The Naked Edge (29 page)

“Yeah, but if he's innocent, I'll never be able to regain his trust,” Cavanaugh added.

“Welcome to the world of running a corporation,” Brockman said.

“Let's think about you and Duran,” Rutherford told Cavanaugh. “You haven't been in contact for the past three years, and then suddenly he tries to kill you in Wyoming?
Why?
”

“I could make the link between the way our agents were killed and his obsession with knives. He tried to keep me from drawing suspicion to him.”

“But why wait so long?” Jamie wondered. “If he was worried about you, he'd have needed to eliminate you at the start—
before
the agents were killed with sharp weapons.”

Cavanaugh thought about it. “As long as I was out of the business, maybe Carl didn't consider me a threat. But then his contact alerted him that someone named Aaron Stoddard might inherit Global Protective Services. Carl knew who Aaron Stoddard was. At all costs, he had to stop me from getting involved.”

“Because of the knives,” Brockman said. “But the pattern still isn't clear. Not all our agents were killed with knives. And only a few of the government's agents. Why only
those
agents?”

Jamie suddenly headed toward the computer on Ali's desk. “Gerald's right. We've been studying all kinds of lists. But what we
haven't
looked at is what the agents killed with sharp weapons might have in common.”

Jamie typed the codes Kim had given to her, accessing GPS's security files. She typed more keys, studied something, and pressed other keys. Immediately, the printer began processing pages.

Cavanaugh grabbed them and spread them over the desk. The group joined him.

“Nothing similar in their backgrounds,” Rutherford concluded. “They were born and raised in various areas. They belonged to various elite military units: Eighty-Second Airborne, Marine Recon, Army Rangers, Special Forces, SEALs, Britain's SAS, South Africa's Reconnaissance Commando unit.”

“But hardly any of them served at the same time and the same place,” Jamie pointed out.

“And they hardly ever worked on the same protective assignments together,” Brockman said. “Maybe we're going at this from the wrong direction.”

“What do you mean?”

“If there's a common denominator, maybe it isn't where they'd been or the assignments they'd been on. Maybe it's where they were going.”

“Going?” Jamie asked.

“Their next assignments.” Brockman drew his finger along the pages. He stopped at one item, his features tensing. “Dear God.”

Staring at where Brockman pointed, Cavanaugh felt sick. He grabbed the phone. “We'd better check with the Secret Service, the U.S. Marshals, and the Diplomatic Security Service.
Their
agents who were killed with sharp weapons. We need to find out where
they
were being assigned.”

“The same place?” Jamie asked.

She and the others stared at the pages.

“New Orleans.”

“The World Trade Organization.”

“Two days from now.”

11

The GPS conference room was crammed with agents using computers and phones. Messengers hurried in. Printers whirred as Rutherford's team worked with Cavanaugh's, trying to take advantage of every second. Similar battle-plan rooms were at the FBI, Secret Service, U.S. Marshals, and Diplomatic Security Service, the groups constantly communicating with each other, updating schedules, coordinating, trying to prevent a disaster.

The room's noise forced Rutherford to raise his voice. “When the World Trade Organization had its conference in Seattle, riots nearly shut down the city.”

Cavanaugh knew about the thousands of protestors and millions of dollars in damage. WTO protests had also disrupted Geneva. Indeed, wherever the WTO held its meetings, huge, violent demonstrations followed in reaction to what protestors claimed were anti-environment and labor-abuse policies that the WTO encouraged.

“You wouldn't believe the political pressure to make sure this conference happens,” Rutherford said.

“And the economic pressure from mega-corporations,” Brockman added. “They rely on the WTO to provide clear sailing for them in Third World countries. Billions of dollars are at stake.”

Cavanaugh stood behind Jamie as she studied a computer screen that showed images of blockades and barbed wire in downtown New Orleans. “There'll be hundreds of diplomats, politicians, corporate CEOs, and heads of state. They're all target
s
. With the security crisis we're having, they can't get the first-class protection they're used to. Why won't the Secret Service listen to us?”

“It's the people they take orders from,” Rutherford explained. “They don't call it the Secret
Service
and the Diplomatic Security
Service
for nothing. Protection's a
service
industry. They need to oblige the people paying the bills. What do politicians and diplomats know about what's involved in setting up security? They're too busy wheeling and dealing and asking their protectors to carry their luggage.”

“Every available GPS agent is being routed toward New Orleans,” Brockman said. “We'll make damned sure nobody gets killed on our watch.”

“But some of those agents are replacing dead agents on well-rehearsed teams they've never worked with. It'll take them precious time to get up to speed,” Cavanaugh said.

“Plus, now that protectors know how it feels to be the primary targets, will they worry more for their clients or for themselves?” Rutherford wondered. “Oh, sure, they're professionals. Day in, day out, hardly anybody's braver. But how can they focus on defending strangers when they're worried that
they're
the ones who'll be killed or that somebody'll blow up their families? The system's dangerously overloaded.”

Jamie typed more computer keys, accessing images of the crowded docks in the New Orleans area. “While we're worrying, I hope somebody's checking those ships. New Orleans has the second busiest port in the United States. A dirty bomb would be easy to smuggle in.”

“We'd better get down there,” Cavanaugh said.

“Maybe not.” Rutherford frowned at a message he was handed. “Maybe you can help somewhere else.”

“Somewhere . . .?”

Rutherford showed Cavanaugh the piece of paper. “As you suggested, we checked the backgrounds of new subscribers to knife magazines, especially
Blade
. We began a year
before
Duran's name disappeared from
Blade
’s list. All the names were tracked to people with legitimate identities.
Except for these three.
We're still checking. We investigated so quickly that we might have made mistakes. But do any of those names and addresses mean anything to you?”

Cavanaugh stared at the names. “The last one. Robert Loveless.”

“So?” Brockman asked.

“Bob Loveless was a famous knife maker. I emphasize
was
. He's dead,”

“Could be a coincidence,” Rutherford said.

“But not at that address. It's a rural-route number near West Liberty, Iowa. That's where Lance Sawyer lived. The old man who taught Carl and me to forge blades.”

12

As the Gulfstream took off from Teterboro airport and sped toward Iowa, Cavanaugh and Jamie unpacked two more bug-out bags.

Seated in a leather chair that swiveled, Rutherford interrupted his appreciation of the jet's luxurious interior to study the contents of the bags. “Pistols, knives, ammunition, miniature flashlights, duct tape, money. Some soldiers in Third World countries aren't as well equipped. I don't suppose you're licensed to carry those firearms in Iowa.”

“Afraid not,” Cavanaugh said.

Rutherford sighed. “Does this phone work?”

“Yeah, but you need to leave fifty cents on the table.”

After giving Cavanaugh a dry look, Rutherford took a notebook from his suit-coat pocket, found a number, picked up the phone, made his call, and identified himself. “I need to speak to the agent in charge. . . . We expect to arrive around your time eleven p.m. I want to confirm that lodging has been arranged and that your team will be assembled for a six a.m. briefing. . . . Good. Also, I need temporary law-enforcement credentials for two civilians so they can carry concealed handguns. I'll give you the serial numbers when we land. . . . Thank you.” Rutherford set down the phone.

“You're a handy guy to know,” Jamie said.

“As long as you don't expect me to make a habit of pulling strings for you.”

“Hey, we helped
you
a couple of times,” Cavanaugh said.

Rutherford sighed again.

13

In lengthening shadows, Brockman stared at the glut of traffic and told his driver to leave the car in Global Protective Service's garage. “I can walk home faster. Call me in an hour. I'll tell you when to pick me up.”

After the stress of the day's events, he welcomed the chance to move. Six feet one inches tall, with two hundred and ten pounds of solid muscle, he exercised ninety minutes a day, using weights, a treadmill, and a multi-purpose flex machine in his apartment. Although the temperature was forty degrees and he wore only his suit, he welcomed the chill as he loosened his tie and took long strides past Madison Avenue onto Fifty-Third Street.

Stretching his legs, dodging pedestrians, he almost broke into a run as he reached Fifth Avenue and headed north. The exertion warmed him. The blaring horns, rumbling engines, and choking exhaust of traffic blurred until he was hardly aware of them. He concentrated on the satisfaction of using his muscles, of feeling blood surge through his veins.

Fifty-Eighth Street. Ahead, beyond jewelry and designer clothing stores, he saw Central Park stretching away on his left, its leaves red, yellow, and gold in the last of the sun. Sixty-Third Street. Now only the park was on his left, its bushes, boulders, trees, and grass looking surreal in the concrete of the city. He took out his encrypted cell phone and pressed numbers.

“Case,” he said, using the name of a knife manufacturer as a code word. He waited for a reply. “New Orleans,” he explained to the person listening. “I'm supposed to fly there tonight. Cavanaugh has the company jet, so I need to go out to La Guardia and take a commercial flight.” He waited for a response, then added, “He went to Iowa.”

Brockman put the phone away and walked even faster. He purged his mind of traffic, of pedestrians, of bicycle messengers and kids on skateboards. He imagined that he hiked through a wilderness, far from people and the messes they made. In his reverie, the only sound was the crackle of his footsteps on fallen leaves as his skin tingled and he inhaled mountain air.

At Seventy-First, he turned right, went a block and a half, and entered his apartment building. There, he took the elevator to the tenth floor. His forehead was beaded with sweat as he walked along a corridor, reached his apartment, and unlocked it. When he opened the door, the intrusion detector began its shrill beep, giving him twenty seconds to press buttons on a number pad to the right of the door.

Despite his years in the security profession, Brockman made the error that virtually every intrusion-detector owner makes. The anxiety that the beep-beep-beep created caused him to leave the door open while he pressed the buttons on the pad. Only when the beeping stopped did he turn toward the door to shut it. But the beep, beep, beep had obscured the sound of approaching footsteps. Suddenly, Brockman felt a sharp sensation in his right thigh. Reaching to draw his pistol from under his suit coat, he saw Ali Karim's dark face glaring from the hallway. Brockman's leg felt warm. As the dart in him spread its toxin, Ali's angry features seemed to waver.

Brockman floated backward, downward, Ali's blurred hands striking him, yanking his pistol away.

14

A phone rang. Muffled. As if blankets were wrapped around it.

“Hello?” The voice seemed a far-away whisper. It sounded eerily like Brockman. “Pick me up to go to the airport? No, I changed my plans. There's something urgent I need to attend to. I won't be leaving until tomorrow. I'll call you.”

Silence gathered. Slowly, Brockman understood that he was sitting upright, his back against something metallic.
Tied
against something metallic. A sudden light blazed toward his face.
Many
bright lights. He wanted to paw them away, but his arms wouldn't move.

Footsteps. The air seemed denser as someone hovered in front of him.

“Hey!”
Slap.
“Wake up!”
Slap.
“I know you're faking!”
Slap.
“Open your damned eyes, or I'll tape them open so you can't blink!”

Brockman warily opened his eyes and squinted from the pain of numerous lamps. Their shades had been tilted backward, their exposed bulbs aimed in his direction, nearly blinding him. Unable to move his head, he shifted his eyes this way and that to try to protect them, but the heat from the lights was inescapable. His right leg, where the dart from the tranquilizer gun had struck him, felt swollen and throbbed.

Ali stood close before him. Along with his dark hair, his dark features, and dark suit, he wore dark leather gloves.

Brockman strained to move. Shifting his eyes blurrily from side to side, he saw barbells, a treadmill . . . His exercise room. His pistol and his cell phone were on a table, along with his claw-shaped knife, its plastic sheath and breakaway chain that Ali had found on him. He angled his eyes down, realizing that he was secured to the flex machine, his legs strapped to the leg-curl extensions, his arms raised and attached to the butterfly extensions.

“I know
I'm
not the security leak,” Ali said. “And Cavanaugh was awfully sure Kim wasn't. After all, who would be stupid enough to blackmail her and trust a druggie to deliver information on time and accurately? That means
you
, my friend, and would you like to know why I'm sure you're the son of a bitch who told Carl Duran where our agents would be, on what assignments, and when?”

Brockman relied on his rugged military training, on the weeks he'd spent in the South African outback, with hardly any food and water, amid brush fires, lions, and elephants. He gathered all his discipline, everything he'd ever learned about withstanding interrogation. “You're making a mistake.”