Turner tapped the flat of his fork on the table. “That's the sixty-four thousand dollar question. We monitored chatter about Miguel; that's protocol. Nothing set off alarm bells. After Dario Sava was killed—congratulate your sniper for me by the way, one less scumbag in the world—a few of his soldiers were sniffing around. Most likely recruiting Sava's men, trying to snatch up the remnants of his empire. As expected, some people Miguel encountered ran background checks on him. Oh, and there's the woman.”
“Who?” Steady asked.
Turner opened the briefcase on the seat beside him and withdrew a file. “As I said, over the past year, there have been numerous inquiries about Miguel Ramirez.” He chuckled. “I’m sorry, I know this isn’t a laughing matter, but a woman who made no attempt to disguise her actions has also been looking for him. I don’t know what the hell our boy does in the bedroom, but it seems he makes a lasting impression.” He slid the file to Nathan. “All relevant chatter is detailed and without redaction.”
Nathan tapped the file. “Mind if I borrow this?”
“It's all yours,” Turner complied. “Makes for some fascinating reading.”
“Thanks.” Nathan slipped the file into his briefcase.
Turner stood and threw some cash on the table. “This situation has spawned one hare-brained theory after the next. If you come up with a dog that will hunt, let me know.” With that, the CIA handler shook both men's hands, gave a small salute, and left.
“You really think some whacko broad kidnapped our boy?” Steady asked.
“I don’t know what to think, but I have a feeling there's more going on here than meets the eye.” Nathan added some money to Turner's contribution and stood. “Let's head back to the plane and take a closer look at this file.”
“Copy that.” Together the two men walked out into the cold Washington day.