The Naked Edge (30 page)

Slap.
“I asked, would you like to know why I'm sure you're the son of a bitch who's the security leak?”

“Have you gone out of your—”

Slap.
Ali's glove burned Brockman's cheek. “Because protectors are getting killed right and left. Because all of us are constantly checking over our shoulders, wondering if we'll be next. Except
you
, my friend. I've been watching you the last few days. When you're on the street, you don't seem the slightest bit threatened or nervous the way the rest of us are. You're not acting as if you're worried that somebody's going to stick a knife in you the way
I'm
worried. Now why would
that
be? Do you suppose it's because you're
part
of this, because you know you're safe?”

Brockman didn't answer.

“Well, we've got time,” Ali said. “Hours and hours. Tonight. Tomorrow morning. I heard your accent so often over the years, I can do a damned good imitation in case anybody telephones. I told your driver he won't be needed. Are you expecting any visitors?”

“A friend.”

“Male or female?”

“Female. She'll get suspicious if I don't answer the intercom.”

“I'll disguise my voice again,” Ali said.

“She knows me too well. She'll realize it isn't me, especially if pain distorts my voice. She'll get suspicious and call the police.”

“So I'd better take it easy on you, is that it?” Ali smiled. “Well, at least I got you to answer several questions in a row, even if the answers are lies. How could you be expecting a girl friend when your driver was expecting to drive you to La Guardia?”
Slap.
“Mustn't lie, Gerald. But we've got plenty of leisure to discuss this. First, though, I think a little exercise will relieve the tension? These flex machines are wonderful. I hope you don't mind that I took the liberty of rerouting some wires and readjusting some parts.”

Nearly blinded by the lights, Brockman watched as Ali pulled a handle. Its wire was attached to a series of pressure-increasing wheels that Ali had attached to the machine. The device allowed Ali to exert minimal energy in order to move a lot of weight. In horror, Brockman watched as the leg-curl extension began to rise. Unwilled, his legs rose with it. They felt as if they were going to snap from the enormous weight of barbells tied to his ankles, weighing them down. Sweat burst from his face. His mouth opened. He thought he was going to scream.

Ali jammed a rag into his mouth.

Immediately, he pulled another handle, its cable attached to another series of pressure-increasing wheels. The machine's butterfly extensions moved forward and inward, causing Brockman's bent arms to follow.

But the weight against Brockman's arms was enormous, and his arms had been strapped to the extensions in the reverse of the usual way so that his palms faced outward rather than inward. Muscles were pulled in unnatural directions. Backbones crackled. He had a terrifying image of a roasted chicken, of its overcooked wings being torn off. Sweat dribbled down his face. The scream inside him built until it threatened to propel the rag from his mouth.

Abruptly, Ali released each handle. The machine's leg-curl and butterfly extensions shot back into place, forcing Brockman's legs and arms to shoot back with them. The excruciating impact sent a shockwave through him. Pain made his stomach heave. Ali pulled out the rag just before hot bile filled Brockman's mouth.

“Now didn't that get the kinks out?” Ali asked. “There's nothing like working the muscles a little to relax them and unwind at the end of the day and encourage conversation, right? But before we start our chat, let's review the basics of interrogation. The absolute certainties that you and I both know. No one, regardless of how strong and determined, can resist a steady assault. As sure as the sun rises, you know that the combined effect of weakness, pain, shock, trauma, fear, and disorientation will reduce you to a whimpering near-animal who'll do anything to stop the agony. Knowing that, you'll make bargains with yourself. Right now, you're thinking, ‘I'll hold back information as long as I can. Maybe someone will burst in to rescue me. Or maybe the person I'm trying not to betray will suspect I'm being interrogated and take steps to protect himself and the mission. That way, if I eventually confess, it won't matter. Don't think about a day from now or an hour from now or even a minute from now. Just concentrate on this moment. I can deal with this moment. That's a do-able task.’ Isn't that the attitude you were taught to have when you're being interrogated, Gerald? Sure.

“But this is what
I'm
going to teach you. Before tomorrow morning, you'll tell me everything I want to know, or else I'll cripple you. I'll leave your body so broken, your senses so impaired, you'll be a prisoner within yourself for the rest of your long days and nights. As I cripple you, you'll experience pain of a sort you never thought possible. Pain that won't ever end. At last, you'll talk. You know that. The question you need to ask is, since you realize you'll eventually surrender the information, why suffer the pain in the meantime? Of course, you need to prove that you're strong and brave. I understand, and I'll give you the chance to show your stuff. But the emotions that usually stop someone from talking are loyalty or fear. I can't imagine you feel loyal to whoever's killing your fellow protectors. So I'm forced to conclude that you fear this person more than you fear me. I'll make you a promise, Gerald. Tell me what I need to know, betray him, and I'll personally guarantee your protection. I'll make you another promise, Gerald. If you don't do what I ask, I'll make you fear
me
far more than you ever feared the person you report to.”

Ali shoved the bile-soaked rag back into Brockman's mouth and pulled the levers on the machine faster than before, causing Brockman's legs and arms to jerk upward and forward with greater force, the weight against them threatening to tear sinews and ligaments and pop sockets.

Brockman's vision turned gray. Again, Ali removed the rag from Brockman's mouth, letting bile spew out.

“Talk to me, Gerald. Tell me about Carl Duran.”

15

Even when viewed from a wooded hilltop a half mile away, the farmhouse, barn, and outbuildings were obviously in disrepair. As the sun rose, Cavanaugh, Jamie, and Rutherford lay on cold ground behind red-leaved bushes, using binoculars to peer down past the stubble of a cornfield. In the mid-distance, a dirt road went from right to left. Beyond was a field of wild grasses that belonged to one of the few cherished places in Cavanaugh's memory of his youth, the farm where he had spent so many wonderful Sundays. At least, the Sundays had
once
seemed wonderful. Not because of what he had learned about making knives. The knives hadn't been as important to him as the time he'd spent with the person he once considered—and believed would
always
be—his closest friend.

With the sun behind them, they didn't need to worry about light reflecting off their binoculars, signaling their location. Even so, Cavanaugh took care that his were shielded.

“The place looks deserted,” Jamie said. “Porch needs paint. Roof needs new shingles. The barn's listing.”

“When Carl and I visited there, the old man kept it in perfect shape. He never let age slow him down.”

“Sounds like someone I'd like to have known,” Jamie said.

“I doubt John here would have. Not the way Lance was always cussing.”

Rutherford looked amused. “Well, there's cussing, and then there's
cussing
.”

“This was the latter.”

“According to the local FBI office, after the old man died, an English professor from the university in Iowa City bought the place,” Rutherford said. “Gentleman farmer sort of thing. Sold some of the land to the neighbors. Leased out the rest.”

“Yeah. I remember. When I was a teenager.” Cavanaugh felt hollow. So much had happened in the meanwhile. Except for Jamie, so much of it had been painful.

“Four years ago, the professor retired and moved to Arizona.” Lying on his stomach, Rutherford scooped up black dirt and studied it. “That's when Bob Loveless bought the place.”

“Seems like Duran had a yen for the good old days,” Jamie said.

Rutherford kept examining the dirt in his hand. “Awfully rich soil. Excellent loam. Breaks apart easily.”

“Since when do you know about soil?” Cavanaugh asked.

“My dad was a farmer in Arkansas. I grew up, helping him plow and plant. What he wouldn't have given for soil like this.”

“You've got all kinds of secrets, John.”

“None like yours, Aaron.”

“How strange it feels to be called that.”

“Did the local FBI office talk to the neighbors?” Jamie asked. “Is there any indication that Duran actually lived there?”

“Someone matching Duran's description lived there off and on four years ago. A few of the neighbors dropped by to welcome him. They remember he was polite but that he didn't encourage socializing. When he smiled, it was sort of distant.”

“Yeah, that's Carl,” Cavanaugh said.

“As near as they could tell—tire tracks in snow, that sort of thing—he seemed to be there only a week or two at a time.”

“So this is where he went between assignments,” Jamie said to Cavanaugh, “the same as
you
went to Jackson Hole. This was his home.”

“Close to Iowa City and Hafor Drive, where his real home was when he was a kid.”
Three houses up the street from mine
, Cavanaugh thought. He remembered the two-story homes along the street. Most were painted an idealized white. Big front windows. Thick bushes. Luxuriant flower beds. Lush lawns. Again, he felt hollow.

“Then three years ago, according to the neighbors, he pretty much stopped coming,” Rutherford told them. “That's when the place started looking worn down.”

“Three years ago.” Cavanaugh nodded. “After Carl got fired and wound up working for that drug lord in Colombia.”

“The postman who drives this route says Bob Loveless gets magazines and bills. Renewal forms. Advertisements. Things like that.”

“And tax forms,” Cavanaugh said. “He needs to keep paying his property taxes, or else the county will take the farm. We need to assume someone comes here to check if there's mail and to forward it. Maybe the same person who pays his taxes.”

“Someone we'd like to talk to,” Rutherford concluded. “The mail gets delivered late in the afternoon. Yesterday, when you told us this was the address we wanted, the local FBI office had just enough time to intercept the postman and arrange for him to leave some advertisements in the box. Agents have been watching the place since then. So far, there's been no sign of activity in the house and nobody's picked up the mail. We don't dare go in there until someone stops at the mailbox. Otherwise, we might scare the courier away. We'll just need to lie here and wait.”

“Maybe not as long as you think.” Jamie pointed.

To the right, a dust cloud appeared, moving steadily to the left along the dirt road. Through his binoculars, Cavanaugh saw a gray SUV approaching the mailbox.

Rutherford spoke into a walkie-talkie. “Everybody stay in place until we see what we've got.”

The SUV drove closer, continuing from right to left. Cavanaugh's pulse increased, although he was oddly conscious of the emptiness between heartbeats.

“Steady,” Rutherford said into the walkie-talkie.

The SUV appeared to go slower as it neared the mailbox. Despite the dust the car raised, the sun reflected off the driver's window. Braced on his elbows, Cavanaugh concentrated so much that he leaned forward, trying to get closer to the car.

It passed the mailbox and continued down the road.

No one spoke for a moment.

“If that was the courier, maybe he or she sensed something was wrong and kept going,” Jamie wondered.

“Maybe,” Rutherford said. “Or maybe it's just someone driving into town.”

Another cloud appeared on the road, this one caused by a red pickup truck that drove from left to right. It sped past the mailbox, almost obscuring it with dust. The faint drone of the engine drifted away.

A minute later, it was a blue sedan that came from right to left.

Cavanaugh felt an increased sense of being stuck in time while the world sped toward disaster. He thought of Brockman, who should have been in New Orleans by now, organizing Global Protective Services agents. Several times the previous night, Cavanaugh had tried to contact him on his cell phone. No response. He'd tried Brockman's home phone. Again, no response. Rutherford had called the FBI office in New Orleans to see if Brockman had checked in. No sign of him.

Once more, Cavanaugh pulled out his cell phone, but this time, instead of trying to call Brockman, he pressed the numbers for Global Protective Services, intending to send an agent to Brockman's apartment, only to cancel the call when he stared toward the road beyond the field and saw the blue car stop at the mailbox.

16

The dust cloud hovered. All Cavanaugh could see was a vague figure leaning out the far window of the car, opening the mailbox.

“Steady,” Rutherford said into the walkie-talkie. “This could be somebody putting an advertisement or something
into
the box.”

A young woman—jeans, leather jacket, blond ponytail—stepped from the car. She walked to the gate, unhooked its chain, and swung the gate inward. Then she got back into the car and drove up the lane toward the house, the sound of her engine receding.

“Not yet,” Rutherford said to the walkie-talkie. “Wait until we see what happens.”

The car reached the house. Through his binoculars, Cavanaugh watched the woman get out. She stepped onto the porch and tried the front door but found it locked. She looked through the windows. She proceeded around to the back, out of view.

Listening to an earbud linked to the walkie-talkie, Rutherford reported what the other watchers were seeing. “She's trying the back door. It's locked, also.”

Now the slender woman came back into view. She tried to get into the barn, tried to get into a shed, then gave up, returned to her car, and drove back toward the road.