Free The Virtuosic Spy 01 - Deceptive Cadence by Kathryn Guare Page B

The two of you have a lot in common, actually, the more I think about it. How does that line go? ‘A riddle wrapped in a mystery.’”
    His voice trailed off as he absently rubbed the silver cross between his fingers, feeling himself drift to an interior place of silence. He allowed the sensation to deepen, letting the ambient sounds of luggage trolleys and clattering silverware drop away into a distant background.
    For as long as he could remember, he had been able to achieve this sort of meditative state quickly and with little effort—a capacity fused into his DNA, apparently—but he did not indulge in it very often. It put him into communion with a phenomenon that was too strong for him—a sensation of pulsing, unbounded consciousness.
    His mother called it chuisle Dé , the “heartbeat of God.” It seemed an apt description for the feeling of being exposed to something relentlessly infinite and exceptionally alive. The experience unnerved him so he tended to avoid it, but he respected the connection it created between the two of them. It was the only thing that ever brought him close to understanding the enigma of Brigid McBride.
    He pulled himself back after a few minutes, and the long breath he drew stuttered with overwhelming sorrow. He looked over at Frank, who was watching him with worried concentration.
    “She’s not expecting to see me again. She didn’t say it in so many words, but she got the point across, and I think she’s probably right. She usually is about these things.”
    “That attitude won’t do, Conor,” Frank said, his frown deepening. “You can only be effective if you go into this with a belief that you will come out of it again.”
    “No, that’s not what I meant.” He saw Frank had misinterpreted the remark. He forced down his grief and cleared his throat. “I don’t want to sound overconfident, because I’m far from it. I’m scared as hell in fact, but I do believe I’ll get back, mostly because she seems to think I will. It’s just . . . well, it’s just not likely to be soon enough—for her.”  
    “Ah. I see.” Frank nodded. “I’m sorry. I wish this could have somehow been made easier for you.”
    “Thank you.” Conor glanced again at the screen above them and saw the gate number for his flight was now posted. “Time to get the show on the road, I suppose.” He drained his glass and rose. “Thanks for the parting glass, Frank. And thank you, for this.” He slipped the necklace over his head and tucked the cross beneath his shirt. “It means a lot. More than you probably realized.”
    “I’m glad of that. You are most welcome,” Frank said.
    “Not that your little packet of dirt isn’t special too,” Conor added with a grin.
    In making their farewells, Frank had a final talisman to bestow, one of his ubiquitous cards, this time with a phone number and password on the back. The implication was clear, and from the briefing dossier he’d reviewed, Conor knew it was a breach of protocol.
    As soon as the wheels left the ground on his flight to Mumbai, he was officially serving under the direct supervision of Agent Curtis Sedgwick. No other intelligence officer had any business providing him with instructions, much less the number to a private, secured phone.
    He took the card without expression, a slight nod of acknowledgment the only indication that he understood. The two men shook hands and parted. He intended to study the information, commit it to memory once he was settled on board, and destroy the card. He didn’t realize as he tucked it into a fold of his wallet that he would never give it another thought.

    O NCE SETTLED INTO his economy-class seat in the rear of the plane, Conor indulged in some jaded speculation about the mission ahead of him. He didn’t expect it to go according to plan.
    The briefing books in their elegant detail gave the illusion of having anticipated every conceivable contingency. There were no dead ends in any of the