The Naked Edge (26 page)

Then the static changed again, as if the transmission ended.

Cavanaugh told Russell, “You can put the microphone away. He's gone.”

“Carl?”

“Carl Duran,” Cavanaugh said. “You and I have a lot to talk about.”

Russell pulled a two-way radio from his belt. “Randall, get a SWAT team down here. Tell your men to check the roofs.”

“What are we looking for?” a voice asked.

“If I'm to believe what I'm hearing: the prince of darkness.”

“
Who?
”

“A guy who doesn't leave loose ends. I'll get you a description as soon as—”

“Six feet tall,” Cavanaugh said. “Lean. Women find him attractive until they discover he almost never smiles. Strong arms, particularly his forearms, from working with a hammer and anvil.”

“A blacksmith?” Russell asked.

“A master knife maker,” Cavanaugh said. “He spends a lot of time thinking about blades and sheaths. I guess it finally occurred to him how sheaths could be weapons, also.”

Russell stared toward the ambulances and the blood on their shattered windows. “Yeah,” he said, “you and I definitely have a lot to talk about.”

1

Kim threw up again.

A policeman hurried toward a door in the harsh corridor, only to be blocked by Lt. Russell, who suddenly opened the door. Russell was accompanied by two other grim-faced men, one white, the other black: William Faraday and John Rutherford.

“. . . sick,” the policeman explained to Russell, pointing toward the holding cell. “The Chinese woman's throwing up.”

“My client demands medical help,” William said.

“And believe me, counselor, she'll get it. I'll send for the police chief's personal physician if that'll make you happy.”

“
Nothing
makes me happy.”

“I already got that impression.” Russell turned to the policeman. “Send for a doctor.”

The group marched along the corridor, stopping in front of the cell, where Russell motioned for an officer to unlock the door.

“Hi, William. Hello, John,” Cavanaugh said as they stepped in.

Kim threw up again.

“What's wrong with her?” Russell asked.

“Back injury,” Jamie explained. “She needs a pain killer.”

“Like more of those OxyContin pills we found in her apartment?” Russell asked.

“Those pills belonged to the attackers,” William said.

“Yeah, right,” Russell said.

“In the frenzy of the moment, the pills fell out of a gunman's pocket,” the attorney said. “That's the sort of man who'd be capable of that kind of violence. A pill popper. A drug addict.”

“Whatever you say,” Russell told him.

“And
you
had plenty to say.” William turned to Cavanaugh. “I told you to volunteer nothing but your name and your vital statistics.”

“It's nice to see
you
, too, William.”

“But the lieutenant tells me you pretty much gave him your life history. If you want to be your own attorney, why drag me down here?”

“Hey, I thought I was doing you a favor, freeing you from your safe site,” Cavanaugh told him.

“Well, you didn't do
me
any favor—” Lt. Russell pointed toward the black man next to him. “—bringing in the FBI. At the start, I figured you were bullshitting me to try to talk your way out of that shooting. Now the director of the FBI's counterterrorist unit invokes national security.”

“Bottom line,” Rutherford told Cavanaugh. “You're coming with me.”

“But that doesn't stop me from trying to untangle this mess,” Russell said. “We managed to get fingerprints from the men who were killed in those blasts. It won't be long before we find out who they were. Maybe
that
information will lead us to your ex-buddy Carl Duran.”

“Won't help,” Cavanaugh said. “You'll discover they got out of prison recently. Probably within the past six weeks. They were doing time for violent offenses, but they each went to a different prison, and they didn't know each other before they went in.”

Russell asked Rutherford, “Is this more bullshit?”

“Afraid not.”

“Then enlighten me,” Russell told Cavanaugh. “Show me how smart you are. How did these guys wind up together?”

“Carl approached them when they got out of prison, and in a brief time, he turned them from being rough criminals into operators.”

“How?”

“I think Carl selects his recruits on the basis of their capacity for violence, their ability to learn, and their need to be somebody important. They're wannabes, guys who'd love to be in Marine Recon, the Rangers, Special Forces, or the SEALs, just to show how tough they are and force people to look up to them. But they don't have the character and the discipline to make the grade. Approach them when they're fresh out of prison with no prospects and no money but a powerful urge to let off the anger they've been building up. Pay them. Flatter them. Use visualization and other accelerated instructional techniques. Give them a chance to play with guns. Six weeks later, their egos are so pumped, they'll do anything to prove to Carl they deserve his respect. Just as important, they're the kind of guys nobody cares about and nobody'll miss. If Carl thinks they're in a position to be captured and questioned, he blows them up. It's like they never existed.”

“That's quite a theory,” the lieutenant said.

“Help me prove it,” Cavanaugh said.

“You suggested I look at places where Carl Duran lived,” Rutherford interrupted, “including where he was stationed in the military. We searched for a pattern of cats and dogs that disappeared. Or maybe they didn't disappear. Maybe they showed up in alleys or ditches, with their guts sliced open and their heads cut off. The police and the humane societies had records of clusters like that. In Iowa City, just before Duran moved away. In Nashville, Tennessee, just before he moved from there. In Columbus, Georgia, next to Fort Benning, where he started his Ranger training. In Tacoma, Washington, next to Fort Lewis, where he got more Ranger training. In Fayetteville. North Carolina, next to Fort Bragg, where Delta Force is trained. Especially just before Duran moved to another base or when he left Delta, there was a high incidence of mutilated animals.” Rutherford paused. “Then the bodies started turning up.”

“Bodies?” Russell asked.

“Winos and homeless people. All of them stabbed to death. Other winos and homeless people spread a rumor about a man who stalked them at night. Under bridges. In storm culverts. In parks and alleys, in abandoned buildings and junk-filled lots. The rumors were about this man kicking drunks awake or knocking cardboard boxes over and making homeless people crawl out. He gave them a knife and told them to fight. Then he went to work. But the patterns of the cuts showed that he took a long time to finish them off.”

“Yeah,” Russell said. “The prince of darkness.”

Kim threw up again.

2

After the doctor left, Cavanaugh and Jamie studied Kim where she lay on the bunk.

“An ambulance is coming,” Jamie assured her.

Pale, Kim managed to nod.

“The doctor says you're in stress from withdrawal.”

“What time is it?”

“Two in the morning.”

“Longest time I've gone without Oxy since last spring. At least, I'm not shitting my pants yet.”

“The doctor says he's taking you to a detox clinic,” Cavanaugh said.

Kim nodded weakly again.

“He says you
asked
to be taken there,” Cavanaugh added.

“Hey.” Kim ran her tongue along her dry lips. “I'm into withdrawal
this
far. I might as well go all the way.”

Cavanaugh noted that Kim didn't qualify her statement by saying she would
try
to go all the way. “Don't worry about your job. It'll be there when you come back.”

Kim crossed her arms over her chest and shivered. “I'm not worried about
me
. It's the two of
you
. . .” She shivered harder, asking Jamie, “Do you remember the computer codes?”

“You bet,” Jamie said. “Your security's so brilliant, I can't get in otherwise.”

“Nail the bastard who's doing this.”

3

Lt. Russell arranged for numerous cruisers to leave the precinct at the same time, so many that Carl's operators couldn't follow them all. But if any tried, the sparse traffic of two a.m. would make the surveillance obvious and easily intercepted.

Cavanaugh and Jamie hid in the back seat of one of those cruisers. They got out at Central Park's West Drive, slipped into the trees, and headed north. From time to time, they paused among murky boulders and bushes to check if they were being followed. Only the park's usual predators stalked them, but Cavanaugh and Jamie gave off such strong don't-screw-with-us vibrations that just four kids made a move, and what happened to them was so swift and decisive that word spread quickly—
stay away
.

Confident that they'd eluded Carl and his men, Cavanaugh and Jamie crossed Eighth Avenue and proceeded along West Seventy-Third Street. They reached a modest apartment building, outside which a man with a beer can in his hand seemed asleep behind the steering wheel of a car. Farther along, a man walked a dog. Still farther along, a van had a small air vent in its roof, the vent actually an aperture for a surveillance camera.

Outside the front door, Cavanaugh studied a list of tenants. He pressed the intercom button next to the name Zimbalist.

After a moment, a man's voice said, “This better be good. It's the middle of the night.”

“Jimmy Lile sent us,” Jamie said, mentioning a famous knife maker whose name they'd selected as a code.

A buzzer sounded. Cavanaugh opened the door and stepped into a warm, pleasantly lit vestibule. Halfway along a hallway, a door was ajar. A security camera looked down from a corner. They went up one flight of carpeted stairs and prepared to knock on door 2-C when it opened and Rutherford smiled.

“You two don't look so good.”

“You don't need to seem so cheery about it,” Jamie said.

“I'm just glad you're all right.” He locked the door after they entered.

“What about William?” Cavanaugh asked. “Did he get back to his safe site okay?”

“Nobody followed the car.”

In the living room, two men in white shirts had their suit coats draped over chairs, their holstered handguns visible on their belts. They watched a row of closed-circuit TV monitors that provided views of the street, the door to the building, the vestibule, and the stairs leading up.

“You ought to feel flattered,” Rutherford said. “The Bureau maintains this place only for prized informants.”

“The park.” Cavanaugh rubbed his arms. “Cold.”

“You've got your pick of two bathrooms to take a hot shower.”

“Hungry,” Jamie said.

“The pizza's already here,” Rutherford said. “With pepperonis, right?”

“And anchovies and black olives.”

“And salad and garlic bread. Everything you ordered.”

4

“Are you okay?” Cavanaugh asked in the darkness of a bedroom

“A few bumps and bruises. Nothing serious.” Jamie lay next to him.

“I mean, are you
okay
?”

“Why wouldn't I be? It's just the usual, isn't it? Fear and trembling.”

“You were talking awfully fast in the kitchen. You sound as if you're on speed.”

“Adrenaline will do that.”

“It should have worn off by now.” The darkness seemed to compress around him.

“I guess I'm resistant,” she said.

“I just want to make sure nothing's wrong.” The darkness got even thicker.

Jamie lay unmoving next to him. Finally, she said, “You mean because I killed somebody?”

Cavanaugh exhaled.“Now that you mention it.”

“He was trying to kill
us
.”

“Best reason in the world to pull the trigger,” Cavanaugh agreed. “You didn't panic. You didn't let the heat of the moment make your hands waver. You acted precisely. You saved our lives.”

“Is this what the military calls an ‘after-action report’?”

“It's useful to talk. To sort out your emotions.”

“In other words, a cheap form of psychotherapy.” Jamie remained motionless beside him.

“Imagine that you didn't raise your pistol fast enough. Imagine him firing the rifle, full auto, bullets tearing into us, blood and flesh and bone flying, you and Kim and me dropping.”

“Trying some neuro-linguistic programming on me?”

“It's nothing I haven't used on myself.”

“When was the first time . . .”

“First time?” Outside the curtained, bullet-resistant window, a car drove by, its lonely drone echoing in the night. “You mean, the first time I killed someone?”

Jamie didn't answer.

“Twenty years ago,” Cavanaugh said. “In Peru.”

Jamie turned toward him. “Isn't that where you told me Duran was held prisoner by revolutionaries?”

“They called themselves the PCP. The
Partido Comunista del Peru
. American soldiers were down there, helping prop up the government. Carl and I and some other Delta Force members were sent to teach the Peruvian soldiers how to put together their own version of Delta. Lord knows, enough officials had been kidnapped that the local government needed experts in hostage retrieval. We accompanied Peruvian soldiers on a mission to rescue a high-ranking politician. The PCP was threatening to kill him if the government didn't release some PCP members the army was interrogating. But somebody leaked the details of the mission to the revolutionaries, and we walked into an ambush. Carl was knocked unconscious by an explosion. The government soldiers he was with ran away. Later, we received photographs showing that Carl was alive, with a message that gave the government three days to release the PCP agitators.”

Cavanaugh forced himself to continue. “Delta looks after its own. Within twenty-four hours, a full extraction team arrived from Fort Bragg. Twelve hours before the deadline expired, we got a lucky break, some excellent intelligence reports along with aerial surveillance photos that showed the mountain camp where Carl was being held. At night, we parachuted into a clearing about three miles away and converged on the target. The infra-red satellite images we'd studied gave us a pretty good idea of where the prisoners, eight of them including Carl, were being held. About twenty revolutionaries were guarding the camp. We used night-vision binoculars to confirm what was on the satellite images. I was with the men assigned to get to the prisoners and protect them once the attack started. Basically, the tactic was coordinated sniper shots followed by overwhelming automatic fire and a hail of fragmentation grenades. It was a textbook assault, and it went perfectly. No casualties among the prisoners or the attack force. The revolutionaries were utterly outclassed.”