The naked edge

THE MOST EXPENSIVE KNIFE IN THE WORLD
1

"What you did to me…" Brockman's features were contorted with pain. "None of it matters. I can bear anything."

"Certainly," Ali said.

It had been a long, painful night.

"I'm as tough as you are. If I talk, it's not because you got the better of me."

"Of course not."

"Carl Duran matters."

"Then we'll need to make sure he keeps away from you."

"The only way to guarantee that is to kill him," Brockman said.

"Tell me what you know. I'll see what I can arrange."

"Don't you think I had plans to kill him? But first, you need to find the bastard." Strapped to the flex machine, Brockman's body was rigid with anguish. "And if anything happens to him, he left instructions for someone he trusts to release documents. About me."

"Unless you tell me, I can't help you."

Brockman took a long breath. "Duran had nothing to do with the hit on the Russian."

Ali leaned forward, concentrating to hear Brockman's faint words.

"I did," Brockman said. "I arranged the hit on the Russian."

The revelation was far from what Ali expected. Concealing his surprise, he asked, "You? Why?"

"Money."

"We get paid a lot."

"Not enough to risk our lives for strangers. Not those kinds of strangers. Do you ever hate them?"

"Hate?"

"I grew up in Pretoria." Anger cut through Brockman's pain. "In the alleys. I fought for a cardboard box to sleep in, for the rags on my back, for every scrap of food I managed to get my hands on." As sweat ran down his face, Brockman stared fiercely ahead. "When I got big enough, I thought, 'Hell, I've been fighting all my life. Might as well join the military.'" He took another anguished breath. "Turned out I was right-it wasn't any worse than what I'd already been through. In many ways, it was better. All the shit I had to do to qualify for special ops. Nights in the bush country with wild fires. Water holes dry. The petrol my instructors put in the only food I'd been given to eat. Even then, it was still better." Brockman's eyes were fierce. "Because I proved I was special. Because I had something to be proud of. My discipline. My skills."

Brockman's voice cracked. Ali put the straw in his mouth, letting him drink.

"Then I got too old," Brockman said. "Thirty. Too old. Shit. So I went to work for GPS," he said with contempt, "and was assigned to protect some of the most wealthy, attractive, and powerful people in the world. I'd read about people like that. But nothing prepared me for meeting them. They owned penthouses, villas, jets, yachts, islands, anything they wanted. In a world of poverty, starvation, and pain, they were blessed." Brockman inhaled. "They took it for granted. Vain, arrogant, domineering, greedy, and disgusting. I hated them."

Ali used a cool washcloth to rub sweat from Brockman's face.

"When I left the commandos, all I had were scars and empty pockets. These people had everything, but they didn't have the character to deserve it. The worst of them, the biggest pig of tall, was that Russian."

Ali listened harder.

"I'd been assigned to him two years earlier, before I was promoted. His language was filthy. His manners were…" Brockman faltered. "Shouting, bragging, insulting. I once saw him vomit in the middle of a business dinner. On the floor next to him. 'Must have been the red wine with the fish,' he said, and told the waiter to bring him more vodka. He was a subhuman who'd bullied his way into an oil fortune."

Bound rigidly to the machine, Brockman tried to lower his eyes toward his swollen knees. "Do you think they can be repaired, or will I be crippled?"

Ali didn't answer.

"Well, my days of jumping from aircraft were probably over anyhow." Brockman stared into an imaginary distance. "I wanted what those clients had. The penthouses, the yachts, the villas, the islands. I overheard stock tips every day. These people made fortunes on insider knowledge. So when I learned about a drug company that would soon be bought by a rival for double its value, I invested everything I had in it. I borrowed heavily." Brockman lapsed into a self-hating chuckle. "The stock tip was only a rumor. The drug company went bankrupt. I lost it all."

"Rough break," Ali said.

"Wasn't it, though. The next time the Russian hired GPS to protect him…"

"The Rome assignment? The one I worked on?"

"Yes." As Ali wiped more sweat from his face, Brockman said, "The Russian's enemies were expert. They needed someone familiar with how he was protected." Another self-hating chuckle. "Somehow they got word of how much I hated the Russian. Somehow they learned about how desperate I was for money. I often wonder if they didn't arrange for me to hear the stock tip about the drug company."

"They set you up?"

Brockman tried to shrug, but he was bound too tightly to the machine. "They promised to pay off my debt. They promised to set my finances back the way they'd been. All I needed to do was arrange for a man I despised to be killed."

"You were in New York while I was in charge of his protective team in Rome," Ali said. "Every time I reported to you, you told the hit team what I said."

"You kept telling me that he wouldn't stay away from the windows in his hotel suite."

"So you passed that information on, telling the sniper where to take his position?"

"It was so easy," Brockman said. "The son of a bitch was no longer on the planet, and my debts vanished."

"Carl Duran had nothing to do with the hit?"

"Nothing. He had no influence on me. When he sliced up that stalker in front of the Plaza Hotel, I didn't have the slightest reason to keep him from being fired."

"Then how does this relate to…"

"The damned sniper. After Duran was fired, after he went to work for a drug lord in Colombia, he and the sniper crossed paths." Brockman's voice became thicker, sounding as if he'd swallowed sand.

"Try," Ali said, giving him more water. "We're almost there. This'll soon be over. Tell me about the sniper."

"Duran and the sniper compared notes, talking about former assignments."

"The sniper told Duran about your involvement in the Russian's death?"

"Everything." Brockman grimaced with self-loathing. "Duran threatened to expose me. At the least, it would have put me in prison. More than likely, it would have gotten me killed. The Russian had two brothers almost as vicious as he was. They'd have…" Brockman's voice trailed off.

"You didn't see an alternative. You had to let Duran blackmail you into providing information about our agents and their assignments."

"So there you have it," Brockman said with greater self-disgust.

"No, I don't have it. Why is Duran doing this?"

Brockman didn't answer, so Ali shoved the rag back into his mouth and pulled handles on the flex machine. Five minutes later, after tearing Brockman's left rotator cuff, after Brockman completed his silent scream, Ali removed the gag.

"Why is he doing this?"

"I don't know."

Ali reached for the handles on the machine.

"But I've got a strong suspicion."

When Brockman told him, Ali felt his stomach turn cold.