The Naked Edge (35 page)

“The address the buyer gave was bogus.”

“What a surprise.”

“I'll bet several other phones got purchased in various other stores—by the same person using more fake names and IDs,” Rutherford said.

Police officers flanked a van. Accompanied by FBI agents, Cavanaugh, Jamie, and Rutherford scrambled inside. The moment the side door was secured, the driver headed toward an exit gate, cruisers to the front and back.

“We can't assume Carl will keep that phone much longer,” Cavanaugh said as they sped onto a freeway. “Is the satellite in position?”

“Ready and willing,” an agent answered. “The eyes and ears of the sky are aimed at New Orleans.”

“Then do it. “

The agent spoke into a walkie-talkie. “Baker to Butcher, do you copy?”

“Affirmative,” a voice replied.

“Commence tracking.”

“Tracking engaged.”

The agent nodded to Cavanaugh, who pulled out his cell phone and pressed the numbers Ali had dictated to him seconds before he was killed.

The group watched intently, but Cavanaugh was conscious only of the phone pressed against his ear and the sound of ringing at the other end.

One.

Two.

Three.

“He got rid of the phone,” Rutherford said. “If anybody does answer, it'll probably be a junkie.”

Cavanaugh's heart sped as Carl's voice said, “Hello, Aaron.”

The van swayed, veering around car lights on the freeway.

“Good guess, Carl.”

“No guessing involved. I know you, old buddy. I can predict what you'll do.”

“Same here.” Cavanaugh noted that there was something odd about the sound. He heard music and laughter in the background. Carl's voice was muffled and distant. “You were sure I'd call?”

“Unless you were interrogating Gerald Brockman, in which case you'd be a smear across a wall right now.”

Acid burned Cavanaugh's throat. He wished he could reach through the phone and—

With effort, he kept his voice steady. “You also blew apart Ali Karim, plus two protectors and a doctor.”

“Karim. Good man to work with. Knew his stuff. Sorry to hear he's gone.”

“Try to sound more sincere.”

“Who were the other . . .” Carl's voice faded, although the music and voices strangely persisted.

“I can barely hear you,” Cavanaugh said.

The voice strengthened. “Who were the other protectors?”

Cavanaugh gave their names.

“Didn't know them. They must have been brought aboard after I was fired,” Carl's voice said pointedly.

“I told you, I had nothing to do with getting you fired.”

Headlights blazing, the van veered down an exit ramp, forcing Cavanaugh to grip the wall for balance.

“But you didn't do anything to prevent it, buddy,” Carl said, “and deep in your heart, you know you could have.”

“You kept exceeding orders. You were out of control. When Duncan fired you, it was the right thing to do.”

“Ah, so finally I'm getting some truth. You
admit
you could have stuck up for me, but instead you went along with firing me.”

“The incident outside the Plaza Hotel wasn't the only time you lost control. Blame
me
? How about blaming
yourself
?”

“Take some personal responsibility, is that what you're suggesting?”

“Stop what you're doing,
that's
what I'm suggesting.”

“How long did you figure you could keep me talking?” Carl's voice asked.

“As long as it takes to persuade you to stop this.”

“Are you triangulating the signal from my cell phone, old pal? Figuring out which microwave stations are relaying my voice?”

“Needs to be done. You know the procedures in a situation like this. Nothing personal.”

“That's a laugh. You certainly proved, as far as you're concerned, nothing is ever personal. Cold, Aaron. I never realized how cold you are.”

“And
you're
not? Listen to me, Carl. Stop whatever you're doing.”

The van veered around a corner and stopped abruptly, forcing Cavanaugh to grip the wall again. Even before the vehicle was motionless, the agent in charge yanked the side door open, revealing men with rifles silhouetted by lights flashing on emergency vehicles.

“Now why would I want to stop something that took so long to set up?” Carl's voice asked.

Pressing the phone to his ear, Cavanaugh jumped to the pavement and followed agents toward a one-story brick building. The pungent smell of the nearby Mississippi filled his nostrils. “Carl, if it's me you're getting even with, name the place and the time. I'll give you all the security you want. No tricks. One on one. You can show me how much you hate me.”

An agent opened a metal door. Bright light spilled out. A huge room was filled with radio equipment, computers, video and audio recorders, and closed-circuit monitors. The screens depicted hundreds of views of the streets around the New Orleans conference center, busloads of police arriving, barricades being set up.

At least two dozen technicians worked the equipment, but as one, they became silent, turning toward Cavanaugh as he entered.

“Hate you, Aaron?” Carl's voice came from speakers next to a monitor.

A technician turned down the volume.

“The reason I'm so pissed at you is I
love
you, man. Not like I want to bang you. Not
that
kind of love. But you were the only person I felt close to, and you walked away like I had the plague. Getting even with you? No way. What I'm doing is making a point. I'm proving I'm not out of control anymore. And now that your satellite technicians had their chance to try to find where I am,
adios
.”

“Carl, wait.”

The only sound was the music and the voices.

“Carl, how do we stop this?
Tell me what you want.
”

No answer.

“Carl!” As the music and voices persisted, Cavanaugh lowered his phone. He had to leave the transmission open in case Carl said anything else. But by leaving it open, he allowed Carl the opportunity to overhear what was being said in the room.

“Clever . . .” Stifling the impulse to curse, he gave the phone to a technician and told him to take it outside.

“Do you have his location?” Rutherford asked a technician.

“The French Quarter. He must have set the phone down and walked away.”

“But why did his voice sound distant?”

“Maybe he wasn't speaking directly into the phone.”

“The signal's coming from the corner of Bourbon and St. Peter,” another technician said.

“Is there a team close to there?” Rutherford asked. “The police must have plenty of officers in the bar district.”

A third technician finished speaking into a microphone. “A half-dozen teams converged on that area during the conversation. More teams are on the way. The streets are being blocked.”

“One thing bothers me.” The first technician pointed toward a monitor that showed a map of the French Quarter and a stationary, pulsing dot.

“Only
one
thing?” Rutherford asked.

“He never moved while he was talking,” the technician said.

Jamie got it first. “Never moved? Why would he stay in one place when he knew we were using satellites to get a fix on his position?”

9

The van stopped on Chartres Street between Jackson Square and St. Louis Cathedral. Protectors converged on the vehicle as Rutherford opened the side door.

Cavanaugh stared out at the glow of streetlights, at numerous tourists passing in the shadowy background, plastic cups of beer in their hands.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Rutherford asked. “He could be baiting you.”

“I'm positive he
is
trying to bait me.”

“Then why are you playing his game?”

“Because it's the only game we have. How many agents are mingling with the crowd?”

“Almost enough that they
are
the crowd.”

Cavanaugh looked at Jamie. “Want to stay here?”

“And miss the excitement?” she answered.

“Let's hope there
isn't
any excitement.”

Flanked by agents, they got out and headed up narrow St. Peter Street. Passing the majestic cathedral and its gardens, approaching the glitter and activity of Bourbon Street, Cavanaugh slowed his pace. The sound of music and partying filled the night. Door-to-door bars and restaurants, most of them open to the street, were crammed with customers.

“If we stick together like this,” Cavanaugh told the agents, “we won't be able to surprise him.”

“But if we
don't
stick together,” one of them said, “we can't shield you.”

At night, Bourbon Street was closed to traffic. The agents scanned the raucous bars and the rowdy crowd in the middle of the street. They switched their attention to the ornate wrought iron of the numerous balconies, many of which were occupied by revelers.

Sweating, Cavanaugh crossed to where a man with a German shepherd stood next to a garbage bin. The dog's owner seemed to be enjoying the music and the enthusiasm of the crowd as were a man and woman on the other side of the bin, and another couple amused by a man dancing in the street. All of them, including the dancer, were part of the team.

The man with the dog told Cavanaugh, “Arnold here is the best in our canine unit. He never fails to locate explosives. So far, the area seems clean.” The man indicated the two couples and the dancer. “
They
have radiation and pathogen detectors. Negative readings.”

“Show us what you found,” Rutherford said.

The man and woman on the other side of the bin shifted garbage bags away, revealing two cell phones duct-taped together. There was also an apparently mystifying object next to them.

For now, Cavanaugh concentrated on the duct-taped cell phones. “Son of a . . .”

“This is one instance where I think your language is needlessly restrained,” Rutherford said.

Cavanaugh took latex gloves from a pocket and put them on, hating the chalky feel of the powder inside them. He crouched, removed his compact flashlight from his belt, and studied the phones taped together. Their ear and mouth areas were positioned against one another.

An agent lowered his phone and said, “One of the phones is still on. Back at headquarters, they hear our voices coming through it.”

Cavanaugh looked at the man with the German shepherd. “Have Arnold sniff this again for explosives.”

“Happy to.”

Then Cavanaugh asked the couples near him, “How about another scan with those detectors?”

They obliged, but the readings on the handheld monitors continued to be negative for radiation and pathogens. They did it so discreetly that the hundreds of tourists who passed them didn't notice.

Cavanaugh picked up the phones, holding them at the bottom where he was less likely to smudge fingerprints. He unclipped his knife from his pants. After studying the way the phones were secured face-to-face, he sliced the duct tape, separating the two.

“The second phone is on, also. It's receiving a signal,” Cavanaugh said, pointing toward the lit display screen.

“It would require
three
phones,” Jamie said.

Cavanaugh nodded.

“The one you called,“ Jamie said. “The one taped to it. And a third phone that Carl used to phone the second one.”

Again, Cavanaugh nodded.

“I'm missing something,” an agent said. “What are you talking about?”

“Carl assumed I'd eventually call the number for the phone he used to contact Brockman. He knew Brockman's caller ID would keep a record of the number, but even if both Brockman's phones were destroyed in the explosion, the phone company would still have a record.”

“Okay, I'm with you so far,” the agent said.

“Carl and a companion waited for the call.” Jamie pointed toward one of the phones. “Before Carl answered it, he turned on the second phone. Then he used a third phone to call this second one. He put the first and second phones together and used the third phone to relay his voice through the second into the first. While he spoke, a companion taped the phones together so they'd be secure. Then Carl and his companion hid the phones behind these garbage bags and walked away.”

The agent nodded. “Because we didn't have information about the third phone, he could talk to you as long as he wanted, without worrying that we'd use a satellite to track him wherever he was talking—probably outside the French Quarter.”

“And he's listening to us right now,” Cavanaugh said.

Rutherford straightened. Cavanaugh noted with approval that the agents kept their attention where it belonged: on the crowd and the raucous buildings along the street.

“Isn't that right, Carl?” Cavanaugh said into the second phone. “You're listening to us right now.”

He didn't get an answer, but a slight electronic hiss told him that the connection was still active. He showed the phone's display to the agent in contact with the communications center.

Noting the incoming number, the agent stepped away from the group so that he wouldn't be heard when he told the communications center the new phone number. They would track its signal.

“Are you there, Carl?” Cavanaugh asked.

Again, he didn't receive a reply.

“I hope you're having fun listening to us.”

“What about the other thing he left?” Rutherford asked.

“The knife?” Cavanaugh referred to the apparently mystifying object.

“Yeah. It's one of the meanest-looking blades I've ever seen.”

Cavanaugh picked it up. His latex gloves protected him from any dermal poison that Carl might have put on it. “It's called a ‘khukri’.”

The knife had an impressive ivory handle and a thirteen-inch blade. What made the blade intimidating was that it curved like a sickle. It was designed for chopping, its sweet spot almost anywhere along its curve.

“The Gurkhas use these,” Cavanaugh said.

Rutherford nodded. The Gurkhas were a military tribe in Nepal. Their main source of income came from being mercenaries in various armies. They never drew their knives unless they intended to draw blood, and if they didn't wound or kill an enemy, they allegedly felt obligated to draw blood from themselves.