Total Control

'What do you mean, 'too late'?"

The man sat back in his seat and closed his eyes. When he reopened them, the pain evident there made her suspicions start to fade.

"Ms. Archer, I'm not exactly sure what your husband is involved in. But I do know enough to realize that, wherever he is, he could very well be in grave danger." He closed his eyes again while Sidney's heart sank to a depth she hadn't realized existed within her.

He looked over at her. "The FBI have you under round-the-clock surveillance." His next words chilled her to the bone. "You should be very thankful for that, Ms. Archer."

When she finally spoke, the words were barely audible to the man, who bent toward her so he could hear them. "Do you know where Jason is?"

The man shook his head. "If I did, I wouldn't be sitting on this plane with you." He looked at her hopeless expression. "All I can tell you, Ms. Archer, is I'm not sure of anything.-" He let out a breath and passed a hand over his forehead. For the first time Sidney noticed that his hand was shaking.

"I was at Dulles Airport the same morning your husband was."

Sidney's eyes grew wide, her hand gripping the armrest. "You were following my husband? Why?"

The man looked over at her. "I didn't say I was following your husband." He sipped his drink to moisten a throat suddenly gone dry. "He was sitting in the departure area for the flight to L.A. He looked nervous and agitated. That's what drew my attention to him in the first place. He got up and went into the men's room. Another man went in after him a few minutes later."

"Why is that unusual?"

"The second man had a white envelope in his hand when he came into the departure area. That envelope was clearly visible, almost like a lantern the way the guy was swinging it. I believe it was a signal to your husband. I've seen that technique used before."

"A signal. For what?" Sidney's breathing had accelerated to such an extent that she had to make a conscious effort to slow it down.

"For your husband to act. Which he did. He went into the men's room. The other man came out a little later. I forgot to mention that he was dressed almost identically to your husband and was carrying the same sort of baggage. Your husband never did come out."

"What do you mean my husband never came out? He had to."

"I meant he never came out as Jason Archer."

Sidney looked totally confused.

He hurriedly went on. "The first thing I noticed about your husband was his shoes. He was dressed in a suit, but he had on black tennis shoes. Do you remember him putting on tennis shoes that morning?"

"I was asleep when he left."

"Well, when he came out of the rest room his appearance had completely changed. He looked like he was a college student, dressed in a sweatsuit, different hair, everything."

"How did you know it was him, then?"

"Two reasons. First, the rest room had just opened after being cleaned when your husband went in. I watched that door like a hawk. No one remotely resembling the guy who later came out had gone in there. Second, the black tennis shoes were very distinctive.

He probably should have worn a more low-key pair. It was your husband, all right. And you want to know something else?"

Sidney could barely get the words out. "Tell me."

"The other guy came out wearing your husband's hat. With the hat on, he could've passed as your husband's twin."

Sidney took a deep breath as this revelation settled in.

"Your husband got in line for the flight to Seattle. He took the same white envelope the other guy had been carrying out of his pocket. In it was the plane ticket and boarding pass for the Seattle flight. The other guy got on the flight to L.A."

"Meaning they made a ticket switch in the rest room. The other man was dressed to look like Jason in case anyone was watching."

"That's right." He nodded slowly. "Your husband wanted someone to think he was on the L.A. flight."

"But why?" Sidney said this more to herself than to him.

The man shrugged. "I don't know. I do know that the plane your husband was supposed to be on crashed. Then I was even more suspicious."

"Did you go to the police?"

The man shook his head. "And tell them what? It's not like I saw a bomb being put on that flight. Besides, I had my own reasons for keeping quiet."

"What sort of reasons?"

The man put up one hand and shook his head. "Let's just leave it at that for now."

"How did you find out my husband's identity? I'm assuming you didn't know him by sight?"

"Never laid eyes on him before. But I made a couple of casual passes by before he went into the rest room. He had a name and ad dress label on his briefcase. I'm real good at reading things upside down. It didn't take me long to find out where he worked, what he did for a living, more info than I'd ever need to know. I also found out the same things about you. That's when I started following you.

To tell you the truth, I didn't know if you were in any danger or not." He spoke matter-of-factly; however, Sidney's blood ran cold at this unexpected intrusion in her life.

"Then while I'm down talking to a friend of mine at the Fairfax police, an APB with your husband's photo came over the wire.

That's when I took up your trail in earnest. I thought you might lead me to him."

"Oh." Sidney settled back in her chair. Then a thought struck her.

"How did you follow me to New Orleans?"

"The very first thing I did was tap your phone." He ignored her surprised expression. "I needed to know quickly where you were going to go. I heard your conversation with your husband. He seemed particularly evasive."

The plane droned on through the dark skies, and Sidney Archer touched the man's sleeve. "You said you weren't FBI. Who are you, then? Why are you involved in this?"

The man scanned the aisle for several seconds before answering.

When he looked back at her, he sighed. 'Tm a private investigator, Ms. Archer. The case that is now occupying me pretty much full time is your husband."

"Who hired you?"

"Nobody." He looked around again before continuing. "I thought your husband might try to contact you. Eventually he did. That's why I'm here. But it seems New Orleans was a bust. That was him on the pay phone, wasn't it? The shoe shine guy slipped you a note, right?"

Sidney Archer hesitated, then nodded her head.

"Did your husband give you any clue where he might be?"

Sidney shook her head. "He said he would contact me later. When it was safer."

The man almost laughed. "That might be a long time. A real long time, Ms. Archer."

When the plane was descending into Washington National, the man turned again to Sidney. "Couple of things, Ms. Archer. When I listened to the tape of you and your husband talking on the phone, I picked up some background noise. Like water running. I can't be sure, but I think someone was listening on another line." Sidney's face froze. "Ms. Archer, you had better assume the Feds know Jason is alive too."

A little while later the plane thudded to a landing and the cabin became alive with activity.

"You said you wanted to tell me a couple of things. What's the other one?"

The man leaned down and pulled out a small briefcase from under the seat in front of him. When he sat back up, he looked her directly in the eye. "People who can bring down a jetliner can do just about anything. Don't trust anyone, Ms. Archer. And be more careful than you have ever been in your entire life. Even that might not be enough. I'm sorry if that sounds like shitty advice, but it's all I have to give you."

In another few minutes the man was gone. Sidney was one of the last passengers off the plane. The airport wasn't crowded at this hour. She made her way toward the cab stand. Remembering the man's advice, she looked carefully around, trying not to be too obvious.

Her sole comfort was the fact that amid all the people probably tracking her, at least some of them were FBI.

After leaving Sidney Archer, the man boarded an airport shuttle bus that deposited him at the long-term parking lot. It was almost ten o'clock. The area was deserted. He carried a bag that he had checked onto the flight from New Orleans. Its orange sticker proclaimed that it carried an unloaded firearm. As he reached his car, a late-model Grand Marquis, he opened the bag to extract his pistol with the intent of reloading it and placing it in his shoulder holster.

The stiletto blade first hit his right lung, was pulled free, and then the savage process was repeated on the left one, collapsing both and forestalling any cry for help he might otherwise have managed.

The third thrust sliced neatly through the right side of his neck. The bag dropped to the concrete floor, the firearm now useless to its dying owner. In another moment he was down on the ground, his eyes already glassing over, staring up at his killer.

A van pulled alongside and Kenneth Scales climbed in. In another moment the dead man was alone.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Lee Sawyer sat at the conference table in the FBI building going over numerous reports. He put one hand through his rumpled hair, tilted back in his chair and put his feet up on the table while he mentally sorted through the new facts. The autopsy report on Riker indicated that he had been dead about forty-eight hours before his body had been discovered. Because the room temperature had hovered around freezing, however, Sawyer knew the postmortem putrefaction of the body was not nearly as accurate as it otherwise would have been.

Sawyer looked at photos of the Sig P229 auto pistol that had been recovered at the crime scene. The serial numbers on the pistol had been sanded down and then drilled out. He next looked at photos of the slugs recovered from the body. Riker had been on the receiving end of eleven more of the hollow-point projectiles than had been necessary to kill him. The lead barrage bothered the FBI agent greatly. Riker's murder had most of the hallmarks of a professional kill. Professional assassins rarely needed more than one shot. The first shot in this case had been instantly fatal, the medical examiner had concluded. The heart had not been pumping when the other bullets had entered the body.

The blood spatters on the table, chair and mirror indicated that Riker had been shot from behind while seated. The killer had apparently dragged Riker out of the chair, thrown him face down in the corner of the bedroom and proceeded to empty his clip into the dead body from directly above at a distance of about three feet. But why? Sawyer couldn't answer that question right now. He turned his thoughts elsewhere.

Despite numerous inquiries and potential leads, nothing had been turned up on Riker's movements for the last eighteen months. No addresses, no friends, no jobs, no credit card bills, nothing. While Rapid Start was processing tons of data a day on the plane crash, they couldn't get a solid lead on anything. They knew how it had been done, they had the body of the damned person responsible for actually doing it, and yet they couldn't get beyond his corpse.

In frustration, Sawyer sat up and thumbed another report. Riker had also had a great deal of cosmetic surgery. Photos taken at Riker's last arrest bore absolutely no resemblance to the man who had met his bloody end in a quiet Virginia apartment building.

Sawyer grimaced. His gut on the Sinclair alias had been right on the mark too. Riker had not taken the place of another person. Sinclair had been created out of broadcloth and computerized records, with the result that Robert Sinclair had been hired as a living, breathing person, with excellent background credentials to be a fueler for a reputable company that had contracts to service several of the major airlines operating out of Dulles International Airport, including Western. However, Vector had made some mistakes in its background checks. They had not verified the phone numbers of Sinclair's previous employers, but had merely used the numbers provided by Riker, aka Sinclair. All the references provided by the dead man had been small fueling operations in Washington state, southern California and one in Alaska. None of those outfits actually existed.

When Sawyer's men checked, they found the numbers had been disconnected. The employment addresses given by Riker on his application were phony too. His Social Security number, however, had been run through the system and had come back as valid.

His prints had also been run through the Virginia State Police AFIS. Riker had spent time in a Virginia prison and his prints were supposed to be on file there. Only they weren't. That could only mean one thing. The Social Security Administration's and the Virginia State Police's databases had been compromised. The whole system might as well have burned up. How could you be sure of anything now? Without absolute reliability, the systems were next to useless. And if someone

could do that to Virginia and the SSA, who was safe? Sawyer angrily shoved the reports aside, poured himself another cup of coffee and paced around the broad space of the SIOC.

Jason Archer had been way ahead of them. There had only been one reason to have Sidney Archer travel to New Orleans. In fact, it could have been any city. The important point was that she leave town. And when she had, the FBI had gone with her. Her home had been left unguarded. Sawyer had learned from discreet inquiries with her neighbors that Sidney Archer's parents and daughter had left shortly after Sidney Archer had departed.

Sawyer clenched and unclenched his fist. A diversion. And he had fallen for it like the greenest agent in the world. He had no direct evidence supporting it, but he knew as well as he knew his own name that someone had entered the Archer home and presumably taken something from within. To go to all that risk meant that something incredibly important had slipped right through Sawyer's fingers.

It had not been a good morning and it only threatened to grow rapidly worse. He was not used to getting his butt kicked at every turn. He had filled in Frank Hardy on the results thus far. His friend was making inquiries into Paul Brophy's and Philip Goldman's backgrounds. Hardy had been understandably intrigued when he heard of Brophy's clandestine roaming through Sidney Archer's hotel room.

Sawyer flipped open the newspaper and read the headline. Sidney Archer would be heading into the panic zone right about now, he figured. Since Jason Archer was undoubtedly on to their pursuit of him, the consensus at the bureau had been to go public with his alleged crimes: corporate espionage and embezzlement of Triton's funds. His direct involvement in the plane crash was not alluded to, although the story did mention that he was listed as a passenger on the in-fated flight but had not been on board. People could read the huge gaps between the lines on that one, Sawyer concluded. Sidney Archer's recent activities were also prominently mentioned. He looked at his watch. He was going to pay Sidney Archer a second visit. And despite his personal sympathy for the woman, this time be wasn't leaving until he got some answers.

Henry Wharton stood behind his desk, his chin sunk down on his chest as he moodily contemplated the cloudy sky outside his window.

A copy of that morning's Post was lying face down on his desk; at least the vastly disturbing headlines were out of sight. In a chair across from his desk sat Philip Goldman. Goldman's eyes were focused on Wharton's back.

"I really don't see that we have any choice, Henry." Goldman paused, a slight look of satisfaction escaping from his Otherwise inscrutable features. "I understand Nathan Gamble was particularly upset when he phoned this morning. Who could really blame him?

There's talk that he may pull the whole account."

Wharton winced at the remark. When he turned to face Goldman, his eyes remained downcast. Wharton was clearly wavering.

Goldman leaned forward, eager to press this obvious advantage. "It's for the good of the firm, Henry. It will be painful for many people, and despite my differences with her in the past, I would have to include myself in that group, not least of which because she is a particularly strong asset for this firm." This time Goldman succeeded in restraining the smile. "But the future of the firm, the future of hundreds of people, cannot be sacrificed for the benefit of one person, Henry, you know that." Goldman leaned back in his chair, placing his hands in his lap, a placid expression on his face. He managed a sigh. "I can take care of it, Henry, if you would prefer. I know how close you two are."

Wharton finally looked up. The nod was quick, short, like the abrupt plunge of the ax it clearly was. Goldman quietly left the room.

Sidney Archer was picking up the newspaper from her front sidewalk when the phone rang. She raced back inside, the unopened Post in one hand. She was fairly certain it was not her husband calling, but right now she could be absolutely certain of nothing. She tossed the paper down on top of other editions she had not read yet.

Her father's voice boomed across the line. Had she read the paper?

What the hell were they talking about? These accusations. He would sue, her father proclaimed angrily. He would sue everyone involved, including Triton and the FBI. By the time she got him calmed down, Sidney managed to open the paper. The headline took her breath away, as though someone had stomped on her chest. She tumbled into the chair in the semidarkness of her kitchen. She quickly read the cover story, which implicated her husband in stealing immensely valuable secrets and hundreds of millions of dollars from his employer. To top it off, Jason Archer clearly was also suspected in the plane bombing, his motive presumably to convince the authorities he was dead. Now the world knew him to be alive and on the run, according to the FBI.

When she read her own name about halfway down the page, Sidney Archer became violently sick to her stomach. She had traveled to New Orleans, the story said, shortly after her husband's memorial service, which the story made seem highly suspicious. Of course it was suspicious. Everyone, Sidney Archer included, would find such a trip fraught with dubious motives. An entire life of scrupulous honesty had just been irreversibly destroyed. In her distress she