David Morrell - The naked edge

"Aaron," Carl corrected him. "I don't intend to. Not any longer. I wanted him eliminated because he could make the connection between me and the knife attacks. Some of those agents needed to be killed with blades. The plan depended on it. Now that Aaron knows I'm involved, I'm at risk. But he hasn't discovered anything that threatens the mission itself."

"He'll keep hunting you."

"That's a personal matter, but it only jeopardizes me. I set traps. Be sure of that. But from now on, my concentration is focused entirely on the mission. I won't waste any more resources going after him." Carl withdrew his right hand from his windbreaker and showed the knife it held. "Since we probably won't be meeting again, I have a gift for you."

The man hesitated, then took the knife, examining it with curiosity. "The handle is unusual."

"It's carved from fossilized ivory. Mastodon tusks uncovered in Alaska. Some knife-making supply stores sell the material."

"Why go to all the trouble of using ivory that old?"

"A gesture to the environment. This way, you know the ivory didn't come from slaughtered elephants or walruses."

The man studied Carl, trying to determine if he was being ironic. Seeing no reaction, he returned his attention to the knife. The pale yellow handle had two circles carved into it, one above the other. The bottom circle represented a clock with Roman numerals. An arrow depicted the clock's hand. The top circle was formed by stars. A profiled face was in the middle.

"That's the man in the moon," Carl explained.

"The details in the carving are impressive."

"I worked on that knife for a long time. Years. Waiting for missions to start."

"I'm honored." The man tried to open the blade but failed. He tried again. "Something's wrong. The blade's caught on something."

"No and yes."

"I don't understand."

"Something is not wrong. But yes, the blade is caught on something."

"I still don't-"

"That's a model of one of the rarest knives in the world. It's called a secret knife."

"Secret?" the man asked with interest.

"It was designed in the late sixteen hundreds. In France. In a royal court known for its secrecy. Hidden compartments were the rage. The original version of that knife might have been used by a spy hiding a secret message."

The man again tried to open the blade. "But how do you-"

"By figuring out the combination," Carl said. "The arrow in the clock. The profiled face in the middle of the stars. Each needs to be twisted to a precise location in order to free a catch that holds the blade in place."

"Like a combination to a safe," the man noted.

"Exactly. But in this case, there are two dials. When you get both in the correct position, the blade will open. You'll be amused to find astrological symbols etched into the blade. No one is sure of their significance. But I suspect they have something to do with alchemy. Or perhaps the Freemasons."

The man turned the dials and tried to open the knife, without success.

"It'll take you a long time to discover the combination and learn the knife's secret," Carl told him.

"I'll use it for distraction while I wait for the start of the week," the man said. He looked across Centennial Olympic Park toward a tall, impressive, gray-fronted, many-windowed building. Mounted to the top floor, bold red letters announced that this was the main headquarters for CNN. "Two days from now, broadcasters in there will exhaust themselves reporting around-the-clock on what we've done."

With an agent in front, an agent behind, and an agent on either side, Cavanaugh and Jamie crossed the cold parking garage. Rutherford was next to them, a classic protective formation. They identified themselves to guards, entered the elevator, and rode upward in silence.

Now I know what it feels like to be a client, Cavanaugh thought.

When the stern-faced group reached the fortieth floor, they flashed their credentials to other guards. Their concealed weapons set off metal detectors as they stepped through the entrance to Global Protective Services. The receptionist's jaw dropped. Several protective agents stopped in their tracks. Crossing the brightly lit lobby, Cavanaugh barely had time to note that the damage from the explosion had been erased, the place looking splendid, as if nothing had happened. Without bothering to knock, he opened a door marked ALI KARIM and heard his personnel director tell two FBI agents who flanked him, "If you're arresting me, tell me the charges, but you can't keep me here without a reason."

Standing angrily behind his desk, Ali spun toward the suddenly opened door. "Ah," he said to Cavanaugh and Jamie as they entered, "now this all makes sense."

"Does it?" Cavanaugh asked. "All of it?"

"As I explained, Mr. Karim," one of the agents flanking him said, "we just wanted to be sure you stayed here so you could cooperate and answer questions when everyone arrived."

"Hey, nobody's better at cooperating than me." Ali glared. "Cavanaugh, you promised to keep in touch. When you didn't, I got worried that something had happened to you."

"A couple of times, something almost did."

"You didn't need to make a production about this. If you'd let me know you were coming, I'd have canceled my appointments and waited for you. Unless you don't trust me." Ali pointed toward the stocky black man next to Cavanaugh. "Who's this?"

Rutherford showed his FBI credentials.

"Does this have anything to do with Kim going into drug rehab," Ali asked.

"You know about that?"

"She phoned from the clinic. If I'd realized she was on drugs, I'd have fired her long ago. In fact, this morning I did fire her. It's too risky having her around. God knows how much tactical information she blabbed when she was drugged up. At least, we know who the security leak is."

"Actually," Cavanaugh said, "I promised Kim she could have her job back when she finished her rehab."

"What?"

"We're not certain she's the security leak."

"And just to guarantee we don't get fooled again," Jamie added, "we're instituting a new security measure: a drug-testing program."

"'We'?" Ali asked.

"Jamie's our new deputy CEO," Cavanaugh explained.

"It helps to let the personnel director know so I can get an office ready for you and spread the word and basically do my job. As far as the drug test goes, first-rate idea. I wish I'd thought of it. I'll be the first man to piss in a vial to show my loyalty. But I have to tell you, right now my loyalty's being sorely tested. Obviously, I'm not on your popularity list. What's the problem?"

"Four years ago," Cavanaugh said.

"Give me some help here. I have no idea what that means."

"You were in Rome. In charge of a team protecting a Russian oil executive."

Ali's face tightened. "That." He looked at the four agents next to Rutherford. Beyond them, GPS personnel listened at the open door. "How public do you want this to be? Do you still care about security, or are you too busy suspecting me?"

Rutherford gestured for the agents to leave.

As Cavanaugh started to close the door, Gerald Brockman came in.

"Private party?" the Afrikaner asked.

"I forgot to send you an invitation, but you might as well join the fun."

Brockman leaned against the wall and crossed his arms over his dark suit.

Cavanaugh finished closing the door and turned toward Ali. "The Russian oil executive was shot to death."

"That's right."

"While you were in his hotel suite."

"Right again. A sniper bullet through a window. One of the Russian's competitors probably ordered the hit."

"Carl Duran was part of your team."

"Duran? That son of a bitch hasn't worked for us in years. Why do you care about him?"

"The Russian," Cavanaugh said. "Tell me what happened. Why did the security fail?"