The Naked Edge

  “Yes, Mr. Bowie.”

  “Okay then.” Carl slapped him on the back and gave an approving nod to guards near the door. Then he opened it and ushered Raoul inside.

  The warehouse was in shadow, only a few dim lights near the lavatories. A male smell filled the area, the musky odor of men primed for action. Bodies shifted on cots, occasionally snoring and coughing.

  Carl gave Raoul another reassuring slap on the back and watched him go to his cot, where the young man obediently closed his eyes. Carl surveyed the other men, then switched his attention to the knapsacks against the wall to his right. Sixty of them.

  *

  “Nerve gas,” Carl had told the swarthy man weeks earlier. Blazing noon. They were at the training camp, far from the shots and explosions of the conditioning exercises at the main part of the facility.

  Sweating from the heat and humidity, his suit sticking to him, the man peered into a corrugated metal structure large enough to hold one hundred chickens. The birds clucked, pecked at each other, and scratched the dirt floor, looking for food.

  “I got these from a farm-supply outlet a hundred miles from here,” Carl explained. “Just another customer. Nobody paid attention.”

  Stepping among the chickens, sending them scurrying noisily, Carl set a knapsack in their midst. “As you know from your experiences in Iraq, detonation devices of this sort require a two-step process, one to arm them, the other to set them off. The two stages guarantee that the devices won't go off prematurely—in our hands, for instance.”

  The man eyed the knapsack and took several steps back from it.

  “After all, we want to make sure the detonations occur at the scheduled time and place. So this is step one.” Carl pulled a cord on the side of the knapsack. Then he made his way through the clucking chickens, emerged from the structure, and shut the door. He walked around the building and lowered metal panels over the screened windows.

  The van was a hundred yards away through ferns and weeds. Some of the ground was spongy and caused the man to look annoyed at the seeds on his pants and the mud on his dress shoes.

  Carl opened the van's side hatch and indicated a television that received signals from a camera in the concrete-block structure. The image came from high in a corner, angling down toward the chickens.

  “The pull-cord on the knapsack activates a radio receiver attached to the detonator,” Carl said. “On the day of the event, all the receivers—sixty of them—will be calibrated to a common frequency used by law enforcement. God knows, there'll be plenty of law enforcement in the area, all of them eager to stay in radio contact with each other. One of them will inadvertently set off the detonators. But just in case, I'll send a radio signal of my own. For the safety of this demonstration, I chose an uncommon frequency so a radio broadcast from a police car that happens to be in the area won't get us killed. Ready?”

  The man nodded.

  Carl pressed a button on a transmitter and drew the man's attention toward the television.

  A black cloud billowed from the knapsack. Ominously silent, it filled the structure so thickly that the chickens could no longer be seen.

  “Of course, the nerve gas is colorless,” Carl said. “The smoke is for dramatic effect. For the TV cameras. Otherwise, all the viewers at home would see is people falling down. Terrifying enough. But this way, the cameras will see mysterious black clouds spreading and joining. The viewers will watch with rapt attention as the clouds clear, and then the thousands of corpses will slowly come into view. Bear in mind, there won't be any on-site announcer to describe what's happening. Everybody in the area will be dead.”

  On the screen, the black cloud continued to be all that was visible.

  Carl pressed another button. At the distant structure, metal clanked. The window coverings opened. The black cloud emerged from the gaps. On the TV screen, daylight struggled through the black haze.

  “The gas kills only when breathed,” Carl said. “This particular batch isn't full strength. It'll lose its potency by the time it disperses this far. Even so, you might want to put on this.”

  He gave the man a gas mask. Then he too put on a mask.

  A bird flew over the structure. Skirting the edge of the dispersing black cloud, it folded and fell, crashing onto the building's roof.

  Another bird fell.

  Then another.

  “As you see,” Carl said, pointing toward the screen, where the black cloud dispersed enough to reveal that all the chickens were dead, “it's extremely effective.”

  Another bird plummeted.

  *

  In the warehouse, Carl glanced from the knapsacks and made a final assessment of the men on the cots. They slept restlessly, primed for the morning. Satisfied, he took his own advice and left the building. He closed the door and went down an alley to a parking space where he entered the van Raoul had used to transport the six men who'd chosen not to participate. Crawling into a sleeping bag, he reviewed what needed to be done the next day. His knife in one hand, his pistol in the other, he practiced hard-learned bio-feedback techniques and drifted off to sleep. The last thing his mind considered was the end of the conversation at the training camp.

  “For the actual event,” the man asked, “the gas will be full strength?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “How much area will it cover?”

  “Spreading the men out, arranging them in a strategic pattern? All of downtown New Orleans.”

  12

  “I once had the privilege of meeting Frank Sinatra when he performed in my country,” the Japanese trade minister said. He wore a white bathrobe over gray pajamas. His thinning hair was rumpled. With sleep-puffed eyes, he peered over slim spectacles.

  Seated across from him, Cavanaugh waited.

  “Indeed, some months later, in Los Angeles, I was invited to an event at Mr. Sinatra's home, something one of his Republican politician friends asked him to host,” the official continued. “There was a sign next to the intercom at the gate. It said, ‘You'd better have a damned good reason for ringing this bell.’ I assume you had a good reason for waking me at this hour.”

  “I apologize.” Cavanaugh bowed slightly.

  The official gave no indication of caring about apologies.

  “I want you to think twice about continuing with the conference, Mr. Yamato.” Out of habit, Cavanaugh scanned the suite, pleased that the draperies were closed and that security personnel were on duty. “You're one of the most influential members of the World Trade Organization. I strongly recommend that you persuade your associates to move the conference to another location.”

  “Because of your friend.”

  “Former friend,” Cavanaugh said. “He's capable of anything.”

  “And you aren't capable of anything? Such as stopping him?”

  “It doesn't make sense to risk—”

  “You think this is about money, don't you?” Yamato asked.

  Cavanaugh didn't reply.

  “About multi-national industries and power,” the official continued. “Or pride? Do you think this is about pride? Six months ago, the demonstrators forced us into a premature conclusion of a conference. Now we refuse to be humiliated again. Is that what you believe?”

  “That's one of the theories I've heard,” Cavanaugh said.

  “This isn't about wealth or power or pride. This is about survival.”

  Cavanaugh leaned forward, listening closely as more sirens wailed outside in the darkness.

  “And this isn't about demonstrations as a voice in a debate,” Yamato said. “If you're right, your former friend wants to extend the rioting into something far more extreme.”

  “The only motive that makes sense to me is that he's being paid by terrorists.”

  “Whose purpose, by definition, is to destroy the underpinnings of our system.”

  “That's right.”

  “If we allow them to intimidate us, if we run and hide, we surrender to that intimidation. Eventua
lly, it becomes easier to continue running and hiding. If we don't resist at every opportunity, we can never win. Am I afraid? Yes. Do I believe people will die tomorrow? Yes. Perhaps I myself will die. But if there's an atrocity, perhaps public outrage against the terrorists will make it less likely that future atrocities will occur. You fight in one way. We fight in another. I cannot recommend canceling or moving the conference.”

  “I admire your bravery,” Cavanaugh said, “but—”

  “It's not bravery,” Yamato told him. “It's the refusal to act like a coward.”

  An alarm suddenly blared.

  Shrill. Ear-torturing. Outside the suite.

  Cavanaugh and Yamato swung toward the door.

  Someone pounded on the door. “Mr. Yamato!”

  Cavanaugh drew his pistol.

  “Mr. Yamato!” a voice yelled. “Cavanaugh!”

  Through doors on each side of the suite, Japanese protectors rushed in from adjacent rooms. They held pistols. Cavanaugh took for granted that they'd been electronically monitoring the conversation and knew that he wasn't a threat. Stepping in front of the trade minister, shielding him, they directed their fierce attention toward the main door as the alarm kept blaring and the pounding persisted. Next to it, a television camera revealed the corridor outside and a security agent yelling Mr. Yamato's name.

  Cavanaugh hurried to the door, glanced back at Yamato's protectors, got a nod of agreement from them, and freed the lock.

  Inching the door open, ready with his weapon, Cavanaugh saw other agents pounding on other doors, shouting the names of occupants.

  The agent told him, “Smoke in the elevator shaft!”

  Before Cavanaugh could respond, another shouted, “And the front stairwells!”

  “Fire?”

  “Or toxic gas! We don't know yet!”

  As the alarm blared, sirens wailed outside the hotel, presumably from fire trucks and other emergency vehicles.

  “What about the back stairwells?” Cavanaugh asked.

  Protectors and trade ministers peered starkly from doors along the corridor, security agents talking urgently to them.

  “So far, they're clear.”

  “This could be a way to funnel us into a trap,” Cavanaugh said.

  Behind him, the suite's phone rang. Past the open doors in the corridor, Cavanaugh heard other phones ringing.

  At the end of the corridor, abrupt movement made Cavanaugh stare toward an agent who jerked his gaze from the elevators and frowned at the ceiling. Gray vapor swirled above him. “The air conditioning vent! Something's coming from the—”

  “Gas! I smell it!” another agent yelled. Coughing, he shifted back from a vent in the ceiling.

  Cavanaugh pivoted toward a security agent, who set down the phone in Yamato's suite and raised his voice to be heard above the fire alarm. “I've just been told that the hotel lobby is filled with smoke.”

  “Can we use the service elevator?” Yamato asked.

  “No. Even if it's clear of smoke, you can't use it. What if it stops between floors? Plus, we don't know what we'll face when the door opens.”

  Yamato headed toward the corridor. “Can we use the back stairs?”

  “Seven floors. Do you have a heart condition, any problem that makes the distance too far for you?”

  “No.” Yamato hurried along the corridor. “But what if, as you noted, this is a way to funnel us into a trap?”

  Cavanaugh smelled the acrid vapor wafting from the air-conditioning vents. Along the corridor, agents and clients were coughing as they rushed. Peering back, Cavanaugh saw black smoke at the bottom of the elevator doors. “At the moment, all we know is we can't stay here.”

  An EXIT sign marked the door to the rear stairwell. Eyes burning, Cavanaugh turned toward Yamato and the other officials. He gestured to the GPS agents who'd been watching the elevator and the stairwells. “Tony, use your phone. Tell the FBI what's happening. Arrange for plenty of vehicles to meet us downstairs. The rest of you, let's clear the way.”

  One man banged the door open, trying to startle an enemy as Cavanaugh aimed into the stairwell. All he saw were harsh lights, concrete steps, and metal railings. Using the metal door for cover, he pivoted around it, showing only enough of his body to allow him to aim toward the higher levels. No one confronted him.

  “Clear!” he shouted.

  An agent hurried past him, jumping three steps at a time to the lower landing, crouching and aiming downward. “Clear!”

  Footsteps scraped on concrete as an agent scurried upward to make sure that the higher levels didn't conceal a threat. Hard to do when the eighth-, ninth-, and tenth-level doors crashed open, other hotel occupants rushing to escape. Amid the blare of the fire alarm, Cavanaugh heard their echoing clatter as he and the other agents added to it, charging methodically downward, checking the next level.

  “Clear!”

  “Clear!”

  Someone groaned. Cavanaugh turned toward a commotion behind him, an elderly man in pajamas tripping, falling down the stairs, two young men catching him.

  “Is he all right?”

  The man's face was twisted in pain.

  “He broke his leg!” someone shouted.

  Urgent, Cavanaugh motioned for Yamato's protectors to accompany him down the stairs. Flanking their client, they led the way, the rest of the officials and their protectors following. Adding to the din, cell phones rang. Officials shouted into them, trying to be heard, having even more trouble hearing.

  The door to the fifth level banged open. A GPS agent aimed into the stairwell, saw Cavanaugh, reacted to the swarm of people descending from the upper floors, and urged his own group of officials and protectors downward. The fourth and third doors remained closed, the hotel offices behind them unoccupied at night.

  At the second floor, Dawn Finch and the communication team escaped into the stairwell. Smoke followed them.

  Dawn slammed the door, telling Cavanaugh, “We waited as long as we could. I grabbed these.” She showed him a handful of computer discs, the security data she'd accumulated about the conference. “Is anybody hurt?”

  “A trade minister broke his leg.” Staring down, watching for threats, Cavanaugh hurried with her toward the ground floor.

  “Wait,” Dawn said. “I don't see Jamie.”

  “She isn't here. There were so many officials to try to convince, we split up. She's talking to trade ministers at the Southern Belle.”

  “That hotel's being evacuated, too.”

  “What?”

  “Four hotels were hit.”

  “I need to find her.”

  Reaching the ground floor, Cavanaugh spun toward the officials and security teams who pressed toward him. His agents knew immediately what to do, no need to discuss forming a barricade in front of the door and holding out their arms.

  “Everybody, relax!” Cavanaugh shouted. Amid the fire alarm and the reverberation in the stairwell, he could barely be heard.

  “Stop!” he yelled.

  The other security teams shifted into the proper mode, calming the officials.

  “You're safe!” Cavanaugh told them.

  The footsteps stopped clattering. The reverberation diminished. In a few seconds, the only sound was the fire alarm.

  “The door behind me is metal. The walls are concrete. There's a firewall. Nothing's going to happen to you here. I'll check outside. Vehicles are supposed to be on their way. We'll evacuate you as soon as possible.”

  “What if there's a sniper?” an Italian trade minister demanded.

  “Too much commotion. Too much to aim at,” Cavanaugh said. Noticing that many of the officials wore pajamas, he said, “Find a security agent who's your size. Put on his jacket. That'll make it hard to distinguish you from the team. A sniper wouldn't be able to decide who's a target and who's a protector. By the time, he managed to sort everybody out, you'd be gone from here.”

  As protectors took off jackets and gave them to their clients, Cavanaugh n
oticed the elderly man who'd fallen. Two young men cradled him.

  “We'll get an ambulance as soon as possible,” Cavanaugh assured him. He nodded to Tony, the agent he'd spoken to earlier. Again, without the need to discuss it, Tony understood what needed to be done.

  “The password's Treadmill,” Cavanaugh said.

  Tony freed the deadbolt lock and opened the door. Aiming, Cavanaugh scanned the chaos in the street behind the hotel, then rushed outside.

  13

  The rumble of parked emergency vehicles was so loud that Cavanaugh barely heard Tony locking the door behind him. Sirens approached. Exhaust fumes choked the street as men in uniforms rushed through a panicked crowd. Lowering his weapon, Cavanaugh saw a van creeping through the commotion, other vehicles behind it. Emergency workers set up more barricades, preventing pedestrians from getting in the way.

  Before the van came to a full stop, Rutherford was already jumping out, hurrying toward Cavanaugh. “Are you all right?”

  “Confused as hell, but not hurt. I've got at least thirty trade officials behind this door. We need evac vehicles and an ambulance. A trade minister broke his leg.”

  “On the way.” Rutherford indicated more headlights coming toward them.

  “Someone told me this happened at three other hotels,” Cavanaugh said.

  “Smoke, but no explosives. Gas, but it wasn't lethal,” Rutherford said. Like the security agents in the background, he scanned the rooftops.

  “It smelled like tear gas,” Cavanaugh said, his throat raw, his eyes still burning.

  “We think the demonstrators couldn't wait until tomorrow and started early. To give us a taste of what to expect from them.”

  “Yeah, I can taste it all right.”

  “Someone had a heart attack in another hotel. The paramedics think he'll survive. But if this had been Duran's work . . .”

  “We'd all be on the way to the morgue,” Cavanaugh said.

  Across the street, an insistent woman—tall, with a runner's build and long, brunette hair—emerged from the darkness. Lights flashing across her, she forced her way through the crowd. She wore rubber-soled, low-heeled street shoes and dark slacks, her long legs increasing her stride. Veering around an approaching van, she rushed toward Cavanaugh, who broke into a smile and hugged her.