Chapter 11 #2
"Be very careful," Archer cautioned. "Whoever we're dealing with has very big players behind them. We need to handle this delicately."
"Understood," Ryker replied, and then he was gone.
Archer stood at the window for a moment after the door closed, looking out at the river without really seeing it. Then he crossed back to his desk and reached for his phone.
A knock sounded at the door before he could dial.
He glanced at his watch. Too early for a scheduled meeting. "Come in."
Armand Fontaine filled the doorway; one large hand wrapped around a coffee cup that looked comically small in his grip. He was dressed impeccably as always, but there was something in his expression that made Archer set the phone down.
"Mon ami," Armand said, closing the door behind him. "I hope I am not interrupting."
"You are," Archer said. "Sit down."
Armand smiled at that, the way he always did when Archer didn't bother with pleasantries, as if he found it refreshing rather than rude. He lowered himself into the chair Ryker had just vacated. "I flew in this morning. I did not wish to do this over the phone."
Archer studied him. "Fisher."
Armand nodded, setting his coffee cup on the edge of the desk. He clasped his hands together and leaned forward slightly. "I have been making inquiries, as I said I would. Carefully. Through people I trust completely."
"And?"
"What I have found is not specific enough yet to act on," Armand said. "But it is specific enough to concern me greatly. So I came."
Archer waited. He'd learned long ago that trying to rush Armand produced nothing useful.
"Fisher has been moving money," Armand said.
"Not his own money, or at least not money that can be traced back to him directly.
Small amounts through multiple channels, the kind of movement that is designed to look like nothing and would look like nothing to most people.
" He paused. "But I have seen this pattern before.
Many times. In many different countries. "
"What does the pattern indicate?" Archer asked.
"It indicates someone building a war chest," Armand said simply. "Someone who is preparing for something significant and does not want anyone to see them preparing."
If this were true, Archer would be fighting battles on two fronts, an unenviable position. Cold settled into Archer’s chest, the freezing certainty that always came when a suspicion hardened into something real. "How long has this been going on?"
"At least eighteen months," Armand said. "Possibly longer. Eighteen months is simply as far back as my people could trace it cleanly."
Eighteen months. Long before the board seat but not long after Davis's bomb, his humiliation, his fall from grace. Was Fisher helping Davis, or was this something entirely different?
"There is something else," Armand said, and his voice dropped slightly, the way it did when he was about to say something he found genuinely troubling. For a man who had spent his career in the arms trade, that register meant something. "Some of the channels he is using. I recognize them."
Archer kept his face neutral. "From?"
"From people who do not get involved in domestic politics," Armand said carefully.
"People who operate at a level where borders are largely irrelevant.
" He met Archer's gaze. "This is not a man who is simply ambitious, Archer.
This is a man with international backing.
Someone, or some group, has decided that Eli Fisher is a useful instrument. "
The silence between them was brief but weighted.
"You think he's being funded from outside," Archer said.
"I think it is a possibility that cannot be ignored," Armand said. "And I think that whoever is funding him has their own reasons for wanting someone in your position. Someone controllable." He spread his hands. "Fisher is many things. Controllable is one of them, for the right price."
Archer stood and walked to the window again. It was becoming a habit this morning, needing the river and the light and the distance from the room to think clearly.
"You said earlier not to underestimate him," Archer said, without turning around.
"I did," Armand agreed. "And I will say it again now. Davis is the noise. Fisher is the silence. In my experience, it is always the silence you have to worry about."
Archer turned back. "Does he know you've been looking into him?"
Armand gave a small, unhurried shrug. "My people are careful. But I cannot guarantee it. Which is another reason I came in person rather than calling." He picked up his coffee cup again. "I do not trust phones at the moment. Not for this."
Archer nodded once. That was significant coming from Armand, a man who had built an entire career on discretion and operational security.
"What do you need from me?" Armand asked.
"Keep digging," Archer said. "But carefully. If he does have international backing and they get wind that someone is looking, it changes everything."
"Understood." Armand rose from the chair with the nonchalant ease of a man who had never needed to rush anywhere in his life. He picked up his coffee cup and moved toward the door, then stopped. "One more thing."
Archer looked at him.
"The young woman," Armand said. "The Wellington girl. She is here, yes? Staying in the apartments."
"She is."
Armand studied him for a moment with those dark, perceptive eyes that had sized up arms dealers and presidents and never missed very much. "Proceed carefully, mon ami," he said quietly. "Not with her. With yourself."
Archer held his gaze and said nothing.
Armand smiled, just slightly, and left.
The door clicked shut for the second time that morning, and Archer stood in the silence, letting the full weight of both conversations settle over him.
Davis, money, and power, and the Ponzi scheme connecting in ways he'd suspected but couldn't yet prove. And Fisher, quiet, patient Fisher, moving pieces on a board that Archer was only now beginning to fully see.
He picked up his phone and made the call.
"What can you tell me about Davis's recent deals?" he asked.
The voice on the other end was cautious. "Still digging, but you're right. Something is definitely going on. He's involved in more than one thing. Suddenly flush with cash."
"Keep digging," Archer said. "Very carefully. Dig deep on Eli Fisher as well, but keep it as quiet as possible. And keep me informed."
He ended the call and leaned back, staring at the ceiling. The morning light slanted through the window, casting sharp shadows across the room.
The ghost team would do what he'd asked.
He trusted them. But it was a big ask, and even with everything they uncovered, it wouldn't be enough. Even if Archer knew where the money was coming from and why it was being socked away, it wouldn’t be enough to do anything by the rules of the Society.
In the end, someone would have to flip. Someone would have to tell him that Davis and now Fisher had done something to harm someone inside the Society.
That was the only way to do this by the book.
If he'd had to place a bet, Archer would have said Richard North was the weakest link. The most likely to talk. Which was probably exactly why North was dead. That left Kelly and Lebowitz, and Archer had no doubt they were next.
He just had to decide whether he was going to reach out to them first. Or attend two more funerals.
His phone buzzed. A text from security.
Ms. Wellington is awake. Requesting breakfast in the dining room.
Archer stared at the message, and something in his chest loosened, just slightly, in a way he didn't examine too carefully. She was safe. For now.
But for how long?
He stood, grabbed his jacket, and headed for the door.
Maybe it was time to go off-book. Maybe, just maybe, the rules no longer applied.