The naked edge

23

Nine-thirty.

Cavanaugh and Jamie pushed through the crowd, reached the back of a large delivery truck, and showed their IDs to a camera above the rear doors. A moment later, one of the doors opened, hands helping them up.

Against the inside wall, armed men were ready in case Cavanaugh and Jamie were not who they claimed or someone charged in after them.

The truck's interior was a compact version of the communications center. Computers, two-way radios, and closed-circuit monitors seemed everywhere. An electronic glow filled the compartment. On the screens, the police and the protestors shoved at each other outside the convention center, but because the police had body armor, helmets, shields, clubs, and tasers, they had more success. The silence of the images contrasted with the tumult outside.

"I told as many as I could about the radio announcement that the conference was postponed," Jamie said.

"We've got plenty of other operators blending with the crowd, spreading the word," an FBI agent said.

"Doesn't seem to be doing any good." Cavanaugh frowned toward the violence on the monitors.

"Wait." An agent pointed.

On one of the screens, Cavanaugh saw the protestors shifting back from the police. On another screen, the shrubs that separated the four lanes of Convention Center Boulevard were becoming visible. Protestors stared both ways along the thoroughfare, baffled that the motorcade hadn't arrived.

At a two-way radio, an agent said, "I'm getting reports that portions of the crowd are beginning to realize the conference isn't going to happen."

"Look," Jamie said. "At the end of the boulevard. Near the casino. On Poydras Street. Some of them are drifting away."