The Naked Edge Read online

  The movie star surprised Dominic by being polite and compliant, not at all what he was used to when protecting celebrities. Her name was Shana Lane. Twenty-one, with a knock-’em-dead figure, she'd had five hit movies, one of them good enough to earn her an Oscar nomination. But then she disappeared for a long, hot summer. After police, private investigators, and the media looked everywhere, she finally turned up drugged out of her mind, staggering down the main drag of a small town in Nova Scotia, Canada, where she was on her way, she thought, to buy a race horse. Nobody, including herself, was ever able to figure that out. The authorities did some investigative backtracking and found the cottage where she was staying with her boyfriend.

  A possessive boyfriend, who was also a crack addict. They returned to Los Angeles after paying fines and listening to a judge's lecture about the pointlessness of wasting a talented life. But despite Shana's determination to clean up her life and sever their relationship, the boyfriend persisted in wanting to see her. He showed his love and determination by burning her BMW and strangling her cat, then vanished and waited until the police became weary of guarding her.

  That was where Dominic came in. For an enormous fee paid by a movie studio desperate to protect its investment, Dominic and five other protectors went to Shana's film location in Mexico. Working in shifts of two, they made sure the boyfriend didn't show up. They made sure of something else—that, in keeping with the plot line of a movie about drug smugglers, Shana didn't get tempted to go back to sampling the real stuff.

  To Dominic's amazement, Shana behaved in an exemplary fashion, following instructions, arriving at the set on time, with her lines prepared, never once complaining about the twelve-hour shooting schedule and the rigid control of her time off the set. Sundays were her only free days, and she used them (accompanied by Dominic and another protector) to buy rugs, pottery, and carved animals from nearby towns or to visit Oaxaca's baroque cathedral, the vaulted interior of which had dazzling gold ornaments.

  On this, his second-last evening of the assignment, Dominic and another protector stood separately at the shadowy sides of the Hotel Victoria's patio restaurant, watching the various approaches to it as Shana and the film's director ate dinner together. On a lower level, cast members splashed in a swimming pool.

  Then dusk thickened. Dominic and his fellow protector escorted Shana to her room, one of a series in a long low building next to the restaurant. Pleasant-smelling flowers lined the softly lit walkway. While his partner watched the approaches to the building, Dominic unlocked and entered Shana's room, making certain that it was safe for her.

  Only when they heard Shana secure the numerous locks on her door did the two protectors relax.

  “After we escort her back to the States, do you have another assignment?” Dominic asked his partner.

  “No. I'm thinking about coming back here with my wife. What are your plans?”

  “New Orleans. I'm scheduled to be part of the security at the World Trade Organization conference. After the devastation from Hurricane Katrina, the WTO wants to show support for the New Orleans recovery effort by meeting there.”

  “The last time I worked at a World Trade conference, the protestors rioted and shut down the city. Talk about an elevated threat level. I was on Condition Orange for a week. Then I slept for a week.”

  They pulled out their room keys and unlocked the units that flanked Shana's. From there, they could easily get to her if she pressed a button linked to alarms in their rooms. When they opened their separate doors, they encountered the embodiment of a local proverb, You won't find a doctor to cure a bite from this snake, as a machete hissed toward each of them, slicing off their heads.

  2

  The fourth major airport in the New York City area (after Kennedy, La Guardia, and Newark International) was Teterboro, a so-called “reliever” airstrip that catered to charter, corporate, and private jets, relieving congestion from the larger airports. From there, a twelve-mile drive via the George Washington Bridge could have taken Cavanaugh to Global Protective Services’ corporate offices in midtown Manhattan. But because the attack team might have anticipated that he was headed in that direction and might have put Teterboro under surveillance, he decided against the risk of using an automobile and instead took a helicopter.

  Manhattan had three heliports. Cavanaugh chose the one farthest from GPS headquarters, reasoning that it was the least likely to be under surveillance. An armored van drove him and the others through sparse midnight traffic to the secure garage under the Madison Avenue building in which GPS had its fortieth-floor offices. A team was expecting the van's arrival. They escorted Cavanaugh and his group into the elevator and through the upper security checkpoints.

  The view from the conference room was spectacular, lights gleaming throughout the city. But even though the windows had bullet-resistant glass, Cavanaugh pressed a button that closed the draperies the moment he and the group entered the room, the draperies so thick that silhouettes couldn't be seen through them. He glanced at the plush carpeting and oak-paneled walls. Every chair at the long conference table had its own computer terminal and phone console, one of which he used to summon three GPS officers who'd been alerted to remain after business hours.

  “Looks like you're settling into authority nicely,” William said.

  “How do we make it official? Don't you have documents for me to sign?”

  “I instructed my assistant to go to my office and bring them,” William answered. “He ought to arrive shortly.”

  “It can't happen soon enough.”

  “Mrs. Patterson, if you want to get some sleep, we can find an empty office that has a couch,” Jamie offered.

  “Thanks, but I napped on the plane.” Mrs. Patterson clearly didn't want to miss anything.

  But Cavanaugh couldn't allow it. “This is where you need to step out of the loop. The less you know, the better it is for you.”

  She looked crestfallen.

  “Think of it this way,” Jamie said. “You had an interesting ride while it lasted.”

  “Interesting? I'm having trouble understanding why, as frightened as I was, it was just about the most exciting time of my life.”

  “Winston Churchill once said, ‘There's nothing more exciting than to be shot at and to survive.’ The thing is,” Cavanaugh added, “we don't want to get excited like that too often. William, when did Duncan put me in his will?”

  “A month before he died. Why do you ask?”

  Three people entered the office.

  The first was from East Indian parentage, born in Akron, Ohio. Late-thirties. Short, thick, black hair. Compact build. Strong, square face. Steady, dark eyes. Muscular shoulders. His name was Ali Karim, and when he'd served on a Special Forces team, his specialties were languages, medicine, and explosives, as well as the ability to blend into an Asian environment. He was currently in charge of recruiting, training, and monitoring GPS's protective agents.

  The second person was Chinese, female, early thirties. Kim Lee. Raised in Seattle. Her lustrous black hair hung to her waist. Five feet four, slender, with thin, delicate but attractive features, she looked too vulnerable to work for a security corporation. But anyone who acted on the foolish assumption that she was defenseless quickly discovered that she was a black-belt instructor of aikido and jeet kune do. She was one of the few employees of GPS who had not been in special operations, but her expertise didn't require military training. Duncan had hired her because she was once a notorious computer hacker and virus designer, skills highly desirable in a company that defended against electronic assaults as well as physical ones. Cavanaugh wondered how Kim and Jamie would get along inasmuch as Jamie, too, was a computer specialist.

  The third person was white. Gerald Brockman. Early forties. A handsome, solidly built Afrikaner who once belonged to South Africa's Reconnaissance Commandos: experts in working behind enemy lines in the most hostile outdoor environment. One of the unit's endurance tests involved surviving for
five days among the lions, elephants, and fires of Africa's bush country with no food except a tin of condensed milk, half a day's ration pack, and twelve biscuits, the bulk of which students discovered to their dismay had been soaked in petrol by their instructors. In addition to his elite military background, Brockman had superior administration skills that qualified him to be the interim CEO of the company.

  All three paused. Special operators were trained to control their emotions. Even so, it was clear that they were surprised.

  “Cavanaugh?” Brockman stared.

  When William had contacted Global Protective Services, he'd followed Cavanaugh's instructions and told Brockman only that William would be arriving with the new owner.

  Brockman looked at Jamie and Mrs. Patterson, eliminated them from the possibilities, and said, “You're the new CEO?”

  “But . . .” Kim turned her attention to the attorney. “William, for the past five months, you've been asking me to search our computer records for someone named Aaron Stoddard. I got the impression he was the person Duncan willed the company to.”

  “That's true,” William replied. “Now that I have my client's permission, I can finally tell you—Aaron Stoddard inherited GPS.”

  “I'm Aaron Stoddard,” Cavanaugh said.

  The room became silent.

  “I had a theory that a protector would be vulnerable if the bad guys learned about his private life,” he explained. “Pressure could be put on his family and friends in order to put pressure on him. So I decided to use a pseudonym.”

  “But how could the bad guys get that information?” Ali asked. “Between Kim and me, those records are absolutely secure.”

  “Wrong,” Cavanaugh told him. “Yesterday, a hit team attacked my home.”

  “What?”

  “My home, for God's sake. The deed's in Aaron Stoddard's name. The people where I live know me only as Aaron Stoddard.” Anger forced Cavanaugh to work to control his breathing. “But somehow the hit team found me. The only way that could have happened is through GPS's search for somebody with that name.”

  “What about William's office?” Ali suggested. “William's the one who started the search.”

  “I assure you I informed no one, other than the three of you, that it was essential to find a man named Aaron Stoddard.” William turned toward Cavanaugh. “For reasons of confidentiality, I couldn't mention the terms of Duncan's will. But they quickly made the connection.”

  “What the hell are you implying?” Brockman demanded. “That we sent the hit team to keep you from inheriting the company? To give us a chance to gain control of it?”

  “Until now, the thought hadn't even occurred to me,” Cavanaugh lied.

  “This is bullshit.” Ali's perfect American idiom contrasted with his East Indian features. “As if we don't have enough problems, now we've got a guy who told us he doesn't want to be in the business any longer who decides he does want to be in the business and comes back to tell us we're all working for the other side.”

  “Time out,” Cavanaugh said.

  “It really is bullshit,” Ali insisted.

  “Honestly, time out. Did Duncan keep any whiskey around here?”

  “You've become a drinker?” Kim asked in astonishment.

  “No,” Cavanaugh said, “but maybe if we hit each other over the head with the bottle long enough, we'll start talking sense. Duncan trusted the three of you absolutely. I trust you absolutely. But that doesn't change the security breach we need to find, and it doesn't change the problem I've got. Somebody's hunting me, somebody with a lot of money and resources. Just because the first attempt failed doesn't mean the threat's over. I've got to believe there'll be another attack, bigger and better organized.”

  Brockman ran a hand across his shaved head. Ali exhaled slowly.

  “Sorry,” Kim said. “I guess we're all reacting to stress.”

  After a knock on the door, a security guard brought in a package. “Mr. Faraday's assistant delivered this.”

  Cavanaugh gave the bulging, legal-sized envelope to William, who spread the contents onto the conference table.

  “Where do I put my autograph?” Cavanaugh asked.

  “Aren't you going to read it first? As your lawyer, I strongly advise you to study what you're signing.”

  “Is there anything in it you don't approve of?”

  “It's elegantly simple. You accept the bequest. You assume control of the company, with all its assets and, I emphasize, its liabilities.”

  “Yesterday, you told me Duncan made some questionable business decisions.”

  “He expanded the company too quickly. London, Paris, Rome, Hong Kong. The new office planned for Tokyo. Granted, after nine/eleven, first-rate security has never been in greater demand. But right now, GPS has more money going out than coming in. There's a risk of bankruptcy.”

  “Bankruptcy?” Ali frowned at Brockman. “Nobody told me anything about—”

  Cavanaugh signed the document.

  “We need a witness.” William looked at Jamie. “But it can't be your wife.”

  “Wife?” Kim looked stunned.

  “Hell, I'll do it,” Mrs. Patterson said, happy to have continued to be part of the group. She signed where William indicated.

  “So the company's mine now?” Cavanaugh asked William.

  “Down to the paper clips and the water coolers.”

  “Then let's get started. Gerald, cancel the Tokyo office. Merge the Paris office with the one in Rome. Ali, Mrs. Patterson needs to be protected around the clock. Put her in a safe site.”

  “And assign some handsome young men to watch her,” Jamie said.

  “William needs a safe site, too,” Cavanaugh added. “The hit team can use both of them to get at me. Kim, do a computer search on every assignment I ever had. There's a chance the attack on me was meant to keep me quiet about something I learned. I want the best protectors to escort Jamie and me. Send for Rob Miller, Dominic Benuto, Hans Dietrich, and . . .”

  The somber looks he received made him stop.

  He suddenly processed two incongruous statements that Ali and Kim had made. Ali had said, “As if we don't have enough problems.” Kim had said, “I guess we're all reacting to stress.”

  “What's wrong?” he asked.

  Kim drew a breath. “Except for Eddie, they're all dead. Within the past twenty-four hours.”

  At first, Cavanaugh was certain he hadn't heard correctly.

  “Miller was in Venice, protecting a corporate executive and his wife,” Ali explained. “Dominic was in Oaxaca, escorting a movie star. The others were on equally unrelated assignments. All of them were killed with sharp-edged weapons.”

  Cavanaugh leaned forward, pressing his hands on the table.

  “All the blades were covered with a rapid-acting poison,” Kim added.

  Cavanaugh couldn't speak.

  “The clients survived.” Brockman sounded troubled. “They weren't harmed in the least. Nobody attacked them.”

  “Nobody? But that doesn't make sense,” William objected.

  “Sure, it does,” Cavanaugh said. “If the clients weren't attacked, it means the protectors were the targets.”

  “But why not just use guns?”

  “Because there's something creepily intimate about being stabbed,” Cavanaugh replied. “A victim often doesn't feel the cuts or have any idea how serious the wound might be. There's a video that knife trainers use. The tape came from a security camera mounted to the ceiling of a bar in California. You see a bunch of Anglo tough guys beating up a short Latino man. They really put the boots to him. Finally, the worst of the attackers has the Latino on the bar's pool table, wailing the hell out of him. On the video, you see a little movement to the left, the Latino's hand trying to get out from under the bad guy, struggling to reach into his jean's pocket. Then you see a lot of quick little movements. The hand's a blur. Then the bad guy straightens, as if he pounded the Latino as much as he wanted to. He turns, and his
stomach's wide open, but he's in shock and doesn't know he's been cut. Everybody runs. The bad guy looks puzzled by their reaction and walks over to the bar. He sits down. The Latino, who's covered with blood, gets off the pool table, puts his knife in his pocket, straightens his clothes, and walks out. The bad guy sitting at the bar orders a drink. He's still in so much shock that he doesn't know how many times he's been cut. He sits there a moment longer, shakes his head as if he's a little confused about something, and falls over dead.”

  William looked appalled.

  “Most security personnel are so worried about a knife threat, they make sure they carry at least one knife so they can scare somebody with it if the situation gets that bad. Several knives are preferable so you've got a better chance of drawing one of them. Attached to a break-away chain around the neck.” Cavanaugh opened his shirt, displaying a short, black knife in a nylon scabbard: part of the contents of the Gulfstream's bug-out bag. It was called La Griffe, a French word for “talon,” which described its shape.

  “And here.” Jamie pulled back her blazer, showing William a utility knife holstered above her left hip, something else from the bug-out bag.

  “And here.” Cavanaugh unclipped a five-inch tactical folding knife from the inside of his pants pocket. The clip attachment made it easy to find and retrieve the knife. On the back of the blade, a hook snagged on the pocket. The resistance caused the blade to open as the knife was being drawn. “I had years of training with blades. A master knife maker taught me to forge them. But I hate the thought of being attacked by one. Believe me, a lot of protectors will feel cold and naked when word gets out they're being stalked with blades.”

  “But you weren't attacked with a blade,” Jamie told him. “What's the connection?”

  3

  Raoul had no idea where he was being taken. After he used a pay phone to tell his parents that he was heading north to find a job in Denver, the stranger drove him to a small airport, Double Eagle, west of Albuquerque. There, the stranger returned his rental car. No security check was required as they walked toward a small jet. A few minutes later, they soared into the cobalt sky.