“I notice you haven't told me her name.”
When Cavanaugh mentioned who she was, Jamie nodded. “Yeah, a knockout. The kind that flashes a lot of skin but claims to be a virgin.”
“You can see how this nut-case fan felt conflicted. The singer had the money for a full-scale nine-operator team, including two female agents made up to look like her.”
“Which is really twenty-seven operators, divided in shifts of three.” Jamie did some rapid arithmetic. “That's a budget for some Third World countries.”
“Then the police caught a man they were sure was the stalker. He even confessed.”
“To get attention,” Jamie said, anticipating where Cavanaugh was going. “But the real stalker—”
“Came at her after she'd reduced the protection detail to five operators. It happened outside her hotel. I was the agent in charge. I tried to convince her to use a hotel that had an underground parking garage so she could get into her limousine where there weren't any crowds.”
“No anonymous car for her,” Jamie said.
“Exactly. She needed to see her fans, she told me, and they needed to see her. It was great publicity, she said. Entertainment Tonight wanted to show her interacting bravely with her admirers. So we came out of the hotel, trying to part the crowd. I never would have agreed to the set-up if I hadn't believed what the police told me—that they had the stalker. We moved in a standard square formation: two agents in back, two in front. The singer was in the middle with me next to her. The deal was, if somebody came at her, I was to shield her with my body and get her into the hotel or into the limo, whichever was closer. Meanwhile, the rest of the team was to surround us, to provide a barrier between her and the stalker and make sure he wasn't acting alone. The idea was to protect the client first and disable the attacker second. So when this man charged out of the crowd, thrusting a knife at her, I went into my covering mode. The rest of the team formed a ring as we backed toward the hotel. And that son of a bitch Carl broke ranks to have a knife fight with the guy.”
“What?”
“Yeah, there they were in front of the Plaza hotel, a couple of thousand fans, a ton of TV cameras, everybody screaming as the team and I hurried the singer back into the hotel, and Carl's out there, showing the guy how the business end of a knife works. Flash, flash, slash. Before the stalker died, I bet he was astonished by the enormous quantity of blood he lost. Carl was standing over the trembling corpse. Meanwhile, the crowd's in a panic, and the TV cameras are taking it all in, getting Carl's face in close-up. A little too much recognition factor for someone in the protection business. The grand jury called it a justified killing. Carl claimed that the guy was coming at him, to drop him and get through to the client. ‘No choice,’ Carl said. Privately, the members of the team knew that was bullshit. We knew Carl was so highly trained, he could have disarmed and disabled the guy before the situation got lethal. He killed the guy because—”
“He wanted to have a knife fight,” Jamie said.
Cavanaugh nodded. “Not that it was much of a knife fight, but yeah, I'm sure that was half his motive. And the other half? We're trained not to look at our clients when we're protecting them. The idea is to watch away from them, to see if there's a threat coming. But I noticed Carl giving the singer glances, checking her out, enjoying the view. I think the knife fight was Carl's way of trying to impress her, to earn a permanent gig protecting her.”
“Did he get what he wanted?”
“What he got was fired, and this time, when he begged me to put in a good word, to persuade Duncan to rehire him, I told him to go to hell. The friendship had been strained for a long time. That broke it. I wanted nothing to do with him, even on a professional basis, because as far as I was concerned, he'd stopped being dependable. I wasn't the only operator who felt that way. No reputable protection agency would hire him. The last I heard, he was working for a Colombian drug lord.”
“But now you think he's back?”
“Whoever arranged for all those protective agents to be killed with sharp weapons couldn't have done it without a thorough knowledge of how the protection business works. Combine that with a knife obsession—”
“And you get Carl Duran,” Jamie said. “Maybe it wasn't the female rock singer he was trying to impress with the knife fight.”
“Not her? Who else would he—”
”You. He has to assume you've made the connection between him and the blade attacks. He'll hunt you as hard as he can.”
PART FIVE:
THE IRON MISTRESS
1
Rutherford almost drove past the place before he noticed it. It was in a seedy section of Alexandria, Virginia, a locale so unexpected that he was sure he'd misunderstood the address he'd been given. But then he looked harder and spotted the Hideaway Motel between a massage parlor and a porn-video shop. Shaking his head at what he hoped wasn't a practical joke, he turned left at the next intersection. He went up and down several streets at random and watched his rearview mirror to check if he was being followed. Finally, he headed back to the motel and steered into its lot, where he parked next to a Dumpster and knocked on a door.
Winos, drug dealers, and gang members watched as it opened and Jamie smiled.
Stepping in, Rutherford surveyed the grimy floor, cracked mirror, and sunken mattress. Years of cigarette smoke permeated the walls. He nodded to Cavanaugh, who stood behind the door, ready with his pistol in case Rutherford had unfriendly escorts.
“Homey,” Rutherford said.
“Nobody here thinks it's strange if we pay with cash instead of a credit card,” Jamie said, locking the door.
“They probably think you're a hooker.”
“As long as we don't leave a paper trail, I don't even care if they think I'm a lobbyist.” Jamie pointed toward a thick manila envelope Rutherford held. “What did you learn?”
“Gerald Brockman made several disastrous investments. He borrowed money to buy on margin. When the market collapsed, he needed to pay off the loans. Basically, he's broke.”
“So, when Duncan was killed, Brockman might have hoped he'd inherit Global Protective Services,” Cavanaugh said. “Except, he had reason to suspect someone named Aaron Stoddard was set to inherit. Maybe he decided that getting rid of Stoddard would move him to the front of the line.”
“Who's Aaron Stoddard?”
“Me,” Cavanaugh said. “That's my real name. Word's getting around fast enough, you might as well be in on the secret.”
“Your real name?”
“From time to time, it does a person good to be somebody else.”
“Not me. I'm still trying to figure out how to be John Rutherford.”
“What did you learn about Kim Lee?” Jamie asked.
“She has a drug problem.”
“What?”
“Two years ago, she fractured a spinal disc during a martial-arts competition. Now she's addicted to big-time painkillers like OxyContin, so many pills a day that she needs a black-market supply.”
“But she never gave the slightest indication.”
“Some don't. If her stash runs out, though, she'll give you plenty of indication when she climbs the walls during withdrawal. It's as bad as trying to withdraw from heroin. Someone wanting information about Global Protective Services could blackmail her to supply it.”
“What about Ali Karim?”
“So far, he appears to be squeaky clean.”
“For a change, good news,” Cavanaugh said. “And what about Carl Duran?”
“As you mentioned, after he got fired from GPS, he worked as the director of security for a Colombian drug lord.” Rutherford paused for emphasis. “Until two years ago.”
“What happened then?”
“He disappeared.”
Cavanaugh frowned. “You mean his boss suddenly mistrusted him and had him killed?”
“No. There's not even a hint of that. We've got an informant who says Carl was considered irreplaceable. He was
so furious about the way legitimate protectors turned against him that he went in the opposite direction and made the drug lord's security the best in the business. He even got his pilot's license so he could handle the drug lord's private jet in an emergency. Then one day, he was gone.”
“Did your informant say if anything unusual happened before Carl disappeared?”
“As a matter of fact, he said the compound had a visitor. The newcomer was so important that the cartel's leader went out to meet the helicopter.”
“Any idea who he was?”
“Not by name. But even after two years, the informant remembers what he looked like.”
“Hard to believe,” Jamie said.
“Not when you hear the description. The guy was in his forties. With a mustache. Solidly built. Intense eyes. Dark complexion. Serious expression.”
“Doesn't help us.”
“He came from Iraq,” Rutherford said.
“Iraq,” Cavanaugh repeated in surprise.
“Yeah, they don't see a lot of guys from that part of the world paying visits to drug-cartel compounds in South America,” Rutherford said.
“At least, they didn't before nine eleven.”
Jamie looked mystified.
Rutherford explained. “After the attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon, we started the in-depth investigation we should have been doing all along. Extreme religious terrorist groups figure that because we're corrupt, depraved infidels, they'll attack us through our corruption. A lot of terrorist funding comes through proceeds from prostitution and drugs.”
“Drugs. A reason to pay attention to Kim,” Jamie said.
“The stranger spent a lot of time talking to Carl,” Rutherford continued. “The next morning, Carl and the newcomer were gone.”
“So Carl was recruited because of his deep understanding of how the legitimate security community works,” Cavanaugh said. “But he can't be doing this on his own. Too many agents have died. He can't be everywhere. He needs help. Trained help. Like the team who attacked us in Jackson Hole.”
“Jackson Hole? You'd better bring me up to speed on that.”
Cavanaugh told Rutherford about the incident.
“The men I shot turned out to have been released from prison, all within the past six weeks. They were each in a different prison, and it doesn't seem they'd ever met before they were convicted.”
“So what brought them together after they were released?” Rutherford wanted to know.
“Maybe the right word is who brought them together,” Cavanaugh answered. “And how did Carl change them so rapidly that in six weeks they became operators instead of thugs?”
2
Shots echoed through the swamp. Explosions rumbled. Even wearing ear protectors, Raoul heard the concussions as Bowie shook him, yelled obscenities, and spun him three times one way, then the other. Raoul wanted to push back, to shout at Bowie and knock him to the ground. But he didn't act on the impulse because he knew the purpose was to disorient him and get his adrenaline flowing.
Bowie shoved his face close to Raoul's, screaming, “Four bad guys ran into this building! They have automatic weapons! They have hostages! No time to negotiate! There's a bomb set to explode in thirty seconds! It'll level the block! Get in there, kill the bad guys, save the hostages, and shut off the bomb! Move!”
With a force that snapped Raoul's teeth together, Bowie pushed him into the building. It was actually a maze of walls without a roof, but Raoul's emotions were so engaged, he imagined it was a building. He was vaguely aware of Bowie rushing behind him, but all Raoul paid attention to was the pistol he drew from his holster, a target popping up, a man with a gun, shooting him, crouching, peering around a corner, another target, a man with a gun, an elderly woman next to him, shooting the man, pivoting, another target popping up, a woman holding a baby, Bowie yelling, “She's got a gun in the blanket! Shoot her!,” ignoring the voice, rushing forward, a guy with an assault rifle popping up, shooting him, the fourth guy, where was the fourth guy, where was the bomb, peering around another corner, a kid popping up, a priest popping up, pivoting in search of the fourth guy, realizing the priest had a gun, ducking, turning, shooting him, seeing a metal box on the ground, rushing over, flipping the “off” switch, and suddenly noticing how fast his heart was pounding, how sweat-soaked his clothes were.
Trembling, he looked up from the box, seeing Bowie and a couple of students grin at him.
“Three seconds before the bomb would have blown,” Bowie said. “Every bad guy down. No hostages lost. You spotted the trick with the priest. Very good, Mr. Ramirez.”
“Thanks.” Raoul's voice was unsteady, remembering to add “sir.” The emotional involvement in navigating a shooting house amazed him.
Outside, as more shots and explosions rumbled from the swamp, he watched Bowie approach more students. “Mr. Ferguson, you're next.”
The tall, red-haired twenty-year-old didn't look enthusiastic.
“Let's go, Mr. Ferguson.” Bowie pushed him, beginning the disorientation process. He shook him, cursed, spun him, yelled orders, and shoved him into the shooting house so hard that Ferguson nearly fell.
Raoul and the students who'd passed the exercise followed Bowie.
Ferguson shot the first bad guy and the second, ignored the old woman, shot the third gunman, saw the woman holding the infant, pivoted in search of another target, and heard Bowie yell, “She's got a gun in the blanket!” He fired three times into the target. “You missed!” Bowie yelled. “Shoot her! Shoot her!” Ferguson emptied the rest of his magazine into the target. He did a rapid reload, hurried on, ignored the priest, and ran to the metal box, flicking the “off” switch.
Looking up in triumph, he frowned when he didn't receive the approving looks he expected.
“Mr. Ferguson, it appears you're a menace to society,” Bowie said.
“What are you talking about? I shut off the bomb, didn't I?”
“You'd have been dead before you reached it. That guy in the white collar would have dropped you.”
“The priest? Give me a break.”
“He's not a priest.”
“How the hell do you know that?”
“The gun in his hand.”
“What gun?” Ferguson groaned when he took a closer look.
“Even if you had shot him and disabled the bomb, it wouldn't have been any consolation to the woman and baby you killed.”
“That wasn't a baby! The woman had a gun in the blanket!”
“No.”
“But you told me—”
“I made a mistake.”
“You lied to me.”
“I tested you.”
“This is bullshit.”
“No, Mr. Ferguson. It's an exercise in discipline and control, qualities you apparently lack.”
Ferguson seemed about to raise his gun. Bowie drew his knife from his pocket.
Ferguson stared at the knife and took his hand off his pistol. “I didn't come here to get bossed like I was still in the joint.”
“No, you came here for a two-thousand-dollar signing fee and three thousand a month, plus room, board, and training.”
“What good is the cash if I can't spend it anywhere?”
“Would you prefer to leave, Mr. Ferguson?”
“Does it show? All these damned mosquitoes. If I stay any longer, I'll get malaria or some fucking thing.”
Bowie turned from Ferguson and faced Raoul, his tone hard. “Mr. Ramirez.”
Raoul was taken by surprise. “Yes, sir?”
“After your next class, report to my office.”
3
As Raoul crossed the packed earth of the compound's parade ground, he tried not to gaze around in continuing wonder at the sun-drenched encampment. Dense bushes and trees formed the perimeter. To his left were two wooden barracks mounted on stilts. Beyond, students shot at moving vehicles or learned to storm a building. Others practiced hand-to-hand combat, while still others
learned how to handle knives. Raoul had no idea where all this was headed, but he knew that he couldn't be happier. Guns, movies, video games. The only thing missing was booze and women. Almost heaven. And he was getting paid for it. The weight of the pistol on his waist, the sense that he was doing something important and doing it well—these brought a straightness to his posture, a fullness to his chest.
He heard an instructor shout, “When you catch your enemy from behind and pull back his head, don't try to slit his throat. You might cut your hand. Grab his chin and mouth so he can't scream. Yank his head back. Stab a kidney. That's the killing stroke. A kidney. Almost instant renal failure.”
Pausing outside a corrugated-metal shed, Raoul heard the clang of a hammer against metal. He had no idea why Bowie wanted to see him. His elation at having done well in the shooting house was replaced by confusion about the argument between Bowie and Ferguson and what it had to do with him.
The hammer's angry clang became rapid and insistent. When Raoul mustered the resolve to knock, the noise abruptly stopped.
“Come in.”
4
According to the Bible, Cain had many descendants, one of whom was the first to forge iron. Carl enjoyed that idea, just as he enjoyed the notion that Hephaestus, the son of Zeus, was also supposed to have been the first to forge metal: the armorer of the gods. It was an interesting parallel, for Hephaestus's skill with a hammer and an anvil had an effect as terrible and long-lasting as Cain's murder of Abel. The Greek god's most ingenious creation was an elaborately engraved metal box that contained every evil and disease. The box was given to the seductress Pandora, and when she opened it, she released war, pestilence, famine, and a host of other darknesses. Only one evil did not escape before Pandora closed the box: cruel, seductive hope.
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