The Naked Edge (40 page)

At a two-way radio, an agent said, “I'm getting reports that portions of the crowd are beginning to realize the conference isn't going to happen.”

“Look,” Jamie said. “At the end of the boulevard. Near the casino. On Poydras Street. Some of them are drifting away.”

24

Nine forty-five.

A cloud crossed the sun, casting a cool shadow. Then the sun returned, the heat again as palpable as the humidity. The press of bodies smelled of sweat as Carl and Raoul made their way through them. After crisscrossing the target area, they entered Girod Street, moving away from the conference center. Carl verified that the final man he needed to check was in place.

As Carl reached the intersection of Tchoupitoulas Street, where Raoul was scheduled to wait until 10 o'clock, he noticed that the going seemed easier, that he no longer needed to struggle against the crowd. Then he realized that the tide had turned, that the demonstrators were moving
away
from the conference center instead of toward it, that he was being carried by the flow.

He stopped an angry-looking man and woman. “What's going on? Why are you leaving?”

“Damned thing's been cancelled.”

“No,” Carl said, jostled by the passing crowd.

The woman held up an iPhone. “It's all over the Internet. Four hotels got smoked-bombed and tear-gassed last night. The trade ministers were evacuated.”

“But that can't be!” Carl insisted.

“I'm telling you, the bastards left town.”

“
No motorcade? No opening ceremonies?
”

“Nothing. Down at the convention center, they're getting their heads cracked for no reason.”

As the disgusted man and woman moved onward away from the pointless battle, Carl stared down Girod Street. Except for a truck parked two blocks away, all he saw were demonstrators moving in his direction, a steady mass of them filling the pavement and the sidewalk.

Four hotels? Furious, Carl remembered following last night's sirens and arriving at hotels that were surrounded by the flashing lights of emergency vehicles while smoke streamed from the buildings.

Aaron?
he thought.
Was that
your
doing?

“Is it over?” Raoul asked.

For a moment, Carl didn't hear him. “Over?”

“If the conference isn't going to happen, what's the point of the smoke?”

“Quiet.” Carl pulled him toward a wall. “Somebody might hear you.”

“But we don't have much time. We need to split up and hurry so we can tell the men to forget about ten o'clock.”

“Forget about ten o'clock? No way.”

Carl's employers were more frightening than anyone could imagine. Good God, the last thing he needed was them hunting him because he took their money and didn't follow through on what he promised.

“But what's the point?” Raoul demanded. “You told us we were hired to make sure the conference didn't happen.
Mierda
, look around you. It
isn't
happening.”

The point, Carl couldn't tell him, was the Secret Service, the U.S. Marshals, the Diplomatic Security Service, and the Homeland Security Response Team, not to mention operators from Global Protective Services and other major non-government firms. They'd been lured into coming to New Orleans to safeguard the World Trade Organization. In eleven minutes . . .

“We're going to do what we promised,” Carl said.

“But—”

“This isn't some stupid-ass street gang. We don't act on impulse. We don't change our mind whenever we feel like it. We follow orders.”

“But what if the orders stop making sense?”

“If a man pays me to do something, I do it. Maybe he didn't tell me all his reasons. My job isn't to think. It's to follow through on an assignment. Are you a coward?”

“Of course not,” Raoul said, his face reddening. “You know I've done everything you asked.”

“You're supposed to be an
operator
.”

His face even redder, Raoul said, “I
am
an operator.”

“Then show me!” Carl tugged Raoul along the wall. “Here. The middle of the block. This is where you're supposed to wait!”

More disappointed protestors went up the street.

Carl checked his watch. “In ten minutes, follow the plan!”

“Okay!” Raoul said angrily. “All right!”

Stop
, Carl warned himself.
What am I doing? Keep control.

He touched Raoul's shoulders with apparent affection. “Don't take it personally. I'm just stressed, keeping track of all the details. You're my most dependable operator. Never doubt that.”

Raoul didn't reply, but the compliment clearly made him less angry.

“When you're in
my
place, you'll understand the burden of responsibility. I'm sorry.” Carl gripped Raoul's shoulders harder. “I know you won't let me down.”

Raoul didn't answer.

“Is everything straight between us?” Carl asked.

“Yes.”

“Then make me proud.” Carl stepped away.

“Where—”

“I need to hurry and get to my spot,” Carl said over his shoulder. He struggled to conceal the irritation he felt for losing control.

What the hell's wrong with me? This is almost over. Keep cool. Don't screw things up.

The crowd carried him toward the edge of the killing zone. He reached the middle of the next block, where nine minutes from now he was supposed to pull the cord on his knapsack.

He shifted toward a wall. Freeing himself from the passing crowd, he took off the knapsack and shoved it into a garbage bin. Rejoining the protestors, he was eager to let them propel him to safety. He had plenty of time to get to the van and flee the area. A few seconds after ten, he would press a button on the transmitter in his jacket pocket. If the police frequencies hadn't already set off the detonators, the signal he sent would do the job.

Something made him glance back.

Raoul was at the refuse bin, gaping at the discarded knapsack.

25

When Raoul had started to ask “where,” his intention hadn't been to find out where Bowie was going. What he wanted to know was whether he should meet Bowie at the van or whether he was supposed to get to Galveston on his own. Because of their argument, they hadn't finalized their arrangements. The way Raoul felt, he wasn't sure he
wanted
to meet Bowie at the van. Talking to me like he's a
chingado
guard in the joint. But as seconds passed, the heat of Raoul's anger lessened. He didn't want trouble between them. The truth was, what Raoul felt for him was what he was supposed to feel for his father.

Nine minutes. Plenty of time to ask him and get back here.

Raoul slipped into the crowd, moving toward the next block, where Bowie would be waiting for ten o'clock to occur. There. Ahead. Raoul saw the lanky man, slightly taller than those around him, flowing with the crowd.

Bowie shifted toward a wall.
Exactly where he's supposed to be
, Raoul thought, working toward him. But then Raoul frowned, seeing Bowie take off his knapsack. Raoul frowned harder when Bowie shoved the knapsack into a garbage bin. Bowie rejoined the crowd.

Stunned, Raoul came to the garbage bin and gaped at the knapsack Bowie had abandoned. He raised his eyes, searching the crowd. Bowie was glaring back at him.

The force of it made him dizzy. The fury in Bowie's eyes was so overwhelming that Raoul felt shoved. He actually took a step backward, his dizziness intensifying. The world he thought he knew spun. The reality he depended on seemed to ripple beneath his feet, making him unsteady.

At once, another world took its place. A mask seemed to slip from Bowie's face. The man Raoul thought of as a father suddenly became a stranger. Worse than that: an enemy. The rage and hatred on Bowie's face shot across the distance and made Raoul lurch back another step.

Immediately, Bowie pushed through the crowd, hurrying toward him. A terrible heat primed Raoul's muscles. The most searing fear he'd ever known fired his protective instincts and sent him fleeing.

26

No!
Carl thought. Shoving protestors out of the way, he charged toward Raoul.
The look on his face! He suspects! If he warns the others
. . .

The constant stream of demonstrators held him back. Turning sideways, ramming his shoulder through the crowd, he was reminded of playing in high-school football games, his father yelling drunkenly from the bleachers.

“Hey!” a man said. “Watch where you're going!”

“Out of my way!”

“Don't ram into me, jerk-off!”

The man gasped, struck in the stomach, baffled by the blood streaming from him.

His knife at his side, Carl shoved harder through the oncoming crowd. Ahead, Raoul stayed close to the wall, gaining distance, managing to reach the next block.

A young man with a knapsack saw them coming.

Raoul shouted a warning.

The team member looked confused.

Raoul shouted again.

The team member saw Carl chasing Raoul. Fear tightening his face, he turned and ran.

27

“What's
this
about?”

In the communications truck, an FBI agent pointed toward a monitor.

“Where?”

“Here.
This
.”

Cavanaugh and Jamie walked toward it.

“Somebody's in an awful hurry to go the wrong way,” the agent said.

“Not
one
person. Three,” Jamie noted.

The camera was angled downward from a roof. The screen showed the crowd filling the street, countless protestors shifting away from the conference center. Breaking the pattern, a line of three men charged in the opposite direction, thrusting their way through the demonstrators.

“Seems like the guy in back's chasing the others,” the agent said. “Look at how frightened they are. They keep glancing back to see if he's gaining on them.”

“And what about
this
?” Another agent pointed toward a monitor that showed a commotion nearby. People formed a circle around a man scrunched sideways on the pavement. He held his stomach, which was dark with spreading liquid. A woman raised her face and soundlessly screamed.

“Looks like he's been shot,” an agent said.

Cavanaugh concentrated on the three men forcing their way south as everyone else went north. “Can you get a closer view of the guy in back, the one who seems to be chasing the others?”

“Sure.”

The agent twisted dials. Immediately the camera magnified the man at the rear of the line.

As the face got larger, Cavanaugh felt a chill speed along his nerves. “Not shot. Stabbed.”

“How do you know?”

“Because the guy chasing the others is Carl.”

28

Eight minutes before ten.

Fighting his way through the crowd, Carl saw another young man with a knapsack. Raoul shouted a warning. When the man, already on edge, looked behind the team members charging toward him and saw the rage on Carl's face, he too broke into a run. Carl shouldered through more protestors.

“Hey, dickhead, watch who you're slamming into,” a man said, only to groan and double over as Carl lunged past.

Ahead, Raoul hurried straight ahead while the team members he'd warned dropped their knapsacks and split to the right and left, racing down side streets.

They'll alert the rest of the team
, Carl thought in a fury.
I trained them to feel they belong to a tightly knit unit. That's how they'll act now, protecting each other.

Because of Raoul. All the effort I spent on him, he's still a punk.

Ramming through the crowd, getting nearer, Carl angrily calculated that he had sufficient time to teach him the consequence of disloyalty.

Ahead, the son of a bitch hurled his knapsack away and shouted to a team member waiting farther along the block.

29

“What are they throwing away? Knapsacks?”

“They seem to be shouting at people at the side of the crowd.” Cavanaugh stared at the monitors.

“Men standing against walls,” Jamie said. “They all have knapsacks. Here, here, here, and . . . My God, once you notice them, they seem to be everywhere.”

“I hate to imagine what's in them.” An agent picked up a microphone. “Surveillance One to all units.”

As the agent described what he saw on the screens, Cavanaugh pointed toward the one that showed Carl. “What street is he on?” he asked another agent.

“Girod near Fulton.”

Cavanaugh grabbed a lapel microphone and an earbud. “Keep telling me which direction he's taking.”

Before Jamie had a chance to think about going with him, Cavanaugh opened the door and jumped to the street.

“Grab the guys with the knapsacks!” the agent said into a microphone. “For God's sake, be careful. We don't know what's in them.”

When Jamie jumped to the street, Cavanaugh had disappeared into the crowd.

30

Seven minutes before ten.

Without looking back, Raoul had a visceral sense that Bowie was gaining on him. His stomach felt on fire. His lungs ached. His legs felt wobbly. Although he stayed along a wall, there were still too many people in front of him. Crashing, shoving, he shouted to another team member, “Bowie lied! Something's wrong! Get rid of the knapsack!”

The already-nervous team member seemed to be grateful for the excuse to run. Raoul leapt over the dropped knapsack and veered left onto Fulton Street. The side street had fewer departing protestors, giving Raoul a chance to run faster.

But he continued to have that visceral sense that Bowie was gaining on him. He saw yet another team member and shouted his warning. For proof, all the man needed was a frightened look behind Raoul toward where Bowie was getting closer. The man dropped his knapsack and raced toward the next corner.

Perhaps Raoul only imagined the footsteps pounding behind him. But he didn't imagine the increasing tightness in his lungs, the worsening unsteadiness in his legs. Never having been tested, never having passed five missions, he was ruled by fear instead of using adrenaline to give him strength.
Gotta breathe. As long as I'm running, he has the advantage.
Gotta stop.
On the opposite side of the street, an archway beckoned.
Gotta fight.