night, she did not notice the black sedan with the tinted windows parked
across the narrow roadway used to pick up or drop off passengers.
Settled into her seat in the battered gray Cadillac with CAJUN CAB
COMPANY stenciled on the side, Sidney loosened the collar of her shirt
and wiped a bit of perspiration from her forehead.
“The LaFitte Guest House, please. Bourbon Street.”
As the cab drifted away from the curb, the sedan waited a moment, then
followed. Inside the sedan Lee Sawyer was filling in the other agents
on the situation, his eyes all the time riveted on the dirty Caddie.
Sidney stared anxiously ‘out the cab window. They left the highway and
headed to the Vieux Carre. In the background the New Orleans skyline
glittered out of the darkness, the massive hump of the Superdome resting
in the foreground.
Bourbon Street was narrow and lined with garish edifices of, by American
standards at least, the “ancient” French Quarter. At this time of the
year, the sixty-six blocks of the Quarter were relatively quiet,
although the smell of beer rose powerfully from the sidewalks as
casually dressed vacationers staggered around carrying large cups of the
stuff. Sidney left the cab in front of the LaFitte Guest House. She
took a quick look up and down the street. No cars were in sight. She
walked up the steps and pushed open the heavy front door.
Inside, the comforting smell of antiques embraced her. To her left was
a large and stylishly decorated drawing room. The night clerk at the
small desk raised his eyebrows slightly at Sidney’s lack of baggage but
smiled and nodded when she explained it was coming later.
She was given the choice of riding the small elevator to the third
floor, but chose the broad staircase instead. Key in hand, she went up
two flights of stairs to her room. Her room contained a four-poster
bed, writing desk, three walls of bookshelves and a Victorian-style
chaise lounge.
Outside, the black sedan pulled into an alleyway half a block down from
the LaFitte Guest House. A man dressed in jeans and a windbreaker
alighted from the rear of the car, walked nonchalantly down the street
and went into the building. Five minutes later he was back in the car.
Lee Sawyer leaned anxiously over the front seat. “What’s going on in
there?”
The man unzipped his windbreaker, revealing the pistol in his waistband.
“Sidney Archer checked in for two days. Room’s on the third floor right
across from the top of the stairs. Said her baggage was coming later.”
The driver looked over at Sawyer. “You think she’s meeting up with
Jason Archer?”
“Let’s put it this way: I’d be damn surprised if she flew down here just
for some R&R,” Sawyer replied.
“What do you want to do?”
“Discreetly surround this place. Jason Archer shows up, we grab him. In
the meantime, let’s see if we can get some surveillance equipment in the
room next to hers. Then see if you can get a tap on her phone line. Use
a male and female team so the Archers don’t get their radar up. Sidney
Archer isn’t someone you want to underestimate.”
Sawyer’s tone was filled with grudging admiration. He looked out the
window. “Let’s get out of here. I don’t want to give Jason Archer any
reason not to show up.” The sedan pulled slowly away.
Sidney Archer sat in the chair by the bed, staring out the window of her
room onto the side balcony of the LaFitte Guest House and awaiting her
husband. She rose and nervously paced the room. She was fairly certain
she had lost the FBI agents in the subway, but she could not be
absolutely sure. If they managed to trace her? She shivered. Ever
since Jason’s phone call had thrown her life into a cataclysm for a
second time, Sidney had felt invisible walls closing in around her.
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