CHAPTER FORTY
Washington, DC
December 14
Harlan Musgrave stepped out of the shower and smelled coffee. That was odd. He had spoken to his wife the night before; she was still in Florida, and he was usually out the door before the housekeeping staff arrived. Perhaps Maria has set the timer on the machine. Donning a tan suit and red tie, Musgrave trotted down the central staircase and walked back to the kitchen.
A man Musgrave had never seen was sitting at the granite island sipping coffee from a travel mug and scanning a paper copy of The Washington Post. A momentary thought flashed through Musgrave's head that he was in the wrong house. Sanity quickly returned.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Musgrave demanded.
“Good morning, Senator.” The man set the newspaper aside.
There was a security panic button on the wall within reach, but Musgrave waited.
“Do I need to repeat myself?” he demanded.
“I have a message for you from The Conductor. The progress you have made retrieving the items is unacceptable.”
Musgrave tried valiantly to look like he wasn’t terrified. “It's being handled.”
The man finished the coffee, refilled the mug, and returned his attention to Musgrave. “You have seventy-two hours, or The Conductor will be forced to explore alternative avenues.” He folded the newspaper, tucked it under his arm, and, coffee in hand, walked out the back door.
Musgrave checked through the window to make sure the man was gone, then he slid down the wall onto the kitchen floor and cried.
Senator Musgrave sat behind his old, storied desk in the coveted corner suite in the Russell Senate Office Building. He was uncharacteristically short-tempered.
Rather than use the intercom, Musgrave simply shouted toward the door. “Arlo, where the hell is that slick bastard?”
The heavy door opened wide enough for a face, and Arlo poked his head into the room. “Security just alerted me that he's in the building. He should be here any minute.”
“Send him straight through. I don’t have time for this shit,” Musgrave barked.
“Of course, sir.” Arlo frowned at his boss's unusual tone and retracted his head.
A moment later, the distinguished man, carrying a leather briefcase and dressed in yet another impeccable suit, stood in the doorway. He entered and took the seat opposite Musgrave's desk without being prompted.
“About time,” Musgrave snapped.
In a blatant show of disrespect, Caleb Cain crossed his legs and pulled his phone out of his breast pocket to check his texts.
“I was in D.C. on another matter,” he tossed out. “You’re lucky I could come as quickly as I did.” He made a show of checking the time on the Breitling that circled his wrist.
“The timeline has shortened. I need Canto's journal and flash drive yesterday.”
At the look of surprise on Caleb Cain's face, Musgrave huffed, “What? You think I shouldn’t discuss business in my office? Trust me; this is by far the safest place. The Feds can bug my townhouse; they can listen in at a table in a restaurant or capture a conversation in a park. But here? Do you know how hard it is to surveil the office of a United States Senator? Shit, I could plan to assassinate that asshole up the street,” he jerked his head in the direction of The White House, “and nobody would ever know.”
The senator withdrew a bottle of bourbon from the bottom drawer of his desk and doctored his coffee. “Snort?” He pointed the bottle at Cain.
“No.”
“Where are you with this?”
Without missing a beat, Caleb Cain pulled the briefcase onto his lap and, touching his thumbs to the biometric locks, opened it. He placed the worn leather book on the desk.
Musgrave flipped through the diary pages; it was quite obviously the evidence The Conductor was eager to destroy.
“The flash drive is in the spine,” Cain explained.