here.”
“Beg pardon?”
“Archer'll set her up as bait for Manelli. The last thing in this life Sam Manelli is going to do is admit killing anyone, especially to her. I'd venture to say, after the FBI's been trying for forty years to get him on anything, Archer knows that, too. Say Sam's brain-dead enough, or wants to kill her bad enough, to actually meet with her. The question is what is better for the FBI? A recording of Manelli admitting to being behind the killings? Sam threatening to kill her? Him making an attempt on her life? Or the FBI catching the old bastard in the room with her still-warm body?”
“No contest,” Hank admitted, without looking from the computer's screen.
“The only thing better for everybody concerned is if a desperate Sam Manelli, who has just killed this woman, is then killed in a gunfight with Archer's adrenaline-revved SWAT team. Even if I wanted to turn my back on her, and I don't, Fifteen isn't going to sit still as long as there's a chance I'll help people find him.”
“You never did know when to quit a thing,” Hank said. “I expect if anybody can do something about this Fifteen character, it'll be Shapiro, not you.”
“You can walk away from this, Hank.”
“I was never good at knowing when to quit a thing, either. Let's see what Shapiro thinks,” Hank said. “He's online.”
Hank pecked at the keyboard using his index fingers.
Winter's here.
“You best do this, Winter.”
Trammel put the laptop on the coffee table in front of Winter. Shapiro had answered,
I want everything Winter has.
He typed for ten minutes, relaying what he had learned that was relevant, even describing Fifteen and his threats against his family. He told Shapiro that he believed it was possible Archer got his fabricated evidence from the CIA, which was protecting Fifteen's dark operatives. He told his director that, although he had no proof, he believed the FBI was still working with the CIA.
Shapiro typed:
Good work, Winter. I'll figure out how I can best use your information. You've earned yourself a rest. Take the plane and go home.
Winter wasn't finished. He typed:
Sir, after all we've lost trying to protect Sean, I don't see how we can throw away our investment now. Winter-obviously we have no authority to interfere in the operation of another agency. At this juncture I don't know how to get around that.
Winter had already worked out his response:
Maybe I could stage a training exercise for a few of the local deputy marshals to study surveillance methods of other law enforcement agencies, with a possible recovery of a hostage from a hostile environment thrown in.
Shapiro's answer was:
Practice makes perfect. Chet Long will supply whatever you require.
Five minutes later, Chet Long, the chief deputy U.S. marshal for the New Orleans district, called to say he'd be there in ten minutes for a pow-wow and that he had pulled all of his available deputies off what they were working on and had them collecting to await Winter's orders.
Winter used Hank's cell phone to call Lydia.
“Sorry for scaring you, Mama.”
“Hank's there with you?”
“I'm looking right at him.”
“Winter, is everything all right?”
“Never better, Mama. I expect I'll see you guys tomorrow or the next day.”
“Take your time,” she said, as cheerfully as she could.
89
Fred Archer punched Johnny Russo's telephone number into a pad on the portable panel's keyboard. Sean wore a set of earphones outfitted with a microphone. A city-traffic sound track played in the background. Archer sat across the panel from her, wearing the second set of earphones.
Russo answered immediately. “Yeah?”
“Where's Sam?” Sean said.
Sam's voice came on the line, causing Sean to jerk involuntarily. “Why didn't you come to see me instead of this telephone thing?”
Overwhelmed for a second, she didn't know what to say.
“I hear that somebody's been messin' around with you,” Sam said.
“That's a surprise?” Sean retorted, feeling genuine anger. “They came to an island, then they followed me to another city, and you're telling me you don't know anything about that?”
There was a long silence, during which Sean could hear Sam's raspy breathing. She knew he wouldn't say anything that could be played back to him in court.
“I don't know nothing about any of that. Sounds like one of them shoot-'em-up movies or something else crazy. You can tell me all about whatever this is when I see you.”
“When I see you? Aren't you listening? My marriage ended suddenly and those aren't suitors chasing me all over. The cops are blaming me for that big mess at the hotel in Richmond last night. If they get me or you do, it's all the same.”
“You afraid of me?” There was something that sounded like concern in his tone, Sean wasn't that easily fooled. Snakes seem perfectly harmless until they bare their fangs.
“I have nothing to lose. I have no place to go and no means to get there. If we don't get this straightened out-”
“I said I'd fix it,” Sam told her impatiently.
Archer motioned for her to set a time for the meeting.
“Tell me where you at now and I'll have someone come pick you up.”
Archer nodded vigorously at her. Sean had done as he said and let Sam insist that she come see him, not have him believe she was the one who desired a meeting.
“I'll meet you at the old Maison Blanche garage. I'll be in a purple Chrysler convertible.”
“Herb will pick you up in an hour on the fourth level. He'll bring you to the house and we can talk about what's up and I'll take care of everything.”
An hour? Before Sean could ask for more time, Archer ended the call by flipping a switch on the board.
“We got work to do,” he told her.
“One hour?” Sean snapped, jerking the headset off. “Are you nuts? You can have all of those safeguards you been jabbering about in place in an hour? You said it would take time to make sure everything was ready. You're as crazy as Manelli is.”
“He's always been suspicious,” Archer said calmly. “If we give him more time he'll start working his channels; he might find out we're here and queer the deal. We can be ready in one hour. Right, Agent Finch?”
“What if his people shoot me in the garage?”
“He'd never do that.”
“How can you be so sure?” she demanded.
“It's not his style, that's why. I know everything there is to know about Manelli. He'll have his driver pick you up because he can't risk doing that himself and because he'll figure the chances are good we've put you up to this. The driver will try to shake a tail, but we'll be right there. No matter what he does, we'll be on you. Isn't that right, Finch?”
“Absolutely, sir,” Finch agreed. “We have the latest electronic tracker. It's a fail-safe operation.”
