The Naked Edge (13 page)

The second person was Chinese, female, early thirties. Kim Lee. Raised in Seattle. Her lustrous black hair hung to her waist. Five feet four, slender, with thin, delicate but attractive features, she looked too vulnerable to work for a security corporation. But anyone who acted on the foolish assumption that she was defenseless quickly discovered that she was a black-belt instructor of aikido and jeet kune do. She was one of the few employees of GPS who had not been in special operations, but her expertise didn't require military training. Duncan had hired her because she was once a notorious computer hacker and virus designer, skills highly desirable in a company that defended against electronic assaults as well as physical ones. Cavanaugh wondered how Kim and Jamie would get along inasmuch as Jamie, too, was a computer specialist.

The third person was white. Gerald Brockman. Early forties. A handsome, solidly built Afrikaner who once belonged to South Africa's Reconnaissance Commandos: experts in working behind enemy lines in the most hostile outdoor environment. One of the unit's endurance tests involved surviving for five days among the lions, elephants, and fires of Africa's bush country with no food except a tin of condensed milk, half a day's ration pack, and twelve biscuits, the bulk of which students discovered to their dismay had been soaked in petrol by their instructors. In addition to his elite military background, Brockman had superior administration skills that qualified him to be the interim CEO of the company.

All three paused. Special operators were trained to control their emotions. Even so, it was clear that they were surprised.

“Cavanaugh?” Brockman stared.

When William had contacted Global Protective Services, he'd followed Cavanaugh's instructions and told Brockman only that William would be arriving with the new owner.

Brockman looked at Jamie and Mrs. Patterson, eliminated them from the possibilities, and said, “
You're
the new CEO?”

“But . . .” Kim turned her attention to the attorney. “William, for the past five months, you've been asking me to search our computer records for someone named Aaron Stoddard. I got the impression
he
was the person Duncan willed the company to.”

“That's true,” William replied. “Now that I have my client's permission, I can finally tell you—Aaron Stoddard inherited GPS.”

“
I'm
Aaron Stoddard,” Cavanaugh said.

The room became silent.

“I had a theory that a protector would be vulnerable if the bad guys learned about his private life,” he explained. “Pressure could be put on his family and friends in order to put pressure on
him
. So I decided to use a pseudonym.”

“But how could the bad guys get that information?” Ali asked. “Between Kim and me, those records are absolutely secure.”

“Wrong,” Cavanaugh told him. “Yesterday, a hit team attacked my home.”

“
What?
”

“My
home
, for God's sake. The deed's in Aaron Stoddard's name. The people where I live know me only as Aaron Stoddard.” Anger forced Cavanaugh to work to control his breathing. “But somehow the hit team found me. The only way that could have happened is through GPS's search for somebody with that name.”

“What about
William's
office?” Ali suggested. “William's the one who started the search.”

“I assure you I informed no one, other than the three of you, that it was essential to find a man named Aaron Stoddard.” William turned toward Cavanaugh. “For reasons of confidentiality, I couldn't mention the terms of Duncan's will. But they quickly made the connection.”

“What the hell are you implying?” Brockman demanded. “That
we
sent the hit team to keep you from inheriting the company? To give
us
a chance to gain control of it?”

“Until now, the thought hadn't even occurred to me,” Cavanaugh lied.

“This is bullshit.” Ali's perfect American idiom contrasted with his East Indian features. “As if we don't have enough problems, now we've got a guy who told us he doesn't want to be in the business any longer who decides he
does
want to be in the business and comes back to tell us we're all working for the other side.”

“Time out,” Cavanaugh said.

“It really is bullshit,” Ali insisted.

“Honestly, time out. Did Duncan keep any whiskey around here?”

“You've become a
drinker
?” Kim asked in astonishment.

“No,” Cavanaugh said, “but maybe if we hit each other over the head with the bottle long enough, we'll start talking sense. Duncan trusted the three of you absolutely.
I
trust you absolutely. But that doesn't change the security breach we need to find, and it doesn't change the problem I've got. Somebody's hunting me, somebody with a lot of money and resources. Just because the first attempt failed doesn't mean the threat's over. I've got to believe there'll be another attack, bigger and better organized.”

Brockman ran a hand across his shaved head. Ali exhaled slowly.

“Sorry,” Kim said. “I guess we're all reacting to stress.”

After a knock on the door, a security guard brought in a package. “Mr. Faraday's assistant delivered this.”

Cavanaugh gave the bulging, legal-sized envelope to William, who spread the contents onto the conference table.

“Where do I put my autograph?” Cavanaugh asked.

“Aren't you going to read it first? As your lawyer, I strongly advise you to study what you're signing.”

“Is there anything in it you don't approve of?”

“It's elegantly simple. You accept the bequest. You assume control of the company, with all its assets and, I emphasize, its liabilities.”

“Yesterday, you told me Duncan made some questionable business decisions.”

“He expanded the company too quickly. London, Paris, Rome, Hong Kong. The new office planned for Tokyo. Granted, after nine/eleven, first-rate security has never been in greater demand. But right now, GPS has more money going out than coming in. There's a risk of bankruptcy.”

“Bankruptcy?” Ali frowned at Brockman. “Nobody told me anything about—”

Cavanaugh signed the document.

“We need a witness.” William looked at Jamie. “But it can't be your wife.”

“Wife?” Kim looked stunned.

“Hell, I'll do it,” Mrs. Patterson said, happy to have continued to be part of the group. She signed where William indicated.

“So the company's mine now?” Cavanaugh asked William.

“Down to the paper clips and the water coolers.”

“Then let's get started. Gerald, cancel the Tokyo office. Merge the Paris office with the one in Rome. Ali, Mrs. Patterson needs to be protected around the clock. Put her in a safe site.”

“And assign some handsome young men to watch her,” Jamie said.

“William needs a safe site, too,” Cavanaugh added. “The hit team can use both of them to get at me. Kim, do a computer search on every assignment I ever had. There's a chance the attack on me was meant to keep me quiet about something I learned. I want the best protectors to escort Jamie and me. Send for Rob Miller, Dominic Benuto, Hans Dietrich, and . . .”

The somber looks he received made him stop.

He suddenly processed two incongruous statements that Ali and Kim had made. Ali had said, “As if we don't have enough problems.” Kim had said, “I guess we're all reacting to stress.”

“What's wrong?” he asked.

Kim drew a breath. “Except for Eddie, they're all dead. Within the past twenty-four hours.”

At first, Cavanaugh was certain he hadn't heard correctly.

“Miller was in Venice, protecting a corporate executive and his wife,” Ali explained. “Dominic was in Oaxaca, escorting a movie star. The others were on equally unrelated assignments. All of them were killed with sharp-edged weapons.”

Cavanaugh leaned forward, pressing his hands on the table.

“All the blades were covered with a rapid-acting poison,” Kim added.

Cavanaugh couldn't speak.

“The clients survived.” Brockman sounded troubled. “They weren't harmed in the least. Nobody attacked them.”

“Nobody? But that doesn't make sense,” William objected.

“Sure, it does,” Cavanaugh said. “If the clients weren't attacked, it means the protectors were the targets.”

“But why not just use guns?”

“Because there's something creepily intimate about being stabbed,” Cavanaugh replied. “A victim often doesn't feel the cuts or have any idea how serious the wound might be. There's a video that knife trainers use. The tape came from a security camera mounted to the ceiling of a bar in California. You see a bunch of Anglo tough guys beating up a short Latino man. They really put the boots to him. Finally, the worst of the attackers has the Latino on the bar's pool table, wailing the hell out of him. On the video, you see a little movement to the left, the Latino's hand trying to get out from under the bad guy, struggling to reach into his jean's pocket. Then you see a lot of quick little movements. The hand's a blur. Then the bad guy straightens, as if he pounded the Latino as much as he wanted to. He turns, and his stomach's wide open, but he's in shock and doesn't know he's been cut. Everybody runs. The bad guy looks puzzled by their reaction and walks over to the bar. He sits down. The Latino, who's covered with blood, gets off the pool table, puts his knife in his pocket, straightens his clothes, and walks out. The bad guy sitting at the bar orders a drink. He's still in so much shock that he doesn't know how many times he's been cut. He sits there a moment longer, shakes his head as if he's a little confused about something, and falls over dead.”

William looked appalled.

“Most security personnel are so worried about a knife threat, they make sure they carry at least one knife so they can scare somebody with it if the situation gets that bad.
Several
knives are preferable so you've got a better chance of drawing one of them. Attached to a break-away chain around the neck.” Cavanaugh opened his shirt, displaying a short, black knife in a nylon scabbard: part of the contents of the Gulfstream's bug-out bag. It was called
La Griffe
, a French word for “talon,” which described its shape.

“And here.” Jamie pulled back her blazer, showing William a utility knife holstered above her left hip, something else from the bug-out bag.

“And here.” Cavanaugh unclipped a five-inch tactical folding knife from the inside of his pants pocket. The clip attachment made it easy to find and retrieve the knife. On the back of the blade, a hook snagged on the pocket. The resistance caused the blade to open as the knife was being drawn. “I had years of training with blades. A master knife maker taught me to forge them. But I hate the thought of being attacked by one. Believe me, a lot of protectors will feel cold and naked when word gets out they're being stalked with blades.”

“But
you
weren't attacked with a blade,” Jamie told him. “What's the connection?”

3

Raoul had no idea where he was being taken. After he used a pay phone to tell his parents that he was heading north to find a job in Denver, the stranger drove him to a small airport, Double Eagle, west of Albuquerque. There, the stranger returned his rental car. No security check was required as they walked toward a small jet. A few minutes later, they soared into the cobalt sky.

“I use small airports,” the stranger explained, as if Raoul understood what the hell he was talking about. “I stay below eighteen thousand feet. That way, I don't need to file an instrument flight plan, and I don't turn on my transponder, which is how radar would otherwise track me.”

Raoul had trouble concentrating. Until now, he'd never been in a plane. Vertigo threatened to make him vomit. But there was no way he'd let the stranger realize he was afraid. Although his palms were slick with sweat, he kept them firmly on his knees. He forced himself not to tremble.

The secret was not to look down, he decided. He began to wonder if this was some kind of sex thing, that the stranger would be like the predators Raoul had fought off in prison. But the stranger made no moves of that sort. In fact, after paying Raoul the promised two thousand dollars, all he wanted to talk about was fighting.

“Ever want to join the military?” the stranger asked.

“Hell, no.” The jet engines were muffled through the earphones the stranger had given him.

“Don't you think it would be cool to carry a handgun and an assault rifle as part of your job?”

“
That
part. But who wants to go through all the bullshit of taking orders?”

“One goes with the other.” The stranger had powerful-looking forearms. His sun-darkened face was gaunt, with a crease down each cheek, and an unusual intensity in his hazel eyes. “Nobody's going to give you a gun without telling you how and when to use it.”

“I already
got
a gun.”

“That piece of junk thirty-two? Even if you'd shot me with it, I could have reached you, grabbed it out of your hand, and shoved it down your throat. We'll get you some
real
guns. Ever fired an MP-5?”

“A what?”

“A submachine gun. Do you know the difference between a submachine gun and an actual machine gun?”

Raoul didn't even know there was a difference.

“A submachine gun fires pistol ammunition. Nine millimeter. A
machine
gun fires rifle ammunition. A point two-two-three cartridge, for example. The kind that goes in an M-16. Wicked. The bullet flips end over end when it hits something. Rips the target to shreds. Ever fired a submachine gun?”

Raoul hesitated, afraid he'd lose face if he admitted the truth. “No.”

“We'll make up for that deficiency. There's nothing as sweet as firing an MP-5 on full auto, thirty rounds zipping through that gun in two seconds. Raoul, you might not have made love to the most beautiful woman. You might not have tasted the greatest whiskey. You might not have driven the fastest car. But I'm telling you, when you put thirty full-auto rounds through an MP-5, you can definitely say you've shot the world's best submachine gun. But to be given the chance to do that, and to get the further money I promised, you need to follow some orders. I mean, that's in
any
job, right?”