The naked edge

THE IRON MISTRESS
1

Rutherford almost drove past the place before he noticed it. It was in a seedy section of Alexandria, Virginia, a locale so unexpected that he was sure he'd misunderstood the address he'd been given. But then he looked harder and spotted the Hideaway Motel between a massage parlor and a porn-video shop. Shaking his head at what he hoped wasn't a practical joke, he turned left at the next intersection. He went up and down several streets at random and watched his rearview mirror to check if he was being followed. Finally, he headed back to the motel and steered into its lot, where he parked next to a Dumpster and knocked on a door.

Winos, drug dealers, and gang members watched as it opened and Jamie smiled.

Stepping in, Rutherford surveyed the grimy floor, cracked mirror, and sunken mattress. Years of cigarette smoke permeated the walls. He nodded to Cavanaugh, who stood behind the door, ready with his pistol in case Rutherford had unfriendly escorts.

"Homey," Rutherford said.

"Nobody here thinks it's strange if we pay with cash instead of a credit card," Jamie said, locking the door.

"They probably think you're a hooker."

"As long as we don't leave a paper trail, I don't even care if they think I'm a lobbyist." Jamie pointed toward a thick manila envelope Rutherford held. "What did you learn?"

"Gerald Brockman made several disastrous investments. He borrowed money to buy on margin. When the market collapsed, he needed to pay off the loans. Basically, he's broke."

"So, when Duncan was killed, Brockman might have hoped he'd inherit Global Protective Services," Cavanaugh said. "Except, he had reason to suspect someone named Aaron Stoddard was set to inherit. Maybe he decided that getting rid of Stoddard would move him to the front of the line."

"Who's Aaron Stoddard?"

"Me," Cavanaugh said. "That's my real name. Word's getting around fast enough, you might as well be in on the secret."

"Your real name?"

"From time to time, it does a person good to be somebody else."

"Not me. I'm still trying to figure out how to be John Rutherford."

"What did you learn about Kim Lee?" Jamie asked.

"She has a drug problem."

"What?"

"Two years ago, she fractured a spinal disc during a martial-arts competition. Now she's addicted to big-time painkillers like OxyContin, so many pills a day that she needs a black-market supply."

"But she never gave the slightest indication."

"Some don't. If her stash runs out, though, she'll give you plenty of indication when she climbs the walls during withdrawal. It's as bad as trying to withdraw from heroin. Someone wanting information about Global Protective Services could blackmail her to supply it."

"What about Ali Karim?"

"So far, he appears to be squeaky clean."

"For a change, good news," Cavanaugh said. "And what about Carl Duran?"

"As you mentioned, after he got fired from GPS, he worked as the director of security for a Colombian drug lord." Rutherford paused for emphasis. "Until two years ago."

"What happened then?"

"He disappeared."

Cavanaugh frowned. "You mean his boss suddenly mistrusted him and had him killed?"

"No. There's not even a hint of that. We've got an informant who says Carl was considered irreplaceable. He was so furious about the way legitimate protectors turned against him that he went in the opposite direction and made the drug lord's security the best in the business. He even got his pilot's license so he could handle the drug lord's private jet in an emergency. Then one day, he was gone."

"Did your informant say if anything unusual happened before Carl disappeared?"

"As a matter of fact, he said the compound had a visitor. The newcomer was so important that the cartel's leader went out to meet the helicopter."

"Any idea who he was?"

"Not by name. But even after two years, the informant remembers what he looked like."

"Hard to believe," Jamie said.

"Not when you hear the description. The guy was in his forties. With a mustache. Solidly built. Intense eyes. Dark complexion. Serious expression."

"Doesn't help us."

"He came from Iraq," Rutherford said.

"Iraq," Cavanaugh repeated in surprise.

"Yeah, they don't see a lot of guys from that part of the world paying visits to drug-cartel compounds in South America," Rutherford said.

"At least, they didn't before nine eleven."

Jamie looked mystified.

Rutherford explained. "After the attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon, we started the in-depth investigation we should have been doing all along. Extreme religious terrorist groups figure that because we're corrupt, depraved infidels, they'll attack us through our corruption. A lot of terrorist funding comes through proceeds from prostitution and drugs."

"Drugs. A reason to pay attention to Kim," Jamie said.

"The stranger spent a lot of time talking to Carl," Rutherford continued. "The next morning, Carl and the newcomer were gone."

"So Carl was recruited because of his deep understanding of how the legitimate security community works," Cavanaugh said. "But he can't be doing this on his own. Too many agents have died. He can't be everywhere. He needs help. Trained help. Like the team who attacked us in Jackson Hole."

"Jackson Hole? You'd better bring me up to speed on that."

Cavanaugh told Rutherford about the incident.

"The men I shot turned out to have been released from prison, all within the past six weeks. They were each in a different prison, and it doesn't seem they'd ever met before they were convicted."

"So what brought them together after they were released?" Rutherford wanted to know.

"Maybe the right word is who brought them together," Cavanaugh answered. "And how did Carl change them so rapidly that in six weeks they became operators instead of thugs?"