Read The Virtuosic Spy 01 - Deceptive Cadence for Free Online

back through Indian intelligence channels. Within two weeks, I had a transcript on my desk detailing the conversation from a two-hour drinking session with your brother at a local Mumbai watering hole. The transcript provided nothing in terms of actionable intelligence, but it persuaded me that you could be precisely what we need for the operation. It took some time convincing others within the service, but I ultimately prevailed.”
    “Again, why?” Conor asked with a weary sigh. “What was in the transcript?”
    “You,” Frank said softly. “You were in the transcript, all through it. They went on for a few hours, most of it inconsequential rubbish, but it always eventually and inexorably led back to the only thing Thomas wanted to talk about, which was you—the brilliant, talented little brother who can do anything, especially with a fiddle in his hands. He may not call or write, Conor, but he thinks about you. Clearly, he thinks about you quite a lot.”
    Although not embarrassed by it, out of some sense of decorum, Conor put a hand over his eyes to hide the sudden swell of emotion. He didn’t see Frank slip from his chair, so the gentle pressure of a hand on his shoulder a moment later startled him. He rubbed his fingers against his eyes and looked up with an apologetic shrug, not trusting his voice.
    “It’s enough for tonight, I think,” Frank said. “Let’s find you a cab. You could do with a good sleep.”

4

    T HE FOLLOWING MORNING , C ONOR WOKE — AS HE ALWAYS DID — at exactly four thirty. He was still tired, but the internal clock regulating the rhythm of his days made no allowance for a break in routine. He had always been an early riser, even during the years in Dublin. Once a farmer, always a farmer, he thought wryly.
    As he shifted onto his back, a hint of warning tickled along his spine. He sat up, wiping the residue of sleep from his eyes, and strained to see in the darkness. The hotel room—a suite, in fact—was appointed in classically English style: tasteful, elegant, and conventional to the last detail. There were large Georgian windows with brocade curtains, and a sitting area in front of the bed with a sofa and chairs arranged around a small fireplace. There was also an unnerving stillness in the room, like a heavy, watchful presence.
    Conor stifled the sound of his breathing and sat listening, trying to interpret the silence. Before he could get a fix on it, the tension released, and the room seemed natural again in its early morning quiet. Still suspicious, he vaulted from the bed and went to the door. Yanking it open, he stepped out and looked up and down the hallway. Empty.
    He closed the door and leaned back against it, drawing a long breath. He was wide-awake now.
    It might not mean anything. He was skittish. It had been an eventful trip so far, and with the company he’d been keeping, it was hardly surprising that his imagination would find something sinister about a quiet room. On the other hand, the feeling was similar to other instances of heightened awareness he sometimes experienced—a faint echo of his mother’s stronger gifts. They usually meant something.
    Whether premonition or paranoia, the feeling was gone. His tensed shoulders relaxed and gently flexed again to propel him from the door. He glanced at the bed, dismissed the idea of returning to it, and looked at the illuminated clock on the bedside table. It was four thirty-three. Frank had promised to return at nine o’clock to reveal the next steps in his implausible engagement as a Crown Servant, and until then, Conor preferred not to think about it.
    He needed distraction, something to compensate for the absence of his morning drill. He went to the window, pushed aside the curtains, and looked out at the misty, half-lit city. It had stopped raining, but the pavement was still wet, darkly reflecting the streetlights with an oily gleam. The scene was not inviting, but he decided to go for a walk anyway. It was