David Morrell - The naked edge

"The same place?" Jamie asked.

She and the others stared at the pages.

"New Orleans."

"The World Trade Organization."

"Two days from now."

The GPS conference room was crammed with agents using computers and phones. Messengers hurried in. Printers whirred as Rutherford's team worked with Cavanaugh's, trying to take advantage of every second. Similar battle-plan rooms were at the FBI, Secret Service, U.S. Marshals, and Diplomatic Security Service, the groups constantly communicating with each other, updating schedules, coordinating, trying to prevent a disaster.

The room's noise forced Rutherford to raise his voice. "When the World Trade Organization had its conference in Seattle, riots nearly shut down the city."

Cavanaugh knew about the thousands of protestors and millions of dollars in damage. WTO protests had also disrupted Geneva. Indeed, wherever the WTO held its meetings, huge, violent demonstrations followed in reaction to what protestors claimed were anti-environment and labor-abuse policies that the WTO encouraged.

"You wouldn't believe the political pressure to make sure this conference happens," Rutherford said.

"And the economic pressure from mega-corporations," Brockman added. "They rely on the WTO to provide clear sailing for them in Third World countries. Billions of dollars are at stake."

Cavanaugh stood behind Jamie as she studied a computer screen that showed images of blockades and barbed wire in downtown New Orleans. "There'll be hundreds of diplomats, politicians, corporate CEOs, and heads of state. They're all targets. With the security crisis we're having, they can't get the first-class protection they're used to. Why won't the Secret Service listen to us?"

"It's the people they take orders from," Rutherford explained. "They don't call it the Secret Service and the Diplomatic Security Service for nothing. Protection's a service industry. They need to oblige the people paying the bills. What do politicians and diplomats know about what's involved in setting up security? They're too busy wheeling and dealing and asking their protectors to carry their luggage."

"Every available GPS agent is being routed toward New Orleans," Brockman said. "We'll make damned sure nobody gets killed on our watch."

"But some of those agents are replacing dead agents on well-rehearsed teams they've never worked with. It'll take them precious time to get up to speed," Cavanaugh said.

"Plus, now that protectors know how it feels to be the primary targets, will they worry more for their clients or for themselves?" Rutherford wondered. "Oh, sure, they're professionals. Day in, day out, hardly anybody's braver. But how can they focus on defending strangers when they're worried that they're the ones who'll be killed or that somebody'll blow up their families? The system's dangerously overloaded."

Jamie typed more computer keys, accessing images of the crowded docks in the New Orleans area. "While we're worrying, I hope somebody's checking those ships. New Orleans has the second busiest port in the United States. A dirty bomb would be easy to smuggle in."

"We'd better get down there," Cavanaugh said.

"Maybe not." Rutherford frowned at a message he was handed. "Maybe you can help somewhere else."

"Somewhere…?"

Rutherford showed Cavanaugh the piece of paper. "As you suggested, we checked the backgrounds of new subscribers to knife magazines, especially Blade. We began a year before Duran's name disappeared from Blade's list. All the names were tracked to people with legitimate identities. Except for these three. We're still checking. We investigated so quickly that we might have made mistakes. But do any of those names and addresses mean anything to you?"

Cavanaugh stared at the names. "The last one. Robert Loveless."

"So?" Brockman asked.

"Bob Loveless was a famous knife maker. I emphasize was. He's dead,"

"Could be a coincidence," Rutherford said.

"But not at that address. It's a rural-route number near West Liberty, Iowa. That's where Lance Sawyer lived. The old man who taught Carl and me to forge blades."

As the Gulfstream took off from Teterboro airport and sped toward Iowa, Cavanaugh and Jamie unpacked two more bug-out bags.

Seated in a leather chair that swiveled, Rutherford interrupted his appreciation of the jet's luxurious interior to study the contents of the bags. "Pistols, knives, ammunition, miniature flashlights, duct tape, money. Some soldiers in Third World countries aren't as well equipped. I don't suppose you're licensed to carry those firearms in Iowa."

"Afraid not," Cavanaugh said.

Rutherford sighed. "Does this phone work?"

"Yeah, but you need to leave fifty cents on the table."

After giving Cavanaugh a dry look, Rutherford took a notebook from his suit-coat pocket, found a number, picked up the phone, made his call, and identified himself. "I need to speak to the agent in charge… We expect to arrive around your time eleven p.m. I want to confirm that lodging has been arranged and that your team will be assembled for a six a.m. briefing… Good. Also, I need temporary law-enforcement credentials for two civilians so they can carry concealed handguns. I'll give you the serial numbers when we land… Thank you." Rutherford set down the phone.

"You're a handy guy to know," Jamie said.

"As long as you don't expect me to make a habit of pulling strings for you."

"Hey, we helped you a couple of times," Cavanaugh said.

Rutherford sighed again.

In lengthening shadows, Brockman stared at the glut of traffic and told his driver to leave the car in Global Protective Service's garage. "I can walk home faster. Call me in an hour. I'll tell you when to pick me up."

After the stress of the day's events, he welcomed the chance to move. Six feet one inches tall, with two hundred and ten pounds of solid muscle, he exercised ninety minutes a day, using weights, a treadmill, and a multi-purpose flex machine in his apartment. Although the temperature was forty degrees and he wore only his suit, he welcomed the chill as he loosened his tie and took long strides past Madison Avenue onto Fifty-Third Street.

Stretching his legs, dodging pedestrians, he almost broke into a run as he reached Fifth Avenue and headed north. The exertion warmed him. The blaring horns, rumbling engines, and choking exhaust of traffic blurred until he was hardly aware of them. He concentrated on the satisfaction of using his muscles, of feeling blood surge through his veins.

Fifty-Eighth Street. Ahead, beyond jewelry and designer clothing stores, he saw Central Park stretching away on his left, its leaves red, yellow, and gold in the last of the sun. Sixty-Third Street. Now only the park was on his left, its bushes, boulders, trees, and grass looking surreal in the concrete of the city. He took out his encrypted cell phone and pressed numbers.

"Case," he said, using the name of a knife manufacturer as a code word. He waited for a reply. "New Orleans," he explained to the person listening. "I'm supposed to fly there tonight. Cavanaugh has the company jet, so I need to go out to La Guardia and take a commercial flight." He waited for a response, then added, "He went to Iowa."

Brockman put the phone away and walked even faster. He purged his mind of traffic, of pedestrians, of bicycle messengers and kids on skateboards. He imagined that he hiked through a wilderness, far from people and the messes they made. In his reverie, the only sound was the crackle of his footsteps on fallen leaves as his skin tingled and he inhaled mountain air.

At Seventy-First, he turned right, went a block and a half, and entered his apartment building. There, he took the elevator to the tenth floor. His forehead was beaded with sweat as he walked along a corridor, reached his apartment, and unlocked it. When he opened the door, the intrusion detector began its shrill beep, giving him twenty seconds to press buttons on a number pad to the right of the door.