The Naked Edge

by David Morrell

  “After he dropped the subscription, maybe he just bought the magazine in a store,” Rutherford suggested.

  “When he was working for a drug lord in South America?” Jamie looked skeptical. “A specialty English-language publication would be almost impossible to find down there.”

  “Then maybe he had somebody buy it in the States and mail it to him,” Cavanaugh wondered.

  “A big nuisance needing to depend on somebody,” Jamie said. “Plus, that probably wouldn't be the only knife publication he'd want. The easy way is to subscribe, have the publishers mail them to a drop site in the U.S., and then have them forwarded.”

  “John, can the Bureau investigate the background of anyone who subscribed after Carl's name disappeared from the list?” Cavanaugh asked.

  “No,” Jamie said. “Not after his name disappeared from the list. Before.”

  Cavanaugh and Rutherford looked puzzled.

  “Suppose Duran anticipated that someone might try to find him this way,” Jamie explained. “What if he took out a new subscription using a different name before he pretended to be dead? It's a better way to hide his trail.”

  “Smart,” Rutherford concluded.

  “That's why I married her,” Cavanaugh said.

  “It's all a long shot, of course,” Jamie admitted.

  “But it's the only lead we've got.” Rutherford picked up the phone.

  8

  Atlanta, Georgia.

  His hands in his windbreaker, caressing a special folding knife he'd crafted, Carl sat on a bench and watched pedestrians crossing the expanse of Centennial Olympic Park. In summer, children were able to skip back and forth through what was called a dancing water fountain, a wide area of water jets that gushed twenty feet into the air. Now, ignoring a cool October breeze, Carl imagined youngsters scampering through the spray. He could almost hear their laughter.

  Wouldn't it have been great to have something like that when you and I were kids, Aaron? He remembered the two of them bicycling to the swimming pool at Iowa City's park. Below, the tree-lined river meandered toward the low, summer-hazed buildings of downtown. He remembered an afternoon when they chained their bicycles to a post, and when they returned from the pool, they found four kids trying to break the chain and steal the bikes. When Aaron shouted at them to stop, the kids attacked, but Carl showed Aaron that nobody could push them around. He pulled out his jackknife, causing the kids to gape when he opened it and chased them through the trees. He remembered how surprised Aaron was. He remembered—

  A man sat down next to him. Nondescript clothes. Thin. Mid-forties. Mustache. Swarthy skin. From the Middle East. “This location is too exposed.”

  “It shows we've got nothing to hide.”

  “A directional microphone can easily overhear everything we say.”

  “Not with my associate playing with that miniature battery-powered car.” Carl indicated Raoul a hundred feet away, the young Hispanic working a remote control that made a tiny Jeep go this way and that.

  “The control interferes with directional-microphone reception?” the man asked.

  “Enough to cause hearing loss to anyone using earphones. It's good for us to be outside. Fresh air. Sunshine. People going about their business. Keeps us in touch with the basics of life. The 1996 Olympics explosion was over there, incidentally.”

  The man looked toward where Carl pointed. “Three pipe bombs wired together,” he said with contempt.

  “Even so, the device managed to kill one woman and wound one hundred and eleven bystanders,” Carl reminded him.

  “The Army of God. That's the group the bomber's note gave credit to. The Army of Amateurs is closer to the truth.” The swarthy man studied the unobstructed space around them. “How are you going to deal with Cavanaugh?”

  “Aaron,” Carl corrected him. “I don't intend to. Not any longer. I wanted him eliminated because he could make the connection between me and the knife attacks. Some of those agents needed to be killed with blades. The plan depended on it. Now that Aaron knows I'm involved, I'm at risk. But he hasn't discovered anything that threatens the mission itself.”

  “He'll keep hunting you.”

  “That's a personal matter, but it only jeopardizes me. I set traps. Be sure of that. But from now on, my concentration is focused entirely on the mission. I won't waste any more resources going after him.” Carl withdrew his right hand from his windbreaker and showed the knife it held. “Since we probably won't be meeting again, I have a gift for you.”

  The man hesitated, then took the knife, examining it with curiosity. “The handle is unusual.”

  “It's carved from fossilized ivory. Mastodon tusks uncovered in Alaska. Some knife-making supply stores sell the material.”

  “Why go to all the trouble of using ivory that old?”

  “A gesture to the environment. This way, you know the ivory didn't come from slaughtered elephants or walruses.”

  The man studied Carl, trying to determine if he was being ironic. Seeing no reaction, he returned his attention to the knife. The pale yellow handle had two circles carved into it, one above the other. The bottom circle represented a clock with Roman numerals. An arrow depicted the clock's hand. The top circle was formed by stars. A profiled face was in the middle.

  “That's the man in the moon,” Carl explained.

  “The details in the carving are impressive.”

  “I worked on that knife for a long time. Years. Waiting for missions to start.”

  “I'm honored.” The man tried to open the blade but failed. He tried again. “Something's wrong. The blade's caught on something.”

  “No and yes.”

  “I don't understand.”

  “Something is not wrong. But yes, the blade is caught on something.”

  “I still don't—”

  “That's a model of one of the rarest knives in the world. It's called a secret knife.”

  “Secret?” the man asked with interest.

  “It was designed in the late sixteen hundreds. In France. In a royal court known for its secrecy. Hidden compartments were the rage. The original version of that knife might have been used by a spy hiding a secret message.”

  The man again tried to open the blade. “But how do you—”

  “By figuring out the combination,” Carl said. “The arrow in the clock. The profiled face in the middle of the stars. Each needs to be twisted to a precise location in order to free a catch that holds the blade in place.”

  “Like a combination to a safe,” the man noted.

  “Exactly. But in this case, there are two dials. When you get both in the correct position, the blade will open. You'll be amused to find astrological symbols etched into the blade. No one is sure of their significance. But I suspect they have something to do with alchemy. Or perhaps the Freemasons.”

  The man turned the dials and tried to open the knife, without success.

  “It'll take you a long time to discover the combination and learn the knife's secret,” Carl told him.

  “I'll use it for distraction while I wait for the start of the week,” the man said. He looked across Centennial Olympic Park toward a tall, impressive, gray-fronted, many-windowed building. Mounted to the top floor, bold red letters announced that this was the main headquarters for CNN. “Two days from now, broadcasters in there will exhaust themselves reporting around-the-clock on what we've done.”

  9

  With an agent in front, an agent behind, and an agent on either side, Cavanaugh and Jamie crossed the cold parking garage. Rutherford was next to them, a classic protective formation. They identified themselves to guards, entered the elevator, and rode upward in silence.

  Now I know what it feels like to be a client, Cavanaugh thought.

  When the stern-faced group reached the fortieth floor, they flashed their credentials to other guards. Their concealed weapons set off metal detectors as they stepped through the entrance to Global Protective Services. The receptionist's
jaw dropped. Several protective agents stopped in their tracks. Crossing the brightly lit lobby, Cavanaugh barely had time to note that the damage from the explosion had been erased, the place looking splendid, as if nothing had happened. Without bothering to knock, he opened a door marked ALI KARIM and heard his personnel director tell two FBI agents who flanked him, “If you're arresting me, tell me the charges, but you can't keep me here without a reason.”

  Standing angrily behind his desk, Ali spun toward the suddenly opened door. “Ah,” he said to Cavanaugh and Jamie as they entered, “now this all makes sense.”

  “Does it?” Cavanaugh asked. “All of it?”

  “As I explained, Mr. Karim,” one of the agents flanking him said, “we just wanted to be sure you stayed here so you could cooperate and answer questions when everyone arrived.”

  “Hey, nobody's better at cooperating than me.” Ali glared. “Cavanaugh, you promised to keep in touch. When you didn't, I got worried that something had happened to you.”

  “A couple of times, something almost did.”

  “You didn't need to make a production about this. If you'd let me know you were coming, I'd have canceled my appointments and waited for you. Unless you don't trust me.” Ali pointed toward the stocky black man next to Cavanaugh. “Who's this?”

  Rutherford showed his FBI credentials.

  “Does this have anything to do with Kim going into drug rehab,” Ali asked.

  “You know about that?”

  “She phoned from the clinic. If I'd realized she was on drugs, I'd have fired her long ago. In fact, this morning I did fire her. It's too risky having her around. God knows how much tactical information she blabbed when she was drugged up. At least, we know who the security leak is.”

  “Actually,” Cavanaugh said, “I promised Kim she could have her job back when she finished her rehab.”

  “What?”

  “We're not certain she's the security leak.”

  “And just to guarantee we don't get fooled again,” Jamie added, “we're instituting a new security measure: a drug-testing program.”

  “‘We’?” Ali asked.

  “Jamie's our new deputy CEO,” Cavanaugh explained.

  “It helps to let the personnel director know so I can get an office ready for you and spread the word and basically do my job. As far as the drug test goes, first-rate idea. I wish I'd thought of it. I'll be the first man to piss in a vial to show my loyalty. But I have to tell you, right now my loyalty's being sorely tested. Obviously, I'm not on your popularity list. What's the problem?”

  “Four years ago,” Cavanaugh said.

  “Give me some help here. I have no idea what that means.”

  “You were in Rome. In charge of a team protecting a Russian oil executive.”

  Ali's face tightened. “That.” He looked at the four agents next to Rutherford. Beyond them, GPS personnel listened at the open door. “How public do you want this to be? Do you still care about security, or are you too busy suspecting me?”

  Rutherford gestured for the agents to leave.

  As Cavanaugh started to close the door, Gerald Brockman came in.

  “Private party?” the Afrikaner asked.

  “I forgot to send you an invitation, but you might as well join the fun.”

  Brockman leaned against the wall and crossed his arms over his dark suit.

  Cavanaugh finished closing the door and turned toward Ali. “The Russian oil executive was shot to death.”

  “That's right.”

  “While you were in his hotel suite.”

  “Right again. A sniper bullet through a window. One of the Russian's competitors probably ordered the hit.”

  “Carl Duran was part of your team.”

  “Duran? That son of a bitch hasn't worked for us in years. Why do you care about him?”

  “The Russian,” Cavanaugh said. “Tell me what happened. Why did the security fail?”

  “He was one of those arrogant clients who thinks his protectors are butlers and bell hops. ‘Carry my bags. Phone for diner reservations. Get my shoes polished.’ I told him we did only one thing, and that was to protect, but we couldn't do that if our hands were compromised and we were distracted by silly errands. I told him, if he didn't like that idea, if he was unhappy with our security, then he should hire somebody else. I checked with Gerald—” Ali indicated Brockman leaning against the wall. “—who was my superior at the time, and he said I did exactly right.”

  Brockman nodded.

  “The client loved his vodka,” Ali said. “He also loved standing in front of his hotel suite's windows at night, grinning at the lights of Rome. I kept closing the draperies. He kept opening them. I kept telling him he had to stay away from the damned windows. One evening, when he was especially drunk, he yanked the draperies open, spread his arms toward the city lights, and told me, ‘You see, nobody's out there, waiting to kill me.’ ‘Then why in God's name did you hire us?’ I asked. ‘For show,’ he said. He chuckled, gulped more vodka, and told me, ‘I must be important, mustn't I, if I need so much protection.’ He laughed again, and that's when the bullet smashed through the window.”

  “The glass wasn't bullet resistant?”

  “It wasn't an option. He chose the hotel. Anyway, how many hotels have that kind of glass? We wouldn't have needed bullet-resistant windows if the stupid bastard had followed instructions and kept the draperies closed. The bullet caught him here.” Ali touched the middle of his forehead. “Mushroomed. Blew most of his brains out the back of his head. Working with the police, we discovered that the shot came from the roof of a building two hundred yards away. It had been raining for the previous two days and nights. The shooter must have had a poncho rigged to form a low tent. We found his dry outline where he'd been lying on the otherwise wet gravel on the roof.”

  “Patient man.”

  “Or woman,” Jamie said.

  Cavanaugh nodded. “Nobody's more patient than you are.” He stepped toward Ali. “How did Carl Duran fit into this?”

  “He was part of the security outside the Russian's suite. The sound of the bullet shattering the glass was loud enough that he heard it and charged inside.”

  “Wasn't the door locked?”

  “Of course, it was,” Ali said.

  “You let him in?”

  “I was too busy trying to help the Russian. When I realized I couldn't, I hurried to phone for an ambulance.”

  “Then Carl couldn't have gotten in unless he had a key.”

  “It's been a long time. But, yes, obviously he must have had a key.”

  Brockman straightened, pushing himself off the wall. “I was in charge of the team that investigated the shooting. There were some questions: whether Ali should have been more insistent to the Russian about staying away from the draperies, for example.”

  “Insistent? I did everything but put him in handcuffs!”

  “But on balance, we saw it as a basic case of a client jeopardizing his own security,” Brockman continued. “As for Duran, he was with a member of his team outside the suite when the bullet came through the glass. Chunks of the glass were all over the room. Clearly, the bullet came from another building. Where is all this going? Why are you so interested in Duran?”

  Cavanaugh explained what they'd learned.

  “He knows so much about our agents, somebody in GPS needs to be passing information to him.”

  “Somebody in authority,” Jamie told Brockman. “We think Duran's using blackmail to get that information. The only time, you, Ali, and Duran intersected was in connection with the Russian's death, so there's a strong chance that's when the trouble started.”

  “You think I'm involved?” Brockman said angrily.

  “No. You were second-in-command when Carl was fired. If Carl had a way to blackmail you, he'd have forced you not to fire him.”

  “So you're blaming me?” Ali demanded.

  “You had a connection with Duran, dating back to the Russian's mur
der,” Cavanaugh pointed out.

  “Meanwhile, Kim—our company drug addict—gets a free pass?”

  “She helped us,” Jamie said. “In fact, she risked her life for us.”

  “Then what do I need to do to prove I'm not the leak? Jump off a building?”

  “I don't see anything you can do,” Cavanaugh told him. “Until we get this crisis settled, I'm putting you on administrative leave. We're going through all your phone records to see if you've been in contact with anyone suspicious. Jamie will analyze your computer's hard drive to retrieve emails you've erased.”

  “Of course, in most cases, they're never fully erased,” Jamie explained.

  “Why the hell don't you check my bank records, too?”

  “It's being done as we speak.”

  Ali ran a hand through his thick, dark hair. “You know what? Shove your administrative leave. Shove your damned job.” He glared at Rutherford. “Am I under arrest?”

  “I don't have enough proof. “

  “Then why don't all of you go fuck yourselves?”

  10

  No one spoke for several seconds after Ali stormed from the office.

  “If he's acting,” Rutherford said, “he deserves an Academy Award.”

  “Yeah, but if he's innocent, I'll never be able to regain his trust,” Cavanaugh added.

  “Welcome to the world of running a corporation,” Brockman said.

  “Let's think about you and Duran,” Rutherford told Cavanaugh. “You haven't been in contact for the past three years, and then suddenly he tries to kill you in Wyoming? Why?”

  “I could make the link between the way our agents were killed and his obsession with knives. He tried to keep me from drawing suspicion to him.”

  “But why wait so long?” Jamie wondered. “If he was worried about you, he'd have needed to eliminate you at the start—before the agents were killed with sharp weapons.”