CHAPTER NINE
Washington, DC
December 2
The distinguished Senator Harlan Musgrave rapped his knuckles on the file in front of him.
The old, pine desk was modest, dwarfed by the size of the office. It had been his grandfather's desk from his childhood home on their family farm, and Harlan Musgrave made a big show of telling the story to visitors and colleagues. Never forget where you come from. The strength of the tree is from the roots. He said it so often that his assistant, a sycophant named Arlo, unconsciously mouthed the words in awe as his boss spoke them. It was a lie, of course. The closest his grandfather had ever come to a desk was standing before a judge.
He glanced out the window at the low buildings, a blanket of gray promising snow. It was beautiful. It wasn’t merely harsh winters and time that had buffeted the eighteenth and nineteenth-century architecture; like the people of his adopted town, the buildings had been sullied over the years by crime and corruption. He placed his palm flat on the glass, secure in the knowledge that he had contributed substantially to the adulteration.
Musgrave stood and began to pace across the cavernous office. He was a big man in every sense of the word, tall and broad, loud and imposing. He had a limp from an old football injury that he exaggerated when it suited him, but now he wore through the carpet with a steady stride.
He paced when he had a problem. And The Conductor's most recent request was indeed a problem.
Drugs, weapons, women, antiquities, hell, if a goddamned Indonesian white cockatoo was being smuggled in a drainpipe, The Conductor knew about it. And collected. No one, no one, moved illegal goods without going through him. And if they tried, The Conductor arranged for one of the customs agents or CIA officers in his pocket to get a well-deserved bust, which also served to make his people look good.
Power and connections had enabled Musgrave to line his pockets for decades. Bribes, blackmail, graft: nothing was beneath him. It wasn’t, however, until he crossed paths with The Conductor that he realized he had merely been dabbling.
Perhaps crossed paths was not the correct term. He had never actually met The Conductor, never even laid eyes on the man. Communication was handled through assistants and assistants to assistants. Even the one time he had been invited onto the yacht, The Maestro, he hadn’t had the pleasure of an introduction. For twenty hours, he had indulged in every vice the mind could conceive—and even a few he had never imagined. He mingled with models and celebrities and partook in sex and drugs as casually as playing a deck-top game of shuffleboard. When the time came for business, two executive assistants sat with him at a small conference table and outlined expectations and compensation. No phones or electronics of any sort were permitted at the meeting. Harlan correctly surmised that, like him, The Conductor wasn’t foolish enough to presume he was above the law, that his money, ruthlessness, and power had moved him beyond the wingspan of justice. Quite the contrary. Law enforcement evolved as quickly and momentously as crime. The Conductor, with meticulous care, never revealing himself, never trusting anyone, operated in the shadows. He hadn’t evaded law enforcement and government probes by being careless. Musgrave looked on The Conductor with the kind of awe usually reserved for the looks he received from others.
Harlan almost laughed out loud. No one in his world had the slightest suspicion of the dark depths he plumbed. They certainly wouldn’t dare to imagine an association with The Conductor. After all, The Conductor didn’t exist. Harlan made sure of it. The Conductor was a myth, a dark web fairytale, a conspiracy theory, and Harlan Musgrave was paid handsomely to ensure that's how it stayed.
To date, The Conductor's demands had been expected and reasonable, but this most recent request would prove to be a bit more of a challenge. No matter. He may have even relished the opportunity to show The Conductor his power.
Camilo Canto.
Discovering the identity of a NOC officer was next to impossible, but The Conductor had done it. Now Musgrave had been tasked with locating a piece of evidence the spy may have stashed anywhere in the world. That was a bit of a challenge. This spook, Canto, had dirt on The Conductor that must be found and destroyed. The “destroyed” part was easy. It was the “found” aspect of the assignment that was vexing. The best Musgrave had managed up to this point was having Canto followed.
A soft knock on the thick door interrupted his contemplation. His assistant, Arlo, held the exterior knob and leaned into the room. “Senator Musgrave? The Subcommittee on Crime and Terrorism meeting starts in fifteen minutes.”
The senator pasted on a grin. “I’d forget my shoes if my feet didn’t freeze. Thank you, Arlo. I’ll head over shortly.”
Arlo returned his boss's smile and retreated.
Musgrave ran a hand across his smooth jaw, dreading what he was about to do, but there was no way around it. Failing The Conductor was not an option. He returned to his desk, grabbed the cell phone he used for such matters, and placed the call.