CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Washington, DC
December 9
Nathan and Steady walked into Clancy's just off M Street and waited at the hostess stand. When the young woman in a Georgetown sweatshirt and jeans told them to sit anywhere, Nathan explained they were meeting someone. Steady, with ingrained practice, scanned the dark pub noting the patrons, workers, and entrances and exits. In the back corner sat a man in a dark suit scanning the laminated menu and nursing a draft beer. Nathan cocked his head in that direction, and the two joined the suited man in the booth.
Holding out his hand, the man lifted himself slightly from the vinyl seat. “Bill Turner.”
“Nathan Bishop.” Nathan completed the handshake and hung his cashmere overcoat on the hook next to the booth. “My colleague, Jonah Lockhart.”
“Pleasure.” Bill Turner reached behind the napkin holder to grab two additional menus and handed one to each of them.
Bill Turner was a lifer and looked the part. He was attractive but not handsome, well-dressed but not bespoke, tall but not towering. In short, he was exceptionally unexceptional. Nathan had shared his file on the flight up, and Steady had been impressed. Turner came from a politically connected family, but he had paid his dues. After graduating West Point, attending Ranger School, and serving for eight years, Turner had gone straight to the CIA, working in nearly every area of Intelligence. That was thirty years ago. His outward calm discussing this troubling situation with Cam spoke of a man who had seen it all. Steady ordered burgers for both of them while Nathan spoke to the handler.
Bill Turner dove straight in. “Deputy Director Sorenson filled me in. I have to admit, this is a first. Miguel Ramirez was a valued employee at his former job.” Turner spoke in vague terms. “As you’ve probably discussed, no matter how capable, it's extremely doubtful anyone in that field of work would seek out a specific employee unless it was an independent contractor.” Turner was referring to assassins, which Cam was not.
“We agree. Our first thought was some sort of revenge scenario, but that could have been accomplished without changing locations.” The perps had plenty of opportunities to take Cam out in Harlem.
Turner returned his menu to the slot against the wall and sat back as the waitress set down a chicken pot pie. “I ordered when I got here. Best damn pot pie in D.C.”
Steady eyed the golden pastry as Turner cracked the surface with his fork. “That would have been information worth having,” he grumbled.
Turner blew on a chunk of dripping chicken. “Burgers are excellent too.”
A moment later, Steady had forgotten his pique as he squeezed a puddle of ketchup onto his plate.
Nathan sent a text before setting his phone aside and returning his attention to the table. “Sorry about that. My wife is pregnant, so I’m on call.”
The older man sympathized. “I have five kids. I was only there for the birth of two of them. This work we do…”
Steady nodded. There were a million ways to finish that sentence—satisfying, demanding, soul-crushing, necessary, all-consuming—he agreed with most of them.
Turner set down his fork. “These are the facts.” He withdrew a tablet and spun it to face the men. “A security camera captured three men taking an unconscious Miguel Ramirez out of the bar in Harlem and putting him in a black van.” He hit the play arrow on the screen, and the footage ran. “We picked up the van again on the George Washington Bridge heading to New Jersey. From there, could be anything. He could have been transported to a safe house, taken to an airport. The van hasn’t turned up, but the Harlem contact, Luis Flores?” Turner opened another image. “He was found shot to death in an abandoned strip mall on the outskirts of Newark. Body was discovered by a patrolman doing a routine drive-by just after midnight. Flores took two in the chest. Looks like a thirty-eight, but ballistics hasn’t even started working on it. He had his wallet and watch lifted but was identified at the scene by a medical alert bracelet.”
“This gets weirder by the minute,” Steady commented around his burger.
Turner resumed eating. “Welcome to Intelligence.” Turner said the word like the contronym it was.
“Tell us about The Conductor,” Nathan challenged.
The fork stopped halfway to Turner's mouth. “Cam told you about The Conductor?” He pinched his eyes closed. Steady suspected he was scolding himself for using Cam's real name.
“He did,” Nathan confirmed. “And you know our clearance.”
Turner resumed eating and spoke as if he were chatting about the weather. “The Conductor is a theory, a suspicion that there is a force that controls all illegal global shipping in the world. Everything. Exotic animals, conflict diamonds, chemical weapons, you name it.” He mopped up the sauce on his plate with a dinner roll.
“And The Agency thinks it's one man?” Nathan asked.
“The Agency thinks it's a myth. An all-powerful man with a contraband toll booth who neither steals nor manufactures, doesn’t buy or sell. He simply ensures safe passage. It's quite the niche career. If The Conductor did exist, he’d be busier than a moth in a mitten. We’re talking hundreds of billions of dollars of contraband annually.”
Steady gave a low whistle. “Damn.”
“Makes the biggest online retailers in the world look like mom and pop stores.” Turner sighed. “Look, there have been rumors about this for years: some Russian oligarch or Italian underworld don. Nothing has ever produced any concrete evidence. Why Miguel Ramirez latched onto this conspiracy theory…” He shook his head. “Waste of time.”
Nathan slid his plate to the side and rested his forearms on the table. “Got any theories? Who was looking for Miguel Ramirez?”
Steady noted that Nathan, for whatever reason, had not shared the information about Cam's journal or Harlan Musgrave's interest in acquiring it.