The naked edge

19

Old San Francisco. Eighteen forty-eight.

The village had a population of about four hundred people when gold was discovered at Sutter's Mill a hundred miles away. Within a year, two hundred thousand miners passed through San Francisco on their way to the gold fields. The town was so undeveloped that necessities had to be brought in by ship.

Knives were some of those necessities. In the east, most communities had blacksmiths who could forge crude blades, but quality knives needed to be imported from manufacturers in England. Suddenly, in San Francisco, a market developed for thousands of knives, dependable ones, blades that could be trusted to hold an edge while they pried nuggets from a stream and protected those nuggets from thieves.

A shipment of knives took a year to travel from England to San Francisco. Seizing the opportunity, knife makers began setting up forges and charging top dollar. Soon a distinctive style and a high level of expertise became common. One of those knife makers was Michael Price, who came to San Francisco in the mid 1850s and whose clients were some of the richest, most powerful men in the community.

Judges, bankers, merchants, and real-estate moguls were wealthy beyond their fantasies. To show it, they dressed extravagantly, including the knives they carried for self-defense. Michael Price's elegant designs were characterized by a handle made of gold, diamonds, mother of pearl, and other precious materials. The blade was enclosed in an elaborately engraved silver sheath attached prominently to a dress belt. Customers vied with each other to have the most beautiful, subtle, and yet ostentatious knife.

"They're proof that knives can be works of art," Cavanaugh said. "Knife collectors search for them. Recently, a Michael Price dagger sold at auction for almost a hundred thousand dollars. One way master blade smiths prove their skill is by replicating a Michael Price knife."

Cavanaugh pointed toward the knife in the box. "Carl did it flawlessly. At the back of the handle, you see that screw? If you detach it, you can take the handle apart and spread it out in small pieces: the grip, the bands that hold it onto the tang, the various fittings that form the guard. Each of those tiny parts is perfectly crafted."

As if hypnotized, Jamie reached for it.

Cavanaugh stopped her. "I don't think that's a good idea."

"Why?"

"The blade should be gleaming. It should have a satin polish. But it doesn't. Its finish is dull."

Still wanting to touch the enticing knife, Jamie said, "Sure. It has dust on it."

"After a day?" Cavanaugh said. "There wouldn't be that much dust. No, Carl put something on it. Probably the handle, also. I'm betting it's some kind of topical poison, something that the pathogen detectors haven't been programmed for. You wouldn't need to cut yourself. Skin contact would be enough. You'd probably die instantly."

Jamie jerked her hand away. "Playing with us. Showing how smart he is. He's pissed at being rejected, and he's getting back at everybody."

Cavanaugh re-read the letter. "He says that in two days he's going to disappear. The message is dated a day ago. So tomorrow, something's going to happen."

"New Orleans. The World Trade Organization," Jamie said.

Cavanaugh's cell phone rang. Reluctant to be distracted, he looked at its screen. The name made him frown. "Ali Karim."

He pressed a button and said to the phone, "There's no point in trying to persuade me to change my mind. I can't even think about reinstating you until we finish the investigation."

"Yeah, well, I believe you'll reinstate me a lot sooner than that," Ali's voice said. "I just had a heart-to-heart talk with Gerald. He says you figured out Carl Duran is arranging an attack in New Orleans. The World Trade Organization."

Cavanaugh cut him off. "If you're the security leak, you knew that already."

"Every available agent's been sent there, right?" Ali's voice asked. "Ditto the Secret Service, the Diplomatic Security Service, and the U.S. Marshals."

"I can't discuss any of it," Cavanaugh told him.

"Then let's discuss this," Ali's voice ordered. "The agents are the real targets."

A chill made Cavanaugh's chest contract.

"Stay away from New Orleans." Ali's voice rose. "That's where Carl Duran wants everybody to go. It's a trap." PART SEVEN: