A three-quarters moon together with the multiple streetlights
illuminated the area exceedingly well. Even with that, Sidney didn’t
see the man standing in an alleyway across the street, a small pair of
binoculars held in his hands and pointed in her direction. He was
dressed in the same coat and hat he had been wearing in Charlottesville.
He dutifully watched as Sidney absently scanned the streets below. From
years of pulling this kind of duty, his eyes took in every detail. Her
face, her eyes in particular, was weary. Her neck was long and
graceful, like a model’s, but her neck and shoulders were arched back,
obviously filled with tension. When she turned away from the window, he
lowered his binoculars. A very troubled woman, he concluded. After
having observed the suspicious actions of Jason Archer at the airport
the morning of the plane crash, the man felt Sidney Archer had every
reason to be worried, nervous, perhaps even fearful. He leaned up
against the brick wall and continued his sentinel.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Lee Sawyer was staring out the window of his small apartment in
southeast D.C. In the daylight he would be able to see the dome of
Union Station from his bedroom window. But daylight was still at least
thirty minutes away. Sawyer had not arrived home from investigating the
plane ruelet’s death until almost four-thirty in the morning. He had
allowed himself ten minutes under a hot shower to work out the kinks and
grogginess. Then he had quickly dressed, put on a pot of coffee, cooked
up a couple of eggs and a slice of ham that he probably should have
tossed a week ago and toasted some bread. He ate the simple meal on a
TV tray in his living room, a small table lamp the only light. The
soothing darkness allowed him to sit quietly and think. With the wind
rattling against the windows, Sawyer turned his head to study the simple
configurations of his home. He grimaced. Home? This was not really
his home, although he had been here over a year. Home was in the
tree-lined Virginia suburbs: a split-level with vinyl siding, a two-car
garage and a brick barbecue in the backyard. This small apartment was
where he ate and occasionally slept, mainly because, after the divorce,
it was really the only thing he could afford. But it was not and never
would be his home, despite the few personal effects he had brought with
him, chief of which were the photographs of his four children that
peeked out at him from everywhere. He picked up one of the photos.
Looking back at him was his youngest. Meg–Meg-gie, she was called by
nearly everyone. Blond and good-looking, she had inherited her father’s
height, slender nose and full lips. His career as an FBI agent had
taken off during her formative years and he had been on the road for
much of her adolescence. Paybacks were hell, though. They were not
speaking now. At least she wasn’t. And he, big as he was, and despite
what he did for a living, was too terrified to try anymore. Besides,
how many different ways could you say you were sorry?
He rinsed off the dishes, wiped the sink clean and threw some dirty
laundry in a mesh bag for deposit at the cleaners. He looked around for
anything else that needed to be done. Really there was nothing. He
cracked a weary smile. Just killing time. He checked his watch. Almost
seven. He would leave for the office shortly. Although he had regular
duty shifts, he was typically there at all hours.
Not too difficult to understand, since being an FBI agent was really the
only thing he had left. There would always be another case. Isn’t that
what his wife had said that night? The night their marriage had
disintegrated. She had been right, though, there would always be
another case. In the end, what more could he really ask for or expect?
Tired of waiting, he put on his hat, holstered his gun and walked down
the stairs to his car.
Barely a five-minute ride from Sawyer’s apartment sat the FBI
headquarters building on Pennsylvania Avenue between Ninth and Tenth