The Protector

by David Morrell

  * * *

  5

  "What do you think of him?" Duncan asked after he and Cavanaugh watched Prescott enter his room. Letting Chad and Tracy go ahead with their various duties, the two men crossed the living room toward a door to the right of the fireplace; it led to an office.

  "He doesn't have much of a personality, but he's an ideal client," Cavanaugh said. "He did exactly what I told him. He's overweight and out of shape, but he sucked it up and did what was necessary. Sure, he almost lost his lunch from being afraid, but he trusted me and never panicked to the point of losing control. Everything considered, he kind of impressed me."

  "Anything else?"

  "He's smart."

  "Of course. He's a biochemist."

  "Likes to learn. Asks a lot of questions."

  "My arrangement with him was via telephone and an electronic transfer of funds," Duncan said. "He insisted that he couldn't meet me in person."

  "Now we know why." Cavanaugh paused at the entrance to the offices as Duncan went in.

  "Why didn't he tell me on the phone what his problem is?" Duncan eased his tall, slender frame into an Aeron chair behind a desk.

  "Maybe he didn't know if he could trust us," Cavanaugh said. "He wanted to wait until he assessed one of us face-to-face."

  Duncan thought about it. "But he trusted us enough to tell us where he was hiding. That isn't consistent."

  "Not necessarily. Since he couldn't come to us, he didn't have a choice about letting one of us come to him," Cavanaugh said. "Besides, at the warehouse, he used TV cameras to study me. If anything looked suspicious, all he had to do was shut down communications, and I still wouldn't have known where he was."

  "Do you think he understands what it truly means to disappear? Is he prepared to accept the consequences?"

  "He's got plenty of incentive," Cavanaugh said. "As one of his attackers told me on a cell phone, they'll keep coming. In fact, I'm sort of the quarry now, too."

  "Oh?"

  "The man on the phone almost made it personal between him and me."

  Duncan thought another moment and picked up a phone. "I'll speak to my contacts at the DEA and get more details about Prescott's situation."

  "While you're making your calls ..."

  "Yes?"

  "At the warehouse, some homeless people helped Prescott and me get away. I promised them a truck of food and clothes would be delivered there tomorrow. Maybe some sleeping bags."

  Duncan smiled. "I'll make it like the Ritz."

  * * *

  6

  Cavanaugh had his handgun apart (in addition to gunpowder residue, he'd found rainwater on some of the interior parts) and was cleaning it on a towel on the living room's coffee table. Seeing movement, he looked up as Prescott entered.

  "Did you get some sleep?" Cavanaugh asked.

  Prescott nodded. "I surprised myself. I felt so tense, I expected just to keep lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling."

  "Was the sleep any good?"

  "When I woke up, I felt wonderful for a second. Then . . ." Prescott's voice dropped. He looked awkward in jeans and a denim shirt, evidently more accustomed to suits and ties. But, unlike the coveralls he'd worn on the helicopter, at least the clothes fit his heavy frame. Duncan prided himself on keeping various sizes at the bunker.

  "Where is everybody?" Prescott asked.

  Cavanaugh wiped gun oil on the Sig's various parts, which were laid out neatly on the towel in front of him. "Duncan's making phone calls. Tracy's in the control room."

  "Control room?"

  "Similar to what you had in the warehouse. This place is surrounded by security cameras. Tracy's watching the monitors and a radar screen that'll warn us if any aircraft are in the area. Roberto's maintaining the helicopter. Chad's cooking."

  The smell of beef Stroganoff drifted pleasantly into the room.

  "What about you?" Prescott surveyed the jeans and denim shirt that Cavanaugh now wore. "Were you able to rest?"

  "I had a report to write and then some chores to do."

  "Like this?" Prescott indicated the disassembled weapon.

  "After action, the first thing I was trained to take care of is my equipment." Cavanaugh put the barrel into the slide, then secured the recoil spring and its guide rod into place. When he compressed the spring, he made sure to point it away from Prescott and himself, lest it catapult free and injure one of them.

  "What did you mean, 'conditioned'?" Prescott asked.

  Cavanaugh shook his head, confused.

  Prescott continued. "When I told you that what you'd done to save me was one of the bravest things I'd ever seen, you said you're not brave—you're conditioned."

  Cavanaugh slid the assembled slide mechanism onto the Sig's frame and secured it. He thought a moment. "People are brave when they're terrified but force themselves to risk their lives for somebody else."

  Prescott nodded, listening intently.

  "Why do you care about this?" Cavanaugh asked.

  "My specialty is how the human brain functions, how it releases hormones and controls our behavior," Prescott said. "Epi-nephrine—what's commonly called adrenaline—is one of the hormones associated with fear. The speeding and contraction of the heart. The feeling of heat in the stomach. The jitteriness in the muscles. How someone like you overcomes the hormone's effects interests me."

  "But I don't overcome it's effects."

  "I don't understand."

  "In Delta Force, I was trained to use those effects, to treat them as positives, instead of the negatives people associate with fear."

  Prescott kept listening intently.

  "Put a parachute on someone and tell that person to leap out of a plane at twenty thousand feet, he's going to be terrified. It's a potentially life-threatening activity and one that's totally unfamiliar- But train that person in small increments, teach him how to jump off increasingly high platforms into a swimming pool. Then teach him how to jump from even higher platforms wearing a bungee harness that simulates the feel of a parachute. Then show him how to jump from small planes at reasonable altitudes. Gradually increase the size and power of the planes and the height of the jump. By the time he leaps from that plane at twenty thousand feet, he's going to feel the same speeding and contraction of the heart, the same burning in the stomach, the same jitteriness in the muscles as before. This time, though, he's not terrified. He knows how to minimize the risk, and he's experienced hundreds of similar activities. What he feels instead of fear is the sharp focus of an athlete ready to spring into action. His adrenaline is affecting him the same way it always did. But his mind knows how to control it and to appreciate its constructive effects."

  "Constructive?"

  "The speeding and the contraction of the heart cause a greater output of blood to reach muscles and prepare them for extreme action. The faster breath rate causes more oxygen to get to muscles. The liver creates glucose, increasing the amount of sugar in the blood. At the same time, more fatty acids circulate. Both the sugar and the fatty acids become instant fuel, creating greater energy and stamina."

  "Correct," Prescott said. "You had excellent instruction."

  "I was trained to welcome adrenaline, to appreciate what it does to help keep me alive. I was also trained to think of gun-fights and car fights and all the rest of what happened today as being . . . not exactly normal, but I know what to expect. I know how to react. I can honestly say that not once today did I feel what's conventionally called fear."

  Cavanaugh paused. Not once? he asked himself. What about the strange moment at the warehouse when I went up the stairs to meet Prescott?

  "A powerful surge of adrenaline," Cavanaugh said, "but not fear, and that's why I don't think what 1 did today has anything to do with bravery. You're the one who's brave."

  Prescott blinked. "Me? Brave? That's preposterous. For the past three weeks—and especially today—I've been terrified."

  "That's my point," Cavanaugh said. "You can't be brave unless
you're frightened to begin with. What you survived today was violent enough to unsettle even some experienced operators. I can only guess at the strength of character you had to muster to overcome the fear raging through you. You didn't freeze. You didn't panic, even though you must have felt that way. You promised me you'd be compliant, and you were. You're a prefect client."

  Self-conscious, Prescott glanced down at the hardwood floor. Evidently, he wasn't used to compliments. "You might not feel afraid, but you still risk losing your life. For strangers. Why do you do that?"

  Cavanaugh put on cotton gloves and began inserting 9-mm rounds into the pistol's magazine. In Manhattan, at the Warwick's bar, Jamie had asked a similar question. "Because it's what I know how to do and I'm good at it."

  "No other reason?" Prescott asked.

  "It's something I don't talk about with most people, because most people can't understand. Maybe you will because of your research into addiction."

  "I'd like to try."

  "Alcohol, cocaine, heroin, methamphetamines. People can get addicted to a lot of things. Some special-ops soldiers can't bear a quiet everyday life after they leave the service. They become mercenaries or contract operatives for the CIA, or security specialists."

  "Or protective agents?"

  Cavanaugh spread his hands in a gesture of self-admission. "It's like a race-car driver who isn't happy unless he's on a track, jockeying for position with other cars at two hundred and thirty miles an hour. The rush of adrenaline. To get it, he has to put up with periods of intense inactivity before and after each race. That's the way most protection assignments are. Intensely inactive. Even the inactivity, the constant waiting for trouble, has a rush to it, though. As much as I hate to say this, I'm addicted."

  "Hate to say it?"

  "Any addiction's a weakness."

  The room became silent.

  From a door opposite the one that Prescott had used to enter the living room, Chad appeared, wearing a white apron that contrasted with his red hair and looked slightly ridiculous on so muscular a man. He tried to sound like a butler in the movies. "Dinnah is served."

  Cavanaugh couldn't help grinning. "I'll get the team."

  As Chad returned to the kitchen, Prescott looked puzzled at the cotton gloves Cavanaugh wore. "Why did you put gloves on when you loaded the ..."

  "Magazine." Cavanaugh shoved it into the Sig and worked the slide on top of the pistol, inserting a round in the firing chamber. He pushed the decocking lever. "This kind of handgun ejects empty cartridges after discharging the bullets. I don't want to leave my fingerprints behind for somebody to identify them."

  "Another way of being invisible?"

  "If I had a coat of arms, Be Invisible would be my motto."

  "What you said about addiction being a weakness," Prescott said. "It isn't always. Some thing's can't be controlled."

  "I believe in willpower," Cavanaugh said.

  "Sometimes, that isn't enough. The substance I discovered, for example, is stronger than anyone's will."

  * * *

  7

  "I don't want anybody complaining because the only boneless sirloin 1 had was frozen and needed to be thawed in a microwave," Chad said.

  The group, minus Tracy, who continued to watch the monitors in the control room, sat at a long table in a kitchen filled with stainless-steel appliances. The plates before the group had half-inch strips of beef in a beige sauce studded with mushrooms and onions on top of green noodles. A bowl of salad was next to each plate, with a napkin-covered basket of freshly baked bread in the middle.

  "And I don't want anybody complaining because the green noodles aren't homemade but came out of a box."

  "I can't imagine anyone complaining," Prescott said. "It looks and smells wonderful."

  "With the right attitude like that, I'll cook for you anytime," Chad said.

  "The team's on duty," Duncan told Prescott, "and can't have wine, but that doesn't mean you can't. I can offer what I'm told is a fine Chianti Classico."

  Prescott nodded in approval.

  Roberto stuck a napkin into the top of his shirt, highlighting his dark goatee. "Man, I haven't had goulash in ages."

  "It's not goulash. It's beef Stroganoff," Chad said. "It was invented by a French chef who worked for a Russian aristocrat in the late nineteenth century. The aristocrat's name was Count Paul Stroganoff. As usual, the guy with the power got the attention, while nobody remembers the chef who created the dish."

  "Did you ever think about getting an honest job and running a restaurant?" Cavanaugh asked.

  "All the time," Chad said, "but I know I'd miss the smell of gun oil."

  "Delicious." The enthusiasm with which Prescott ate was impressive. "There's something a little extra here that I can't quite place. The mustard and the sour cream, of course. But. . ."

  Chad watched with interest as Prescott savored a mouthful.

  "Oyster sauce? Is that what I'm tasting? Oyster sauce?"

  "Two tablespoons. You know your food."

  "Here's your wine." Duncan showed Prescott the bottle, then set a glass next to him.

  Prescott let the dark liquid drift over his tongue, assessing it.

  "I telephoned my contacts at the DEA to learn more about Escobar's tactics, but it's Sunday evening, so I couldn't reach them," Duncan said. "I'll try again tomorrow. Meanwhile, we have a number of issues to discuss." He looked at Cavanaugh, who set down his fork and started the briefing.

  "You need to understand there are four stages involved in arranging for you to disappear," Cavanaugh said. "The first is a new identity and new documentation for it, especially a birth certificate and a Social Security number. You want to be confident that the government won't question your Social Security number. One way to do it is to assume the identity of someone who's been dead for quite a while, someone without any close living relatives to contradict your claim to be that person. You meet these requirements by searching old newspapers for an item about an entire family that died in a fire or a similar disaster. You then learn the Social Security number of a child in that family who'd be your age now if he had lived. Many parents get a Social Security number for their newborns. Hospitals often include the applications with their regular paperwork. In some states, death certificates include that number, and death certificates are easy to obtain, a matter of public record."

  "Assuming someone else's Social Security number is illegal, of course," Duncan said. "As a consequence, we never perform that service for any of our clients. We only teach them how to do it."

  "I understand," Prescott said.

  Cavanaugh continued. "For a moderate threat level, it's a fairly secure way to assume a new identity."

  "Not foolproof, though." Roberto wiped his mouth with his napkin and joined the conversation. "Sometimes the government gets curious about a Social Security number that hasn't been used for years and now suddenly shows up on tax returns, which means that in addition to whoever's hunting you, you've got the government on your back, charging you with a federal crime."

  "Exactly," Cavanaugh said. "And Escobar's threat level is too serious for us to allow you to get exposed in any way."

  "What we're going to suggest," Duncan said, "is expensive, greater than the hundred-thousand-dollar fee you and I negotiated over the telephone."

  "You want to raise the price?" Prescott set down his knife and fork.

  "Given what happened today," Duncan said, "I don't have a choice."

  "Raise it how much?" Prescott frowned.

  "An additional four hundred thousand."

  Prescott didn't blink. "You did a background check on me?"

  "I did."

  "You know that my biotech patents made me a millionaire many times over."

  "I do."

  "Thanks to Protective Services, I'm not in Escobar's hands. In fact, given everything Cavanaugh and the rest of you have done so far, not to mention all this—" Prescott gestured toward his surroundings—"a half million dollars sou
nds like a bargain. Tomorrow morning, I'll arrange an electronic transfer to your account."

  "One hundred thousand dollars of that money," Duncan said, "shouldn't go anywhere near our account. Once we teach you how to hide the electronic trail, I want the hundred thousand transferred directly to someone else." Duncan slid a piece of paper across the table to Prescott. The paper had numbers and a bank's name written on it.

  "To a specialist, who has a way to get you a brand-new, previously unassigned number," Cavanaugh said.

  "Doesn't a similar problem still exist?" Prescott asked. "New numbers go to young people. Won't the government question the number when it suddenly starts showing up on tax returns for a man my age?"

  "New numbers also go to immigrants who get green cards," Duncan said.

  Prescott gave him a significant look. "Brilliant."

  "I'm assuming this specialist will invent a background for you that says you're from Canada, Great Britain, South Africa, Australia, or New Zealand. Some country that would account for your Anglo-Saxon features," Duncan said. "She'll give you—"

  "She?"

  "You'll find Karen quite personable. She'll give you a detailed background—where you supposedly grew up and went to school and so on—which you'll need to memorize until it seems it really is your background. She'll also give you photographs of these places and information about them that anyone who'd been there would be expected to know. You'll get a new name, of course, which you'll need to internalize until it's second nature to you. A driver's license with a picture ID. A passport. Credit cards. Sometimes even a library card. All of them perfect. Cadillac treatment. Very expensive," Duncan concluded.

  Prescott looked fascinated. "But how does she manage to do this?"

  "If I asked her, I'm sure she'd refuse to answer, or else she'd lie to me."

  Duncan himself was lying, Cavanaugh knew. The truth was that Karen had once worked for the branch of the State Department that supplied undercover intelligence operatives with documents for false identities.

  "The main thing is, she does exceptional work," Duncan continued. "She's already preparing the documents. All you need is to have her take your photograph so she can put it on your new driver's license and passport. Tomorrow, we'll take you to Albany and complete the process. By nightfall, you'll be a new man."