The Naked Edge (33 page)

1

“What you did to me . . .” Brockman's features were contorted with pain. “None of it matters. I can bear anything.”

“Certainly,” Ali said.

It had been a long, painful night.

“I'm as tough as
you
are. If I talk, it's not because you got the better of me.”

“Of course not.”

“
Carl Duran
matters.”

“Then we'll need to make sure he keeps away from you.”

“The only way to guarantee that is to kill him,” Brockman said.

“Tell me what you know. I'll see what I can arrange.”

“Don't you think
I
had plans to kill him? But first, you need to find the bastard.” Strapped to the flex machine, Brockman's body was rigid with anguish. “And if anything happens to him, he left instructions for someone he trusts to release documents. About me.”

“Unless you tell me, I can't help you.”

Brockman took a long breath. “Duran had nothing to do with the hit on the Russian.”

Ali leaned forward, concentrating to hear Brockman's faint words.

“
I
did,” Brockman said. “
I
arranged the hit on the Russian.”

The revelation was far from what Ali expected. Concealing his surprise, he asked, “You? Why?”

“Money.”

“We get paid a lot.”

“Not enough to risk our lives for strangers. Not
those
kinds of strangers. Do you ever hate them?”

“Hate?”

“I grew up in Pretoria.” Anger cut through Brockman's pain. “In the alleys. I fought for a cardboard box to sleep in, for the rags on my back, for every scrap of food I managed to get my hands on.” As sweat ran down his face, Brockman stared fiercely ahead. “When I got big enough, I thought, ‘Hell, I've been fighting all my life. Might as well join the military.’” He took another anguished breath. “Turned out I was right—it wasn't any worse than what I'd already been through. In many ways, it was better. All the shit I had to do to qualify for special ops. Nights in the bush country with wild fires. Water holes dry. The petrol my instructors put in the only food I'd been given to eat. Even then, it was
still
better.” Brockman's eyes were fierce. “Because I proved I was special. Because I had something to be proud of. My discipline. My skills.”

Brockman's voice cracked. Ali put the straw in his mouth, letting him drink.

“Then I got too old,” Brockman said. “Thirty. Too old. Shit. So I went to work for GPS,” he said with contempt, “and was assigned to protect some of the most wealthy, attractive, and powerful people in the world. I'd read about people like that. But nothing prepared me for meeting them. They owned penthouses, villas, jets, yachts, islands, anything they wanted. In a world of poverty, starvation, and pain, they were blessed.” Brockman inhaled. “They took it for granted. Vain, arrogant, domineering, greedy, and disgusting. I hated them.”

Ali used a cool washcloth to rub sweat from Brockman's face.

“When I left the commandos, all I had were scars and empty pockets. These people had
everything
, but they didn't have the character to deserve it. The worst of them, the biggest pig of tall, was that Russian.”

Ali listened harder.

“I'd been assigned to him two years earlier, before I was promoted. His language was filthy. His manners were . . .” Brockman faltered. “Shouting, bragging, insulting. I once saw him vomit in the middle of a business dinner. On the floor next to him. ‘Must have been the red wine with the fish,’ he said, and told the waiter to bring him more vodka. He was a subhuman who'd bullied his way into an oil fortune.”

Bound rigidly to the machine, Brockman tried to lower his eyes toward his swollen knees. “Do you think they can be repaired, or will I be crippled?”

Ali didn't answer.

“Well, my days of jumping from aircraft were probably over anyhow.” Brockman stared into an imaginary distance. “I wanted what those clients had. The penthouses, the yachts, the villas, the islands. I overheard stock tips every day. These people made fortunes on insider knowledge. So when I learned about a drug company that would soon be bought by a rival for double its value, I invested everything I had in it. I borrowed heavily.” Brockman lapsed into a self-hating chuckle. “The stock tip was only a rumor. The drug company went bankrupt. I lost it all.”

“Rough break,” Ali said.

“Wasn't it, though. The next time the Russian hired GPS to protect him . . .”

“The Rome assignment? The one I worked on?”

“Yes.” As Ali wiped more sweat from his face, Brockman said, “The Russian's enemies were expert. They needed someone familiar with how he was protected.” Another self-hating chuckle. “Somehow they got word of how much I hated the Russian. Somehow they learned about how desperate I was for money. I often wonder if they didn't arrange for me to hear the stock tip about the drug company.”

“They set you up?”

Brockman tried to shrug, but he was bound too tightly to the machine. “They promised to pay off my debt. They promised to set my finances back the way they'd been. All I needed to do was arrange for a man I despised to be killed.”

“You were in New York while I was in charge of his protective team in Rome,” Ali said. “Every time I reported to you, you told the hit team what I said.”

“You kept telling me that he wouldn't stay away from the windows in his hotel suite.”

“So you passed that information on, telling the sniper where to take his position?”

“It was so easy,” Brockman said. “The son of a bitch was no longer on the planet, and my debts vanished.”

“Carl Duran had nothing to do with the hit?”

“Nothing. He had no influence on me. When he sliced up that stalker in front of the Plaza Hotel, I didn't have the slightest reason to keep him from being fired.”

“Then how does this relate to . . .”

“The damned sniper. After Duran was fired, after he went to work for a drug lord in Colombia, he and the sniper crossed paths.” Brockman's voice became thicker, sounding as if he'd swallowed sand.

“Try,” Ali said, giving him more water. “We're almost there. This'll soon be over. Tell me about the sniper.”

“Duran and the sniper compared notes, talking about former assignments.”

“The sniper told Duran about your involvement in the Russian's death?”

“Everything.” Brockman grimaced with self-loathing. “Duran threatened to expose me. At the least, it would have put me in prison. More than likely, it would have gotten me killed. The Russian had two brothers almost as vicious as
he
was. They'd have . . .” Brockman's voice trailed off.

“You didn't see an alternative. You had to let Duran blackmail you into providing information about our agents and their assignments.”

“So there you have it,” Brockman said with greater self-disgust.

“No, I
don't
have it.
Why is Duran doing this?
”

Brockman didn't answer, so Ali shoved the rag back into his mouth and pulled handles on the flex machine. Five minutes later, after tearing Brockman's left rotator cuff, after Brockman completed his silent scream, Ali removed the gag.

“
Why is he doing this?
”

“I don't know.”

Ali reached for the handles on the machine.

“But I've got a strong suspicion.”

When Brockman told him, Ali felt his stomach turn cold.

2

In the shed, Cavanaugh clutched his cell phone, listening to what Ali told him. “How do I know this is true?”

“If you don't believe me,” Ali's voice said, “maybe you'll believe Gerald.”

Cavanaugh heard a bump as the phone was repositioned.

Ali's voice was now muffled by distance. “Tell him, damn it. Tell him what you just told
me
.”

Another bump. Then Brockman's pain-ridden voice said, “I . . . It was me. . . . I'm the security leak.”

“Tell him about New Orleans!” Ali insisted in the background.

Brockman obeyed. Hoarsely. Between difficult breaths. His thick words sounded as if they were forced through swollen lips.

Cavanaugh felt that the shadows around him got darker. Staring at the Michael Price knife that Carl had expertly reproduced, smelling the dust and the old metal around him, he was hardly aware of Jamie and Rutherford reacting to his strained features.

Ali's voice returned. “
Now
do you believe me?”

“Stay with him. Don't leave the apartment. I'll send a team to protect you.”

“Get a doctor for Gerald,” Ali said.

Cavanaugh broke the connection, then quickly arranged the help he'd promised. As he hurried toward the door, he told Jamie and Rutherford what Ali had discovered.

After the murky interior, the glare of the cold sun was blinding. Passing members of the search team, taking long strides down the lane toward Rutherford's car, Cavanaugh said, “At yesterday's meeting, we tried to find a link among the agents who were killed with sharp weapons. Brockman steered the conversation. We were looking for a common denominator based on their previous assignments or the military units they'd been in. But it was Brockman who suggested their past assignments didn't matter. The
next
assignments. Brockman made us look at
those
. I can still hear him saying ‘The World Trade Organization.’ That was his final job. In case we missed the significance of the blade killings, Carl ordered him to make sure we noticed the connection. He wanted to focus us on New Orleans. The note Carl left here reinforced that idea.”

“But why would he go out of his way to warn us when and where the attack will be?” Rutherford asked.

“Every available agent's been sent there. Duran wants to destroy as many targets as possible, but he doesn't care about the trade ministers and corporate executives at the conference. They're a bonus. The
agents
are his targets. He's already strained the system. Now he wants to bring it to its knees. If he cripples the entire U.S. security network, it'll take months to train new operators. Meanwhile, whoever hired him will be able to attack domestic targets at will.”

3

The warehouse was next to the Mississippi. Despite dampness that rose from the floor, the building was used as a dormitory. Cots with sleeping bags formed three rows, twenty in each. Men sat on the cots, cleaning weapons. Others sat at tables, playing manhunter video games or watching action movies that emphasized accurate tradecraft. Ample food was available. After the punishing youth most of these men had known, after their prison experience, after the pride and discipline they'd acquired at the training camp, they were content.

When a side door opened, they looked toward a man silhouetted by sunlight. His tall, lanky figure and powerful-looking forearms were immediately recognizable. Dressed in hiking boots, multi-pocketed pants, and a slightly large shirt hanging over his hidden gun, he closed the door, obscuring two men outside who looked like dock workers but were actually sentries.

As he walked to a podium, the men gathered before him. Without needing to be told, each assumed a military posture with his feet apart and his hands behind his back.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen.” Carl's voice echoed off the metal walls.

Eyes alert, they nodded in response to the respectful way he addressed them.

“Let's deal with the most important thing first. Are you getting enough to eat?”

They chuckled.

“Well,
are
you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Taste good?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Nothing beats New Orleans cooking. Oysters. Crawfish. Shrimp in Creole sauce. Pecan-crusted catfish. Red beans and Cajun rice. Praline bread pudding. Lord, I'm making myself hungry.”

They laughed.

“When we get this job done, I'll arrange a feast worthy of Antoine's or some other of those fancy restaurants around here. In the meantime, just remember when there's ample tasty chow, make sure you take advantage. You never know when famine follows feast. That's a soldier's law. Got all the equipment you need?”

They nodded.

“If you have any doubts about the weapon you were given, get another one. Load up on ammunition. After all, you're not paying for it.”

They laughed again.

“Speaking of pay, this fine-looking gentleman over here—” Carl indicated Raoul. “—has your next month's cash. You can pick it up after the briefing.”

Guns, money, and respect. This was heaven.

“I mentioned work. Are you ready to get down to it?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Positive?”

“
Yes, sir!
”

“Then here's the drill. Tomorrow, a conference starts. They call it the World Trade Organization, and it brings a ton of important people to town. Politicians. Billionaires. The fat cats who run international corporations. It also brings a ton of people who think the World Trade Organization wants to chop down the world's forests and strip-mine what's left. They believe it wants to keep poor folks in the mud so rich guys can get richer by paying twenty cents an hour in an overseas factory and then slapping a big price tag on shoes and shirts or whatever they make. These protestors start a riot. It always happens. It's as sure as sunrise and sunset. They riot. Which is where
we
come in. The people we work for want us to help the rioters. They want us to make this a really impressive riot. A riot the World Trade Organization will never forget. To make them think twice about chopping down forests and strip-mining and paying poverty wages. So how are we going to make this the end-all and be-all of riots? We're going to give each of you one of these.”

Carl held up a battered knapsack that looked as if it had been tied to a truck and dragged along a dirt road for ten miles. The group studied it, the only time anyone would ever pay attention to the nondescript object.

“Each of these knapsacks has a smoke canister in it. You're going to mix with the crowd. There'll be so many protestors, thousands of them, that no one'll pay attention to you. Each knapsack has a number. Go over to the map on the wall, and find your number on it. Convention Center Boulevard. Fulton Street. Commerce Street. Poydras Street. Along Riverwalk. Outside Harrah's Casino. Up past LaFayette Square. Duncan Plaza. The City Hall. Each street has one of your numbers. That's where you'll place yourself. And when the riot gets going, when they start torching cars and smashing windows and throwing Molotov cocktails, when the police march in to stop the festivities, you're going to find a place to hide your knapsack. At eleven hundred hours on those expensive, synchronized, Navy SEAL watches you were given, you'll tug this cord here and trigger your smoke canister.