Total Control (33 page)

Jason's instructions, however, had been explicit and she intended to follow them. She adhered fiercely to the belief that her husband had done nothing wrong, which he had assured her was correct. He needed her help; that was why she had boarded that plane and was presently pacing a quaint room in the most famous Louisiana city.

She still had faith in her husband, despite events that, she had to admit, had shaken that faith, and nothing short of death would stop her from helping him. Death? Her husband had escaped its complicated tentacles one time already. From the sound of his voice, she had nagging doubts about his present safety. He was unable to give her many details. Not over the phone. Only in person, he had said.

She so wanted to see him, to touch him, to confirm for herself that he was not an apparition.

She sat down in the chair and stared out the open window. A refreshing breeze helped to dispel the humidity. She did not hear a couple in their mid-thirties, courtesy of the FBI's New Orleans field office, move into the room next to hers. With her phone line tapped and listening devices set up in the adjoining suite recording every sound from her room, Sidney Archer finally nodded off in the chair around one in the morning. Jason Archer had still not come.

The house was dark. A layer of new-fallen snow shone under the radiant eye of a full moon. The figure alighted from the nearby woods and approached the home from the rear. A few moments at the back door and the old lock succumbed to the skillful manipulations of the darkly clad intruder. Snow boots were removed and left outside the back door. A few moments later a single arc of light cut through the deserted house. Sidney Archer's parents and Amy had left to go back to the Pattersons' home shortly after Sidney had departed for her trip.

The intruder went straight to Jason Archer's home office. The room's window looked out onto the backyard rather than the street, so the figure risked turning on the desk lamp. Several minutes were spent thoroughly searching the desk and stacks of computer floppies.

Then Jason Archer's computer system was turned on. A search was made of all files on the database. Each floppy was submitted to a detailed review. With that completed, the figure slipped a hand inside the dark jacket and extracted a floppy disk of his own. This was inserted into the computer's disk drive. After several minutes the task was complete. The "sniffer" software now existing on Jason's computer would effectively capture everything coming across its threshold. Within five minutes the house was once again empty. The footprints from the edge of the woods to the back door had been obliterated.

Unknown to the Archers' nocturnal visitor, Bill Patterson had accomplished one task, however innocently, before leaving for his Hanover home. While he backed his car out of the driveway, he had eyed the familiar red, white and blue truck stopping in front of his daughter's house. After the mail truck had departed, Patterson had hesitated and then arrived at his decision. Save his daughter the trouble, anyway. He glanced at a few of the items before depositing the pile of mail in a plastic bag. He turned toward the house and then remembered he had already locked it up and the keys were in his wife's purse. The garage door was unlocked, however. Patterson went in the garage, opened the door of the Explorer and placed the bag on the front seat. He locked the car door and then pulled down the garage door and locked it.

About midway down in the stack of mail and unnoticed by Patterson was a soft-sided package specifically designed with built-in padding to send fragile items safely through the postal system. The handwriting on the package would have been familiar to Sidney Archer at even a passing glance.

Jason Archer had mailed the computer disk to himself.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Across the street from the LaFitte Guest House, Lee Sawyer stared at the old hotel through the darkened window of the room he was occupying. The FBI had set up their surveillance headquarters in an abandoned brick building its owner was planning to renovate in a year or so. Sawyer sipped hot coffee and looked at his watch. Six-thirty A.M. Raindrops clattered against the window as a chilly early morning shower invaded the area.

Next to the window stood a tripod with a camera attached. The long-range lens was almost a foot long. The only pictures snapped thus far had been of the LaFitte Guest House's entryway and only to gauge focus, distance and lighting. Sawyer walked over and looked down at the series of photos on the table. The pictures did neither the face nor the emerald eyes justice. Sidney Archer had been photographed by the New Orleans FBI field office upon exiting the airport.

Despite her ignorance, she looked almost posed for the camera.

Her countenance was lovely, the hair full and luxuriant. Sawyer gently traced the slender nose down to the full lips. With a start he jerked his hand away from the photograph and looked around, embarrassed. Fortunately, none of the other agents in the room had been paying attention to what he was doing.

He surveyed the rest of the room. The long table was set up in the middle of the large and practically empty space with bare brick walls, dark-timbered ceilings and filthy floors. Twin PCs occupied the most prominent space on the table. A tape-recording machine was next to them. Several of the local bureau agents manned the machines.

One young agent caught Sawyer's eye and removed his headphones.

"Our people are all in place. From the sounds of it, she's probably still asleep."

Sawyer nodded slowly and turned to look back out the window once again. His men had ascertained that five other guest rooms were occupied in the small hotel. All couples. None of the males matched Jason Archer's description.

The next few hours passed slowly. Used to long stakeouts that netted little except a sour stomach and an aching back, Sawyer was unfazed by the tedium.

The young agent was listening intently to his headphones. "She's exiting her room right now."

Sawyer stood up, stretched and again looked at his watch. "Eleven A.M. Maybe she's going for a late breakfast."

"How do you want to handle the surveillance?"

Sawyer considered for a moment. "As we discussed. Two teams.

Use the woman from the room next door as one and a pair as the other. They can alternate on the surveillance. Tell them to look sharp. Archer's gonna be on her guard. Keep in radio communication at all times. Remember, she doesn't have any luggage at the hotel. So tell them to be ready for any mode of transportation, including Archer jumping on another plane. Make sure you got vehicles nearby at all times."

"Right."

Sawyer looked out the window again while his instructions were relayed to the teams of agents. He had a feeling about all of this he couldn't quite pin down. Why New Orleans? Why, on the same day the FBI had interrogated her, would she risk something like this?

He abruptly stopped his musings as Sidney Archer appeared on the front steps of the LaFitte Guest House. She looked back over her shoulder, her eyes filled with barely concealed fright; that look was instantly familiar to the FBI agent. A quiver went up Sawyer's spine as he suddenly realized where he had seen Sidney Archer before: at the crash site. He raced across the room and snatched up a phone.

Sidney was wearing her white coat, testament to how the temperature had dropped. She had managed to check the guest registry without the clerk observing her. There had been only one check-in after her. A couple from Ames, Iowa, was in the room next to hers. The check-in time must have been near midnight if not after. It didn't strike her as likely that a couple from the Midwest would be checking into a hotel at about the hour they would normally be entering REM sleep patterns. That she had not heard them move into the room raised her suspicions even more. Weary travelers arriving at midnight were usually not so understanding of their fellow lodgers. She had to assume that the FBI was next door to her and probably watching the entire area. Despite her precautions, they had found her. It was hardly surprising, she had to remind herself as she walked along the mostly deserted streets. The FBI did this for a living. She didn't. And if the FBI closed in? Well, she had decided from the moment she learned her husband was alive that his chances of keeping that life intact would be considerably enhanced if he would place himself in the hands of the authorities.

Sawyer paced the room, hands shoved in his pockets. He had drunk so much coffee he could feel his bladder shooting nasty signals at him. The phone rang. The young agent answered it, identified the caller as Ray Jackson, and then handed it over to Sawyer, who took off his headphones.

"Yeah?" Sawyer's voice was vibrating with anticipation. He rubbed at his bloodshot eyes; a quarter century of pulling this kind of duty didn't make it any easier on the body.

"So how's the Big Easy?" Ray Jackson sounded fresh and alert.

Sawyer looked around at the crumbling surroundings. "Well, from where I'm standing, it's sorely in need of a broom and some paint."

Jackson chuckled. "Well, your tracking down Sidney Archer at the airport is already the stuff of legend around here. I still don't know how you did it."

"Yeah, but I'm afraid I just wore my lucky rabbit's foot clean out with that one, Ray. Tell me you got something for me." Sawyer switched the receiver to his right ear and stretched his left arm until a cramp worked itself loose.

"You bet I do. Want to guess?"

"Ray, I love you, man, I really do, but my bed last night was a sleeping bag on a cold floor, and there's not one part of my body that doesn't ache. On top of that I've got no clean underwear, so unless you want me to shoot you on sight when I get back, start talking."

"Stay cool, big guy. Okay, you were absolutely right, Sidney Archer did visit the crash site in the middle of the night."

"You're sure?" Sawyer was convinced he was right, but years of habit required independent substantiation.

"One of the local cops..." Sawyer heard papers being shuffled over the phone line, "Deputy Eugene McKenna, wasn duty that night when Sidney Archer pulls up. McKenna thinks she's just a curiosity-seeker and tells her to head on out, but then she tells him about her husband being on the plane. She just wants to look around; she's all broken up. McKenna feels sorry for her, you know, driving all night to get there and all. He checks her out, confirms she is who she says she is and then drives her up near the crash site so she can at least watch what's going on." Jackson paused.

Sawyer was irritable. "So how the hell does that help us?"

"Man, you are grouchy. I'm getting to that. On the drive up, Archer asks about a canvas bag with her husband's initials on it. She had seen it on TV. I guess it had been thrown off in the crash and was found and put with the other collected debris. Bottom line: She wanted to get that bag."

Sawyer sat down, looked out the window and then refocused on the phone. "What did McKenna tell her?"

"That it was evidence and wasn't even on-site anymore. That she'd probably get it back after the investigation was complete but that that would be a while, maybe years."

Sawyer stood up and absentmindedly poured himself another cup of coffee from the pot on the hot plate while he worked through this latest development. His bladder would just have to deal with it.

"Ray, what exactly did McKenna say about Archer's appearance that night?"

"I know what you're thinking. Did she really believe her husband was on that plane? McKenna said if she was faking, she'd make Katharine Hepburn look like the world's worst actress."

"Okay, we'll let that ride for now. What about the bag? You got it?"

"Damn straight. Right on my desk here."

"And?" Sawyer's shoulders tensed, then dropped just as suddenly at his partner's response.

"Nothing. At least nothing we can find. The lab's been through it three times. Just some clothes, a couple of travel books. Notepad with nothing written on it. No surprises, Lee."

"Why would she drive all that way in the middle of the night for that?"

"Well, maybe there was supposed to be something in it, but there wasn't."

"That would figure if her husband was double-crossing her."

"How's that?"

Sawyer sipped his coffee and then stood up. "If Archer is on the run, one would think he is either planning to bring his family along at a later date or dump them. Right?"

"Okay, I'm following you."

"So if his wife thought he was on that plane, maybe on the initial leg of his getaway run, then that would jibe with her being despondent over the plane crash. She really thinks he's dead."

"But the money?"

"Right. If Sidney Archer knew what her husband had done, maybe had even helped him pull it off somehow, she would want to get her hands on the money. It would help get her over her grief, I'm thinking. Then she sees the bag on TV."

"But what could be in the bag? Not the cash."

"No, but it could have been something to point her in the direction of the money. Archer was a computer whiz. Maybe the location of a computer file on a floppy where all the info on the money is stored. A Swiss bank account number. An airport locker key card. It could be anything, Ray."

"Well, we didn't find anything remotely like that."

"It wouldn't necessarily be in that bag. She saw it on TV and thought she could get her hands on it."

"So you really think she was in on this thing from the get-go?"

Sawyer sat back down wearily. "I don't know, Ray. I've got no strong feeling either way on it." That wasn't exactly true, but Sawyer had no desire to discuss certain disturbing thoughts with his partner.

"So what about the plane crash? How does that tie in?"

Sawyer's response was abrupt. "Who knows if it does? They could be unrelated. Maybe he paid to have it sabotaged to cover his tracks.

That's what Frank Hardy thinks happened." Sawyer had stepped over to the window while he was speaking. What he saw on the street outside made him want to end the phone call quickly.