The naked edge

11

The GPS conference room was crammed with agents using computers and phones. Messengers hurried in. Printers whirred as Rutherford's team worked with Cavanaugh's, trying to take advantage of every second. Similar battle-plan rooms were at the FBI, Secret Service, U.S. Marshals, and Diplomatic Security Service, the groups constantly communicating with each other, updating schedules, coordinating, trying to prevent a disaster.

The room's noise forced Rutherford to raise his voice. "When the World Trade Organization had its conference in Seattle, riots nearly shut down the city."

Cavanaugh knew about the thousands of protestors and millions of dollars in damage. WTO protests had also disrupted Geneva. Indeed, wherever the WTO held its meetings, huge, violent demonstrations followed in reaction to what protestors claimed were anti-environment and labor-abuse policies that the WTO encouraged.

"You wouldn't believe the political pressure to make sure this conference happens," Rutherford said.

"And the economic pressure from mega-corporations," Brockman added. "They rely on the WTO to provide clear sailing for them in Third World countries. Billions of dollars are at stake."

Cavanaugh stood behind Jamie as she studied a computer screen that showed images of blockades and barbed wire in downtown New Orleans. "There'll be hundreds of diplomats, politicians, corporate CEOs, and heads of state. They're all targets. With the security crisis we're having, they can't get the first-class protection they're used to. Why won't the Secret Service listen to us?"

"It's the people they take orders from," Rutherford explained. "They don't call it the Secret Service and the Diplomatic Security Service for nothing. Protection's a service industry. They need to oblige the people paying the bills. What do politicians and diplomats know about what's involved in setting up security? They're too busy wheeling and dealing and asking their protectors to carry their luggage."

"Every available GPS agent is being routed toward New Orleans," Brockman said. "We'll make damned sure nobody gets killed on our watch."

"But some of those agents are replacing dead agents on well-rehearsed teams they've never worked with. It'll take them precious time to get up to speed," Cavanaugh said.

"Plus, now that protectors know how it feels to be the primary targets, will they worry more for their clients or for themselves?" Rutherford wondered. "Oh, sure, they're professionals. Day in, day out, hardly anybody's braver. But how can they focus on defending strangers when they're worried that they're the ones who'll be killed or that somebody'll blow up their families? The system's dangerously overloaded."

Jamie typed more computer keys, accessing images of the crowded docks in the New Orleans area. "While we're worrying, I hope somebody's checking those ships. New Orleans has the second busiest port in the United States. A dirty bomb would be easy to smuggle in."

"We'd better get down there," Cavanaugh said.

"Maybe not." Rutherford frowned at a message he was handed. "Maybe you can help somewhere else."

"Somewhere…?"

Rutherford showed Cavanaugh the piece of paper. "As you suggested, we checked the backgrounds of new subscribers to knife magazines, especially Blade. We began a year before Duran's name disappeared from Blade's list. All the names were tracked to people with legitimate identities. Except for these three. We're still checking. We investigated so quickly that we might have made mistakes. But do any of those names and addresses mean anything to you?"

Cavanaugh stared at the names. "The last one. Robert Loveless."

"So?" Brockman asked.

"Bob Loveless was a famous knife maker. I emphasize was. He's dead,"

"Could be a coincidence," Rutherford said.

"But not at that address. It's a rural-route number near West Liberty, Iowa. That's where Lance Sawyer lived. The old man who taught Carl and me to forge blades."