The naked edge

8

When the Gulfstream landed in New Orleans, a row of emergency vehicles waited, the lights on their roof racks flashing in the darkness. Somber officials with handguns under their jackets formed a protective square as Cavanaugh, Jamie, and Rutherford stepped from the jet into Louisiana's humid air.

"The phone number your man read to you before he was killed has a local area code," a Secret Service agent told Cavanaugh. "William Scagel bought the phone yesterday in St. Charles twenty miles from here."

"Carl probably didn't do it in person. Someone working for him did the honors so the clerk couldn't provide an accurate description."

"The address the buyer gave was bogus."

"What a surprise."

"I'll bet several other phones got purchased in various other stores-by the same person using more fake names and IDs," Rutherford said.

Police officers flanked a van. Accompanied by FBI agents, Cavanaugh, Jamie, and Rutherford scrambled inside. The moment the side door was secured, the driver headed toward an exit gate, cruisers to the front and back.

"We can't assume Carl will keep that phone much longer," Cavanaugh said as they sped onto a freeway. "Is the satellite in position?"

"Ready and willing," an agent answered. "The eyes and ears of the sky are aimed at New Orleans."

"Then do it. "

The agent spoke into a walkie-talkie. "Baker to Butcher, do you copy?"

"Affirmative," a voice replied.

"Commence tracking."

"Tracking engaged."

The agent nodded to Cavanaugh, who pulled out his cell phone and pressed the numbers Ali had dictated to him seconds before he was killed.

The group watched intently, but Cavanaugh was conscious only of the phone pressed against his ear and the sound of ringing at the other end.

One.

Two.

Three.

"He got rid of the phone," Rutherford said. "If anybody does answer, it'll probably be a junkie."

Cavanaugh's heart sped as Carl's voice said, "Hello, Aaron."

The van swayed, veering around car lights on the freeway.

"Good guess, Carl."

"No guessing involved. I know you, old buddy. I can predict what you'll do."

"Same here." Cavanaugh noted that there was something odd about the sound. He heard music and laughter in the background. Carl's voice was muffled and distant. "You were sure I'd call?"

"Unless you were interrogating Gerald Brockman, in which case you'd be a smear across a wall right now."

Acid burned Cavanaugh's throat. He wished he could reach through the phone and-

With effort, he kept his voice steady. "You also blew apart Ali Karim, plus two protectors and a doctor."

"Karim. Good man to work with. Knew his stuff. Sorry to hear he's gone."

"Try to sound more sincere."

"Who were the other…" Carl's voice faded, although the music and voices strangely persisted.

"I can barely hear you," Cavanaugh said.

The voice strengthened. "Who were the other protectors?"

Cavanaugh gave their names.

"Didn't know them. They must have been brought aboard after I was fired," Carl's voice said pointedly.

"I told you, I had nothing to do with getting you fired."

Headlights blazing, the van veered down an exit ramp, forcing Cavanaugh to grip the wall for balance.

"But you didn't do anything to prevent it, buddy," Carl said, "and deep in your heart, you know you could have."

"You kept exceeding orders. You were out of control. When Duncan fired you, it was the right thing to do."

"Ah, so finally I'm getting some truth. You admit you could have stuck up for me, but instead you went along with firing me."

"The incident outside the Plaza Hotel wasn't the only time you lost control. Blame me? How about blaming yourself?"

"Take some personal responsibility, is that what you're suggesting?"

"Stop what you're doing, that's what I'm suggesting."

"How long did you figure you could keep me talking?" Carl's voice asked.

"As long as it takes to persuade you to stop this."

"Are you triangulating the signal from my cell phone, old pal? Figuring out which microwave stations are relaying my voice?"

"Needs to be done. You know the procedures in a situation like this. Nothing personal."

"That's a laugh. You certainly proved, as far as you're concerned, nothing is ever personal. Cold, Aaron. I never realized how cold you are."

"And you're not? Listen to me, Carl. Stop whatever you're doing."

The van veered around a corner and stopped abruptly, forcing Cavanaugh to grip the wall again. Even before the vehicle was motionless, the agent in charge yanked the side door open, revealing men with rifles silhouetted by lights flashing on emergency vehicles.

"Now why would I want to stop something that took so long to set up?" Carl's voice asked.

Pressing the phone to his ear, Cavanaugh jumped to the pavement and followed agents toward a one-story brick building. The pungent smell of the nearby Mississippi filled his nostrils. "Carl, if it's me you're getting even with, name the place and the time. I'll give you all the security you want. No tricks. One on one. You can show me how much you hate me."

An agent opened a metal door. Bright light spilled out. A huge room was filled with radio equipment, computers, video and audio recorders, and closed-circuit monitors. The screens depicted hundreds of views of the streets around the New Orleans conference center, busloads of police arriving, barricades being set up.

At least two dozen technicians worked the equipment, but as one, they became silent, turning toward Cavanaugh as he entered.

"Hate you, Aaron?" Carl's voice came from speakers next to a monitor.

A technician turned down the volume.

"The reason I'm so pissed at you is I love you, man. Not like I want to bang you. Not that kind of love. But you were the only person I felt close to, and you walked away like I had the plague. Getting even with you? No way. What I'm doing is making a point. I'm proving I'm not out of control anymore. And now that your satellite technicians had their chance to try to find where I am, adios."

"Carl, wait."

The only sound was the music and the voices.

"Carl, how do we stop this? Tell me what you want."

No answer.

"Carl!" As the music and voices persisted, Cavanaugh lowered his phone. He had to leave the transmission open in case Carl said anything else. But by leaving it open, he allowed Carl the opportunity to overhear what was being said in the room.

"Clever…" Stifling the impulse to curse, he gave the phone to a technician and told him to take it outside.

"Do you have his location?" Rutherford asked a technician.

"The French Quarter. He must have set the phone down and walked away."

"But why did his voice sound distant?"

"Maybe he wasn't speaking directly into the phone."

"The signal's coming from the corner of Bourbon and St. Peter," another technician said.

"Is there a team close to there?" Rutherford asked. "The police must have plenty of officers in the bar district."

A third technician finished speaking into a microphone. "A half-dozen teams converged on that area during the conversation. More teams are on the way. The streets are being blocked."

"One thing bothers me." The first technician pointed toward a monitor that showed a map of the French Quarter and a stationary, pulsing dot.

"Only one thing?" Rutherford asked.

"He never moved while he was talking," the technician said.

Jamie got it first. "Never moved? Why would he stay in one place when he knew we were using satellites to get a fix on his position?"