The Protector

by David Morrell

  "Stuff?"

  "You know, tiny rockets. Maybe they could drop little bombs."

  The van was configured so that two rows of seats faced each other, with a table in the middle. Cavanaugh buckled himself into a seat in back, next to Prescott and Duncan, and looked across the table toward the man and the woman who'd escorted Prescott into the van. Their rain slickers were off now, revealing Kevlar vests and holstered pistols on their belts.

  "Hey, Chad," he said to the red-haired man, who was about thirty-five and had the same strong-shouldered build that Cavanaugh had. His name, too, was probably an alias.

  In some elements of the security business, Chad's red hair would have been a liability, drawing attention to him. But as a protective agent, Chad often took advantage of his hair color to act as a decoy. An assassin or a kidnapper, having studied the target long enough to determine that a red-haired man was one of the protectors, would pay attention to where Chad went, on the assumption that Chad would be near his client. Thus Chad made a specialty of pretending to protect a look-alike client while the real client slipped away under escort. When Chad wanted to be inconspicuous, he wore a hat.

  "I heard you got shot," Cavanaugh said.

  "Nope."

  "Good. I'm glad you didn't get hurt."

  "I didn't say I didn't get hurt," Chad said. "I got stabbed."

  "Ouch."

  "Could've been worse. It was my left shoulder. If it'd been the shoulder I bowl with ..."

  Cavanaugh looked at the woman next to Chad. "Hi, Tracy."

  She wore a Yankees sweatshirt and concealed most of her blond hair under a Yankees baseball cap. She had the capability of making herself look plain or gorgeous at will, and if she'd been in the Holiday Inn restaurant, if she'd put on lipstick, taken off her cap, let her long hair dangle, and pulled her sweatshirt tight, everybody in the restaurant, including four-year-old kids, would have remembered her after she left.

  "I heard you quit," Cavanaugh said.

  "And give up these fabulous working conditions? Besides, when would I ever see lover boy if I wasn't working with him?" She meant Chad, but she was joking. Protectors who had a relationship weren't allowed to work on the same team. In an emergency, they might look after each other instead of the client. But on numerous assignments, Chad and Tracy had proven where their priorities lay.

  The van reached the highway and headed toward the airport. Meanwhile, Duncan handed blankets to Prescott and Cavanaugh, then poured steaming coffee into Styrofoam cups for them. "We'll soon have dry coveralls for you."

  Cavanaugh felt the coffee warm his stomach. "You did good, Mr. Prescott."

  "Mr.? Now you call me Mr.? Ever since the warehouse, it's been 'Prescott do this' and 'Prescott do that.'" Duncan frowned. "Is there a problem?"

  Prescott's puffy eyes crinkled. "Not in the least. This man saved my life. I'm deeply grateful." With a smile, Prescott shook Cavanaugh's hand.

  "Your hand's cold," Cavanaugh said.

  "I was just going to say the same thing to you."

  Cavanaugh looked down at his hands. They did feel cold, he realized. But not because he'd gotten soaked.

  It's starting, he thought. He wrapped his hands around the warm Styrofoam cup, but the hands, which felt as if they belonged to someone else, trembled enough that some of the coffee almost spilled over.

  "Your adrenaline will soon wear off," Duncan said.

  "It already is."

  "Do you want Dexedrine to make up for it?"

  "No." Cavanaugh removed his hands from the cup and concentrated to steady them. "No speed."

  Cavanaugh knew all too well the down effect that the central nervous system experienced after the high of adrenaline had made it possible to perform extraordinary acts of strength and endurance. Already, he felt uneasy urges to yawn, which had nothing to do with needing sleep but a lot to do with the uncomfortable release of muscle tension. Dexedrine would return his nervous system close to the high level at which it had functioned when he had rescued Prescott. But he hated to rely on chemicals and, as always, was determined to go through what amounted to adrenaline withdrawal in as natural a way as possible. He disliked having a client see him go through it: the slight unsteadiness, the yawns. There was always the chance that Prescott would misinterpret the unavoidable effect of being in violent action as a symptom of fear, just as earlier he had praised Cavanaugh for being brave, a virtue that Cavanaugh denied.

  "No speed," Cavanaugh repeated.

  * * *

  2

  After the control tower radioed clearance, the Bell 206L-4 helicopter rose from Teterboro Airport and headed north along the Hudson River. Because the airport was a facility for corporate, charter, and private aircraft, there hadn't been a need to go through metal detectors and similar security checks, thus making it easy for the team to take aboard their weapons, which they were licensed to carry in several states.

  Like boats, cars, and firearms—to name a few items crucial to the security profession—no helicopter fulfilled every purpose. Swiftness had to be considered in relation to seating capacity, cargo space, and maneuverability, along with how far and high the helicopter could fly. Called the "Long Ranger," this sleek helicopter was designed to get neatly in and out of inaccessible or remote areas and was popular with emergency and law-enforcement agencies, although corporations liked it for its efficiency and comfort. It could accommodate seven occupants, including the pilot, who in this case was Roberto. It had a top speed of 127 miles per hour and a maximum fuel range of 360 miles, which meant that at peak performance, it could stay in the air for approximately three hours.

  Its altitude capability was twenty thousand feet, but Roberto's flight plan called for him to stay four thousand feet above the river. The drizzle had become a mist, and now that the sky was clear, he was able to try to calm Prescott by giving him a view of the cliffs and woods along the New Jersey Palisades.

  But Prescott showed no interest in the view, ignoring the ample Plexiglas windows, which Duncan explained were bullet resistant. The Long Ranger's seating arrangement was similar to that in the van: two rows of seats, one facing the other. While the seats in the armored van had been designed for their sturdiness in case of an attack, those that Duncan had ordered for the Kevlar-protected Long Ranger were remarkably comfortable, with footrests, armrests, a tilt-back function, and soft leather.

  Wearing large coveralls that still managed to look tight on his stomach and chest, Prescott ignored the view, too busy answering Duncan's questions and explaining about Jesus Escobar.

  Cavanaugh remained silent. Any remarks from him would contaminate the debriefing. The team needed to hear Prescott's problem in his own words.

  In the low-noise, low-vibration cabin, Duncan finally directed his attention toward Cavanaugh. "Anything to add?"

  "I got a fairly good look at the men in the two cars. I didn't see any Hispanics."

  Roberto, who'd been listening from the pilot's seat, said over his shoulder, "So Escobar's an equal-opportunity employer. The same as blacks don't always hire only blacks."

  "It would take somebody with Escobar's resources to mount that kind of attack," Cavanaugh said.

  "The way it sounds to me," Chad said, "they'd put together a careful plan, with the kidnappers posing as crack addicts, blending with the neighborhood. If Mr. Prescott had left the warehouse, they were ready to make their move, or if they got tired of waiting, they were prepared to blast their way in and take him. When Cavanaugh showed up, they got nervous that he was part of an extraction team, so they felt they had no choice except to move up their timetable."

  "I'll contact the DEA and tell them to plug their security leak," Duncan said.

  "For God's sake, don't tell them I hired you to make me disappear," Prescott said. "Whoever Escobar has working for him will pass that information along."

  "Not to worry," Duncan said. "I don't intend to create my own security leak. Relax and enjoy the ride."

  "Where are you
taking me?"

  "Where you'll be safe."

  * * *

  3

  The helicopter followed the Hudson River two hundred miles north, passing several waterfront towns and cities, some of which were crested with smog. Beyond Kingston, it headed west into the low, rolling Catskill Mountains. Thickly wooded, they had numerous scenic valleys.

  "Look." Cavanaugh pointed toward a plume of smoke rising from a ridge to the north.

  "Yes," Duncan said. "It's been a dry spring."

  "I've been listening to radio chatter," Roberto said over his shoulder as he worked the helicopter's controls. "The rain didn't get this far, but the lightning did, and that's what started the fire. It's small. They've got it under control."

  Duncan nodded and glanced toward the sky behind them. "Is anybody following us?"

  The helicopter had been modified to accommodate a sophisticated array of electronic instruments, including a powerful radar system, which was capable of isolating any aircraft following their course.

  Roberto tapped numbers on a keyboard and studied the radar screen. "Nada."

  "Do it," Duncan said.

  Roberto crested a peak and sank into a small valley that was especially dense with evergreens.

  "Look down, Mr. Prescott," Chad said. "You'll find this interesting."

  The helicopter sank lower into the valley. "What am I looking for?" Prescott said. "All I see are fir trees." "That's what you're supposed to see," Tracy said. "I still don't ..." Prescott stared down through the Plexiglas. Working the chopper's controls, Roberto pressed a button. "See anything now?"

  "No, I—careful. If you go any lower you'll crash into the trees. Good God."

  Cavanaugh wasn't in a position to see what Prescott did. Nonetheless, he knew what was happening. What seemed to be a section of the forest—thirty square yards of it—started moving. All of a sudden, concrete appeared.

  "What the . . ." Prescott said.

  "The best camouflage net available," Duncan said. "Even as low as we came, it's hard to distinguish the illusion from the real thing."

  The helicopter settled onto the concrete landing pad. After Roberto shut off the engine, the group unbuckled their seat belts, opened hatches, and stepped down.

  "Careful," Cavanaugh said. Feeling the wind from the still-rotating blades, he made Prescott stoop.

  The group went to the left, toward a closed electrical box on a post among the trees at the side of the landing pad.

  Duncan unlocked and opened the box. "We have to wait a few moments for the blades to stop or else the downdraft will suck the camouflage net into the blades."

  Then Duncan pressed a switch, and a motor hummed.

  Prescott watched in wonder as the net, an eerily realistic painting of the thick evergreens as seen from above, resumed motion, this time in reverse. Held up by sturdy poles that moved along motorized rails in the ground, the net shifted over the group, shut out the sky, and concealed the helicopter.

  "In winter, when it snows," Duncan explained, "a sensor causes the net to retract automatically to keep the weight of the snow from damaging it. Heat coils in the concrete melt the snow. When the storm's over, the net returns to where it was. The snow on the trees melts swiftly, so the net continues to look like its surroundings."

  Roberto added, "The flight plan I filed with the controller at Teterboro lists private property in these mountains as our destination. One valley's pretty much the same as another. The description isn't specific enough for anybody to be able to use the flight plan to follow us here. Even visitors, like you, wouldn't know which valley this is if you wanted to come back here."

  "From the radar, we know we weren't being followed," Tracy added.

  "And nobody can see the chopper from the air," Chad said. "So you can relax. This is as secure as you can be."

  "But what about the helicopter's heat signature?"

  Prescott's question made everyone in the group look at one another in surprise.

  "You know about heat signatures?" Cavanaugh asked.

  "What do you expect from a scientist? Every object gives off heat. An aircraft with sophisticated infrared sensors can detect that heat, isolate its shape, and know what's hidden under trees or a camouflage net, or in the dark."

  "That's military or law-enforcement hardware," Chad said. "Anybody capable of equipping an aircraft with stuff like that is capable of equipping it with other fancy hardware."

  "Like machine guns and rockets," Tracy said.

  Prescott frowned. "Is that supposed to reassure me?"

  "What they're getting at," Cavanaugh said, "is while you're worrying, why not worry about napalm and missiles?"

  Prescott didn't understand.

  Duncan stepped toward him. "It's a basic rule of protection that we match our security to the threat level the client faces. Escobar has a lot of money and resources, but his operation isn't sophisticated enough to be able to rig an aircraft with that kind of equipment in the little time his team had to try to follow us. There's no such thing as a totally secure location. Even the military command center in Cheyenne Mountain would be vulnerable if somebody managed to smuggle a suitcase nuclear weapon inside. But under the circumstances, given the threat you're facing, what Chad said is true." Duncan put a reassuring hand on Prescott's arm. "This is as secure as you can be."

  Prescott glanced around, continuing to look uneasy. "Where do we stay?"

  "Over there," Tracy said.

  "Where? All I see are trees."

  "Look harder."

  "That hill? Is there a cabin or something behind it?"

  "Sort of." Cavanaugh guided Prescott through the trees.

  "I'll join you in a minute," Roberto said. "I need to refuel the chopper." He headed toward a pump next to a camouflaged equipment shed at the side of the landing pad.

  "You mean you have fuel here?" Prescott sounded amazed.

  "An underground tank. Every six months, we send a truck up here to refill it."

  The setting sun cast shadows. A cool, gentle breeze smelled sweetly of fir needles. The group's footsteps were cushioned by the soft forest floor.

  The hill they approached was about thirty feet high, with scrub brush and outcrops of boulders. Leading Prescott to it, Cavanaugh passed one of the boulders and indicated a recessed concrete passageway. "This is the cabin. Sort of."

  Duncan stepped into the passageway and came to a metal door, next to which was an electronic number pad. A motion sensor triggered a faint light in the number pad as Duncan reached for it. Blocking the pad from Prescott's view, he pressed a sequence of buttons.

  With a solid thump, the door's lock was released electronically. As Duncan opened the door, an alarm system began beeping.

  "If the alarm isn't deactivated in fifteen seconds," Cavanaugh told Prescott, "the intruder gets a dose of knockout gas."

  Duncan turned to an interior control panel, again blocked it from view, and pressed a further sequence of numbers.

  The beeping stopped. Motion sensors turned lights on within the structure.

  "Welcome to your safe site."

  * * *

  4

  Prescott entered slowly, with even greater wonder than when he'd seen the camouflage net retract to reveal the helicopter pad.

  A hallway led to a large living area on the right. The floor was polished oak. The furnishings were leather. The walls were an off-white, covered with bookshelves, impressionistic paintings, and a large fireplace.

  "This is a reinforced-concrete dome covered with earth," Duncan said. "We squared off the dome's interior walls for convenience. Because of the building's strong insulating structure, the temperature tends to be a uniform seventy-two degrees in both summer and winter, with a little help from a fireplace in each room."

  "Solar panels and batteries provide the electricity," Chad said. "A backup generator kicks in if necessary."

  "The drinking water comes from a well under the bunker, so it can't be poisoned. On top, sunlight
comes through a ventilation shaft and gets reflected by a system of mirrors that distribute the sunlight, so the rooms seem to have windows," Tracy said. "It's one of the most energy-efficient buildings imaginable."

  "But with the entrance controlled electronically, if the power fails, we'll be trapped," Prescott said.

  "There's a manual override on the door. Plus a second way out." Duncan pointed toward a metal door at the end of the corridor. "It has a knob, and a lever for a dead-bolt lock. But on the outside, there's nothing—no knob, no key slot, no way to pick the lock and get in."

  Prescott breathed a little easier.

  "Is anybody hungry?" Chad rubbed his hands together.

  "That depends," Tracy said. "Who's doing the cooking? You?"

  "None other."

  "In that case, I'm starved."

  Chad had a reputation for being an impressive cook. "Mr. Prescott, are you a vegetarian? Do you have food allergies?"

  "I can eat anything."

  Cavanaugh silently concurred, remembering the shelves of carbohydrate-rich food at the warehouse.

  "Beef Stroganoff coming up," Chad said.

  "Easy on the cream this time," Tracy said.

  "Hey, if you're going to put restrictions on a genius at work ..."

  "I'm trying to watch my figure."

  "I'm watching your figure, too."

  "Can you believe the way this guy talks to me?"

  "While they sort this out," Duncan told Prescott, "why don't you get settled. If you enjoy tobacco, we have a room with various smoking materials."

  "No." Prescott looked horrified by the thought.

  "In that case, your room—smoke-free—is the third on the left in this corridor. I imagine a hot shower and some clothes that fit you would be welcome. There's a bar. Satellite television. A sauna. You've been through a lot. Perhaps you can relieve the strain enough to take a nap."