The naked edge

9

With an agent in front, an agent behind, and an agent on either side, Cavanaugh and Jamie crossed the cold parking garage. Rutherford was next to them, a classic protective formation. They identified themselves to guards, entered the elevator, and rode upward in silence.

Now I know what it feels like to be a client, Cavanaugh thought.

When the stern-faced group reached the fortieth floor, they flashed their credentials to other guards. Their concealed weapons set off metal detectors as they stepped through the entrance to Global Protective Services. The receptionist's jaw dropped. Several protective agents stopped in their tracks. Crossing the brightly lit lobby, Cavanaugh barely had time to note that the damage from the explosion had been erased, the place looking splendid, as if nothing had happened. Without bothering to knock, he opened a door marked ALI KARIM and heard his personnel director tell two FBI agents who flanked him, "If you're arresting me, tell me the charges, but you can't keep me here without a reason."

Standing angrily behind his desk, Ali spun toward the suddenly opened door. "Ah," he said to Cavanaugh and Jamie as they entered, "now this all makes sense."

"Does it?" Cavanaugh asked. "All of it?"

"As I explained, Mr. Karim," one of the agents flanking him said, "we just wanted to be sure you stayed here so you could cooperate and answer questions when everyone arrived."

"Hey, nobody's better at cooperating than me." Ali glared. "Cavanaugh, you promised to keep in touch. When you didn't, I got worried that something had happened to you."

"A couple of times, something almost did."

"You didn't need to make a production about this. If you'd let me know you were coming, I'd have canceled my appointments and waited for you. Unless you don't trust me." Ali pointed toward the stocky black man next to Cavanaugh. "Who's this?"

Rutherford showed his FBI credentials.

"Does this have anything to do with Kim going into drug rehab," Ali asked.

"You know about that?"

"She phoned from the clinic. If I'd realized she was on drugs, I'd have fired her long ago. In fact, this morning I did fire her. It's too risky having her around. God knows how much tactical information she blabbed when she was drugged up. At least, we know who the security leak is."

"Actually," Cavanaugh said, "I promised Kim she could have her job back when she finished her rehab."

"What?"

"We're not certain she's the security leak."

"And just to guarantee we don't get fooled again," Jamie added, "we're instituting a new security measure: a drug-testing program."

"'We'?" Ali asked.

"Jamie's our new deputy CEO," Cavanaugh explained.

"It helps to let the personnel director know so I can get an office ready for you and spread the word and basically do my job. As far as the drug test goes, first-rate idea. I wish I'd thought of it. I'll be the first man to piss in a vial to show my loyalty. But I have to tell you, right now my loyalty's being sorely tested. Obviously, I'm not on your popularity list. What's the problem?"

"Four years ago," Cavanaugh said.

"Give me some help here. I have no idea what that means."

"You were in Rome. In charge of a team protecting a Russian oil executive."

Ali's face tightened. "That." He looked at the four agents next to Rutherford. Beyond them, GPS personnel listened at the open door. "How public do you want this to be? Do you still care about security, or are you too busy suspecting me?"

Rutherford gestured for the agents to leave.

As Cavanaugh started to close the door, Gerald Brockman came in.

"Private party?" the Afrikaner asked.

"I forgot to send you an invitation, but you might as well join the fun."

Brockman leaned against the wall and crossed his arms over his dark suit.

Cavanaugh finished closing the door and turned toward Ali. "The Russian oil executive was shot to death."

"That's right."

"While you were in his hotel suite."

"Right again. A sniper bullet through a window. One of the Russian's competitors probably ordered the hit."

"Carl Duran was part of your team."

"Duran? That son of a bitch hasn't worked for us in years. Why do you care about him?"

"The Russian," Cavanaugh said. "Tell me what happened. Why did the security fail?"

"He was one of those arrogant clients who thinks his protectors are butlers and bell hops. 'Carry my bags. Phone for diner reservations. Get my shoes polished.' I told him we did only one thing, and that was to protect, but we couldn't do that if our hands were compromised and we were distracted by silly errands. I told him, if he didn't like that idea, if he was unhappy with our security, then he should hire somebody else. I checked with Gerald-" Ali indicated Brockman leaning against the wall. "-who was my superior at the time, and he said I did exactly right."

Brockman nodded.

"The client loved his vodka," Ali said. "He also loved standing in front of his hotel suite's windows at night, grinning at the lights of Rome. I kept closing the draperies. He kept opening them. I kept telling him he had to stay away from the damned windows. One evening, when he was especially drunk, he yanked the draperies open, spread his arms toward the city lights, and told me, 'You see, nobody's out there, waiting to kill me.' 'Then why in God's name did you hire us?' I asked. 'For show,' he said. He chuckled, gulped more vodka, and told me, 'I must be important, mustn't I, if I need so much protection.' He laughed again, and that's when the bullet smashed through the window."

"The glass wasn't bullet resistant?"

"It wasn't an option. He chose the hotel. Anyway, how many hotels have that kind of glass? We wouldn't have needed bullet-resistant windows if the stupid bastard had followed instructions and kept the draperies closed. The bullet caught him here." Ali touched the middle of his forehead. "Mushroomed. Blew most of his brains out the back of his head. Working with the police, we discovered that the shot came from the roof of a building two hundred yards away. It had been raining for the previous two days and nights. The shooter must have had a poncho rigged to form a low tent. We found his dry outline where he'd been lying on the otherwise wet gravel on the roof."

"Patient man."

"Or woman," Jamie said.

Cavanaugh nodded. "Nobody's more patient than you are." He stepped toward Ali. "How did Carl Duran fit into this?"

"He was part of the security outside the Russian's suite. The sound of the bullet shattering the glass was loud enough that he heard it and charged inside."

"Wasn't the door locked?"

"Of course, it was," Ali said.

"You let him in?"

"I was too busy trying to help the Russian. When I realized I couldn't, I hurried to phone for an ambulance."

"Then Carl couldn't have gotten in unless he had a key."

"It's been a long time. But, yes, obviously he must have had a key."

Brockman straightened, pushing himself off the wall. "I was in charge of the team that investigated the shooting. There were some questions: whether Ali should have been more insistent to the Russian about staying away from the draperies, for example."

"Insistent? I did everything but put him in handcuffs!"

"But on balance, we saw it as a basic case of a client jeopardizing his own security," Brockman continued. "As for Duran, he was with a member of his team outside the suite when the bullet came through the glass. Chunks of the glass were all over the room. Clearly, the bullet came from another building. Where is all this going? Why are you so interested in Duran?"

Cavanaugh explained what they'd learned.

"He knows so much about our agents, somebody in GPS needs to be passing information to him."

"Somebody in authority," Jamie told Brockman. "We think Duran's using blackmail to get that information. The only time, you, Ali, and Duran intersected was in connection with the Russian's death, so there's a strong chance that's when the trouble started."

"You think I'm involved?" Brockman said angrily.

"No. You were second-in-command when Carl was fired. If Carl had a way to blackmail you, he'd have forced you not to fire him."

"So you're blaming me?" Ali demanded.

"You had a connection with Duran, dating back to the Russian's murder," Cavanaugh pointed out.

"Meanwhile, Kim-our company drug addict-gets a free pass?"

"She helped us," Jamie said. "In fact, she risked her life for us."

"Then what do I need to do to prove I'm not the leak? Jump off a building?"

"I don't see anything you can do," Cavanaugh told him. "Until we get this crisis settled, I'm putting you on administrative leave. We're going through all your phone records to see if you've been in contact with anyone suspicious. Jamie will analyze your computer's hard drive to retrieve emails you've erased."

"Of course, in most cases, they're never fully erased," Jamie explained.

"Why the hell don't you check my bank records, too?"

"It's being done as we speak."

Ali ran a hand through his thick, dark hair. "You know what? Shove your administrative leave. Shove your damned job." He glared at Rutherford. "Am I under arrest?"

"I don't have enough proof. "

"Then why don't all of you go fuck yourselves?"