The Virtuosic Spy 01 - Deceptive Cadence by Kathryn Guare

“decision trees” the back room planners had constructed. Every question had an answer, every problem a solution.
    Bollocks.
    He had weathered enough life experiences to know the most finely tuned plan could evaporate in an instant. He considered it unlikely that this one would stay intact for very long.
    Low expectations notwithstanding, the first stage of the mission was the least complicated: sit on a plane and wait to be collected outside the arrivals hall. He assumed it was likely to proceed as designed, but in reality, the operation was officially underway less than an hour when it jumped the track. More than the speed, he was startled by the ease with which a random circumstance could make hash out of ten weeks of indoctrination. In this case, the random circumstance took the form of the occupant of seat 51B.
    The first surprise was that seat 51B had an occupant at all. He was in 51A, next to the window, in one of the few rows with only two seats. His instructions for the flight had been unequivocal. He was to remain quiet and anonymous, avoiding unnecessary conversation and making every effort to appear as invisible as possible. He presumed this meant someone had ensured that the aisle seat would remain empty. Surely an intelligence expert of any quality—particularly a British one—would not expect an Irishman to sit next to someone for nine hours without talking.
    No such precaution had been taken, however. Conor therefore felt only partly culpable for the events that began when he turned his head from the in-flight magazine and met the serene, brown-eyed gaze of an older Indian woman. She had materialized soundlessly in the seat next to him and now sat watching him placidly, unmoved by his flinch of surprise. Only her eyebrows twitched with amusement.
    “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know you were there.”
    The woman touched her forehead with the tip of a long, thin finger. “You are deep thinking,” she said, toggling her head from side to side. “I am watching you many, many minutes. Not reading. But so deep thinking.”
    Conor smiled. “I guess you’re right. There wasn’t much in it worth reading.”
    He tucked the magazine into the seat pocket and glanced forward at the plane’s open door. Passengers continued to board at a sluggish pace. He tried looking out the window for a few minutes but finally gave up and turned his attention back to his seat companion.
    Her weathered face was thin and lined, but a thick, gray braid of hair draped over her shoulder gave her a girlish appearance. It was difficult to judge her age; she might have been anywhere between fifty-five and seventy. The voluminous folds of her crimson and gold sari suggested a more substantial frame, but the embroidered length of cloth was not sufficient disguise. She was remarkably small and frail, and despite a gleam in her eyes, she appeared to be in rather poor health. Her breathing sounded labored, whistling in and out with a high-pitched wheeze. And she was still looking at him.
    She was going to be impossible to ignore. With an internal shrug, Conor surrendered to the inevitable, but before he could speak, she leaned forward with a smile.
    “What is your good name, please?” The South Asian intonation added a musical quality to her words.
    “My good name is Con.” He made a conscious attempt not to grimace. “Con Rafferty. And you?”
    “I am Kavita Kotwal.”
    “Shrimati Kavita.” He automatically applied the honorific as he had been taught, which made her beam with surprised pleasure. “ aapse milkar khushi hui . I’m very pleased to meet you.”
    “Yes, very pleased. Also.” She inclined her head in a graceful gesture of greeting. “You are speaking very good Hindi.”
    “I’m sure I don’t do it justice, but I’ve enjoyed learning some of it. It’s a beautiful language.”
    “ Haan . Yes,” she agreed. “In Mumbai, the people are also speaking Marathi and Gujarati. Those you speak