Read Online The Virtuosic Spy 01 - Deceptive Cadence by Kathryn Guare - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Kathryn Guare
Tags: Suspense, Literature & Fiction, Thrillers, Espionage, Mystery, Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, Literary Fiction, International Mystery & Crime, Thrillers & Suspense, British & Irish
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aphorisms are a nightmare to me, because the day I grow comfortable weighing a child’s death against my own survival is the day I will no longer know who the hell I am.”
“The service doesn’t give a damn whether you know who you are, only whether you can act the part.” Her face assumed the flat, expressionless gaze of the model bureaucrat. “This simulation is completed, Mr. McBride. Thank you for your attention and participation. You may go now.”
The control room door slid shut. He heard the muffled conversation of technicians as they powered down the facility. He continued sitting there for several minutes, looking pensively at the locked door. Finally, he levered himself off the floor and walked out into the fresh air.
6
S KIMMING THROUGH THE BRIEFING BOOK SPREAD OUT ON his knees, Conor silently reviewed the details of his alias, absorbing it with the help of some internal commentary.
Briefing profile for Con Rafferty.
Brilliant. I’ve spent half me life telling people not to call me Con.
Okay, then. anyway . . . Con Rafferty. unmarried, thirty- two years old. Born in Dundalk, parents dead, two brothers in Dublin, one sister in Minneapolis. Bachelor in Business Studies, trinity college Dublin, graduate degree . . . right, blah, blah.
Present employment with eco-tourism company, Benefi . . . Benef . . . Hell, I can’t even say it, and I’m supposed to work there. Beneficent tours. There we go. Next item. Position of Director, New Product Development. Assignment to India, investigating the feasibility of trekking tours in Kashmir . . . past assignments . . . countries visited, passport number . . . medical history, inoculations, dangerously allergic to peanuts . . .
Allergic to peanuts?
Conor looked up from the briefing book. “Why am I allergic to peanuts?”
“Aren’t you?” Frank asked.
“No.”
“It’s probably a typo. Different aspects of the profiles get recycled, and details occasionally get missed by the proofreaders.”
“Is that so?” Conor closed the book. “I’m lucky you got my blood type right.”
Considering the hazardous nature of the trip he was to begin, he felt in remarkably good spirits. He was back for one last night in the sumptuous surroundings of the suite at the Lanesborough. After spending ten weeks in the chilly, ascetic quarters of Fort Monckton, he had a greater appreciation for its comfortably snug environment. He was also gratified that some kind of productive action was finally on the horizon.
In contrast with his cheerful mood, Frank was in an uncharacteristically sober frame of mind. He ignored the good-natured dig and indicated the second book near Conor’s elbow.
“The second dossier contains all the information we know about your brother’s activities. Much of it is already familiar to you, but if there is any new information, you should read through it tonight and commit it to memory, because I will be taking back both dossiers in the morning.”
“You can take that one now.” Conor pushed the file across the coffee table. “I took a look before you got here. There’s nothing in there Shelton hasn’t already told me.”
“Excellent.” Frank slipped the documents into his briefcase and looked at him with a skeptical frown. “Have you any concerns? I realize it is a pitifully small amount of information with which to work.”
“I’m fine with it.” Conor smiled. “You, however, seem a bit jumpy, which makes a nice change for me. What’s the story?” “Not at all,” Frank said briskly. His gaze slid away to the floor, and with an abrupt movement, he rose and reached for his coat.
The dodge was transparent and clumsy, handled without any of Frank’s typical feline grace, and Conor had been trained to notice such things. He regarded the aristocratic face with heightened concentration.
“‘Not at all,’ huh? Not too convincing—you’re a bit off your game there, boss. Having second thoughts about me, are you? Wishing
“The service doesn’t give a damn whether you know who you are, only whether you can act the part.” Her face assumed the flat, expressionless gaze of the model bureaucrat. “This simulation is completed, Mr. McBride. Thank you for your attention and participation. You may go now.”
The control room door slid shut. He heard the muffled conversation of technicians as they powered down the facility. He continued sitting there for several minutes, looking pensively at the locked door. Finally, he levered himself off the floor and walked out into the fresh air.
6
S KIMMING THROUGH THE BRIEFING BOOK SPREAD OUT ON his knees, Conor silently reviewed the details of his alias, absorbing it with the help of some internal commentary.
Briefing profile for Con Rafferty.
Brilliant. I’ve spent half me life telling people not to call me Con.
Okay, then. anyway . . . Con Rafferty. unmarried, thirty- two years old. Born in Dundalk, parents dead, two brothers in Dublin, one sister in Minneapolis. Bachelor in Business Studies, trinity college Dublin, graduate degree . . . right, blah, blah.
Present employment with eco-tourism company, Benefi . . . Benef . . . Hell, I can’t even say it, and I’m supposed to work there. Beneficent tours. There we go. Next item. Position of Director, New Product Development. Assignment to India, investigating the feasibility of trekking tours in Kashmir . . . past assignments . . . countries visited, passport number . . . medical history, inoculations, dangerously allergic to peanuts . . .
Allergic to peanuts?
Conor looked up from the briefing book. “Why am I allergic to peanuts?”
“Aren’t you?” Frank asked.
“No.”
“It’s probably a typo. Different aspects of the profiles get recycled, and details occasionally get missed by the proofreaders.”
“Is that so?” Conor closed the book. “I’m lucky you got my blood type right.”
Considering the hazardous nature of the trip he was to begin, he felt in remarkably good spirits. He was back for one last night in the sumptuous surroundings of the suite at the Lanesborough. After spending ten weeks in the chilly, ascetic quarters of Fort Monckton, he had a greater appreciation for its comfortably snug environment. He was also gratified that some kind of productive action was finally on the horizon.
In contrast with his cheerful mood, Frank was in an uncharacteristically sober frame of mind. He ignored the good-natured dig and indicated the second book near Conor’s elbow.
“The second dossier contains all the information we know about your brother’s activities. Much of it is already familiar to you, but if there is any new information, you should read through it tonight and commit it to memory, because I will be taking back both dossiers in the morning.”
“You can take that one now.” Conor pushed the file across the coffee table. “I took a look before you got here. There’s nothing in there Shelton hasn’t already told me.”
“Excellent.” Frank slipped the documents into his briefcase and looked at him with a skeptical frown. “Have you any concerns? I realize it is a pitifully small amount of information with which to work.”
“I’m fine with it.” Conor smiled. “You, however, seem a bit jumpy, which makes a nice change for me. What’s the story?” “Not at all,” Frank said briskly. His gaze slid away to the floor, and with an abrupt movement, he rose and reached for his coat.
The dodge was transparent and clumsy, handled without any of Frank’s typical feline grace, and Conor had been trained to notice such things. He regarded the aristocratic face with heightened concentration.
“‘Not at all,’ huh? Not too convincing—you’re a bit off your game there, boss. Having second thoughts about me, are you? Wishing
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