The naked edge

5

His eyes feeling raw, Cavanaugh peered toward painful sunlight seeping past the draperies. With effort, he got out of bed. He opened the door a crack and saw a different pair of armed agents in the living room. With the attentiveness of their predecessors, they watched the numerous surveillance monitors.

Cavanaugh shifted his gaze toward a different area in the living room and saw Jamie seated at a table, tapping on a computer. Rutherford stood behind her, watching her fingers work magic. Jamie's fresh jeans and turtleneck were part of the safe-site resources.

He took the longest, hottest shower of his life, but tension insisted. He couldn't keep his mind off everything that had happened. Damn it, what was Carl's objective?

Khaki slacks and a brown shirt were on a bureau, along with fresh underwear and socks. Motivated by a sudden idea, he dressed so hurriedly that he continued to button his shirt as he walked into the living room.

"Morning, sleepy head." Jamie kept her gaze on the computer screen.

"Did I miss anything?"

"Breakfast."

"We left you a doughnut," Rutherford said.

"Haven't you heard of Dr. Atkins?" Cavanaugh picked up the phone and pressed the numbers for information. "Cincinnati, Ohio," he told a computerized voice. "F and W Publications."

Jamie and Rutherford looked at him.

"F and W Publications," a cheery voice said.

"Blade magazine. Steve Shackleford," Cavanaugh said.

"One moment please."

Cavanaugh said a silent prayer that Steve wouldn't be out of his office on an assignment. Blade was a favorite magazine of knife enthusiasts, but it was a mistake to imagine a redneck, good-old-boy reader with biker's boots, a beer gut, and a chain leading from his thick wallet to his belt. Instead, most of Blade's 40,000 subscribers were attorneys, physicians, computer experts, and other white-collar professionals, their average income in six figures: a subscription base that many magazines envied. The magazine's avid readers had knife collections they'd assembled with the care of sophisticated art collectors.

Some of the knives were treasured antique Bucks, evoking pleasant memories of trusty jackknives from a happy childhood. Others were pocket knives crafted so painstakingly and with such elegance, those by Michael Vagnino, for example, that collectors who'd paid $2,000 for one of his folders felt lucky to have gotten a bargain now that he'd risen to the top of his field.

Some knives were valued because of the life-experience they symbolized, Vietnam veterans treasuring the rugged Ka-Bar combat knife that, in many instances, had meant the difference between death and survival. Other knives were valued because of their current reputation as a dependable tactical knife, those by Ernest Emerson, for instance, who in 1991 handcrafted tactical knives for soldier friends departing to the Gulf War. These soldiers bragged to their comrades about how well designed the knives were. Eventually, Emerson received so many orders that he shifted from making knives by hand to manufacturing them in a factory, with the goal of proving that, with proper diligence, a factory-made knife could have the quality of a forged one. He followed the example of Al Mar, a former Green Beret who in the late 1970s pioneered the modern tactical folder and became known as the father of specialty knives. An original Al Mar or Ernest Emerson knife had an auction price of several thousand dollars.

Still other knives were prized because of their place in popular culture. The prop knives for the film The Iron Mistress were diligently acquired by Hollywood production-artist Joseph Musso: a wooden version, a rubber version, an unfinished steel version used in a forging scene, and the magnificent fully realized knife. Musso's unique collection traveled to various museums, including one in San Antonio, Texas, the site of the Alamo, where Jim Bowie had died. Musso's love for the Iron Mistress prompted him to allow skilled bladesmiths to study the knife and its studio blueprints. Copies by George Cooper, Joe Keeslar, and Gil Hibben were better made than the original and highly prized. This was the world that Cavanaugh needed to tap into as he listened to the other phone ring.

"Steve Shackleford." The pleasant voice had a Tennessee accent.

Thank God, Cavanaugh thought.

"Steve, it's Aaron Stoddard."

Both Jamie and John straightened, frowning at one another, so unusual was it for Cavanaugh to use his real name.

"Aaron, what a surprise. I haven't talked to you in… It has to be three years."

"The last time I was at the Blade Show in Atlanta," Cavanaugh said. Of the numerous knife-enthusiast conventions, the Blade Show was the hugest, with more than ten thousand attendees.

"I was afraid you'd dropped off the face of the Earth" Steve's voice said.

"Not quite. I had a lot of obligations at the ranch." As far as Steve knew, Cavanaugh was a cattleman, thus explaining the Wyoming address. "But when I told you I was a rancher, I was really referring to a sideline. My main work is in the security field."

"Oh?" A moment's thought was broken with, "I guess you get a lot of use for knives in that kind of work."

"More than you can imagine. I need a favor."

Steve sounded wary. "What kind?"

"Your magazine's subscription list."

"You've got to be kidding."

"Names, addresses, phone numbers if you've got them. The works."

"That's confidential information, my friend. I can't just… What sort of security work did you say you did?"

"Why don't I let the FBI's director of counterterrorism explain it to you? I think you're going to hear the words 'federal government' and 'national security'."

Cavanaugh gave the phone to John.