David Morrell - The naked edge

The slender knife was eleven inches long, five inches of which were the amazing handle.

Cavanaugh couldn't take his gaze off it.

"Michael Price," he finally said.

"I don't understand."

"Old San Francisco." Cavanaugh kept staring at the knife. Then he felt that he was being stared at. Breaking his concentration, he looked up at Jamie and Rutherford, who watched him, puzzled.

"Who's Michael Price?" Jamie asked.

Old San Francisco. Eighteen forty-eight.

The village had a population of about four hundred people when gold was discovered at Sutter's Mill a hundred miles away. Within a year, two hundred thousand miners passed through San Francisco on their way to the gold fields. The town was so undeveloped that necessities had to be brought in by ship.

Knives were some of those necessities. In the east, most communities had blacksmiths who could forge crude blades, but quality knives needed to be imported from manufacturers in England. Suddenly, in San Francisco, a market developed for thousands of knives, dependable ones, blades that could be trusted to hold an edge while they pried nuggets from a stream and protected those nuggets from thieves.

A shipment of knives took a year to travel from England to San Francisco. Seizing the opportunity, knife makers began setting up forges and charging top dollar. Soon a distinctive style and a high level of expertise became common. One of those knife makers was Michael Price, who came to San Francisco in the mid 1850s and whose clients were some of the richest, most powerful men in the community.

Judges, bankers, merchants, and real-estate moguls were wealthy beyond their fantasies. To show it, they dressed extravagantly, including the knives they carried for self-defense. Michael Price's elegant designs were characterized by a handle made of gold, diamonds, mother of pearl, and other precious materials. The blade was enclosed in an elaborately engraved silver sheath attached prominently to a dress belt. Customers vied with each other to have the most beautiful, subtle, and yet ostentatious knife.

"They're proof that knives can be works of art," Cavanaugh said. "Knife collectors search for them. Recently, a Michael Price dagger sold at auction for almost a hundred thousand dollars. One way master blade smiths prove their skill is by replicating a Michael Price knife."

Cavanaugh pointed toward the knife in the box. "Carl did it flawlessly. At the back of the handle, you see that screw? If you detach it, you can take the handle apart and spread it out in small pieces: the grip, the bands that hold it onto the tang, the various fittings that form the guard. Each of those tiny parts is perfectly crafted."

As if hypnotized, Jamie reached for it.

Cavanaugh stopped her. "I don't think that's a good idea."

"Why?"

"The blade should be gleaming. It should have a satin polish. But it doesn't. Its finish is dull."

Still wanting to touch the enticing knife, Jamie said, "Sure. It has dust on it."

"After a day?" Cavanaugh said. "There wouldn't be that much dust. No, Carl put something on it. Probably the handle, also. I'm betting it's some kind of topical poison, something that the pathogen detectors haven't been programmed for. You wouldn't need to cut yourself. Skin contact would be enough. You'd probably die instantly."

Jamie jerked her hand away. "Playing with us. Showing how smart he is. He's pissed at being rejected, and he's getting back at everybody."

Cavanaugh re-read the letter. "He says that in two days he's going to disappear. The message is dated a day ago. So tomorrow, something's going to happen."

"New Orleans. The World Trade Organization," Jamie said.

Cavanaugh's cell phone rang. Reluctant to be distracted, he looked at its screen. The name made him frown. "Ali Karim."

He pressed a button and said to the phone, "There's no point in trying to persuade me to change my mind. I can't even think about reinstating you until we finish the investigation."

"Yeah, well, I believe you'll reinstate me a lot sooner than that," Ali's voice said. "I just had a heart-to-heart talk with Gerald. He says you figured out Carl Duran is arranging an attack in New Orleans. The World Trade Organization."

Cavanaugh cut him off. "If you're the security leak, you knew that already."

"Every available agent's been sent there, right?" Ali's voice asked. "Ditto the Secret Service, the Diplomatic Security Service, and the U.S. Marshals."

"I can't discuss any of it," Cavanaugh told him.

"Then let's discuss this," Ali's voice ordered. "The agents are the real targets."

A chill made Cavanaugh's chest contract.

"Stay away from New Orleans." Ali's voice rose. "That's where Carl Duran wants everybody to go. It's a trap." PART SEVEN:

"What you did to me…" Brockman's features were contorted with pain. "None of it matters. I can bear anything."

"Certainly," Ali said.

It had been a long, painful night.

"I'm as tough as you are. If I talk, it's not because you got the better of me."

"Of course not."

"Carl Duran matters."

"Then we'll need to make sure he keeps away from you."

"The only way to guarantee that is to kill him," Brockman said.

"Tell me what you know. I'll see what I can arrange."

"Don't you think I had plans to kill him? But first, you need to find the bastard." Strapped to the flex machine, Brockman's body was rigid with anguish. "And if anything happens to him, he left instructions for someone he trusts to release documents. About me."

"Unless you tell me, I can't help you."

Brockman took a long breath. "Duran had nothing to do with the hit on the Russian."

Ali leaned forward, concentrating to hear Brockman's faint words.

"I did," Brockman said. "I arranged the hit on the Russian."

The revelation was far from what Ali expected. Concealing his surprise, he asked, "You? Why?"

"Money."

"We get paid a lot."

"Not enough to risk our lives for strangers. Not those kinds of strangers. Do you ever hate them?"

"Hate?"

"I grew up in Pretoria." Anger cut through Brockman's pain. "In the alleys. I fought for a cardboard box to sleep in, for the rags on my back, for every scrap of food I managed to get my hands on." As sweat ran down his face, Brockman stared fiercely ahead. "When I got big enough, I thought, 'Hell, I've been fighting all my life. Might as well join the military.'" He took another anguished breath. "Turned out I was right-it wasn't any worse than what I'd already been through. In many ways, it was better. All the shit I had to do to qualify for special ops. Nights in the bush country with wild fires. Water holes dry. The petrol my instructors put in the only food I'd been given to eat. Even then, it was still better." Brockman's eyes were fierce. "Because I proved I was special. Because I had something to be proud of. My discipline. My skills."

Brockman's voice cracked. Ali put the straw in his mouth, letting him drink.

"Then I got too old," Brockman said. "Thirty. Too old. Shit. So I went to work for GPS," he said with contempt, "and was assigned to protect some of the most wealthy, attractive, and powerful people in the world. I'd read about people like that. But nothing prepared me for meeting them. They owned penthouses, villas, jets, yachts, islands, anything they wanted. In a world of poverty, starvation, and pain, they were blessed." Brockman inhaled. "They took it for granted. Vain, arrogant, domineering, greedy, and disgusting. I hated them."

Ali used a cool washcloth to rub sweat from Brockman's face.

"When I left the commandos, all I had were scars and empty pockets. These people had everything, but they didn't have the character to deserve it. The worst of them, the biggest pig of tall, was that Russian."