The naked edge

8

Atlanta, Georgia.

His hands in his windbreaker, caressing a special folding knife he'd crafted, Carl sat on a bench and watched pedestrians crossing the expanse of Centennial Olympic Park. In summer, children were able to skip back and forth through what was called a dancing water fountain, a wide area of water jets that gushed twenty feet into the air. Now, ignoring a cool October breeze, Carl imagined youngsters scampering through the spray. He could almost hear their laughter.

Wouldn't it have been great to have something like that when you and I were kids, Aaron? He remembered the two of them bicycling to the swimming pool at Iowa City's park. Below, the tree-lined river meandered toward the low, summer-hazed buildings of downtown. He remembered an afternoon when they chained their bicycles to a post, and when they returned from the pool, they found four kids trying to break the chain and steal the bikes. When Aaron shouted at them to stop, the kids attacked, but Carl showed Aaron that nobody could push them around. He pulled out his jackknife, causing the kids to gape when he opened it and chased them through the trees. He remembered how surprised Aaron was. He remembered-

A man sat down next to him. Nondescript clothes. Thin. Mid-forties. Mustache. Swarthy skin. From the Middle East. "This location is too exposed."

"It shows we've got nothing to hide."

"A directional microphone can easily overhear everything we say."

"Not with my associate playing with that miniature battery-powered car." Carl indicated Raoul a hundred feet away, the young Hispanic working a remote control that made a tiny Jeep go this way and that.

"The control interferes with directional-microphone reception?" the man asked.

"Enough to cause hearing loss to anyone using earphones. It's good for us to be outside. Fresh air. Sunshine. People going about their business. Keeps us in touch with the basics of life. The 1996 Olympics explosion was over there, incidentally."

The man looked toward where Carl pointed. "Three pipe bombs wired together," he said with contempt.

"Even so, the device managed to kill one woman and wound one hundred and eleven bystanders," Carl reminded him.

"The Army of God. That's the group the bomber's note gave credit to. The Army of Amateurs is closer to the truth." The swarthy man studied the unobstructed space around them. "How are you going to deal with Cavanaugh?"

"Aaron," Carl corrected him. "I don't intend to. Not any longer. I wanted him eliminated because he could make the connection between me and the knife attacks. Some of those agents needed to be killed with blades. The plan depended on it. Now that Aaron knows I'm involved, I'm at risk. But he hasn't discovered anything that threatens the mission itself."

"He'll keep hunting you."

"That's a personal matter, but it only jeopardizes me. I set traps. Be sure of that. But from now on, my concentration is focused entirely on the mission. I won't waste any more resources going after him." Carl withdrew his right hand from his windbreaker and showed the knife it held. "Since we probably won't be meeting again, I have a gift for you."

The man hesitated, then took the knife, examining it with curiosity. "The handle is unusual."

"It's carved from fossilized ivory. Mastodon tusks uncovered in Alaska. Some knife-making supply stores sell the material."

"Why go to all the trouble of using ivory that old?"

"A gesture to the environment. This way, you know the ivory didn't come from slaughtered elephants or walruses."

The man studied Carl, trying to determine if he was being ironic. Seeing no reaction, he returned his attention to the knife. The pale yellow handle had two circles carved into it, one above the other. The bottom circle represented a clock with Roman numerals. An arrow depicted the clock's hand. The top circle was formed by stars. A profiled face was in the middle.

"That's the man in the moon," Carl explained.

"The details in the carving are impressive."

"I worked on that knife for a long time. Years. Waiting for missions to start."

"I'm honored." The man tried to open the blade but failed. He tried again. "Something's wrong. The blade's caught on something."

"No and yes."

"I don't understand."

"Something is not wrong. But yes, the blade is caught on something."

"I still don't-"

"That's a model of one of the rarest knives in the world. It's called a secret knife."

"Secret?" the man asked with interest.

"It was designed in the late sixteen hundreds. In France. In a royal court known for its secrecy. Hidden compartments were the rage. The original version of that knife might have been used by a spy hiding a secret message."

The man again tried to open the blade. "But how do you-"

"By figuring out the combination," Carl said. "The arrow in the clock. The profiled face in the middle of the stars. Each needs to be twisted to a precise location in order to free a catch that holds the blade in place."

"Like a combination to a safe," the man noted.

"Exactly. But in this case, there are two dials. When you get both in the correct position, the blade will open. You'll be amused to find astrological symbols etched into the blade. No one is sure of their significance. But I suspect they have something to do with alchemy. Or perhaps the Freemasons."

The man turned the dials and tried to open the knife, without success.

"It'll take you a long time to discover the combination and learn the knife's secret," Carl told him.

"I'll use it for distraction while I wait for the start of the week," the man said. He looked across Centennial Olympic Park toward a tall, impressive, gray-fronted, many-windowed building. Mounted to the top floor, bold red letters announced that this was the main headquarters for CNN. "Two days from now, broadcasters in there will exhaust themselves reporting around-the-clock on what we've done."