The Naked Edge

by David Morrell

  “Clever . . .” Stifling the impulse to curse, he gave the phone to a technician and told him to take it outside.

  “Do you have his location?” Rutherford asked a technician.

  “The French Quarter. He must have set the phone down and walked away.”

  “But why did his voice sound distant?”

  “Maybe he wasn't speaking directly into the phone.”

  “The signal's coming from the corner of Bourbon and St. Peter,” another technician said.

  “Is there a team close to there?” Rutherford asked. “The police must have plenty of officers in the bar district.”

  A third technician finished speaking into a microphone. “A half-dozen teams converged on that area during the conversation. More teams are on the way. The streets are being blocked.”

  “One thing bothers me.” The first technician pointed toward a monitor that showed a map of the French Quarter and a stationary, pulsing dot.

  “Only one thing?” Rutherford asked.

  “He never moved while he was talking,” the technician said.

  Jamie got it first. “Never moved? Why would he stay in one place when he knew we were using satellites to get a fix on his position?”

  9

  The van stopped on Chartres Street between Jackson Square and St. Louis Cathedral. Protectors converged on the vehicle as Rutherford opened the side door.

  Cavanaugh stared out at the glow of streetlights, at numerous tourists passing in the shadowy background, plastic cups of beer in their hands.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” Rutherford asked. “He could be baiting you.”

  “I'm positive he is trying to bait me.”

  “Then why are you playing his game?”

  “Because it's the only game we have. How many agents are mingling with the crowd?”

  “Almost enough that they are the crowd.”

  Cavanaugh looked at Jamie. “Want to stay here?”

  “And miss the excitement?” she answered.

  “Let's hope there isn't any excitement.”

  Flanked by agents, they got out and headed up narrow St. Peter Street. Passing the majestic cathedral and its gardens, approaching the glitter and activity of Bourbon Street, Cavanaugh slowed his pace. The sound of music and partying filled the night. Door-to-door bars and restaurants, most of them open to the street, were crammed with customers.

  “If we stick together like this,” Cavanaugh told the agents, “we won't be able to surprise him.”

  “But if we don't stick together,” one of them said, “we can't shield you.”

  At night, Bourbon Street was closed to traffic. The agents scanned the raucous bars and the rowdy crowd in the middle of the street. They switched their attention to the ornate wrought iron of the numerous balconies, many of which were occupied by revelers.

  Sweating, Cavanaugh crossed to where a man with a German shepherd stood next to a garbage bin. The dog's owner seemed to be enjoying the music and the enthusiasm of the crowd as were a man and woman on the other side of the bin, and another couple amused by a man dancing in the street. All of them, including the dancer, were part of the team.

  The man with the dog told Cavanaugh, “Arnold here is the best in our canine unit. He never fails to locate explosives. So far, the area seems clean.” The man indicated the two couples and the dancer. “They have radiation and pathogen detectors. Negative readings.”

  “Show us what you found,” Rutherford said.

  The man and woman on the other side of the bin shifted garbage bags away, revealing two cell phones duct-taped together. There was also an apparently mystifying object next to them.

  For now, Cavanaugh concentrated on the duct-taped cell phones. “Son of a . . .”

  “This is one instance where I think your language is needlessly restrained,” Rutherford said.

  Cavanaugh took latex gloves from a pocket and put them on, hating the chalky feel of the powder inside them. He crouched, removed his compact flashlight from his belt, and studied the phones taped together. Their ear and mouth areas were positioned against one another.

  An agent lowered his phone and said, “One of the phones is still on. Back at headquarters, they hear our voices coming through it.”

  Cavanaugh looked at the man with the German shepherd. “Have Arnold sniff this again for explosives.”

  “Happy to.”

  Then Cavanaugh asked the couples near him, “How about another scan with those detectors?”

  They obliged, but the readings on the handheld monitors continued to be negative for radiation and pathogens. They did it so discreetly that the hundreds of tourists who passed them didn't notice.

  Cavanaugh picked up the phones, holding them at the bottom where he was less likely to smudge fingerprints. He unclipped his knife from his pants. After studying the way the phones were secured face-to-face, he sliced the duct tape, separating the two.

  “The second phone is on, also. It's receiving a signal,” Cavanaugh said, pointing toward the lit display screen.

  “It would require three phones,” Jamie said.

  Cavanaugh nodded.

  “The one you called,“ Jamie said. “The one taped to it. And a third phone that Carl used to phone the second one.”

  Again, Cavanaugh nodded.

  “I'm missing something,” an agent said. “What are you talking about?”

  “Carl assumed I'd eventually call the number for the phone he used to contact Brockman. He knew Brockman's caller ID would keep a record of the number, but even if both Brockman's phones were destroyed in the explosion, the phone company would still have a record.”

  “Okay, I'm with you so far,” the agent said.

  “Carl and a companion waited for the call.” Jamie pointed toward one of the phones. “Before Carl answered it, he turned on the second phone. Then he used a third phone to call this second one. He put the first and second phones together and used the third phone to relay his voice through the second into the first. While he spoke, a companion taped the phones together so they'd be secure. Then Carl and his companion hid the phones behind these garbage bags and walked away.”

  The agent nodded. “Because we didn't have information about the third phone, he could talk to you as long as he wanted, without worrying that we'd use a satellite to track him wherever he was talking—probably outside the French Quarter.”

  “And he's listening to us right now,” Cavanaugh said.

  Rutherford straightened. Cavanaugh noted with approval that the agents kept their attention where it belonged: on the crowd and the raucous buildings along the street.

  “Isn't that right, Carl?” Cavanaugh said into the second phone. “You're listening to us right now.”

  He didn't get an answer, but a slight electronic hiss told him that the connection was still active. He showed the phone's display to the agent in contact with the communications center.

  Noting the incoming number, the agent stepped away from the group so that he wouldn't be heard when he told the communications center the new phone number. They would track its signal.

  “Are you there, Carl?” Cavanaugh asked.

  Again, he didn't receive a reply.

  “I hope you're having fun listening to us.”

  “What about the other thing he left?” Rutherford asked.

  “The knife?” Cavanaugh referred to the apparently mystifying object.

  “Yeah. It's one of the meanest-looking blades I've ever seen.”

  Cavanaugh picked it up. His latex gloves protected him from any dermal poison that Carl might have put on it. “It's called a ‘khukri’.”

  The knife had an impressive ivory handle and a thirteen-inch blade. What made the blade intimidating was that it curved like a sickle. It was designed for chopping, its sweet spot almost anywhere along its curve.

  “The Gurkhas use these,” Cavanaugh said.

  Rutherford nodded. The Gurkhas were a military tribe in Nepal. Their main source of
income came from being mercenaries in various armies. They never drew their knives unless they intended to draw blood, and if they didn't wound or kill an enemy, they allegedly felt obligated to draw blood from themselves.

  “When an enemy hears the Gurkhas are coming, the sweat starts to flow.” Cavanaugh raised the second phone and said, “Carl, you did a fabulous job on this. The engraving on the ivory handle is magnificent. I thought the Michael Price dagger at the farm was fabulous, but the craft on this one is better. Excellent work.”

  “Fossilized ivory,” Carl's voice said from the phone.

  Cavanaugh smiled slightly in victory.

  “Lance taught us nothing should die in order to be used to make a knife,” Carl's voice said.

  The agent in contact with the communications center gestured to indicate they were tracking the signal from the third phone.

  “Mastodon ivory,” Cavanaugh said. “From Alaska, right? I like the way you put black epoxy over the main part of the blade and then let the edge of the blade retain its natural shiny metallic look. Contrasts beautifully with the ivory.”

  “Coming from you, that's high praise, Aaron.”

  “Nothing should die in order to be used to make a knife?”

  “You heard Lance say that often enough.”

  “So the killing's justified only after the knife is made?”

  “Hey, don't get moralistic, Aaron. In Delta Force, you did your share of work with a blade. Did you figure out why I left you the khukri?”

  “A threat?”

  “Well, let's just say a warning.” Carl's voice was faint. “For all you know, I'm watching you right now. Maybe I've got a rifle trained on you. Maybe I could blow you to hell at this very moment.”

  “I doubt it, Carl. You're blocks away. You made sure this phone registered the number you're using. You want us to track the signal you're using, but all we'll find is another set of phones taped together. Are you enjoying yourself?”

  “Just like when we were kids and pretended to be soldiers hunting one another in those woods at the bottom of our street.”

  “But we're not kids any longer.”

  “Exactly. Do you remember the last time we were in New Orleans? The blast we had, drinking, listening to jazz all night? Except for the club behind you, there's hardly any place that has jazz anymore. The bar down the street features karaoke, for God's sake. When I was there earlier, some kid with rings in her nose was screeching the lyrics to ‘Love Shack.’ The jazz clubs were turned into strip joints and sex-toy shops. Pitiful. This town'll destroy your memories if you don't get out as fast as you can. Ease off. Go back to Wyoming.”

  “Not much there for me now. You burned my house, remember?”

  “Rebuild it. Occupy your time with something constructive. Stay out of my business. Aaron, do you want to make a bet?”

  “What do I get if I win?”

  “I'll stop whatever I'm doing if you can tell me what's the most expensive knife in the world.”

  “Then I win, Carl. The most expensive knife is the solid gold replica of King Tut's dagger that Buster Warenski made.”

  “Wrong,” Carl's voice said.

  “Come on,” Cavanaugh said. “When Buster made that knife in the 1980s, it was valued at fifty thousand dollars. Two years ago, the estimate was raised to a half million. But then the collector said it wasn't for sale at any price.”

  “Yeah, Buster did a great job on that dagger. But it's still not the most expensive knife in the world. You want to know what is?”

  “Sure, Carl. Go ahead and tell me.”

  “The knife that costs you your life.”

  Carl made the statement sound so final that Cavanaugh had the sense that the conversation was over.

  “Whatever you're doing,” Cavanaugh said, “stop it. You've got so many people looking for you, you can't expect to get away. Negotiate with me. What can we give you to make this stop?”

  The phone's subtle electronic hiss stretched on and on.

  “Carl?”

  Suddenly, Cavanaugh heard voices coming through the phone: angry men cursing.

  The agent in contact with the communications center lowered his phone and said, “They tracked the signal to the Garden District. A team found two phones taped together in a flower bed outside one of those old mansions.”

  “Both phones are active?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sure. Carl did it again. He relayed his voice from a further location. If I go there, he'll start talking to me through another relay phone. He'll lead me all over the city. A cemetery or the river will probably be next.”

  “Anything to distract you from trying to stop whatever's going to happen tomorrow,” Jamie said.

  “Oh, we're going to stop it.”

  10

  As a police car hurried Cavanaugh and Jamie through the busy night, he noted increasing signs of the trouble that was coming. More law-enforcement officers on the streets. More barricades. In several parks, large groups of demonstrators were gathered, some of them sprawled on sleeping bags, others gesturing in animated discussions. Distant sirens wailed.

  Jamie looked at her watch. “Almost one o'clock. Not much time.”

  They reached the Delta Queen Hotel, one of several on Canal Street. The district's proximity to the convention center made it a logical place for many of the delegates to stay, although Cavanaugh hated the idea of so many influential people being grouped so close to each other.

  He and Jamie showed their ID to guards and ran past barricades into the ornate hotel's lobby. Next to the check-in desk, the concierge directed them to a banquet room on the hotel's second floor. They ran up a staircase and along a thickly carpeted corridor to where they showed their ID to more guards and entered the brightly lit command post for Global Protective Services.

  Tables filled the huge room. Computers and monitors seemed everywhere, phones ringing, printers whirring, dozens of agents working to keep up with the massive influx of information. Outside the hotel, more sirens wailed.

  For several weeks prior to the conference, GPS advance teams had traveled to New Orleans and studied the security layout of this and other hotels where clients were staying. They assessed possible routes to the conference as well as to various tourist spots that the delegates would insist on visiting. The agents took photographs. They made diagrams of streets and the room patterns of floors and suites. They created time charts of how long it took to get from one building to another. They did background checks on limousine services and arranged for armored cars to be available. They hired guards to make certain the limos weren't tampered with and that the guards inspected each vehicle on a regular schedule. They arranged for medical personnel to be on call and made detailed notes about how to reach the nearest hospitals. These and numerous other preparations were the hidden part of the protective world, each security measure made to look effortless when in fact everything was the result of intense planning.

  Amid the organized commotion, a tall woman looked up from a printout she studied. A former Marine who was also a former member of the Defense Intelligence Agency, she wore dark slacks and a dark blouse that could be made to look formal or casual, depending on the type of client she needed to blend with. Her red hair was cut short. Her strong features had only faint makeup and were tight with fatigue. Looking as if she welcomed the distraction, she approached Cavanaugh and Jamie.

  “I hear you're the new boss.”

  “Just my bad luck,” Cavanaugh said. “Jamie, this is Dawn Finch, the best advance agent we have.”

  “Flattery, flattery.”

  “Dawn, this is my wife, Jamie.”

  “Word came my way about that, also. You're full of surprises.”

  “Let's hope tomorrow doesn't bring surprises.”

  “Here's how it lays out.” Dawn led them to various charts mounted on a wall.

  Cavanaugh studied them. “I don't like the pattern of the choke points.” He referred to the potential attack sites common
to every route that the attendees would need to use.

  “Yeah, the convention center's in a centralized area. The Warehouse/Arts district, Canal Street, the French Quarter. Everything's within a few blocks. No matter how we try to vary the routes, everybody has to pass through the bottlenecks here and here. Bombs and snipers are the big worry, of course. We tag-teamed with the police and the government agencies to reinforce security at those points, keep the protestors back, occupy roofs, watch for movement at windows, that sort of thing.”

  “How many agents?”

  “Eight thousand and more on the way.”

  For a moment, Cavanaugh thought he hadn't heard correctly. “Eight thousand?”

  “To hit that many people, you need a dispersive weapon, a dirty bomb, something like that,” Dawn continued. “Homeland Security has radiation and pathogen detectors all over the waterfront. Any vehicle that enters the downtown area is being scanned.”

  “Give me a list of the most influential delegates.”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “To make sure tomorrow doesn't happen.”

  11

  “Remember almost the first thing I told you when I brought you to our training camp?” Carl asked Raoul.

  They paused outside the warehouse. Insects swarmed around the overhead light. A tugboat sounded from the Mississippi's gloom.

  “I told you rest was the operator's friend, that you should take advantage of it whenever possible. You put in a good day, Mr. Ramirez.”

  Raoul stood straighter in response to the term of respect.

  “You did what you were instructed. You executed your orders perfectly. Now it's time to reward yourself with sleep. It'll be difficult. Plenty of exciting things going on. But tomorrow's where we're headed, and the most important thing you can do now is stretch out. Even if all you manage to do is keep your eyes shut, you'll still get the benefit. Clear?”