“Calliope? Fuck no. She's so fucking Zen about the whole thing; it makes me want to put a fist through the drywall.” Tox ran a hand over his stubbled head.
Nathan finally released the laugh that had been building. “You know I’m not a Zen guy, but in this case, she's right. Don’t invite trouble. Hell, it's no imposition to keep trying.”
The thought lit Tox's face. “Yeah, that's true. I do enjoy the trying.”
Before Tox could lift himself from the chair to leave, a frantic knock on Nathan's open door had both men looking up. Nathan looked across the room and spotted Twitch holding her laptop and shifting her weight from one pink Converse to the other. “Something's not right, boss.”
“What's up?” Nathan gestured to the other seat.
“We know Cam went to New York to try to get some intel on who was asking about his old identity,” Twitch said.
Nathan nodded along. Tox listened.
“And we know he was planning to meet with his former handler after that to determine how to proceed,” she continued.
Taking the remaining chair, Twitch set her laptop on the opposite side of Nathan's desk and typed as she spoke. “According to Sofria, Cam hasn’t contacted his handler.” Sofria Kirk was a CIA analyst who had helped them in the past. She and Twitch had become good friends.
“I don’t think that's cause for panic,” Nathan said.
“But this is.” She rotated her computer screen so Nathan could see the grid with the blinking dot. “Calls don’t go through, but the tracking chip is functioning.”
Twitch had installed a modified tracking chip on all Bishop Security phones that continued to send a signal for up to two weeks after a phone had been disabled.
“According to this, Cam, or at least his phone, is still in Spanish Harlem at the bar where he was supposed to meet that Luis guy… four hours ago,” Twitch explained, her concern evident.
Nathan texted the Bishop Security office in New York. After dispatching two men uptown to assess the situation, he set his phone on the glass-topped desk and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
“There's no indication he's been blown. The communication was with Miguel Ramirez. For all we know, he met with his contact and went willingly to another location. Whoever it was may have insisted he leave his phone so he couldn’t be tracked,” Nathan offered.
“I also got the info on that license plate,” Twitch added.
She reached for her laptop. Nathan had come to think of it as her security blanket as well as a tool of her trade. She brought up the information.
“The Ford Explorer belongs to a small security firm in Charleston. From the website, it looks like they mostly do event security and some P.I. work. They also need a cybersecurity expert because their firewalls are nonexistent.”
“Any idea who hired them?” Nathan asked.
“I know the who but not the why. Or if Cam was even their target.” She ran her fingers across the keyboard. “The firm currently has three active clients, two out of Charleston and one out of Washington. The DC client is listed as John Smith. Payment was wired from the bank account of Harlan Musgrave.”
Tox sat up in his chair. “Senator Harlan Musgrave?”
Twitch held up her hand. “The job was terminated yesterday.”
Nathan reached for the landline on his desk. “We need to speak with Cam's handler.”
“Um, I’m assuming you don’t just call the CIA's main number and press two for handlers,” Tox remarked.
Nathan chuffed. “Not quite.”
He picked up the handset and dialed. Then put the phone on speaker.
“DDO Sorensen's Office,” A pinched voice announced.
“Is she available? Nathan Bishop calling.”
While Nathan waited for the call to connect, he watched Twitch do a quick search. Her eyebrows shot to her hairline. Jennifer Sorenson was Deputy Director of Operations for National Clandestine Services at the CIA. In government acronym speak, the DDO of NCS.
“Hi, Nathan. How are you?” Jennifer Sorenson greeted.