The Secret Chord: The Virtuosic Spy - Book 2 Read Online Free

instrument had survived the trip uninjured he put it back, fingers brushing over the scroll in shy apology. The last time he'd played had been while standing in a field behind his farmhouse, offering up a traditional air for his mother on the last day he'd seen her alive. That was less than a year ago, and he'd been an entirely different person. What kind of sound would his hands draw from the strings now, after the things they'd done?
    Setting the violin aside, Conor took a pocketknife from the duffel bag and reached again for the insulated case. He sliced along the seam near the bottom, and with two fingers dug inside to retrieve first, a pristine Irish passport and then a U.S. permanent residence visa—a "green card." Tossing both on the window seat he bent to the travel-stained khakis he'd dropped on the floor. From the back pocket he took another Irish passport, this one stippled with airport security stickers and still damp.
    He thumbed through the pages, remembering the carefully disguised fear he'd experienced each time he presented it—in Cardiff, Stuttgart and Belgrade among others, and finally on the US-Canadian border. For the past ten days, his circuitous route and modes of transport had not really been poor planning but a combination of meticulous technique and dumb luck.
    At the fireplace, he marveled at this further instance of good fortune. He quickly assembled paper and kindling, and put a flame to the pile with a long-handled lighter he took from the mantelpiece. Once the fire was burning high and hot, he cast a final glance at his photo and tossed the passport into the flames. It ignited in a burst of light and the cover writhed and curled like a living thing as it melted.
    "Good night, F. James Doyle," he whispered. "Rest in peace."
    Maybe he was foolish to risk using his real name in this new life, but watching his globetrotting alias shrivel into cinders, his spirits rose. It felt good to be Conor McBride again.
    Backing away from the fireplace he dropped wearily into an armchair and reached for the teapot, still hot under its leaf-patterned cozy. He drank off two cups and tried to ignore the craving for a smoke—a habit recently surrendered—then leaned back against the chair and promptly fell asleep.

    I T BEGINS WITH A BOY offering flowers, and he's always a stranger.  
    When he's awake he wonders why he doesn't recognize him, why his sleeping mind can't retain the knowledge of who he is and how the scene ends—but he never remembers. He greets the boy as though seeing him for the first time. A Hindu child. Thin, stunted, dressed raggedly, smiling up at him with a flash of white teeth, cupping a cluster of marigolds in two small hands.
    Don't take the flowers, dammit.
    Why not?
    You know why . . .
    In a featureless void, the boy beams at him. He smiles in return, reaches to pick out one of the dark orange blossoms . . .  
    Now the child disappears, and he is standing in a darkened flat. The one he rented in Dublin. The one Thomas helped him move into on a Saturday afternoon, when everything on the truck was wrapped in plastic because of the bucketing rain. His brother is gone. The flat is empty.
    He stands in the living room holding a Walther semiautomatic pistol in one hand. He's sweating, shivering, and somebody is pounding on the door.  
    "Conor, open the door, now. There's someone wants to see you."
    "Is it Frank? Tell him I won't go."
    "God love you, it isn't Frank."
    The door swings open and his mother stands there with the boy, her hand on his shoulder.
    The small, cupped hands are lifting again and he finally recognizes him—but too late. The snow-covered pine trees in the background come into focus, the forest explodes, and the gun grows hot in his hand.

    Conor bolted to his feet, heart rate still accelerating as he forced himself down to the edge of the chair, sweeping the room with a disoriented stare. He hadn't yelled this time. At least, he didn't think so. Holding his breath he