frank fell into the latter category. So far, it was the sole point in his favor.

“A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. McBride.” The velvety voice sounded quite different without its flippant jocularity. “A pleasure to meet you both.”

The glance he threw over his shoulder as he followed her out of the room was grave with respect and, Conor thought, sympathy.

Chapter 2

Following Frank’s departure, he argued with his mother as they had not done in years—in fact, not since the last time they had discussed his brother. He didn’t know how to measure the “extended stretch of time” Frank had indicated, but a glimmer of inherited prescience told him it would be longer than he could bear. There were any number of reasons he couldn’t afford to be gone for very long; only one of them really mattered. In fear and frustration, Conor paced the living room, storming at her.

“Why must I do this, Ma? Thomas is a criminal and a loser, and God only knows what he’s up to that has MI6 over here looking for my help. Let him lie in the hole he’s dug for himself. He’s caused us enough trouble.”

“You don’t mean that, Conor,” his mother said. “He’s your brother.”

“And don’t I wish he wasn’t. He nearly ruined us, in case you don’t remember, and it’s been almost six years of my life and every penny I could earn to undo that damage.”

“I never believed it.” She turned away and walked toward the kitchen. “I don’t believe it now. He wouldn’t have done it on purpose. There must have been some reason he—”

“He’s a thief, Ma! He stole grant money meant for poorer farmers and disappeared with it. He blackened our name. He nearly sent me to jail and the two of us into bankruptcy. Now he’s shoveled up some new pile of shite that I’m supposed to dive into? Well, forgive me if I don’t leap at the chance. I don’t mean to spend the rest of my life following my brother into trouble. Isn’t it enough, already, what he’s taken? Can you think of anything I’ve left to give up, now?”

His mother hesitated in mid-stride as if struck, her thin shoulders slumping in defeat and sorrow. He would have given almost anything to have those last words back again, rattling irritably around in his head, maybe, but hurting only himself. After all, he was more to blame than anyone was, after Thomas. He’d signed his name to everything. If he’d paid a bit more attention . . .

His anger dissolved in a sigh of regret. The argument was over. It had been an academic exercise, anyway. They both knew he was going, and they both knew why. Despite the undeniable evidence, his brother’s crime was a continued source of grief and confusion for both of them, inconsistent with the person they thought he was. Conor wondered what kind of tale Frank had in store for him in London—another half-baked financial scheme or something worse? It seemed unlikely that the UK’s secret intelligence service would be stirring itself for a simple case of grant fraud.

In the end, he had to leave it all in Phillip’s hands—the farm, the house, his mother’s life—and when Conor presented the situation a few days later, he saw his own dubious misgivings reflected back at him.

“It’s a lot to ask of you, Pip,” he said, watching Phillip’s face uneasily. “Tell me now if you don’t think you can do it.”

“Will you ever leave off with that?” Phillip’s cheeks reddened. “It isn’t that. Your ma has been good to me; it’s no bother. I was just thinking that it all sounds a bit … well, crazy. Who is this fecker, after all? You think he knows where your brother is or how to find him?”

“Who the hell knows?” Conor sighed. “Everything that’s to do with my brother turns out to be crazy, it seems. I don’t know if I’ll find him or not, but I feel like I have to try.”

As he wrote out instructions and prepared, they all pretended it was for just a few days, but on the day he left, his mother dropped the charade. He could tell the pain was bad that morning, and the cool damp of the farmhouse didn’t help. He placed a lounge chair on the flagstone terrace behind the house so the late summer sunshine could warm her a bit while he took a quick hike into the upper pasture with his violin.

“Don’t go so far that I can’t hear. I’ll want to remember how it sounded.”

Her soft voice was almost carried away by the morning breeze rolling up from the ocean, but he caught it just in time. Pausing on the sloping hill, he turned to look back, a sudden ache in his throat preventing any reply for several seconds.

“I’ll stay close.” His husky reassurance was too faint for her to hear, but he gave her a nod and a wave of acknowledgment.

He climbed a little farther to a corner alcove created by one of the many intersections in the pasture’s network of stone walls. The spot was one of his favorites. Quiet and intimate, the little corner was sheltered enough to keep the sound from disappearing but airy enough to let it wander among the wall’s cracks and boulders in their endless variety of shapes and sizes.

Conor carefully lifted the rare and valuable Pressenda from its case for their final session together. After some internal debate, he had decided to entrust it to a climate-controlled vault at the local bank rather than leaving it to absorb the variable Irish weather without his regular attentions.

It was impossible to explain the relationship he had with this violin. He’d spent years learning to understand it, adapting to its quirks and changing moods and allowing it to lead him to whatever magic it wanted to project on any given day. It was a conversation that never grew old—one that engaged all his senses. His jawline could register the occasional, temperamental buzz before his ear had discerned it, and from the range of breathed aromas in the wood—thick and loamy in the damp, sharp and spicy in the heat—he could predict the adjustments needed to coax out the sound he wanted.

Lifting it to his shoulder, Conor brought the bow down across its strings in a light, affectionate greeting. A bright answering chord rose from the instrument, pressing up through the morning air. He started with vibrato exercises to loosen his hand and then settled in to the rhythm of his standard technical practice. The scale for the day was the four-octave G major, and the technique was legato. The musical articulation calling for the seamless transition between notes was one he could easily lose himself in, endlessly experimenting with posture, arm movement, and wrist angles while losing all track of time in the process.

Today he was more mindful of the clock and of his mother, who was waiting to hear something more interesting than the G major scale. He limited the practice to ten minutes and spent the rest of the hour running through a number of airs and traditional songs that he knew she would like. He finished by switching genres to play Rachmaninov’s Vocalise, an appropriate piece for that day’s concentration on legato.

The Vocalise was a complex composition concealed within a simple melody. It meandered in a stream-of-consciousness flow, and with a continuous motion, Conor’s bow pulled out phrases that looped and followed each other so closely that it was impossible to tell where one left off and the next began. It was a gorgeous but elusive narrative that escaped entirely in its final seconds, leaving a single note hanging in the air until it thinned and faded.

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.”

He 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.

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