David Morrell - The naked edge

"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?"

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."