"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?"
10
No one spoke for several seconds after Ali stormed from the office.
"If he's acting," Rutherford said, "he deserves an Academy Award."
"Yeah, but if he's innocent, I'll never be able to regain his trust," Cavanaugh added.
"Welcome to the world of running a corporation," Brockman said.
"Let's think about you and Duran," Rutherford told Cavanaugh. "You haven't been in contact for the past three years, and then suddenly he tries to kill you in Wyoming? Why?"
"I could make the link between the way our agents were killed and his obsession with knives. He tried to keep me from drawing suspicion to him."
"But why wait so long?" Jamie wondered. "If he was worried about you, he'd have needed to eliminate you at the start-before the agents were killed with sharp weapons."
Cavanaugh thought about it. "As long as I was out of the business, maybe Carl didn't consider me a threat. But then his contact alerted him that someone named Aaron Stoddard might inherit Global Protective Services. Carl knew who Aaron Stoddard was. At all costs, he had to stop me from getting involved."
"Because of the knives," Brockman said. "But the pattern still isn't clear. Not all our agents were killed with knives. And only a few of the government's agents. Why only those agents?"
Jamie suddenly headed toward the computer on Ali's desk. "Gerald's right. We've been studying all kinds of lists. But what we haven't looked at is what the agents killed with sharp weapons might have in common."
Jamie typed the codes Kim had given to her, accessing GPS's security files. She typed more keys, studied something, and pressed other keys. Immediately, the printer began processing pages.
Cavanaugh grabbed them and spread them over the desk. The group joined him.
"Nothing similar in their backgrounds," Rutherford concluded. "They were born and raised in various areas. They belonged to various elite military units: Eighty-Second Airborne, Marine Recon, Army Rangers, Special Forces, SEALs, Britain's SAS, South Africa's Reconnaissance Commando unit."
"But hardly any of them served at the same time and the same place," Jamie pointed out.
"And they hardly ever worked on the same protective assignments together," Brockman said. "Maybe we're going at this from the wrong direction."
"What do you mean?"
"If there's a common denominator, maybe it isn't where they'd been or the assignments they'd been on. Maybe it's where they were going."
"Going?" Jamie asked.
"Their next assignments." Brockman drew his finger along the pages. He stopped at one item, his features tensing. "Dear God."
Staring at where Brockman pointed, Cavanaugh felt sick. He grabbed the phone. "We'd better check with the Secret Service, the U.S. Marshals, and the Diplomatic Security Service. Their agents who were killed with sharp weapons. We need to find out where they were being assigned."
"The same place?" Jamie asked.
She and the others stared at the pages.
"New Orleans."
"The World Trade Organization."
"Two days from now."
11
The GPS conference room was crammed with agents using computers and phones. Messengers hurried in. Printers whirred as Rutherford's team worked with Cavanaugh's, trying to take advantage of every second. Similar battle-plan rooms were at the FBI, Secret Service, U.S. Marshals, and Diplomatic Security Service, the groups constantly communicating with each other, updating schedules, coordinating, trying to prevent a disaster.
The room's noise forced Rutherford to raise his voice. "When the World Trade Organization had its conference in Seattle, riots nearly shut down the city."
Cavanaugh knew about the thousands of protestors and millions of dollars in damage. WTO protests had also disrupted Geneva. Indeed, wherever the WTO held its meetings, huge, violent demonstrations followed in reaction to what protestors claimed were anti-environment and labor-abuse policies that the WTO encouraged.
"You wouldn't believe the political pressure to make sure this conference happens," Rutherford said.
"And the economic pressure from mega-corporations," Brockman added. "They rely on the WTO to provide clear sailing for them in Third World countries. Billions of dollars are at stake."
Cavanaugh stood behind Jamie as she studied a computer screen that showed images of blockades and barbed wire in downtown New Orleans. "There'll be hundreds of diplomats, politicians, corporate CEOs, and heads of state. They're all targets. With the security crisis we're having, they can't get the first-class protection they're used to. Why won't the Secret Service listen to us?"
"It's the people they take orders from," Rutherford explained. "They don't call it the Secret Service and the Diplomatic Security Service for nothing. Protection's a service industry. They need to oblige the people paying the bills. What do politicians and diplomats know about what's involved in setting up security? They're too busy wheeling and dealing and asking their protectors to carry their luggage."
"Every available GPS agent is being routed toward New Orleans," Brockman said. "We'll make damned sure nobody gets killed on our watch."
"But some of those agents are replacing dead agents on well-rehearsed teams they've never worked with. It'll take them precious time to get up to speed," Cavanaugh said.
"Plus, now that protectors know how it feels to be the primary targets, will they worry more for their clients or for themselves?" Rutherford wondered. "Oh, sure, they're professionals. Day in, day out, hardly anybody's braver. But how can they focus on defending strangers when they're worried that they're the ones who'll be killed or that somebody'll blow up their families? The system's dangerously overloaded."
Jamie typed more computer keys, accessing images of the crowded docks in the New Orleans area. "While we're worrying, I hope somebody's checking those ships. New Orleans has the second busiest port in the United States. A dirty bomb would be easy to smuggle in."
"We'd better get down there," Cavanaugh said.
"Maybe not." Rutherford frowned at a message he was handed. "Maybe you can help somewhere else."
"Somewhere…?"
Rutherford showed Cavanaugh the piece of paper. "As you suggested, we checked the backgrounds of new subscribers to knife magazines, especially Blade. We began a year before Duran's name disappeared from Blade's list. All the names were tracked to people with legitimate identities. Except for these three. We're still checking. We investigated so quickly that we might have made mistakes. But do any of those names and addresses mean anything to you?"
Cavanaugh stared at the names. "The last one. Robert Loveless."
"So?" Brockman asked.
"Bob Loveless was a famous knife maker. I emphasize was. He's dead,"