The Naked Edge

by David Morrell

  “But not before you get a warrant,” William pointed out.

  Mosely's eyes flared. “You present yourselves as such ethical people, so concerned about protecting your clients. You claim you're the edge between right and wrong. Then you show how irresponsible you are by putting all those trade ministers at risk. Thanks to your stunt, one of them broke his leg. Another had a heart attack. Two cars rammed into emergency vehicles speeding toward the hotels.”

  “Was anybody killed?”

  “No, but that doesn't mean what you did is right!”

  Cavanaugh looked at Rutherford. “Make him understand, John. Whoever's responsible saved a lot of lives. Now that the conference has been postponed, Carl will need to change his plans. Meanwhile, we've got time to catch him.”

  Mosely's pallor mutated to a fiery red. “You think you deserve a medal? Well, I think you took a privilege the Bureau gave you and abused it. You're a guest here! A civilian. You don't have any authority, but you decided you were running this operation, breaking God knows how many laws. If it's up to me, you'll go to prison.”

  “Thank heaven, it isn't up to you,” William said. “After I talk to Lester Beauchamp, I'll phone the district attorney and—”

  The door opened. Everyone turned toward an agent.

  “There's been a new development,” the uneasy man told them.

  “Don't tell me the riots have already started,” Mosely said.

  “Fifteen minutes ago, a man and a woman were caught trying to put tear gas into the conference center's air-conditioning ducts.”

  “What?”

  “And smoke bombs in the elevator shafts.”

  Mosely groaned.

  “Do the suspects look like these two?” William asked the agent in the doorway.

  “Yeah, in a way. Sort of. They're white and more or less the same age.”

  “You're not deceiving me,” Mosely told Cavanaugh and Jamie. “Those are copycats.”

  “Without talking to the suspects, how can you be sure?” William asked.

  “Because, unlike your friends, they don't have the skills to manage that kind of sabotage. Because the man and woman today got caught.”

  “An interesting distinction but without legal merit. If you're not going to arrest my friends, I trust you have no objection to allowing them to go about their business.”

  “Not here. They don't have any business in this area.”

  “Uh, sir,” Rutherford said.

  Mosely stared. “Yes, Executive Assistant Rutherford?” He emphasized “Assistant,” reminding Rutherford of who had the greater authority.

  “If I could make a suggestion.”

  “By all means.” Mosely clearly wished that Rutherford had kept quiet. “Everyone knows I'm always open to constructive ideas.”

  “I think it might not be a bad idea to let them stay. Cavanaugh understands Duran's personality better than anyone. As events develop, he might be able to predict what Duran will do. Plus, Cavanaugh's the only person here who can identify him.”

  Mosely continued staring.

  “We need to seem to use every available resource,” Rutherford said. “Otherwise, in an inquiry, there might be questions.”

  Mosely's narrow gaze pivoted toward Cavanaugh and Jamie. To Rutherford, he said, “This time, keep them under control.” He yanked open the door and entered the communications room, followed by the agents.

  Except Rutherford.

  As the noise from out there filled the small area, Cavanaugh said, “Thanks, John.”

  “I feel my job dangling in the wind.”

  “I owe you. I'm sure it wasn't easy disagreeing with him.”

  Rutherford looked pained. “Please, remember what he warned you about. You're civilians. Don't make me sorry I trust you.”

  Cavanaugh solemnly followed him into the communications room.

  19

  On the TV monitors, the crowd got bigger.

  On one of the screens, a woman carried a large, heavy purse. She hid an object in her hand and periodically looked at it.

  “Part of the radiation detection team,” someone in the communications room explained.

  On another screen, a man held what looked like a smart phone: a pathogen detector.

  “Two hundred members of the Homeland Security team are out there, weaving through the crowd, scanning it. But how many diseases can they program their detectors to test for? They can't possibly scan for everything,” someone said.

  “How big is the crowd?”

  “Fifteen thousand.”

  “And getting larger,” an agent said. “What difference does it make if the conference was postponed? As long as they think it's happening, there'll be a riot.”

  “And maybe worse,” Rutherford murmured.

  Next to him, Cavanaugh said, “Right now, somebody needs to send agents into that crowd. Make them act like the protestors. Tell them to spread the word, sounding pissed off that the conference was cancelled.”

  Mosely's gaze was icy as he turned toward Cavanaugh. “And I bet you're dying to get out there and show us how it's done.”

  20

  Seven-thirty.

  On the podium, Carl faced his men and said, “To tell the truth, I'm jealous. You're going to have so much fun, I decided to join you. There are six knapsacks that aren't being used because of the men who opted out. I might as well take one and enjoy myself. Mr. Ramirez is going to put on a knapsack and join the fun also.”

  Raoul looked up, not having expected to hear that. But to Carl's approval, Raoul concealed his surprise and nodded firmly.

  “Has everyone got a watch?” Carl asked.

  They did.

  “Is your knapsack on? You know where you're going?”

  They did, obviously pleased that Carl would be joining them.

  “Leave here in groups of six. Split up as soon as possible. New Orleans has an excellent bus system, so you won't have trouble getting to the target area. But those buses are equipped with video surveillance cameras, so sit separately and look out the window, not at the camera. Remember, when it's ten o'clock, take off your knapsack and pull the cord at the side. Make sure you're wearing these finger-tip pads so you don't leave prints when you drop your gun. Everybody clear? Good. Gentlemen, show me how disciplined you are.”

  21

  Eight.

  Mingling with demonstrators across from the conference center, Jamie felt pushed and shoved. The heat of so many bodies increased the humidity, making her sweat. Someone stepped on her shoes. They had steel caps under the leather: standard equipment for protectors. Even so, she felt the jolt. But she was less concerned about damage to her body than she was about someone bumping against the weapons under her blazer, realizing what they were and trying to take them. She kept her elbows tight against her sides, bracing them against her handgun and her knife.

  Although the conference wasn't scheduled to start for another hour, the demonstrators were already shouting their complaints about Third World sweatshops, increased pollution, climate change, the vanishing rain forests, the over-fished oceans, and chemicals in the food supply.

  “Wait'll the motorcades arrive,” someone said. “We'll stop those greedy bastards from getting into the building.”

  “If we need to, we'll push their cars over,” someone else vowed.

  Jamie pretended to be listening to her cell phone. She hurriedly lowered it and blurted to the people around her, “My friend says she saw on television that the cars won't be coming.”

  Someone overheard and asked, “What?”

  “They just announced the conference was postponed.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “No, it's true,” Jamie said, the crowd banging against her. “The chief of police just made an announcement. Something happened at four hotels last night. Smoke and tear gas. The trade ministers were moved out of town.”

  *

  “. . . ministers were moved out of town,” Cavanaugh said.

  “Har
ry, listen to this guy. They cancelled the conference.”

  “Like hell.”

  Cavanaugh pointed toward his cell phone. “That's what my friend just told me. He saw it on television.”

  “A trick. They want us to give up and leave. Close to nine o'clock, those pigs'll arrive in their limos. Bet on it.”

  22

  Eighty-thirty.

  The spreading chaos forced Carl to park a half mile away. Even from that distance, he heard the shouting.

  “Sounds like the party started.” He grinned at Raoul. “This is what it's all about. Everything else is just waiting.”

  He and Raoul stepped from the van and made certain their loose shirts covered their weapons.

  “Here's your party favor,” Carl said, handing Raoul his knapsack. He put on his own.

  They followed Magazine Street six blocks north of the convention center. As they neared the shouting, they saw a bus come to a stop. Amid numerous departing passengers, six members of their group emerged, keeping separate as instructed. Like good operators, they never glanced at each other as they took separate directions through the crowd.

  “Don't you love it when a plan comes together?” Carl asked Raoul.

  Progress became difficult. Carl passed one of his men halfway down the block, exactly where he should be. Although they didn't acknowledge one another, their brief eye contact told Carl how much the man was reassured.

  And so it went. Shifting through the crowd, passing various members of his team, Carl verified that everyone was obeying instructions. That gave him reason to believe they would continue to obey.

  By nine, he and Raoul reached the conference center, where the crowd was so immense, the protestors so animated that the four-lane boulevard in front was almost totally blocked. Behind barricades, police officers readied themselves to push back.

  “Where are the cars?” a demonstrator demanded to his friends. “They should have been here by now!”

  Energized by anticipation, Carl continued through the turmoil, buoying his widely separated men with his presence while he made sure they were in place.

  23

  Nine-thirty.

  Cavanaugh and Jamie pushed through the crowd, reached the back of a large delivery truck, and showed their IDs to a camera above the rear doors. A moment later, one of the doors opened, hands helping them up.

  Against the inside wall, armed men were ready in case Cavanaugh and Jamie were not who they claimed or someone charged in after them.

  The truck's interior was a compact version of the communications center. Computers, two-way radios, and closed-circuit monitors seemed everywhere. An electronic glow filled the compartment. On the screens, the police and the protestors shoved at each other outside the convention center, but because the police had body armor, helmets, shields, clubs, and tasers, they had more success. The silence of the images contrasted with the tumult outside.

  “I told as many as I could about the radio announcement that the conference was postponed,” Jamie said.

  “We've got plenty of other operators blending with the crowd, spreading the word,” an FBI agent said.

  “Doesn't seem to be doing any good.” Cavanaugh frowned toward the violence on the monitors.

  “Wait.” An agent pointed.

  On one of the screens, Cavanaugh saw the protestors shifting back from the police. On another screen, the shrubs that separated the four lanes of Convention Center Boulevard were becoming visible. Protestors stared both ways along the thoroughfare, baffled that the motorcade hadn't arrived.

  At a two-way radio, an agent said, “I'm getting reports that portions of the crowd are beginning to realize the conference isn't going to happen.”

  “Look,” Jamie said. “At the end of the boulevard. Near the casino. On Poydras Street. Some of them are drifting away.”

  24

  Nine forty-five.

  A cloud crossed the sun, casting a cool shadow. Then the sun returned, the heat again as palpable as the humidity. The press of bodies smelled of sweat as Carl and Raoul made their way through them. After crisscrossing the target area, they entered Girod Street, moving away from the conference center. Carl verified that the final man he needed to check was in place.

  As Carl reached the intersection of Tchoupitoulas Street, where Raoul was scheduled to wait until 10 o'clock, he noticed that the going seemed easier, that he no longer needed to struggle against the crowd. Then he realized that the tide had turned, that the demonstrators were moving away from the conference center instead of toward it, that he was being carried by the flow.

  He stopped an angry-looking man and woman. “What's going on? Why are you leaving?”

  “Damned thing's been cancelled.”

  “No,” Carl said, jostled by the passing crowd.

  The woman held up an iPhone. “It's all over the Internet. Four hotels got smoked-bombed and tear-gassed last night. The trade ministers were evacuated.”

  “But that can't be!” Carl insisted.

  “I'm telling you, the bastards left town.”

  “No motorcade? No opening ceremonies?”

  “Nothing. Down at the convention center, they're getting their heads cracked for no reason.”

  As the disgusted man and woman moved onward away from the pointless battle, Carl stared down Girod Street. Except for a truck parked two blocks away, all he saw were demonstrators moving in his direction, a steady mass of them filling the pavement and the sidewalk.

  Four hotels? Furious, Carl remembered following last night's sirens and arriving at hotels that were surrounded by the flashing lights of emergency vehicles while smoke streamed from the buildings.

  Aaron? he thought. Was that your doing?

  “Is it over?” Raoul asked.

  For a moment, Carl didn't hear him. “Over?”

  “If the conference isn't going to happen, what's the point of the smoke?”

  “Quiet.” Carl pulled him toward a wall. “Somebody might hear you.”

  “But we don't have much time. We need to split up and hurry so we can tell the men to forget about ten o'clock.”

  “Forget about ten o'clock? No way.”

  Carl's employers were more frightening than anyone could imagine. Good God, the last thing he needed was them hunting him because he took their money and didn't follow through on what he promised.

  “But what's the point?” Raoul demanded. “You told us we were hired to make sure the conference didn't happen. Mierda, look around you. It isn't happening.”

  The point, Carl couldn't tell him, was the Secret Service, the U.S. Marshals, the Diplomatic Security Service, and the Homeland Security Response Team, not to mention operators from Global Protective Services and other major non-government firms. They'd been lured into coming to New Orleans to safeguard the World Trade Organization. In eleven minutes . . .

  “We're going to do what we promised,” Carl said.

  “But—”

  “This isn't some stupid-ass street gang. We don't act on impulse. We don't change our mind whenever we feel like it. We follow orders.”

  “But what if the orders stop making sense?”

  “If a man pays me to do something, I do it. Maybe he didn't tell me all his reasons. My job isn't to think. It's to follow through on an assignment. Are you a coward?”

  “Of course not,” Raoul said, his face reddening. “You know I've done everything you asked.”

  “You're supposed to be an operator.”

  His face even redder, Raoul said, “I am an operator.”

  “Then show me!” Carl tugged Raoul along the wall. “Here. The middle of the block. This is where you're supposed to wait!”

  More disappointed protestors went up the street.

  Carl checked his watch. “In ten minutes, follow the plan!”

  “Okay!” Raoul said angrily. “All right!”

  Stop, Carl warned himself. What am I doing? Keep control.

  He touched Raoul's shoulders with apparent aff
ection. “Don't take it personally. I'm just stressed, keeping track of all the details. You're my most dependable operator. Never doubt that.”

  Raoul didn't reply, but the compliment clearly made him less angry.

  “When you're in my place, you'll understand the burden of responsibility. I'm sorry.” Carl gripped Raoul's shoulders harder. “I know you won't let me down.”

  Raoul didn't answer.

  “Is everything straight between us?” Carl asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Then make me proud.” Carl stepped away.

  “Where—”

  “I need to hurry and get to my spot,” Carl said over his shoulder. He struggled to conceal the irritation he felt for losing control.

  What the hell's wrong with me? This is almost over. Keep cool. Don't screw things up.

  The crowd carried him toward the edge of the killing zone. He reached the middle of the next block, where nine minutes from now he was supposed to pull the cord on his knapsack.

  He shifted toward a wall. Freeing himself from the passing crowd, he took off the knapsack and shoved it into a garbage bin. Rejoining the protestors, he was eager to let them propel him to safety. He had plenty of time to get to the van and flee the area. A few seconds after ten, he would press a button on the transmitter in his jacket pocket. If the police frequencies hadn't already set off the detonators, the signal he sent would do the job.

  Something made him glance back.

  Raoul was at the refuse bin, gaping at the discarded knapsack.

  25

  When Raoul had started to ask “where,” his intention hadn't been to find out where Bowie was going. What he wanted to know was whether he should meet Bowie at the van or whether he was supposed to get to Galveston on his own. Because of their argument, they hadn't finalized their arrangements. The way Raoul felt, he wasn't sure he wanted to meet Bowie at the van. Talking to me like he's a chingado guard in the joint. But as seconds passed, the heat of Raoul's anger lessened. He didn't want trouble between them. The truth was, what Raoul felt for him was what he was supposed to feel for his father.