home.”
“I know she didn’t spot our cover teams.”
“I didn’t say she did. Her husband and whoever else is involved in this
did. They tipped her and she’s going home.”
“But we checked. The phone call was to her office.”
Sawyer shook his head impatiently. “Phone calls can be diverted.”
“But how did she know to call? Something prearranged?”
“Who knows? She only had that run-in with the shoe shine guy.
You’re sure?”
“That’s it. Played the usual tourist scare on her and then shined her
shoes. He was a street person, clearly enough. Gave her her change and
that was it.”
Sawyer abruptly eyed the man. “Change?”
“Yeah, it was a three-fifty shine. She gave him a five. He gave her a
buck-fifty back. Wouldn’t take her tip.”
Sawyer gripped the dashboard, leaving indentations on the smooth
surface. “Damn, that was it.”
The driver looked bewildered. “He only gave her the change back. I got
a clear look through my lens. We heard every word they said.”
“Let me guess. He gave her a fifty-cent piece instead of two quarters,
right?”
The man gaped. “How’d you know that?”
Sawyer sighed. “How many street people you know who would refuse a
buck-fifty tip and then happen to have a fifty-cent piece all ready to
give as change? And doesn’t it strike you as odd in the first place
that it was three-fifty for the shine as opposed to three or four bucks?
Why three-fifty?”
“So you gotta make change.” The driver sounded depressed now that the
truth was dawning on him.
“Message taped to the coin.” Sawyer stared glumly ahead at the rear of
Sidney Archer’s cab. “Pick up our generous shoe shine man.
Just maybe he can manage a description of whoever hired him.”
Sawyer wasn’t holding our much hope on that one.
The cars sailed toward the airport. Sawyer endured the short ride in
silence, staring out the window at brightly painted jets roaring
overhead. An hour later he boarded a private FBI jet for the trip back
to Washington. Sidney’s nonstop flight had already left. No FBI agents
boarded her plane. Sawyer and his men had reviewed the passenger
manifest and diligently watched every person board the aircraft. Jason
Archer was not among them. Nothing could occur on the flight back, they
were confident. They didn’t want to tip their hand even more to an
already alerted Sidney. They would pick up her trail at National
Airport.
The private jet carrying Sawyer and several other FBI agents accelerated
down the runway and lifted off into the dark sky over New Orleans.
Sawyer began to wonder what the hell had just happened.
Why the trip in the first place? It just didn’t make any sense. Then
his mouth dropped open. The muck had suddenly become just a shade
clearer. But he had also made a mistake, maybe a big one.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Sidney Archer sipped her coffee while the beverage cart made its way
down the rest of the aisle. She was reaching to pick at the sandwich on
her tray when the blue markings on the paper napkin caught her eye. She
focused on the writing, a jolt went through her, and she almost spilled
her coffee.
The FBI are not on the plane. We need to talk.
The napkin was on the right side of her tray and her gaze automatically
swerved in that direction. For a moment she couldn’t even think. Then
recognition slowly came to her. The man was casually drinking his soda
while munching on his meal. Thinning reddish blond hair gave way to a
long, clean-shaven face that had more than its share of worry lines. The
man looked mid-forties and was dressed in chino pants and a white shirt.
A six-footer, he had his long legs partly stuck out into the aisle. He
finally put down the soda, patted his mouth with a napkin and turned to
her.
“You’ve been following me,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
“In Charlottesville.”
“I’m afraid that’s not the only place. Actually, I’ve kept you under
surveillance since shortly after the plane crash.”
Sidney’s hand flew to the attendant button.
“I wouldn’t do that.”