Mind Games

Chapter 5

See Chapter 1 for disclaimer

A/N: Thanks again for all the alerts and reviews! I've been to New Orleans a couple of times, and I love the place.

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Charlie glanced sideways at Don as his brother navigated their rented Monte Carlo along Highway 61. Don had been an enigma since they'd left L.A., brooding and quiet. He had opened up a little the night before in Chicago after a couple of bar stops and a couple of beers, actually cracking a smile once or twice. For the most part, however, he'd been intense, quiet, completely focused on the task in front of them, going over the places and names they needed to know for their background, and quizzing Charlie on them relentlessly in their hotel room that evening. His grim behavior had actually started to rattle Charlie a bit – it really seemed that his brother didn't want to be there, and Charlie wondered if the aloofness was hiding resentment towards him. After all, he was the one who had pushed for this. If he hadn't signed up for this job, Don wouldn't be here.

Don's behavior was disquieting, but at least it was normal, until they hit New Orleans. As soon as they disembarked from the plane, Charlie noticed a shift in Don's mannerisms. The tension seemed to vanish, along with the grim expression. Everything about him seemed to relax; Don's walk; the set of his shoulders, his face – he'd slipped into another persona – cool, confident, a slight smile playing at the corner of his lips. The eyes remained watchful, but the furrow between them was gone; the intensity hooded. Charlie suspected that his brother had begun to assume his cover persona, and the thought unsettled him. Did Don really think they were already being watched? It made Charlie look around nervously; and that earned him a sharp glance from his brother.

Don hadn't dropped the façade even in the car, and Charlie was beginning wonder at it a bit. The sheer ease of it all was possibly the most unnerving part of it – the fact that his brother could so readily shed his own personality and adopt another, like flicking a switch, both impressed and startled Charlie. He looked at the profile beside him, so familiar, but now somehow foreign, and wondered how well he really knew his brother. There was a past there, deeper and darker than Don had apparently cared to admit. Part of it had apparently been spent in New Orleans – Don seemed to know his way around town.

Charlie sent one more glance toward him; then pulled his gaze away as the highway wound through Metairie. They were transitioning onto I-10 now, and Charlie watched the landscape change with interest as they exited onto Orleans Avenue, into the Vieux Carre, or old town. He had never been to New Orleans, but everyone had heard about Hurricane Katrina, and along the way, he saw several areas that were still being rebuilt as a result of the storm damage. Don turned toward the French Quarter, skirting Louis Armstrong Park, and they finally found themselves at their destination, a moderately priced hotel on Royal Street.

Like many of the buildings in that area, it was a mere three stories, with a pastel front and black wrought iron balconies overlooking the street below. Fresh paint adorned the front, but it still invoked the feeling of age; as did the entire street; the quaintness of the pastel fronts and very French-looking wrought iron balconies gave the old street a charm, like an aging southern belle. Or perhaps, more like an aging prostitute – anyone, from drunks to cross-dressers, mixed with the tourists, giving the streets a lively but slightly seedy air. The buildings themselves defied classification – porn shops sat next to establishments selling fine china or expensive furniture; tiny hole-in-the-wall street bars hawking "Monster Hurricanes" served in large garish plastic cups sat next to venerable jazz halls. It was beautiful and raunchy and fascinating, and felt just a bit dangerous.

Don dropped Charlie off in front of the hotel and unloaded the luggage, hesitating for just a moment after closing the trunk. The hotel parking lot was a multilevel garage, about a block away. "It's okay," Charlie said, dryly. "I think I can check in by myself."

Don's lip curled in a slight, rueful smile, and he looked like himself for the first time since they'd landed. "Okay. I'll meet you in the room."

An automatic hinged door had been installed next to the older revolving door, a nod to modern necessity, and Charlie maneuvered the luggage inside to the small lobby and approached the desk. "Reservations for Archer," he said to the clerk, a slender, sallow-faced man in a navy jacket.

"Right," said the man, his voice tinged with a slight Southern accent. "I have here that you requested a first floor room, on the far end of the hall next to the exit. Is that correct?"

Charlie had no idea – he hadn't made the reservations, but he surmised that someone had requested the room for a good reason, so he said, "Right."

"How many keys?"

"Two." He handed the man a credit card that said "Charles Archer," and signed his name with a flourish. 'Charles Archer.' It looked odd, foreign, and exciting.

He grabbed the two plastic key cards and managed to roll both suitcases down the hallway to the last room on the left. It faced the street, and was adjacent to an exit door on the end of the hallway, which opened into an alley. No sooner was he inside than his cell phone rang, and he flipped it open without checking the number and answered automatically, "Charlie Eppes."

His heart skipped a beat as soon as the name was out of his mouth, and he almost gasped with relief as he heard Amita's voice on the other end of the line. He was going to have to watch himself, and he mentally resolved to switch to a simple 'hello' when answering his phone, and to check the number before he spoke.

"Charlie," came Amita's voice. "I'm glad I caught you. How's D.C? Larry and I are at the airport waiting for our flight, and I thought I'd give you a call before we took off."

"That was nice," Charlie responded, frowning at noise that was growing out on the street. It sounded like raucous music and was getting louder; he could hear it even through the closed windows. He stepped over to the window and pulled aside a sheer drapery. It was starting to rain. Across the street, he caught a glimpse of Don, walking back from the garage. Immediately in front of the hotel an impromptu gay rights parade was going by, featuring a Dixieland band and a number of cross-dressers in outlandish costumes. In spite of the rain and temperature, which averaged slightly above 60 degrees Fahrenheit in New Orleans in January, many of them were scantily dressed.

Charlie stared and then shook his head in amazement. Even on a Sunday afternoon in the rain, the French Quarter put on a show. He let the drape drop closed, as Amita said, "What's that noise? Where are you?"

"At the hotel," he said, "it's just the TV. Some documentary on the history of jazz." He was both satisfied and disturbed by how natural the lie sounded.

Amita sighed on the other end. "I'm not looking forward to this flight," she said. "Thirteen hours, including a stop in Pittsburgh."

"Yeah, that's a long one," Charlie responded, as a knock sounded at the door. Don. He headed toward it, glancing at the two room keys he'd set on the dresser, and with his cell phone still at his ear, opened the door and turned away in the same motion, trying to hear what Amita was saying.

In the next instant, he felt a rough hand grab his collar. His attacker pulled him backwards and, heart lurching, he stumbled into the man, dropping his cell phone as something hard and cylindrical pressed into his neck, under his jawbone.

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Joe Bishop, the third fixer, sat in the den of the small house the CIA had rented on the southwest side of New Orleans and glanced at his watch. The Eppes brothers had been due to land over an hour ago, and Agent Edgerton was supposed to have made contact by now. As if in response to the thought, the phone rang, and Bishop checked the number; then lifted the receiver. "Yeah."

"I'm calling to check on a flight reservation."

"You've got the wrong number."

"This isn't Tran Air?"

At the code word, Bishop said, "Crocker." Even though Edgerton had used the code word signifying that it was all right to talk, Bishop still took the precaution of using his cover name.

"Yeah."

"Did you make contact?"

"Yeah, a few minutes ago. Met Don in the parking garage and handed off the jackets. We're going to test them tonight."

"Good. Anything from Montreaux yet?"

"He agreed to send a dealer tonight to the Vieux Carre to meet with Don. Corner of Chartres and Conti, at eleven. I think his guy will check Don out; if he likes what he sees he may make a deal, test out Don's contacts."

"Okay. I'll give a heads up to our guy that he may have to go in and make a buy. Have Don contact me if he gets an offer."

"Okay. I'll have him check in later tonight."

"Roger that."

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Amita frowned and looked at her cell phone to see if it still showed a connection; then put it to her ear again. "Charlie?"

Larry raised his eyebrows. "Poor connection?"

"Must be," muttered Amita. "Charlie?" She waited for a response, glancing at Larry. "He must be really bored – he's watching a documentary on the history of jazz in his hotel room."

Larry looked sympathetic. "It's a shame he couldn't come with us. I'm sure he would have found our trip to be much more stimulating."

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Charlie gasped and tensed, getting ready to try to pull away, when suddenly the man behind him released his collar and gave him a gentle push. He staggered away, turning to face his attacker, as Don shut the door and said, "Charlie, next time, look to see who's at the door before you open it."

He tossed his keys on the table, and Charlie realized that the hard object at his neck was simply Don's cylindrical key fob. He scowled, rubbing his jaw, and picked up his cell phone. "Amita – sorry. I was letting Don in and I dropped the phone. Oh – okay. Yeah, have a good flight. I'll talk to you in the morning."

He flipped the phone shut, and gave Don a disgusted look. "What in the heck was that for?

Don had reclined on one of the double beds, hands under his head, with a slightly amused smile on his face. "There's a viewing hole in the door, Charlie, use it."

"How do you know I didn't look first?"

"Because there was light shining through the hole. If you looked through it, you would have blocked the light. Not only that, you didn't even look to see who it was after you opened the door."

"I knew it was you," Charlie protested. "I saw you out the window right before you crossed the street."

Don ignored him, with the look of someone who knew they'd already won the argument. Two jackets were lying next to him on the bed, and he sat up and tossed one to Charlie. "Try that on."

Charlie caught it and shook it out to look at it, then glanced at the other jacket on the bed. Both of them were made of denim; his was lighter, made of distressed medium blue fabric, the other was a dark navy with a black cast to it. "Where did these come from?"

"Ian met me in the parking garage," said Don. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. "The jackets have GPS tracking chips in them. Ian wants to try them out tonight. Yours has a little pocket sewn into the inside hem at the bottom. He said you'd find a flash drive in it. There's some info on it concerning Montreaux's computer systems. He said you can also use it later to store anything you find on his systems – provided you get the chance."

Charlie had found the flash drive, which was smaller than any he'd seen; about half the size of his own, and he turned it over in his fingers; then tucked it back in its fabric slot and pulled on the jacket. Don shrugged on his denim jacket at the same time, and they looked at each other.

"I knew it was you," Charlie said.

Don rolled his eyes. "Right."

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A half hour later, they hit the streets. The rain had stopped, but water still gushed next to the curbs, and they picked their way across from corner to corner. They walked all the way up to One Shell Square, and Don indicated the sleek glass high rise with an inclination of his head. "That's where Montreaux's offices are," he murmured, and Charlie glanced at the building, then away, as they walked by it. "His warehouses are in the Lower Garden District." Turning, they headed back into the French Quarter, and reached the corner of Bourbon and Royal by seven. There was a corner restaurant with 'bistro,' in the name and they headed inside to find dinner.

For Don, that was a steak, but Charlie wanted to sample the local fare, and studied the menu. "What's in jambalaya?" he asked the waiter.

"Everywhere is different," said the man. He was dark-skinned and had an accent, and Charlie listened, trying to place it. "Jambalaya has vegetables, and then meat or seafood. Ours has andouille, shrimp, duck, and tasso – that is Cajun ham. Served over rice."

Charlie decided to try it, and when Don ordered a beer, he followed suit. "What in the hell's 'andouwee?'" Don asked after the man had gone, trying to mimic the waiter's pronunciation.

Charlie shrugged and grinned. "I don't know." He glanced slyly at Don. "You're the one who's been here before, you should know."

"Who says I've been here?" Don's tone was light, and he smiled, but his eyes flashed a warning and Charlie shut up, pondering the mysterious andouille.

It turned out to be spicy Cajun sausage, and at the first bite, Charlie grabbed his beer and took a large gulp. Don grinned around a mouthful of steak. "Hot, huh?"

Charlie's eyes were watering. "Yeah. The rest of it's not too bad, but that sausage packs a punch. Wow." Still, he managed to plow through half the plate full of food along with another beer, and left the restaurant with a warm sensation in his gut and most decidedly, feeling more relaxed. He was almost starting to get used to Don's alter ego – the cool, half-amused look; not quite a smile, the confident, unhurried walk that was not quite a swagger.

"So what are we doing, anyway?" he asked as they turned down another street.

Don glanced at him, his expression enigmatic. "Getting ready to sell some drugs," he said, and Charlie stopped for a moment, staring, wide-eyed. Then with a nervous glance around him, he hurried after his brother.

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End Chapter 5