Mind Games

Chapter 14

See Chapter 1 for disclaimer

A/N: This is a long one. Thanks to all of you, so much, for the reviews and alerts.

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It took Charlie most of the week to finish the assignment – a week of non-stop work, of late hours, uneaten food, and little sleep. It was a period of intense concentration, without distractions; before he left New Orleans, he had asked Amita and his father not to call him, telling them he would be running class trials, and that he would talk to them on the weekend. He had agreed with Don and Ian that he wouldn't call them either, unless there was an emergency. There was no contact with the outside; he was on his own. There was just him, and the work.

He would work deep into the night after his companions had gone to bed; he would use that time for the things he wasn't supposed to be doing – hacking into Montreaux's email, looking up his contacts, trying to find who might be on the other end of both the cocaine smuggling and the Iranian weapons deal. It took him awhile to get into the email account, and took him longer to go through the contacts, only to find that Montreaux was extremely careful. He apparently conducted those businesses only by phone or in person. Montreaux's bank accounts were even harder to get to, but they at least yielded some clues; Charlie made notes and downloaded them onto his flash drive. If Montreaux was indicted, he would move fast to shift money around and hide transactions, but now, Charlie would have a record.

During the daytime hours, he worked on the export system, which was an exceedingly complex task in itself. As the week wore on, he began to worry that he wasn't going to finish it on time, but by Thursday midday, he had. He had downloaded the programs into Montreaux's central server and made a copy on a flash drive that Clemenceau gave him for backup. While the two men were packing the vehicle, Charlie downloaded yet another copy onto his own flash drive, and tucked it into the secret pocket in the hem of his jean jacket with a sigh of relief. He was done – he was nearly done with the assignment. Today he would be going back to New Orleans, and to Don, and as soon as he could update their handler, Joe Bishop, on the information that he'd gathered, they could start making plans for an extraction. He fervently hoped what he had would be enough – he desperately wanted to go home. If they asked him to stay to try to get more information, he would be extremely disappointed.

Clemenceau stumped by and told him gruffly that they were ready to go, and Charlie gathered up his work papers and packed them away, and made his way out to the vehicle. He took one last look around the swamp; he'd rarely been out of the cabin while he'd been there – he felt like a cave-dwelling creature that had crawled outside. The walk out to the vehicle made him realize just how hard he had pushed himself that week – he felt weak and tired; his muscles atrophied from sitting for so long, and his body drained from lack of sleep and not eating right. He clambered into the backseat gratefully, and took a deep breath. He felt inexplicably happy, in spite of the fatigue and the tension. Even if they didn't get to go home right away, at least he would get to see Don.

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Don lounged in the kitchen at the Montreaux estate late Thursday afternoon; hands loosely cupped around a mug of coffee, and for the first time in days, began to relax. He had just seen Charlie come in; one side of the kitchen looked out on the side drive, and he and Ian had seen Clemenceau's Ford Expedition pull up, and watched as Charlie, Pierre and Jean crossed the drive to enter the side door. At that point, Don lost sight of them, but it was enough to reassure him. Charlie looked tired and thinner, but he appeared to be fine. The group had gone straight upstairs to see Montreaux, and Don and Ian, who had just come in from a meeting with some of Blinkie's people, had gotten the word that Charlie was returning, and had decided to wait for him.

The fact was, they already knew that Charlie was on the move. Joe Bishop had been tracing the GPS tracker in Charlie's jean jacket, and Don had called Bishop twice a day for an update. The tracker never moved the entire week – it was obvious that Charlie had never left the house in the bayou. Still, Don's anxiety level introduced disturbing thoughts – what if they had killed Charlie and dumped him in the bayou, he wondered at one point. The tracker wouldn't be moving then, either. Bishop had reassured him, telling him that the location of the signal corresponded exactly with the location of the cabin. When the GPS chip started moving, he called and told them that Charlie was on his way back. Still, until Don actually saw his brother, he stewed. He couldn't wait for him to come downstairs, couldn't wait for Charlie to tell him that he was done, that he had what they needed. He couldn't wait to get the hell out of here.

After about an hour; it seemed like three, Guy Clemenceau came downstairs and told them that Charlie would be down soon, and that Don should wait to give him a ride; he would be done for the evening. "You will need to drop him off here in the morning," said Guy, his square face impassive. "Then you will need to leave for the day; Montreaux is expecting the mayor to visit, and he needs all unnecessary personnel to be off the grounds. Charlie will be allowed in the computer room to finish his programming."

He left the kitchen, and the cook, who had been puttering around behind them, spoke crossly in a heavy Cajun accent. "I think the man is going crazy," he said. "He has important visitors coming tomorrow and wants food prepared, but he is sending away all my serving staff. He said he would have the Clemenceaus bring the food up from the kitchen to his office. Those oafs will probably spill the soup on the mayor's lap."

Ian frowned. "Montreaux is sending away your staff?"

The cook gave a curt nod. "He is sending away nearly everyone. I hear that the housekeeping staff will work tonight to clean and they also will be given the day off. The only ones who are working tomorrow will be Montreaux's men in the computer room." He shrugged. "At least, that is what I hear. I ask you, how can you attend to your guests without serving staff and housekeeping? Mon Dieux!"

Don and Ian exchanged a glance, but said nothing; the man's question appeared to be rhetorical anyway – he had gone on muttering under his breath, but clearly was talking to himself. Don knew that Ian was thinking the same thing; something was going down tomorrow.

The inside door to the kitchen opened, and Don looked up as Charlie paused in the doorway. For a heartbeat, they exchanged a look – an expression of concern and relief identically mirrored in the dark eyes, and then Charlie said, "I'm starving. Can we go get dinner?"

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The three of them went back to Fish and got a corner booth, ordering big bowls of spicy steaming gumbo with French bread, and cold beers. It was around 5:00 p.m., too early for a band, but there was a sizable crowd already. Some of the downtown crowd had stopped in after work, and the place had a satisfactory noise level.

Don stared at Charlie across the table, his eyes searching his brother's face. "How'd it go?"

Charlie had been looking back, his eyes containing a question of their own, and seemingly satisfied, he leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table, with a quick glance sideways to make sure no one was within listening range. He spoke quietly. "Okay. I finished the project. The deadline is tomorrow morning. There's something going down tomorrow. I'm supposed to be there at seven to make sure the program is loaded, and to show Montreaux where the files are located and how to navigate them. I'm thinking he wants to show them to someone, and he would rather do it himself. He told me that he wanted me and one of his computer men to be available, in case we were needed, but we were to stay in the room – he would call down by phone if he had a question. It sounds like he's going to meet with someone, and doesn't want us to see who it is."

Ian nodded. "We were told to stay away tomorrow, and the cook mentioned that he would be there to prepare food, but Montreaux was sending away all his staff. It sounds like only Montreaux's closest staff - the Clemenceaus and probably Pierre - will be there, along with the cook, who won't leave the kitchen. The cook said the mayor is visiting, but I'm sure that's just what Montreaux told him. Something is definitely up. We need to meet at the room after this; get hold of Bishop. We need to tell him what's going on, and we should probably plan the extraction."

Charlie nodded. "Yeah, I'm ready; I think I have what we need." He broke off as the waitress showed up, bearing a tray laden with huge bowls of thick steaming gumbo, and the rest of the next several minutes were devoted to eating.

Don watched as Charlie devoured his food. "What, didn't you eat out there?"

Charlie spoke through a mouthful of French bread, soaked with broth. "Not a lot. I was busy, and Jean's and Pierre's cooking skills were limited to heating frozen pizza and frozen chicken." His eyes glinted mischievously, and a grin played around his lips. "Sort of like your cooking."

Don's lips quirked as he watched his brother dive back into his gumbo. It was good to see him back, alive and well, and looking and sounding like the brother he knew. He knew something else; he was going to push for the extraction tonight. There was no sense sending Charlie back in there in the morning if they had what they needed.

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Charlie sat on the metal desk in the small office in the parking garage a few hours later, and looked at Don and Ian. Ian was leaning against the door, arms crossed over his chest, his expression, as always, inscrutable. Don was standing rigidly in the middle of the floor, his face lined with frustration, his eyes hard. After they left the restaurant, Ian had called Joe Bishop from the parking lot, who had told him that he would relay the information to Washington, and set up a meeting for two hours later. It was now meeting time, and they had called Joe Bishop on the secure landline, which Ian had installed in the office sometime during the week before.

"I don't understand why Charlie has to go in tomorrow," said Don. "He has what you need."

Bishop's voice came over the speaker, firmly. "I talked to the directors in Washington. We need him to go to Montreaux's estate in the morning because if he doesn't show, Montreaux will suspect something and call off his meeting. Plus, we aren't ready to tip our hand. We'd like Charlie to get a look at the visitors if he can. Depending on what he reports out, we may decided to act immediately, which means the extraction – for all three of you – would happen right then."

"What about Agent 1?" asked Ian.

"Agent 1 would need to come out also, at the time of extraction. We've already made contact and passed on the plan."

Ian glanced at Don. "So what is the plan?"

"Charlie is to go in tomorrow morning as Montreaux requested," came Bishop's voice. "All of you will be packed and ready to go, with your luggage in your vehicles, but don't check out of your hotels, in case we need to call off the extraction. If we proceed with taking you out tomorrow, we'll handle the checkout after the fact. Don, you will be waiting, available, in your rental car, and Ian, you will do the same. At some point, Montreaux should release Charlie, and Charlie can call for Don to come and pick him up. The two of you will go to a location where you can talk, and Charlie can call in and give us a report. If we decide to extract at that point, we will get messages out to Ian and Agent 1. All of you will then proceed to the New Orleans Naval Air Station, off Russell Avenue. It's about 20 minutes south of downtown. We'll have a jet waiting for you, which will take you to Washington, D.C. for a full report out."

Bishop paused for a moment; then continued. "If, based on Charlie's report, we decide we still need you, you will simply return your luggage to your hotels, and continue in your assignments."

Charlie was frowning. "I'm not sure I'll get a chance to see the visitors. I'll be in the computer room."

"We'll have observers stationed outside the estate," replied Bishop. "Hopefully, they'll get a look and you won't have to worry about it. We'll send you a text message that morning on your cell phone, telling you whether you need to make the attempt. If we do, you'll need to figure out how to manage it. It might be a moot point – you may even be asked to meet with them – we don't know yet. In addition, we should have a contingency plan because of the risk. Don, while you're waiting for Charlie, I would recommend that you park on the road behind the rear of the estate – on Benjamin Street. Charlie, if something happens and you need to get out in a hurry, you should slip out and go through the rear of the property – it's wooded, so there's cover - to the back gate, and meet Don on Benjamin. Is everyone clear on what we have to do?"

Don was silent. Charlie glanced at him; then spoke into the phone. "Yes."

"Okay," replied Bishop. "We may go through this drill more than once as we near the extraction point, if we don't extract tomorrow. You'll need to be flexible."

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Charlie and Don walked to the hotel from the parking garage. Don was still silent, and Charlie looked up at him as if trying to gauge his mood, and then shot a look around to make sure there wasn't anyone close enough to overhear. "Don," he began; then stopped.

Don glanced at him. "Yeah?" Charlie's expression captured his full attention – it was tortured, filled with regret.

"About what happened last Friday night - ," Charlie said, hesitantly. "I need to talk to you about that sometime, when we get home."

Don shook his head. "Charlie, you don't owe me any explanations. You did what you had to do."

"Yes, I do," Charlie insisted, intensity in his eyes. "I need to talk about it."

Don's expression softened. "Yeah, okay – we'll talk." He paused, glanced around and lowered his voice, looking back at Charlie reassuringly. "It's almost over, Buddy."

Charlie's face cleared slightly, and he sighed. "Yeah," he said, and Don could hear the relief in his voice. "I know."

They walked into the hotel and down the hall to their room, both hoping that it would be the last night they would stay there, the last night they would be restricted by the listening device, the last night that they would have to keep inside all the things that needed to be said.

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Charlie could hardly sit still on the way to the estate the next morning. The prospect of ending this, of going home, was so tantalizing, he wanted it so badly, that it had generated a case of nerves. He was both eager to be done with the assignment, and worried that something would happen that would require him to stay longer. He fingered the flash drive in the hem of his denim jacket – he'd downloaded the information on it and sent it to Washington the night before, but he brought it with him again, in case anything changed, or he came upon anything new that they might need.

His fidgeting earned him a pointed look from Don as they approached the gate, and he took a deep breath. He needed to stay calm. "Okay," he said, as Don pulled up to the side entrance, "I'll see you later."

He slipped out of the car, well aware that Don was watching him, knowing that the minute he was inside, Don would pull out through the gate and drive around the long block to the back of the estate, and park there. The thought that his brother was close by was comforting; it gave him confidence, and he sent Jean Clemenceau, who was waiting in the hallway, a smile.

"You can go stop at the kitchen for a coffee, some breakfast if you want," Jean said, his normal gruffness subdued. He seemed almost apologetic. "After that, though, Jack wants you in the computer room with Mike – both of you should stay there until he tells you to come out."

Charlie nodded, and stepped into the kitchen for a big mug of coffee; then followed Jean down the hallway to the antique elevator and rode up to the first floor. The place seemed deserted - there was no sign of life other than Jean and the cook. Charlie didn't really need the coffee, but it might come in handy if he needed an excuse to leave the room later – he could say he needed to use the bathroom. Mike Hamill was in the room already, and he returned Charlie's greeting with a sour grunt. He apparently viewed Charlie as a threat to his position, and Montreaux's selection of Charlie to write what was obviously an important program irritated him. Charlie sighed as he sat down at a computer terminal, and took a sip of his coffee. It was going to be a long morning.

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J. Scott Marsh watched out of his rearview mirror in the parking garage of the Imperial Hotel as the floral delivery van pulled up and sat, idling. He spoke into his cell phone. "All right, let's go."

He slipped out of his vehicle, and simultaneously, three other men appeared out of the corners of the garage, all of them registered separately at the hotel, each with his own vehicle, none of them with any apparent connection to each other. Marsh opened the rear doors, and the men climbed inside. Instead of flowers, there were seats in the back, and they sat facing each other in near darkness – there were no windows in the rear of the vehicle. Marsh's guests were dark, Middle Eastern in appearance, and he looked across at one of them, whose real name was Khalid, but who was registered as a Spanish citizen, under the name of Alvarez. "Did you sleep well?"

"Very well," said Khalid. His dark eyes were hooded; his expression imperious.

"I think you are going to be very impressed with what you see this morning," said Marsh.

Khalid's eyes flickered. "I certainly hope so."

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The man in coveralls in the grassy median in front of the Montreaux estate paused and leaned on his rake, pretending to wipe his forehead. Trolley tracks ran down the median; the trolley was a favorite of visitors to the city, who rode this length of it to look at the historic homes on St. Charles. The man was an agent, but he was posing as a city maintenance worker, and he watched as a floral delivery van stopped at the gate, then went through as the gate opened, passing out of sight as it wound through the landscaping on its way back to the mansion. He spoke into his headset. "We might have a delivery – could really be flowers, but it could be something else. A floral delivery van was just let in through the gate."

On the other end, Joe Bishop frowned. "Okay. We'd better wait awhile. If the van doesn't come out right away, it's probably them. We'll give 'em a half hour."

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Charlie's first indication that the visitors were there came when Guy Clemenceau stuck his square head in to check on them. "You guys staying put?" he asked unnecessarily, and got a nod from Charlie and a indifferent look from Mike as his response. Guy grunted and pulled his head back out, and shut the door. Charlie tensed, aware of the cell phone in his pocket, which was set to 'vibrate;' wondering if he was going to be instructed to go look at them.

A half hour passed, and Charlie was just beginning to relax again, when his phone vibrated. He glanced at Mike, who was facing away from him engrossed in something on his own computer terminal, and pulled the phone out. 'Need you to reconnoiter,' the text message read. 'Observers could not get a look at the visitors.'

Charlie felt his heart give a nervous leap – they needed him after all. He glanced at Mike's back, wondering how he could possibly leave without making the man suspicious. His previous plan of saying he had to use the bathroom would be suspect after Guy had pointedly told them to stay put. His mouth dry, he lowered the cell phone to his lap and sent a text message back. 'Call me.'

He switched the phone to 'ring,' set it on the desk, and grabbed the mouse, pretending to be at work when the phone rang. Mike turned to look at him. Charlie grabbed the phone, and flipped it open. "Yes, sir," he said, to Joe Bishop on the other end. "Yes, I'll be right up."

He saw Mike's sour look intensify, and he flipped the phone shut. "Montreaux wants me upstairs," he said casually, as he rose from his desk. "I'll be back."

He forced the tension out of his body language as he moved toward the door, opened it, and strode outside. As soon as he had shut the door, he hurried down the hall, looking around. The emptiness of the place was a bit eerie, and his mind raced, wondering how he was going to pull this off. He pulled out his phone and dialed Bishop, speaking quietly. "I don't know how to do this," he said. "I think they're probably up in Montreaux's study, but I don't have an excuse for going in – I was told specifically to stay in the computer room with Mike." He shot nervous looks around him as he spoke, and the hand holding the cell phone shook a little.

"You've already compromised yourself, most likely," came Bishop's terse reply. "If Mike says anything to Montreaux, he'll find out that Montreaux didn't call you. Here's what you do. Go upstairs and walk into the room, tell Montreaux that Mike told you to come up, and get a look at the targets. As soon as Montreaux says that he didn't call you, apologize, and hightail it out of there. Go right down to the bottom floor, and out the back – we'll do an immediate extraction. I'll call Don and tell him to be waiting for you. We've got a team on stand-by, ready to go in, but they're a few blocks away, and are standing down. I'll try to mobilize them before the targets get out of there."

"Okay," said Charlie. "I'm going up now." He hung up and took a deep breath, then hurried down the remaining hallway to the antique elevator, and paused. There was a service stairway right next to it, which would be a quieter way to go up, especially if anyone was in the hallway upstairs, but he needed to behave as if he had every right to be up there – Mike had supposedly told him to go. He pushed the button and stepped inside the elevator when it came down, his heart pounding.

There was no one in the hallway on the second floor, which gave him a flash of relief – but just a brief one, because a few steps later, he was at the door to Montreaux's study. He steadied himself, took a breath, and pasted a slight smile on his face as he opened the door.

As he entered, Jean Clemenceau was immediately at his side with a perturbed look on his face, and every head in the room jerked toward him. Charlie turned toward Montreaux. "You called for me?" he asked, then glanced around the room at the visitors. Four men; three of them were Middle Eastern. He focused on the three of them, trying burn facial details into his memory before he turned back to Montreaux.

Montreaux was frowning, and Charlie could read deep suspicion in his eyes. "I didn't call you," he demurred.

Charlie feigned surprise. "Mike told me you called, and to come up to your office." He took another look. That man had slight scar, the one facing Montreaux was the leader, concentrate on him – long thin face, thin lips, thick brows…

"I didn't, but I'm glad you stopped up – I wanted to introduce you," Montreaux said. To Charlie's surprise, when he looked back at Montreaux the man had seemingly relaxed. Charlie realized that he was simply trying to put a good face on the interruption, trying to keep his guests from being spooked. "This is Charlie Archer," said Montreaux to his guests, smiling. "- the architect of the system."

At that, the man across the desk from Montreaux relaxed and nodded, and Charlie nodded back. "I'm sorry to disturb you," he said, backing toward the door, taking one more quick look, this time taking in the fourth man in the room. He looked American; he was tall, with dark hair flecked lightly with gray. As Charlie's gaze shifted, his eyes met Pierre Montreaux's. Pierre was looking at him strangely, almost knowingly, and a sudden thought hit Charlie. Was Pierre Montreaux Agent 1?

"It's good to meet you." Charlie said to the men, as he reached for the knob behind him and opened the door. "I'm sorry for the interruption. Let me know if you need anything," he said to Jack Montreaux, and slipped back out.

It was all he could do to keep from running down the hall, and this time, he didn't use the elevator – he went down the service stairs, taking them as quickly as he dared, unaware that in the room upstairs, Montreaux had stepped over to Jean Clemenceau, and whispered, "Follow him."

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End Chapter 14