* * *
I left my car in the hotel parking lot and walked two blocks to the Metro station. I didn’t want to risk losing the rental in the city if things went wrong. No one knew I was out here in Springfield, and I’d be happy letting them assume I stayed in the city somewhere. The train ride took half an hour. I got off at the Farragut West metro station. A few passengers exited the train before me. I followed them through the station, staying close to a group of two men and a woman. Took the stairs up and emerged at the corner of 17th and I Street. I took a moment to get my bearings down. Across the street was the Farragut Park, a city block in length and half a city block in width. The park divided the north and southbound lanes of 17th Street.
I walked two blocks to the west, away from the park, and found Carlito’s. The tinted windows of the restaurant made it impossible to see inside. I crossed the street and walked up to the entrance. A blue neon sign formed the image of a Martini glass with the restaurant’s name next to it. I opened the door and stepped in. A man in a black suit and purple tie stood behind a wooden pulpit and asked for my name.
“I’m meeting someone.”
“Name of the party you’re meeting?”
I didn’t answer. My eyes scanned the occupied tables in the restaurant. Eight couples, four families, a woman eating alone and in the back a single man. I walked toward the single man.
“Sir, you can’t do that.”
I looked over my shoulder. “I found him. It’s all good.” I continued walking, ignoring his protests.
The man at the table looked around the room. His head stopped when he saw me and his back straightened. He looked to be mid-fifties, maybe older. Short gray hair and a gray beard framed his face. He wore a blue sweater and tan slacks. He stood when I reached the table.
“Noble,” he said.
“Conners.”
I sat down on the padded leather bench seat across from him. A wood and glass partition separated us from the table behind me.
“Hungry?” He nodded at the waiter standing beside the table.
“Coffee,” I said to the waiter.
Conners waited a moment then said, “Tell me from the beginning.”
“I have a feeling you already know.”
“That might be true, but I need to hear your version.”
“Why don’t you tell me your version?”
“We can go back and forth all night, Noble. But if you want my help you are going to start from the beginning.”
“What kind of help can you provide me?”
“More than enough.”
“You know where this leads?”
“I think I do.”
“You think or you know?”
Conners sighed and shook his head. “You’re not calling the shots here, Jack. Please, work with me.”
I studied the man’s face. His blue eyes didn’t waver. He slightly tipped his head down and lifted his eyebrows. An outstretched arm and extended fingers reached toward me. He looked like he genuinely wanted to help. I didn’t have much choice but to trust him, so I started from the beginning. I told him about the first six months in Iraq, shifting between different ops teams, each time given less and less responsibility. I told him about the family and Martinez’s behavior and then recounted the scene in the street when Bear and I were mobbed by the group of Iraqi men.
“Wouldn’t being attacked so close to the house be something that might have resulted in retaliation by you?” he asked.
“Why’s that?”
“They were ready to kill you.”
“No,” I said. “They were defending their turf.”
He shrugged and I continued telling him the events in order, as best as I remembered them. Occasionally he stopped me to ask a question or two, but for the most part he nodded as he listened to me rattle off the events of the last few days.
The waiter returned to the table with my cup of coffee while I was telling Conners about Abbot’s murder. I had to stop mid-sentence. I dropped my voice to a scratch above a whisper after the waiter left.
He exhaled loudly after I gave him my version of Abbot’s murder.
“Quite a story, Jack.”
“It’s more than a story.”
“I know.”
“Your turn. Spill.”
He looked around the restaurant.
“I don’t know how much I can tell. In here.” He shrugged. “Now.”
I said nothing and gave him a look that said he had better talk.
“Hey, aren’t you worried about being spotted? Your damn picture was all over the TV and papers here.”
“Stock photo of me in uniform.” I ran my hand through my hair. “Doesn’t look like me with this hair and beard.”
Conners shrugged.
I waited for him to talk while he took a few bites of steak and washed it down with the amber beer in front of him.
I lit a cigarette.
“This is a non-smoking restaurant,” he said through a mouthful of steak as he leaned forward and scanned the restaurant to make sure no one saw me light it, like a lookout in the boy’s room in a high school.
“Don’t care.”
“OK,” he put his fork and knife down on the edge of his plate, “I’ll talk.”
I waited.
“Delaney,” he said. “He gave you something, right?”
I nodded, didn’t say anything.
“Did he tell you where to go next?”
“A bullet stopped him.”
“Not yours, right?”
I cocked my head and didn’t answer.
“Right, I know. OK, so…Delaney, he gave you a, uh, something that leads to something else.” He lifted an eyebrow, waiting for a response.
I nodded.
“Only you don’t know where to take what he gave you?”
I waited for him to continue. When he didn’t, I responded, “That’s right. That’s what I told you a few minutes ago.”
“OK, OK, Jack. I’m just making sure—”
“Cut the crap, Conners. For all we know someone is twenty minutes behind me and is going to open fire in here in a few minutes.”
A couple of diners stopped mid-conversation and looked at me.
I smiled and waved.
“We’re actors. Just rehearsing lines.”
They shook their heads and returned to their conversations.
“Dammit, Jack. Calm down. Let me be thorough.”
I’d grown tired of thorough. I wanted names. I wanted reasons. None of this ‘confirm you did this and that’ crap he kept feeding me.
“Greyhound,” he said.
“The bus line?”
“Yes, the key goes to a locker at the Greyhound station.”
“What’s there?”
Conners clenched his jaw. Thick muscles worked in back and he pursed his lips together. “I don’t know for sure.”
“Who’s there?”
“Don’t know that either.”
“Did you work with Delaney?”
“Yes.”
“Who do you work for?”
“Can’t tell you that.”
I took a sip of coffee. “Why can’t you tell me?”
“Because, officially, we don’t exist.” He waved his hands in the air, partly to be demonstrative and partly to waft the smoke away. “Officially, I don’t exist.”
I nodded while keeping my eyes focused on his. It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility. Even within the known agencies there were departments that didn’t exist. I was attached to one of them. There were also men who didn’t exist, men who were worse than Martinez. Men who did things that people refused to acknowledge could be done in the name of freedom. The things that had to be done to defend that freedom. Nobody wants to think of what actions must be performed to keep them safe.
“Sounds like a cushy position.”
“Jack, you get those documents and call me. I need to take a look at them and then we can figure this out.”
“W
hat’s the locker number?”
He shook his head and looked to the side.
“B915.”
I reached into my pocket, pulled out the key and tossed it at him.
“Here, you go get it yourself then.”
He pushed the keys back to me.
“Don’t be stupid. One call and you’re locked up for life.”
I narrowed my eyes and stared him down for fifteen seconds.
“That’s what this comes down to?”
He slumped over and placed his elbows on the table.
“I’m sorry, Jack. That was uncalled for.”
I said nothing.
“I know where this goes. Most of it at least. And if I go get those documents, and someone is waiting, I’m a dead man. Look at me.” He waved his hands in front of his body. “If I die, then all knowledge of this dies. And you’ll most likely die. As a traitor, too.”
“And if I go there and someone is waiting?”
“You got more than a fifty-fifty chance to take them out.”
I sat back and crossed my arms. There weren’t many possible scenarios, but each one that existed played through my mind. The best option was for me to go to the Greyhound station and retrieve whatever sat inside the locker. I reached across the table and grabbed the key. Slid across the bench and stood next to the table.
“I’ll call you in a few hours.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
I turned and started to walk away.
“Jack,” he said.
I looked over my shoulder.
“Like I said, I know where this goes. If you decide to open those documents, you need to prepare yourself for what’s in there.”
I walked back to the table.
“Where is that?”
Conners shook his head. “I can’t tell you. Not until I know you are one hundred percent on my side.”
“You haven’t figured out that I am?”
“No. Once you return, I’ll know, though.”