JC Bannister sat comfortably on the worn leather bench in a booth in the back corner of the bar. He was close enough to see the exit through the back storage room but not close enough to smell the bathroom. The tables around him were lightly populated with the Tuesday evening after work crowd. Lawyers, lobbyists, aides to politicians. Bannister hated D.C.
The man across from him had introduced himself as Mr. Rothstein. Expensive, well tailored, three-piece suit, probably Saville Row in London. Nice shoes to match, likely Italian. Jaeger-LeCoultre Reverso watch that easily cost as much as the suit and shoes combined. It all added up to serious money.
Good for Bannister.
The man was near six feet tall, about the same height as Bannister. Similar swimmer's build but Rothstein was much softer. More slender. Calluses on his hands from the weights at the gym, but lacking the toughness of real work. Which meant neither military nor law enforcement.
Good for Bannister as well.
There was also a discrete and almost imperceptible earwig in Mr. Rothstein's ear, positioned just poorly enough to permit it being seen.
This was bad for Bannister.
JC's team was in place. Joan was positioned near the bar, about twenty-five feet away from the booth Mr. Rothstein and Bannister were at. She had snapped a picture of the client as she returned from her well-timed bathroom trip. Then uploaded it to Duke, who was waiting at the coffee shop around the corner. He had in turn uploaded the program to his own computer network, remotely run facial recognition software on the image and was now reporting back to Joan and Bannister who could hear them through their perfectly positioned and totally invisible earwigs. Gorman, the fourth member of their team, had been shot and killed two days ago in Indonesia.
"Guys, this is not Rothstein. That was his mother's maiden name. Allow me to introduce Mr. Daniel Meier. Power player in D.C. and currently working for the law firm of Blah Blah Meier and Blah. His daddy's firm, it's based in Los Angeles with offices in New York, Miami, Chicago and D.C., which is run by our new friend here. He's thirty-two, unmarried and although wealthy enough to be sitting at this table, holding this meeting, nothing suggests he would be able or even willing to swim in water this deep."
At 5'7" Joan didn't have Bannister's height advantage to look over the crowd. She strolled around the bar scanning for who might be with Mr. Meier. The bar wasn't busy. It took all of a minute before she returned to her previous position. "Nobody sticks out here. Only one eyeing you guys is me."
JC took this all in through his earwig as he continued his conversation with the prospective client.
He took a deep breath.
He was about to begin his hard sell.
He leaned forward, elbows and forearms on the table, hands clasped loosely.
"Listen, Mr. Rothstein," JC said, using the pseudonym for now, "we both know why you called me. You're in way over your head. You have a problem that you don't know how to solve. That's why you're here, talking to me. You see, I am a kind of…fixer. That is the easiest way to describe what I do. People seek me out when they have problems that need to be fixed. Often the solution is someone getting themselves dead."
"So, you're really just a hitman? An assassin? A killer?"
"Well, that's an oversimplification. It's inaccurate and frankly a bit inelegant. I prefer to call myself a solutionist. Sometimes the solution to a person's problem is a dead body. Sometimes dead bodies occur on the path to said solution. But killing is rarely the goal. Solving the problem is."
"So how did you come to be a … solutionist?" Mr. Meier said.
"Through the course of service to my country, I was taught how to kill. I became quite good at it. A specialist, if you will. I don't enjoy killing, but it is a marketable skill, is it not?"
"Well…" Mr. Meier started.
"If it wasn't, we wouldn't be sitting here, having this conversation on a Tuesday night, would we?"
"True." Meier sipped his Scotch. The first time he had done so since the drink was served.
"I do not kill indiscriminately. There are lines that I will not cross. I know my limitations. I work with a loose team of other specialists whose skills compliment my own. Where I have deficiencies, they have strengths, and vice versa."
Duke snorted in JC's earwig. "Loose team, my ass. When was the last time you worked without us, JC? Bolivia? How'd that turn out?"
"Yeah, we're going to have to talk about these imaginary 'deficiencies' one of these days, Bannister," Joan said.
"Regardless" JC continued to both his team and Mr. Meier. "The service my team provides is world class. We have never had an unsatisfied client in the past seven years."
JC had finished his sell. Truthfully, it wasn't that hard of a sell. People who came to him were already looking to buy. Desperation. Fear. Hatred. Those were the big three. Revenge sometimes. Occasionally power. Rarely hope. Rarely.
He knew there would be a couple questions and then the big silence. Usually he would simply let the potential client wait it out, getting over their fear on their own. He never wanted to push a person to contract for his services. It had to be their choice. Their free will to go down this path. So he waited.
"How do you know I'm not a cop?" Mr. Meier asked.
"Three reasons. First, your hands. Too soft for law enforcement."
"Could be FBI. CIA? Military?"
"Hardly. Hands are still too soft. Body too. You exercise. You're fit for an office worker, but neither fit enough nor rough enough to be police or any of those agencies you mentioned."
"What's the second reason?"
"Your clothing. Too expensive. With clothes, shoes, and watch combined, I imagine we're talking almost 20,000 dollars. No agency would put up that kind of money. Maybe Mr. Bond's might." JC smiled as Mr. Meier chuckled. "But you're not 007, are you, Mr. Rothstein?"
"No, no I'm not."
"So I'm guessing executive of some kind. Maybe a politician's aide. Lawyer, perhaps."
Meier's eyes widened ever so slightly. JC knew he could easily beat him at a game of poker.
"And the third?"
"You don't feel like one. You don't have the law enforcement persona."
"Really? What persona do I have, Mr. Bannister?"
It was time to flatter.
JC brought his left hand up to his face, rested his chin on his thumb and let his fingers curl over his upper lip. Pretended to contemplate. All an act.
"Power."
"Power? What power do I have?"
"Hard to say. A lot of power flows around D.C. But you're accustomed to it. Being around it, serving it, dispensing it."
Mr. Meier became quiet and sipped his drink again, enjoying the compliment.
JC would usually let the client continue to stew in their thoughts at this point. But this was not a typical meeting. Mr. Meier's poorly concealed listening device saw to that. It was time to press.
"But this evening, Mr. Rothstein, you're not the one wielding the power, are you?"
"Excuse me?"
"You're not the one in control here, tonight, are you? You are not the decision maker. You do not hold the power of this decision."
"What are you talking about?" said Mr. Meier.
"Say it," Duke whispered.
JC indicated towards Mr. Meier's ear and the barely visible earwig. "Whoever put that in didn't do a good enough job," JC said.
"You're an errand boy, sent by grocery clerks, to collect a bill," Duke whispered one of his favorite movie lines.
"Tells me you have either enough disposable funds to buy some nice toys," JC continued, "or the powerful friends who borrowed it for you didn't listen very well when they were told how to use it."
"Duke, I'm going to beat you when this is done," Joan said.
JC said nothing. He knew Duke's penchant for quoting movie dialogue and his love of Apocalypse Now. And although he would need to scold the younger man later, right now he was more interested in one thing.
Who was the one pulling Meier's strings?
Mr. Meier's face hardened. He had failed in his subterfuge and been exposed by the ones he had been trying to fool. An unusual position in his life. An uncomfortable one. He touched the earwig, pushing it slightly into his ear more. Looked down at the table. Nodded his head. Said, "OK." Then looked back up at Bannister.
"Tomorrow night. Central Library in Arlington on North Quincy. Be there at 6:30. In the north parking lot."
"Tell your boss we will be there, Mr. Meier." JC smiled slightly as he dropped Meier's pseudonym, twisting the knife just a bit.
Mr. Meier froze, eyes flaring. He then slid out of the booth. Stood. Adjusted his 7,000 dollar suit. Checked his 9,000 dollar watch. Looked at JC with poorly concealed irritation and frustration.
"Don't forget to bring your girlfriend at the bar."
JC's smile disappeared.
"Or your friend at the coffee shop next door."
Mr. Meier turned on his heel and left.