Mind Games

Chapter 8

See Chapter 1 for disclaimer

Thanks for the reviews, all. I am humbly grateful.

……………………………………………

Don glanced in the passenger side mirror of Ian's SUV, and caught a glimpse of Charlie's face as his brother stared out the rear window. He looked a bit green, and Don knew that it wasn't entirely due to his hangover. He was feeling a little queasy, himself. This was moving more quickly than they had anticipated.

His gaze shifted out the window as Ian tooled the vehicle down St. Charles Avenue. The street was lined with large southern live oaks and stately buildings; former residences of wealthy members of antebellum society. Many of the estates had been converted into hotels, upscale condominiums; one even into a library. A few of the mansions, however, still housed the affluent. Montreaux's home was one of those.

Ian turned into a driveway and pulled up to an intercom, rolling down his window. "Crocker and guests," he stated, after pushing a button to activate the speaker, and the wrought iron gates in front of them swung open. Ian directed the SUV through them and pulled down the drive through a row of hedges to a parking area toward the rear of the building, bypassing the circular drive that swept around to the front of the house. That drive led to the ornate front entrance, and was for important visitors, legitimate guests – not for shady business associates. The Greek revival mansion loomed over them as they passed; pillared, solid, imposing.

They were let in a side door by a dark, square man in a bad suit, who did little to conceal the bulky piece under his jacket. Charlie thought he saw a flicker of recognition in Don's eyes when he looked at the man, and so he took another look himself, wondering if it was one of the men whom Don had met with the prior evening. A second man politely requested that they turn over any weapons, but did not search them. Don impassively handed over the new Glock he'd been given, the permit issued under the name of Don Archer. Charlie glanced back at him, and saw that 'undercover Don' was on full display; his face relaxed, cool, unflustered. Ian too, looked calm, at ease. Charlie took in a deep breath and relaxed his own features, his shoulders, and followed his escorts down the hallway.

An antique elevator took them past the first floor to the second, and they were ushered down another hallway and into a large office. The stocky man held the door open for them, and Charlie walked in behind Don with a thumping heart, noting that there were at least six other men in the room. As he stepped around Don to stand beside him, he found himself facing a man holding court behind a huge mahogany desk.

Ian had stepped forward, and he indicated Don and Charlie with a wave of his hand – the gesture not quite indolent, but not unduly respectful either. Charlie took note – fawning in front of these men, trying too hard to curry favor, would not be respected here. He needed to be like Don and Ian – cool, self-contained.

"Jack," said Ian, his voice sounding more respectful than his body language would have indicated, "this is Don and Charlie Archer – the consultants I told you about."

Montreaux rose and buttoned his Italian suit jacket; then came around his desk, hand extended, first to Don, then to Charlie. He was about Don's height, with broad shoulders, dark hair flecked the tiniest bit of gray at the temples, and black, glittering sharp eyes. His grip was firm, his voice laced with a Cajun accent. "Ah, mes amies, thank you for coming. Jean and Guy tell me that you have a business proposal that may interest us." His eyes rested on Charlie for a moment. Charlie looked back into them resolutely.

Don inclined his head. "Yes. I imagine they gave you our basic offerings and prices."

Montreaux's gaze flickered toward Don. "Yes," he said smoothly. "I understand you rejected our request to see the product before payment."

Don's lip curled, almost imperceptibly. "Standard terms. You are a businessman; I'm sure you understand."

Montreaux inclined his head in return. "And I am certain you understand my wish to examine what I will be paying for. I have a counter-proposal for you. Half now, half after I see the shipping plans. To show good faith, you can retain the name of your contact until you receive full payment."

Don exchanged a glance with Charlie. "I think we can agree to that."

"Good," said Montreaux, turning and moving back behind his desk. "I would like you to begin work immediately." He smiled; the expression was warm, but his eyes remained sharp. "If you don't mind, I would prefer to dispense with formalities, and use first names – it is so much easier, non? You may call me Jack." He looked at Charlie. "Charlie, we have a work area that I think you will find quite conducive to your needs, with state-of-the-art computers."

"Thank you, but I have my own," replied Charlie quickly. "All I need is a secure way to patch into your system. I can work remotely."

"Ah, mais non; that we cannot do," replied Montreaux, smiling apologetically. "All work must stay on my premises. You understand. Trust me, you will enjoy it here – we are like family." His gaze shifted to Don. "Don, while your brother is working, I have some pending deals in the local area that you may be interested in evaluating. If you wish, you may work along with Ian. You might establish some contacts that you will find beneficial."

"I appreciate the opportunity. You are very generous," Don murmured.

Montreaux waved a hand. "Ce n'était rien. If things go well, I expect we will have a long and prosperous relationship." His eyes hardened and bored into Don's. "Of course, I expect the utmost honestly and loyalty from my people and from those with whom I do business. If I suspect anything otherwise, there will be consequences. Comprenez-vous?"

Don's voice was just as hard. "Yes. We understand, and expect the same in return."

Montreaux's icy expression melted, and he beamed. "Mais oui!" he exclaimed. "I expect we will get along very well." He turned to the thin man. "Pierre, you will show Charlie to his work area." His gaze shifted to take in the others. "Ian, Guy, Jean, you will include Don in your dealings in the Garden District." He turned back to Don and Charlie. "Gentlemen, thank you for your time. I would also like to extend an invitation to dinner for this evening."

"That's not necessary, but thank you," replied Don.

Montreaux smiled. "I insist. As I said, we are like family, here. We work together; we play together. There is no better way to get to know one's associates, is there not?"

Charlie spoke suddenly, unexpectedly. "Of course not," he said, and looked at Don steadily, then back at Montreaux. "We're looking forward to it."

"Très bien," murmured Montreaux, softly, smiling. "Très bien."

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Don walked across the back drive toward Ian's SUV, his gut in a knot. He hadn't expected things to move so quickly; hadn't dreamed that within twenty-four hours of their arrival that Charlie would be inside, already on Montreaux's computer systems, already working. Granted, Charlie was simply working the cocaine angle; Montreaux had given no indication that he wanted anything else, but if this job worked out to the man's satisfaction, Don had no doubt that Montreaux would extend the offer for the export system also. It was moving fast – too fast; they had hardly had a chance to get acclimated, to set contingency plans. Charlie seemed to be taking the developments in stride, however; Don knew that his brother's calm acceptance of the dinner invitation had been Charlie's way of trying to reassure him. Still, the sight of his brother walking down the hallway between two men, on his way deeper into the bowels of Montreaux's home, was enough to make Don to want to call it all off, right then and there.

He climbed into the SUV and shut the door, and had opened his mouth to speak when Ian held up a finger; indicating silence. Don frowned, but he stayed quiet as Ian outlined a plan to visit some business associates in the Garden District. A few blocks later, Ian pulled over in front of a cafe and felt under the dash in front of Don, gripped something and pulled it out for Don to see – an electronic listening device – and then replaced it. Don's heart lurched. A bug. Had it been there all along? He searched his memory frantically, trying to remember if they'd said anything incriminating in the vehicle.

Ian looked at Don. "I need a coffee," he said. "You want one?"

"Yeah." The word came out hoarsely, and Don numbly slid from the vehicle and met Ian on the sidewalk, his heart still pounding, his thoughts racing.

"Relax," said Ian. "They just put it there this morning while we were inside. They did that to me when I started, weeks ago – that's how I knew to look for it. After they were satisfied I was clean, they took it out. I'm leaving it there, but we'll have to be careful about what we say when we're in the vehicle. I'm betting they've got them in your rental car and the hotel room by now, too. We'll just have to take our conversations out on the street."

He looked up the street, then back at Don. "You need to chill."

Don took a deep breath. "I just didn't think he'd end up in there by himself."

Ian grimaced slightly. "Montreaux's no dummy. He separated you on purpose, and I'm sure he got the impression that you're the harder nut to crack, so he's gonna work on Charlie. He'll try and test him." He looked at Don sympathetically and shrugged. "Charlie'll be okay. You saw him – he was cool as a cucumber. C'mon, I'm buying – but you're getting decaf."

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

The thin man, who had been introduced as Pierre Montreaux, had missed his calling, Charlie thought to himself. He should have been a tour guide. In spite of his French name, his accent was not as pronounced; and it wasn't Southern either; it actually sounded Canadian. As Charlie was led through the house, Pierre gave him a lecture, proudly showing him the rooms as they passed. "The house was built in 1887 on a man-made slope," he said, as they passed. "The front of the house is two stories, but in back the slope allows for a third floor. That was the floor you came in on. Mr. Montreaux's study is on the second floor, along with the bedrooms. Also on that floor, he converted one wing of bedrooms into a private party area for smaller groups – very plush, let me tell you. When you come in the first floor from the front, you're in the grand foyer, and to your right is the dining room, the bar, and the grand ballroom. We're on that floor on the left side of the house now, which holds the library and the offices, including the computer room where you'll be working. The kitchen is in the back of the house, on the bottom floor, along with an informal dining area. They use a dumbwaiter to send food up to the first floor dining room when there's a party."

They had arrived at the last door on the right side of the hallway, and Pierre opened it, revealing the work area. It was a large, high-ceilinged room anchored by a parquet floor, which was adorned with Oriental carpets. It had tall narrow windows covered with thick draperies, and contained six desks, five of them containing desktop computers. "We have our own server," Pierre said proudly. "The computers are linked to it, and so are other computers that Montreaux has at other locations. We got a nice system going here – I think you'll like it. Here – this desk is yours while you're working here."

He indicated a desk, and Charlie stepped next to it. Pierre looked at two other men working in the room. "Guys, this is Charlie. Charlie, this is Max and Mike – they're our resident computer experts. Charlie's gonna be working here for a while. Mike, you need to show him our delivery system – inside only, like we talked about."

The man named Mike nodded indifferently and clicked away at his keyboard. "I'll be with you in a minute," he said.

Pierre looked at Charlie. "Have a seat. I'll check back later." He turned and walked briskly from the room.

Charlie sank into a chair behind the desk, and took a deep breath.

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

It was one of the longest days that Don could remember. Ian introduced him to several clients and they discussed deals possibly involving Don's contacts, although Don noticed that all of them were very careful not to specify what the product was in their conversation. It made him realize that although Montreaux had let them in, he still didn't trust them entirely; they were still being tested. It made him wonder what tests were being given to his brother, and how Charlie was doing with them.

In January, darkness came early, and the sky was already black when they arrived back at Montreaux's estate, although it was not even seven yet. Don forced himself to look composed, almost uninterested, as he strolled toward the house, although his insides were in a knot. They were led to a room off the first floor hall, a bar next to the dining room, and as the door opened, Don scanned the room quickly. Pierre Montreaux and the Clemenceaus were there, but no Charlie.

Montreaux approached them, and waved an arm toward the bar. "Come," he said, "have a drink before dinner." As they drew near to the bar, Montreaux waved at the bartender. "I have a fine whiskey that you should try. Neat, or rocks?"

"Rocks, thank you," murmured Don, and Ian accepted the same.

"Your brother is still working," said Montreaux with a smile. "He appears to be – how shall I say it – intense."

Don allowed one corner of his mouth to lift into a smile. He felt a slight wave of relief at Montreaux's statement, but he'd feel better when he saw Charlie for himself. "That's Charlie. He can get pretty involved in his work."

Montreaux smiled. "I never underrate work ethic. Although I sent for him – I imagine he needs a break."

Pierre Montreaux smirked. "I can tell you Max and Mike do. He's giving them a run for their money."

Montreaux threw back his head and laughed. "Good for Charlie." His eyes darted toward the doorway, and he smiled. "Ah, here is the taskmaster himself."

Don turned to see Charlie entering with two other men behind him, both in their late thirties, both with medium builds, both wearing casual clothing – button shirts, with the shirttails out. One sported wire rimmed glasses, and they looked and dressed like clerks – or computer techs. Charlie caught his eye as he came through the door; he looked tired and still a bit pale, but seemed relatively at ease. He was still wearing his denim jacket, as was Don, but Montreaux had shed his suit jacket for a sporty-looking pullover, so casual dress seemed to be acceptable for dinner.

Montreaux clapped a hand on Charlie's shoulder as he came up to them. "I hear you have been working my men too hard," he exclaimed with a jovial smile, and a sharp glance at the two men. They smiled back, but the one who was introduced as Mike had a slight bitterness in his expression; Don surmised that he didn't enjoy being shown up by a stranger.

"We made some good progress," said Charlie, as he accepted a glass of whiskey. "I optimized the routes that you were using through the Southern stops to gain efficiency, and next I'll overlay the plan for the Columbus route. To minimize risk, we'll have a second smaller truck start out after the first, which will transfer product to your produce truck just after it crosses the state lines. That way, you won't have your entire shipment on one truck, and you can deplete your stock of "produce," on the first truck prior to getting to the weigh station at the state borders. That will reduce risk from random cargo inspections. We're bringing the smaller truck in on back roads so it can bypass the weigh stations entirely. We should be done early tomorrow."

Jean Clemenceau sidled up to Mike Hamill, who had moved toward the bar as Charlie spoke to Montreaux. "Is he as good as he sounds?"

Mike took a disgusted swig of his drink. "He's a freak. It took us weeks to figure the drop points, and it took him two hours to figure out we could have done it better."

Clemenceau grinned wolfishly. "Sounds like you better get your ass in gear, or you'll be out of a job."

Mike snorted and scowled, and tossed down the rest of his drink.

Don stood listening to Charlie silently, watching Montreaux between sips of his drink. The whisky was smooth, icy, yet warmed as it went down. Montreaux seemed impressed and pleased, but there was still a sharpness to his eyes, a watchfulness about him. They had a way to go before Montreaux would trust them implicitly, but Charlie had made a positive impression. It was a good start, and it seemed that Charlie was handling his role effortlessly.

Montreaux broke off suddenly, and looked toward the door. "Ah, there are the ladies."

Two women had appeared at the door, along with three other men, and Ian sidled next to Don and murmured, "Those folks are regulars here at Montreaux's parties. A couple of them stay here – that dark haired man, and the blonde."

He needn't have pointed out the blonde – she eclipsed everyone in the room. She was easily six-three, and had a body so voluptuous it bordered on obscene. She was outrageously beautiful, and would have been a head-turner at any size, but her height and her curves amplified the effect. Charlie was staring at her with his mouth open, and Ian grinned a little at his expression.

Montreaux stepped forward and bussed the ladies on their cheeks. "Ah chéries, so good to see you." He turned and looked at Charlie and Don. "Gentlemen, please meet Macy Lee –," he indicated a dark haired woman who was striking in her own right, but who was completely outdone by the blonde, "- and Charlotte Sumner." Charlotte, the blonde, dimpled at them. He went on, introducing the men with the women, and then said, "And this is Don and Charlie Archer, new business associates."

Charlie had managed to close his mouth and conjure up a polite smile, but he flushed to the roots of his hair as Charlotte sashayed over to him. In her heels, she was a good head taller than him, and her well-endowed chest ended up nearly at his eye level. In spite of the underlying tension, Don couldn't help but grin as Ian muttered, "Talk about your deer in the headlights."

Montreaux had moved toward them and picked up the comment, and added slyly, "And those are some headlights, non?" The three of them dissolved in laughter, and Don could feel some of his anxiety dissipating. In spite of Don's wariness, Montreaux was making them feel like welcome guests.

Charlotte flashed them a gorgeous smile over Charlie's head, and Don got the impression that she knew exactly what they were talking about. "Jack, you've been holdin' out on me," she cooed, in a smooth Southern accent, looking down at Charlie, who appeared increasingly uncomfortable. "This one's adorable." She cocked her head, placed a manicured nail coquettishly between her teeth. "And which one are you, honey, Charlie, or Don?"

"Charlie," he managed, and she smiled. Charlie blinked.

"Come on, Charlie," she said, hooking her arm through his, and steering him toward the dining room. "You're my escort tonight."

Charlie sent a wide-eyed look over his shoulder that set Montreaux to chuckling, and he turned to Don and Ian. "Come gentlemen. Dinner is served."

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

End Chapter 8

Translations:

Ce n'était rien: It is nothing.

Comprenez-vous? Do you understand?

Mais oui! Of course! (literally, 'but yes!')