David Morrell - The naked edge

Ali listened harder.

"I'd been assigned to him two years earlier, before I was promoted. His language was filthy. His manners were…" Brockman faltered. "Shouting, bragging, insulting. I once saw him vomit in the middle of a business dinner. On the floor next to him. 'Must have been the red wine with the fish,' he said, and told the waiter to bring him more vodka. He was a subhuman who'd bullied his way into an oil fortune."

Bound rigidly to the machine, Brockman tried to lower his eyes toward his swollen knees. "Do you think they can be repaired, or will I be crippled?"

Ali didn't answer.

"Well, my days of jumping from aircraft were probably over anyhow." Brockman stared into an imaginary distance. "I wanted what those clients had. The penthouses, the yachts, the villas, the islands. I overheard stock tips every day. These people made fortunes on insider knowledge. So when I learned about a drug company that would soon be bought by a rival for double its value, I invested everything I had in it. I borrowed heavily." Brockman lapsed into a self-hating chuckle. "The stock tip was only a rumor. The drug company went bankrupt. I lost it all."

"Rough break," Ali said.

"Wasn't it, though. The next time the Russian hired GPS to protect him…"

"The Rome assignment? The one I worked on?"

"Yes." As Ali wiped more sweat from his face, Brockman said, "The Russian's enemies were expert. They needed someone familiar with how he was protected." Another self-hating chuckle. "Somehow they got word of how much I hated the Russian. Somehow they learned about how desperate I was for money. I often wonder if they didn't arrange for me to hear the stock tip about the drug company."

"They set you up?"

Brockman tried to shrug, but he was bound too tightly to the machine. "They promised to pay off my debt. They promised to set my finances back the way they'd been. All I needed to do was arrange for a man I despised to be killed."

"You were in New York while I was in charge of his protective team in Rome," Ali said. "Every time I reported to you, you told the hit team what I said."

"You kept telling me that he wouldn't stay away from the windows in his hotel suite."

"So you passed that information on, telling the sniper where to take his position?"

"It was so easy," Brockman said. "The son of a bitch was no longer on the planet, and my debts vanished."

"Carl Duran had nothing to do with the hit?"

"Nothing. He had no influence on me. When he sliced up that stalker in front of the Plaza Hotel, I didn't have the slightest reason to keep him from being fired."

"Then how does this relate to…"

"The damned sniper. After Duran was fired, after he went to work for a drug lord in Colombia, he and the sniper crossed paths." Brockman's voice became thicker, sounding as if he'd swallowed sand.

"Try," Ali said, giving him more water. "We're almost there. This'll soon be over. Tell me about the sniper."

"Duran and the sniper compared notes, talking about former assignments."

"The sniper told Duran about your involvement in the Russian's death?"

"Everything." Brockman grimaced with self-loathing. "Duran threatened to expose me. At the least, it would have put me in prison. More than likely, it would have gotten me killed. The Russian had two brothers almost as vicious as he was. They'd have…" Brockman's voice trailed off.

"You didn't see an alternative. You had to let Duran blackmail you into providing information about our agents and their assignments."

"So there you have it," Brockman said with greater self-disgust.

"No, I don't have it. Why is Duran doing this?"

Brockman didn't answer, so Ali shoved the rag back into his mouth and pulled handles on the flex machine. Five minutes later, after tearing Brockman's left rotator cuff, after Brockman completed his silent scream, Ali removed the gag.

"Why is he doing this?"

"I don't know."

Ali reached for the handles on the machine.

"But I've got a strong suspicion."

When Brockman told him, Ali felt his stomach turn cold.

In the shed, Cavanaugh clutched his cell phone, listening to what Ali told him. "How do I know this is true?"

"If you don't believe me," Ali's voice said, "maybe you'll believe Gerald."

Cavanaugh heard a bump as the phone was repositioned.

Ali's voice was now muffled by distance. "Tell him, damn it. Tell him what you just told me."

Another bump. Then Brockman's pain-ridden voice said, "I… It was me… I'm the security leak."

"Tell him about New Orleans!" Ali insisted in the background.

Brockman obeyed. Hoarsely. Between difficult breaths. His thick words sounded as if they were forced through swollen lips.

Cavanaugh felt that the shadows around him got darker. Staring at the Michael Price knife that Carl had expertly reproduced, smelling the dust and the old metal around him, he was hardly aware of Jamie and Rutherford reacting to his strained features.

Ali's voice returned. "Now do you believe me?"

"Stay with him. Don't leave the apartment. I'll send a team to protect you."

"Get a doctor for Gerald," Ali said.

Cavanaugh broke the connection, then quickly arranged the help he'd promised. As he hurried toward the door, he told Jamie and Rutherford what Ali had discovered.

After the murky interior, the glare of the cold sun was blinding. Passing members of the search team, taking long strides down the lane toward Rutherford's car, Cavanaugh said, "At yesterday's meeting, we tried to find a link among the agents who were killed with sharp weapons. Brockman steered the conversation. We were looking for a common denominator based on their previous assignments or the military units they'd been in. But it was Brockman who suggested their past assignments didn't matter. The next assignments. Brockman made us look at those. I can still hear him saying 'The World Trade Organization.' That was his final job. In case we missed the significance of the blade killings, Carl ordered him to make sure we noticed the connection. He wanted to focus us on New Orleans. The note Carl left here reinforced that idea."

"But why would he go out of his way to warn us when and where the attack will be?" Rutherford asked.

"Every available agent's been sent there. Duran wants to destroy as many targets as possible, but he doesn't care about the trade ministers and corporate executives at the conference. They're a bonus. The agents are his targets. He's already strained the system. Now he wants to bring it to its knees. If he cripples the entire U.S. security network, it'll take months to train new operators. Meanwhile, whoever hired him will be able to attack domestic targets at will."

The warehouse was next to the Mississippi. Despite dampness that rose from the floor, the building was used as a dormitory. Cots with sleeping bags formed three rows, twenty in each. Men sat on the cots, cleaning weapons. Others sat at tables, playing manhunter video games or watching action movies that emphasized accurate tradecraft. Ample food was available. After the punishing youth most of these men had known, after their prison experience, after the pride and discipline they'd acquired at the training camp, they were content.

When a side door opened, they looked toward a man silhouetted by sunlight. His tall, lanky figure and powerful-looking forearms were immediately recognizable. Dressed in hiking boots, multi-pocketed pants, and a slightly large shirt hanging over his hidden gun, he closed the door, obscuring two men outside who looked like dock workers but were actually sentries.

As he walked to a podium, the men gathered before him. Without needing to be told, each assumed a military posture with his feet apart and his hands behind his back.