CHAPTER TWO
Ten nautical miles off the coast of Sevastopol, Crimea
November 21
The Maestro bobbed peacefully in the heart of the Black Sea. At a mere twenty-four meters, the flybridge pocket yacht was luxurious but unobtrusive—megayachts were not an uncommon sight in these waters.
Clad in an impeccably tailored Armani suit, The Conductor sat alone at the head of a lacquered cherry wood dining table and cut into a rare filet. Juices flowed onto the plate surrounding the complements to the meat—beet salad and seasoned potatoes.
Standing at attention in the corner of the room, a leggy assistant, in a green dress just long enough to be within the bounds of propriety, eyed her boss with obvious interest. Nothing would come of the invitation. It wasn’t the assistant's employment status or appearance that precluded consummation; it was the simple fact that desire alone was enough to keep her loyal. Sex was a weapon for The Conductor; better to conserve ammunition when one could.
Strains of Prokofiev filled the small room, the music both invigorating and soothing. It was a far more pleasant sound than the crunch of bones and the cries of pain from the interrogation taking place one deck below.
Over the past several hours, a bloody-knuckled man had appeared at the doorway three times and uttered only two words each time: still nothing. Nevertheless, the information would be obtained. The truth agent and roughing up were simply the prelude. It was time for the finale.
When the meal had been consumed and the plates cleared, the assistant sauntered to the table and placed a single photograph on the gleaming wood. In the picture, a smiling, dark-haired girl of about six or seven held the hand of a woman on a tree-lined street, a school bus in the background. The street sign on the corner read “Birchwood Lane.” Pleased, The Conductor slipped the photo into a pin-striped pocket.
“The CIA can teach you all the resistance tactics they want. There's no defense against love.”
Raymond Greene didn’t have long to live. Raymond knew it, and The Conductor knew it. Drugged and pummeled, the CIA officer sat tied to a chair, staring at the opposite wall. Greene hadn’t uttered one word. Admirable.
Not one to mince words or waste time, The Conductor grabbed a folding chair from against the wall, opened it, and took a seat directly in front of Greene, whose eyes widened slightly in recognition.
“Officer Greene, your country is grateful for your service. So what do you say we end this suffering?”
Greene remained stoic, returning his gaze to the far wall, but The Conductor felt the aura of defeat blanket the man; he was waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“Two people are going to die as a result of this encounter. One of them is you. The question is, who will be the other. Will it be the man whose name you refuse to tell me? Or…”
Holding the photograph up for Greene to see, The Conductor sounded like a game show emcee introducing a contestant. “Will it be Lily Marie Pope? Lily lives with her mother, Teresa Pope, at 4214 Birchwood Lane, Springfield, Kansas. She is a first-grader at Parsons Elementary and loves soccer and Peppa Pig.”
It was then Greene broke. The Conductor waited.
“You’ll leave her alone?” Greene spoke to the floor.
“Like I never knew she existed.”
Eyes squeezed shut, chin to chest, Greene's words were barely audible. “His name is Miguel Ramirez.”
“That's his alias. What do they call it at The CIA? His legend? I want to know his real name.”
“Miguel Ramirez. That's all I know.” Greene bit out, tears dripping down his face.
The Conductor stood and patted the man's shoulder, then instructed, “William, arrange for the execution of Lily and Theresa Pope.”
“Wait!” Greene shouted.
An underwater silence blanketed the room. Then Greene groaned, “His name is Camilo Canto.”
“He is hunting me, yes?”
Greene grunted his affirmative.
“What evidence does he possess?”
Greene's voice dripped with venom. “He has a log of detailed notes and a video of a meeting on this ship in Morocco.”
After giving a slight nod to the man in the corner, Greene's captor stood and left the room.
After waiting in the hall for the sound of the suppressed round, The Conductor walked the narrow passage of the yacht and entered a stateroom akin to a hotel penthouse. The office was luxurious and masculine, with rich burgundy walls and dark maple wainscoting. Paintings of ships at sea and photos of sport fishing decorated the walls and bookshelves. A humidor sat at the corner of the desk. On paper, the yacht belonged to a Russian oil exporter, a family friend. No one tracing the vessel's ownership would find any meaningful connection—if anyone ever got that far.
Now to the matter at hand. This type of situation was part and parcel of this business. The secret was stamping out the small flames before they grew into wildfires. This wasn’t the first time an American CIA officer—or SIS or Mossad or the SVF—had poked a nose into the myth of The Conductor: a lone oligarch who held the reins of all international black market shipping. It was, however, the first time an operative had discovered any sort of proof. Camilo Canto most likely didn’t even realize what he had. If that video saw the light of day, the entire house of cards could collapse. Camilo Canto had sealed his fate when he recorded the activity on The Maestro that day; he would soon be nothing more than a plaque on the wall at Langley.
The Conductor stared out at the calm, dark water of the Black Sea in contemplation. This world of international trafficking was not unlike a symphony. The politicians were the percussion, banging fists and pounding desks—law enforcement, the woodwinds: subtle and pervasive. The smugglers were the brass: bold and obvious, and the logistics were the strings, winding through every movement, every measure with beautiful complexity. And there, at the front of the stage, leading them all from sonata to rondo, was The Conductor.
Camilo Canto. He should have been eliminated a year ago with a bullet between the eyes. Now, the entire situation had to be handled with the utmost care. People died or disappeared every day in this world, but a CIA officer was a different story. The dead man down the hall would already be a catalyst for suspicion—no need to add to that. The spy couldn’t be killed until the evidence was found and destroyed, and Canto's demise had to be far, far removed from the myth of The Conductor. With Canto otherwise occupied, the journal and the video could be located and eliminated. Fortunately, a delightful way to divert suspicion had already presented itself. Camilo Canto, a.k.a. Miguel Ramirez, was going to put his stud services to use on Mallorca. On top of that, he was also going to take care of a particularly irritating problem that had sprouted—pulling two weeds with one yank, as they say.
A rustling in the adjacent bedroom and a flash of green fabric fluttering to the carpet seemed to indicate the long-legged assistant was showing some initiative. Well, it had been a long day; perhaps a little relaxation was in order. Soon, the baton would tap the music stand, and The Conductor would make the musicians play.