David Morrell - The naked edge

They chuckled again.

"Control. Discipline. That's what you've been training for. Otherwise, you're just the street thug you were when I took pity on you and brought you to the training camp. Make sure you're wearing your Navy SEAL watch. They're each set to exactly the same time. After you put on your knapsack and go to your assigned street, you'll mingle with the demonstrators. The conference starts at nine. There'll be delays because the protestors will try to block the streets. Some of the trade ministers will want to make an impressive late entrance. But let's assume that by ten o'clock, all the participants will be there and the opening ceremony will be in full swing. Exactly at ten on your watch, take off the knapsack and pull the cord on it. Everybody clear on that?"

They nodded.

"When the black smoke comes out and mingles with all the other black smoke and covers your area, pull out your pistol and empty it into the air. Enjoy yourself. Stampede the protestors. But for God's sake, don't shoot any of them. We've been hired to disrupt the conference, not kill people. Clear on that?"

Again, they nodded.

"Okay, clean up this warehouse. Put on the knapsacks. Make sure you know where you're going. Don't bunch up after the event. Go your separate ways, and regroup two days from now at the campground near Galveston. Gentlemen, you want to make a bet?"

They studied him, eager to hear his next words.

"I bet you make me proud. I bet you prove that I was right to choose you, that you're worth all the training you received. You're not thugs anymore. You're operators. I can't think of a higher compliment to give anyone. Operators."

Cavanaugh felt a hand on his shoulder and jerked awake. It took him a moment to realize that he was in a hotel room, that sunlight struggled past the draperies, and that Jamie, who looked as tired as he felt, was leaning over him, nudging him.

"William's here," she said.

Cavanaugh squinted up toward William, who stood at the foot of the bed, holding a briefcase. Despite the long plane trip, William's expensively tailored, pinstriped suit was impeccably pressed. His pristine white shirt was perfectly starched, his striped tie dramatically authoritative. With his coiffed gray hair and projecting chest, he had never looked more like a high-powered attorney.

"He brought us beignets." Jamie bit into one.

"… coffee," Cavanaugh murmured.

"That, too." Jamie handed him a Styrofoam cup.

Groggy, Cavanaugh sipped the hot bitter liquid. "You're the best attorney anybody ever had, William."

"Maybe I should open a catering service."

"What time is it?"

"Six-thirty."

Cavanaugh turned toward Jamie. "You let me sleep this long?"

"You were dead on your feet."

"Unfortunate choice of word. You were exhausted too, but you still got up earlier than I did."

"Things on my mind. Not to mention nightmares."

"I know all about nightmares." Cavanaugh sat slowly, his head feeling as if ball bearings rolled inside it.

"On the phone last night, you told me to get here as quickly as possible," William said.

"And by God, you did. Thank you, William."

"Is there a legal emergency?"

"There's going to be," Cavanaugh told him. "And that's probably not the only emergency."

"When the Gulfstream picked me up at Teterboro airport, my escorts said that I wouldn't be needing their protection any longer."

"That's right," Jamie said. "You're not in danger now. Or perhaps I should say, you're not a specific target."

"As opposed to being part of a general target?" William frowned.

"I'm going to need your help," Cavanaugh said. "But I can't lie to you. You'll probably be risking your life to help me. Are you willing to do that?"

"As I recall, you saved my life back at your ranch-not to mention, several times you kept some of my litigation opponents from trying to strangle me."

"Then you'll do it?"

"When do we start?"

"Good man," Cavanaugh said. He stood from the bed and looked down at his rumpled slacks and shirt. "Don't have a change of clothes."

"There's no time to change them anyhow," Jamie said, peering down at her own wrinkled slacks and blouse.

"Or shave." Cavanaugh scraped a hand over his beard stubble.

"We're going to hell," Jamie said.

"Carl is." Cavanaugh went into the bathroom, shut the door, and urinated. He put his head under the cold-water facet and soaked his hair. He toweled it, ran a comb through it, then came out and took a bite from what was left of the beignet in Jamie's hand. After snapping his pistol holster to his belt, he put on his sport coat, which reeked of tear gas and smoke. "Knives. Two spare magazines. Looks like I've got everything but a winning lottery ticket."

Jamie attached her gun and knife to her belt, then hid them with her blazer. "Ready?"

Seven a.m.

The communications center was even more crowded and noisy than the evening before, radios crackling, keyboards clattering. But in contrast with the chaos of yesterday, everyone in the room seemed paralyzed. Motionless agents stood before a vast array of closed-circuit television monitors that showed intense crowds assembling on various streets around the conference center. Helmeted police officers and military reservists formed a line behind barricades, holding shields and batons, ready to respond if the crowd pushed beyond the checkpoints.

Somber, Rutherford sensed movement behind him and glanced back, frowning toward Cavanaugh and Jamie. His gaze lingered on William.

"Any developments?" Cavanaugh asked, reaching him.

A stranger shifted next to Rutherford. A mustached man of fifty, he had gray hair, the severely short cut of which exposed a crescent of skin above each ear. His tie was rigidly knotted, his suit meticulously pressed, his shoes obsessively shined. Of medium height and weight, with pallid skin suggestive of a career spent at a desk, he wore a white shirt whose style communicated the impression he gave: button-down.

"The demonstrators are getting ready to try to block the streets so the trade ministers can't reach the conference," Rutherford said.

"It starts at nine?" Jamie asked.

"It was supposed to," the severe-faced stranger said.

Cavanaugh studied him, puzzled. "I don't believe we've met."

"This is Deputy Director Mosely." Rutherford subtly emphasized the stranger's title, as if giving Cavanaugh a warning.

"Pleased to meet you." Cavanaugh extended his hand. "This is my wife Jamie, and my name's-"

"You've got plenty of names, I hear." Mosely ignored the offered hand. "I'm surprised you can keep them all straight."

Cavanaugh looked at Rutherford and then back at Mosely. "Is something wrong?"

"You got what you wanted," Mosely said.

Two FBI agents edged toward them.

"I'm not sure what you mean."

"Four hotels needed to be evacuated," Mosely continued. "The ones with the most trade delegates. There wasn't any way to put them in rooms in other hotels in the area. Every place was full. In fact, there weren't enough available hotel rooms within twenty miles. We had to take them to the nearest city: St. Charles. All the confusion forced the WTO to cancel today's meetings."

"They did?" Jamie asked.

"Don't act so surprised," Mosely answered.

Other agents stepped closer.

"Hey," Cavanaugh said, "if the conference got postponed, it's a good thing, right? It gives everybody more time to try to find Carl and stop whatever he's doing."

"Oh, it's a good thing. Definitely," Mosely replied with sarcasm.

Frowning with greater puzzlement, Cavanaugh turned toward Rutherford. "John, on the flight here, you and I talked about how important it was to get this thing canceled, how crazy it was that the WTO wouldn't allow itself to appear to give in to the demonstrators. Now the trade ministers did what we hoped they would. A lot of lives have probably been saved."