The Naked Edge (45 page)

Carl recited the number from memory. “The password is ‘stiletto.’”

“Thank you, sir.” A moment lengthened. “Sir, would you please repeat that account number?”

“Is there a problem?”

“I may have mistyped it.”

Carl repeated it.

“Sir, our records fail to show any funds in that account.”

“But there should be a million dollars!”

“No, sir, I'm afraid there aren't any funds.”

“Try that number again.” Carl recited it slowly.

“Yes, sir, that's the number I'm accessing, but the account does not have a balance.”

The undigested sandwiches from the night before soured Carl's stomach. “Was there
ever
any money in it?”

“Yes, sir. As you mentioned, a million dollars. Yesterday afternoon, it was wire transferred to another bank.”

Carl swallowed something bitter. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome.”

12

Cavanaugh admired the Gulfstream's interior, the last time he would see it.

“The jet needs to go back to its base in New Jersey anyhow,” William said. “The expense is the same whether we're aboard or not, so we might as well take advantage.”

“It never occurred to me to ask how much it costs to fly this.”

“Four thousand dollars an hour.”

“And we crossed the country several times. No wonder the company's going bankrupt.”

“When you're protecting a Saudi prince, the fee's high enough to earn out,” William said.

“But when I'm fighting to stay alive, it's too expensive.”

The powerful engines whispered as the jet reached its scheduled altitude, streaking through clouds.

“Less than a week ago, you didn't want anything to do with Global Protective Services,” Jamie said, “and now you hate to lose it.”

“Yes,” Cavanaugh told her bitterly. “Because of Carl.”

13

The train arrived in Chicago ten minutes late. Slouching, Carl blended with the departing passengers on the damp, shadowy concourse. He carried his briefcase in his left hand while his right hand was primed to reach for a weapon. He had strips of a towel under his lips and inside his cheeks, altering his features. His ears had Kleenex wadded neatly into them.

Keeping in the thick of the crowd, he entered the brightly lit terminal, the din of which was muffled by the padding in his ears. He tensed when he saw two policemen studying everybody. They stopped a tall, thin man, who looked somewhat like Carl, and asked him questions.

Carl showed no reaction. Face blank, eyes forward, shoulders drooped, he kept moving, not breaking rhythm, just another zombie.
Take it easy
, he thought.
You'll be fine.
The “you” was deliberately chosen, a way of disassociating from the moment and keeping his emotions in check.
If they really believed you were on a train that arrived here, there'd be a small army to welcome you, not a handful of cops
, he tried to assure himself.

Approaching an exit, he glanced at a newsstand, then looked ahead, as if the newspapers meant nothing, even though a large photograph of him stared from the
Chicago Tribune
, the
Chicago Sun-Times
, and
USA Today
.

Not a military photograph. Not him young and in uniform. This was a recent photograph of him among a crowd on a street. New Orleans. Taken by a security camera, it depicted him chasing somebody. Raoul. Digitally magnified and enhanced, alarmingly clear, the image showed Carl in profile. More than in profile. Three quarters of his features.

Silently cursing, he saw another policeman scanning the crowd and warned himself,
Be cool. No one'll recognize you from that picture. It isn't a full face, and the angle's downward. Everything's going to be fine.

Yeah, sure, right.
He could no longer objectify. Suddenly “you” became “I”.
I'm being hunted by the bastards who hired me and by every law-enforcement agency in the country. Every intelligence agency, also. I've got fifty rounds of ammunition and two thousand dollars. What the hell am I supposed to do?

Play the game.

For the rest of my life.

A policeman appeared at the exit ahead. Shielded by businessmen, Carl kept walking. The policeman straightened, paying attention to him. Immediately, Carl reached into a pants pocket and removed an object he'd taken from the briefcase. A small canister. As the policeman blurted something to a microphone attached to his shoulder, Carl pulled a pin from the canister and dropped it behind him. The canister
clanked
onto the floor and made several people turn to look.

The policeman drew his gun and stepped toward Carl, raising a hand to warn him to stop. Carl pretended not to notice.

The policeman shouted, “Stop right there!”

At once, the canister, a flash-bang, detonated. Having counting the seconds until it did, Carl knew when to close his eyes. Even then, and even though the flash was behind him, the searing brightness pushed through his eyelids. Anyone facing that direction, including the cop, would be blinded. The
bang
from the device was literally deafening, except for Carl, who'd used Kleenex to protect his eardrums.

The force of the two onslaughts stunned the policeman and shoved him backward. People screamed. They scrambled over each other.

“Terrorists!” Carl shouted. “A bomb!”

The panic worsened, everybody charging toward the exits. Carl moved with them. Instead of fighting their fierce momentum, he allowed it to take him. The next thing, he was outside, the stampede spreading into traffic while he blended with people charging along the sidewalk.

14

The Manhattan headquarters for Global Protective Services looked as busy and professional as ever, but Cavanaugh knew that the strength and solidity were only apparent. With Jamie and William, he entered his office. An outsider would not have realized that, less than a week earlier, the place had been littered with bomb wreckage. Now a close look showed Cavanaugh that the hasty cleanup was only cosmetic, that the damage had been disguised, not repaired.
Like the corporation
, he thought.

“I can't imagine how expensive our lease is.”

“A half million dollars a year,” William said.

“Amazing that the company stayed in business as long as it did.”

“Two executive officers dead and one in a detox ward.” Jamie slumped in a chair.

“It's going to be hard dismantling the various operations,” Cavanaugh said. “Jamie, you're the one with a business background. How do we handle this?”

“For starters, we alert the heads of our foreign offices and tell them to cancel all upcoming assignments. Then we negotiate to terminate all our office leases and have other protection firms take over the jobs already in progress. After that, we—”

15

A cold October wind breathed a premonition of winter. Especially after the warmth of New Orleans, it made Carl shiver. But as he retreated along the walkway next to the Chicago River, maintaining a disciplined, inconspicuous pace, appearing to enjoy the view of the water, he was determined not to go into a store and risk buying a jacket. After all, the photograph in the newspapers was likely to be on television as well. Word would have spread quickly that he'd been spotted in Chicago. People would pay attention to strangers.

His discomfort gave him a glimpse of the future: decreasing possibilities and increasing deprivations.

What happens when my money's gone? Do I start holding up liquor stores? Hell, I can't show my face to spend the money anyhow. Where am I going to sleep tonight? I can't risk going to a hotel, even a seedy one. It won't be long before the government offers a reward. Do I hide in an alley the way I did two nights ago? Do I hole up in the woods?

Play the game.

Hide and seek.

He passed a newspaper that someone had stuffed into a garbage bin. Making sure than no one was near him, he pulled out the paper and studied his photograph on the front page.
Aaron, you son of a bitch, I should be getting laid on the Riviera right now.

In a fury, he read that Aaron and his wife had managed to post bail and been released. It gave him savage pleasure to learn that Global Protective Services was about to collapse.
Only a fraction of what you deserve, you bastard.
Aaron and his wife had been allowed to leave Louisiana and fly to New York to begin the process of dissolving the company.

“If
he
had been available to us, the mission would have been a success,” the swarthy man had said before Carl blew him up.

Well, let's see about that
, Carl thought.

Hide for the rest of my life?

Aaron, I'll prove to you how good I am.

On a bench ahead, a man slept next to a bicycle. The man had beard stubble and matted, dirty hair. He wore a ragged jacket and filthy jeans. Attached to the rear of the bicycle, a small cart contained plastic bags of what appeared to be even more ragged clothing. A cord led from the man's wrist to the bicycle, a burglar alarm.

Carl checked that no one was paying attention. He unclipped his knife from his pants pocket, thumbed the blade open, and sliced the cord. He wheeled the bike out of earshot (it had only one gear and didn't make the clicking sound of sports bikes). He stopped just long enough to pull a ragged blue shirt from a bag and pull it over the brown shirt he'd bought in New Orleans. Then he got on and bicycled away. Like a motorcyclist wearing goggles and a helmet, a ragged homeless man on a bicycle, towing his few meager possessions, was invisible.

He still had the newspaper from the waste bin. When he felt that it was safe to stop, he planned to study the personal ads and buy another used motorcycle. There was always the risk that he'd be recognized, but he would sense if that happened and make sure the man selling the motorcycle couldn't warn anyone. He didn't have enough cash to buy as good a bike as the Yamaha he'd abandoned in Mississippi, but then the bike didn't need to function long. His destination was only five hours away.

16

After Cavanaugh cancelled yet another assignment and set down the phone, he sensed the receptionist standing in his office doorway. “Yes?”

“You had a dozen more calls.”

Exhausted, Cavanaugh glanced at his watch. The time was shortly after five p.m., and he had several more clients to talk to. “Anything urgent?”

“They
all
seem urgent.”

At the desk, Jamie typed computer keys as William spoke into a phone, arranging an auction for the Gulfstream.

“One caller's more insistent than the others,” the receptionist said, holding up a list. “So far, he contacted us eight times.”

“Must be a really angry creditor. What's his name?”

“Lance Sawyer.”

Cavanaugh straightened.

Overhearing, Jamie frowned. “But isn't that the name of the old man who taught you and Carl how to make knives?”

Cavanaugh grabbed the list and pressed the phone number on it.

William looked puzzled. “What's going on?”

Cavanaugh activated the speaker function on his phone. On the other end, the phone rang only once, its tinny buzz filling the room.

Immediately, the three of them heard a man's voice. “Hey, Aaron, how's it going?”

Cavanaugh clenched his fists as he leaned over the conference table. “Fabulous.”

“Not likely. I read in the newspaper that you spent time in the slammer yesterday. Sorry to learn about all the trouble you're having.”

“Try to sound sincere.” Cavanaugh watched Jamie and William approach the phone, listening to the smooth voice that came from its speaker.

“Is the FBI trying to locate where this call's originating from, or are you and the government not on such great terms any longer?”

“To tell the truth, Carl, I was so eager to talk to you, I didn't think to alert them.”

“The truth's always nice, not to mention rare, coming from you. Half the directional work's already been done for them anyhow. They know I'm in Chicago.”

“Chicago?”

“Haven't you been watching television? The Carl Duran show?”

Instantly, Jamie went to a cabinet in a corner and turned on a television.

“Afraid I missed it,” Cavanaugh said.

“Oh, it's getting big ratings. Lots of action, suspense, and mystery.”

The television was tuned to CNN, where a reporter stood in what looked to be a train station, nervous-looking passengers going past. The words LIVE FROM CHICAGO appeared at the bottom of the screen. The program changed to video from a security camera mounted in a corner. The image showed passengers crossing the terminal. The picture became magnified, focusing on a man who resembled Carl (the cheeks were fuller) as he approached an exit. A policeman hurried toward him. A flash filled the screen. Even with the television's sound at low volume, Cavanaugh heard a powerful detonation. The crowd screamed, charging toward the doors.

“I'm watching it now,” Cavanaugh said. “Nicely done.”

“That's high praise, Aaron, considering that you don't believe anybody can do anything better than you.”

“I always admitted you made knives better, and you're certainly a better swimmer.”

“Gosh, all these compliments are going to my head.”

“Turn yourself in, Carl.”

“Right.”

“You can't hide forever.”

“I can give it a try. That abortion-clinic bomber lasted five years in the woods.”

“Freezing his ass in the winter. Living off acorns and lizards in the summer.”

“Yeah, good buddy, but he wasn't trained the way you and I were.”

“I'm serious. Turn yourself in, Carl. I can arrange for you to do it safely.”

“Golly. I appreciate your concern.”

“You can bargain with the authorities. Give them information about the bastards who hired you. Negotiate for a bearable prison sentence.”

“Don't I wish. See, the problem is, I don't have anything to reveal. I dealt with one guy. He told me nothing about his organization. I don't even know what his real name was.”