The naked edge

9

The stocky black man jogged around a curve and increased speed down a straightaway through a wooded park in a suburb of Washington, D.C. He wasn't alone. At 6:30 in the morning, an army of his fellow exercisers primed themselves for another day's combat in offices throughout the nation's capitol. The chill of October had its effect, prompting the black man to wear a long-legged, navy exercise suit. Breath vapor blew from his mouth.

Hearing rhythmic rapid footfalls behind him, he waited for the faster runners to pass him. A white man and woman, each wearing gray exercise suits, came abreast of him. He maintained his moderate pace, waiting for them to surge ahead, but instead they kept even with him, one on each side, their footfalls matching his.

When he looked at one and then the other, he almost faltered.

"I do believe," the Southern Baptist said.

"I'll tell you what I believe," Cavanaugh said.

"I'm not sure I want to know," the black man, John Rutherford, said.

"I believe in gun oil and plenty of ammunition."

"I'm relieved. For a second, I expected you to say something you hoped would shock me."

"Bull Durham," Jamie said.

Rutherford nodded, jogging past a duck pond. "Baseball's an enjoyable pastime."

"So are the slow kisses Kevin Costner's character believes in," Jamie said.

"If you expect me to be shocked by that-" Rutherford breathed hard as he ran. "-I remind you I was married. My wife… God rest her soul… believed in slow kisses, also. How are you, Jamie?" His smile was genuine. "The last time I saw you, you were in a hospital bed. I'm glad you recovered from your wound."

"How's the guy who shot me doing?"

"Not well, I'm afraid. Prison doesn't agree with him. Seems he prefers solitary confinement to all the inmates who want to be his friend."

"What a shame. And how about you, John?" Cavanaugh asked. "How are you getting along? I understand congratulations are in order."

"You mean my promotion?"

"Director of the FBI's counterterrorist unit. I'm proud of you."

"Sure, you are."

They ran past a homeless man asleep on a bench.

"I hate to ask this. We're having such a great time so far," Rutherford said. "How are you?"

"Need a little help, John."

"Gosh, and here I thought you'd just happened to be in the neighborhood. You decided to drop by at the crack of dawn, say hello, and catch up on old times while you joined me for a little exercise."

"Exactly what we had in mind," Cavanaugh said. "But as long as we're here…"

"Let me guess. You want to talk about the Global Protective Service agents who've been killed."

"You know about that?" Cavanaugh looked at him in surprise.

"They're not the only ones. Protectors in various government agencies are being killed also."

"What?" Cavanaugh slackened his pace and veered from the path, stopping next to bushes.

Rutherford and Jamie followed him.

"The Secret Service. The U.S. Marshals. The Diplomatic Security Service. Three days ago, agents from all of them suddenly became targets." Rutherford took a towel from around his neck and wiped sweat from his forehead. "At first, it looked like they'd taken hits meant for the people they were protecting. But the casualties kept mounting, and most of the attacks happened when the agents were off-duty. We soon had to conclude-"

"The protectors were the targets."

"On a hunch, we checked the civilian protection agencies. The small ones didn't know what we were talking about. But a major one like Global Protective Services…"

"We took our share of hits," Cavanaugh said.

"'We'?" Rutherford frowned. "I thought you'd left the business."

"What's that line from one of the Godfather movies? 'Just when I thought I was out, they dragged me back in'? Now I'm not only back in the business. I own the damned thing."

Cavanaugh explained what had happened at the GPS office in Manhattan and later in Eddie's car.

"Eddie Macintosh?" Rutherford looked appalled. "He's one of the best drivers I ever worked with."

"That's how he died. Behind a steering wheel."

A group of joggers sped by. Rutherford stepped farther toward the bushes, trying to get out of hearing range of anyone on the path.

"Sharp weapons? Bladed ones?" Rutherford asked.

"That's the pattern. Up close and intimate. Except for the attacks against Jamie and me."

"But at the time of the first one, you were retired. Out of the game. Why would anyone attack you?"

"Maybe somebody found out who was set to inherit Global Protective Services," Jamie said. "Maybe that couldn't be allowed to happen."

Cavanaugh looked around the park. "Aren't you nervous being out here in the open every morning?"

"Protectors are the ones getting killed, not FBI agents. But now that you've paid a visit…"

"We weren't followed."

"After last May, it's no secret we're friends."

"Hey, so far so good. Nobody's made a move against us while we've been talking," Jamie said.

"I'm not consoled."

"At first, I thought this was a client from my past, trying to keep me from revealing something incriminating that I happened to learn," Cavanaugh said. "Then, when I realized how many top-rate GPS operators had been killed, I figured this was an attack directed at the company-to put it out of business, or to get even for an assassination or a kidnapping that we prevented. But now… Attacks this widespread. You're assuming this is…"

"Who's got the money, the organization, and the determination?" Rutherford asked. "The Bureau believes it's a terrorist network taking out key security personnel and trying to intimidate the others so we're not prepared for another major assault. Protectors are trained to be shields, not targets. Presumably, the bad guys figure our protective divisions will be so busy looking over their shoulders that they won't be able to do their jobs."

"It's a hell of a distraction," Cavanaugh agreed.

"'Hell' might be appropriate in this case," the Southern Baptist said.

"Got any leads?"

"Every extreme faction in every country who hates us. Take your pick. These days, there are plenty to choose from. And as for possible ultimate targets, plenty to choose from there, also. For starters, the president."

"We'd better keep moving." Worried about directional microphones, Cavanaugh pointed toward a street next to the park, where traffic accumulated. "Over there. Next to the refreshing smell of automobile exhaust."

"And the noise of car engines?" Jamie asked.

"Hey, what's the harm in a few precautions?"

"You're going to ruin this place for me," Rutherford complained.

They increased speed toward the street.

"How did the government protectors die?" Cavanaugh asked.

"Sniper rifles, remote-controlled bombs, car ambushes."

"No bladed weapons?"

"A few, but no pattern. Nothing like what happened to your GPS operators."

"Then why was GPS singled out for that kind of weapon?" Jamie wondered.

"Last night, when I was studying the printouts of my former missions-" Cavanaugh breathed quickly as he ran. "-I couldn't find any client who might want to kill me because of things I knew about him. But the idea of knives reminded me of somebody."

"Who?" Rutherford asked.

"A former GPS agent. Can you use your Bureau resources to get a profile of a man named Carl Duran? And while you're at it, do a deep background check on Gerald Brockman, Kim Lee, and Ali Karim."

"But aren't they-"

"The top officers in GPS. Something's wrong there. Maybe it's got nothing to do with what's going on, or maybe it's got everything to do with it. Either way, I need to find out."