"Could be a coincidence," Rutherford said.
"But not at that address. It's a rural-route number near West Liberty, Iowa. That's where Lance Sawyer lived. The old man who taught Carl and me to forge blades."
12
As the Gulfstream took off from Teterboro airport and sped toward Iowa, Cavanaugh and Jamie unpacked two more bug-out bags.
Seated in a leather chair that swiveled, Rutherford interrupted his appreciation of the jet's luxurious interior to study the contents of the bags. "Pistols, knives, ammunition, miniature flashlights, duct tape, money. Some soldiers in Third World countries aren't as well equipped. I don't suppose you're licensed to carry those firearms in Iowa."
"Afraid not," Cavanaugh said.
Rutherford sighed. "Does this phone work?"
"Yeah, but you need to leave fifty cents on the table."
After giving Cavanaugh a dry look, Rutherford took a notebook from his suit-coat pocket, found a number, picked up the phone, made his call, and identified himself. "I need to speak to the agent in charge… We expect to arrive around your time eleven p.m. I want to confirm that lodging has been arranged and that your team will be assembled for a six a.m. briefing… Good. Also, I need temporary law-enforcement credentials for two civilians so they can carry concealed handguns. I'll give you the serial numbers when we land… Thank you." Rutherford set down the phone.
"You're a handy guy to know," Jamie said.
"As long as you don't expect me to make a habit of pulling strings for you."
"Hey, we helped you a couple of times," Cavanaugh said.
Rutherford sighed again.
13
In lengthening shadows, Brockman stared at the glut of traffic and told his driver to leave the car in Global Protective Service's garage. "I can walk home faster. Call me in an hour. I'll tell you when to pick me up."
After the stress of the day's events, he welcomed the chance to move. Six feet one inches tall, with two hundred and ten pounds of solid muscle, he exercised ninety minutes a day, using weights, a treadmill, and a multi-purpose flex machine in his apartment. Although the temperature was forty degrees and he wore only his suit, he welcomed the chill as he loosened his tie and took long strides past Madison Avenue onto Fifty-Third Street.
Stretching his legs, dodging pedestrians, he almost broke into a run as he reached Fifth Avenue and headed north. The exertion warmed him. The blaring horns, rumbling engines, and choking exhaust of traffic blurred until he was hardly aware of them. He concentrated on the satisfaction of using his muscles, of feeling blood surge through his veins.
Fifty-Eighth Street. Ahead, beyond jewelry and designer clothing stores, he saw Central Park stretching away on his left, its leaves red, yellow, and gold in the last of the sun. Sixty-Third Street. Now only the park was on his left, its bushes, boulders, trees, and grass looking surreal in the concrete of the city. He took out his encrypted cell phone and pressed numbers.
"Case," he said, using the name of a knife manufacturer as a code word. He waited for a reply. "New Orleans," he explained to the person listening. "I'm supposed to fly there tonight. Cavanaugh has the company jet, so I need to go out to La Guardia and take a commercial flight." He waited for a response, then added, "He went to Iowa."
Brockman put the phone away and walked even faster. He purged his mind of traffic, of pedestrians, of bicycle messengers and kids on skateboards. He imagined that he hiked through a wilderness, far from people and the messes they made. In his reverie, the only sound was the crackle of his footsteps on fallen leaves as his skin tingled and he inhaled mountain air.
At Seventy-First, he turned right, went a block and a half, and entered his apartment building. There, he took the elevator to the tenth floor. His forehead was beaded with sweat as he walked along a corridor, reached his apartment, and unlocked it. When he opened the door, the intrusion detector began its shrill beep, giving him twenty seconds to press buttons on a number pad to the right of the door.
Despite his years in the security profession, Brockman made the error that virtually every intrusion-detector owner makes. The anxiety that the beep-beep-beep created caused him to leave the door open while he pressed the buttons on the pad. Only when the beeping stopped did he turn toward the door to shut it. But the beep, beep, beep had obscured the sound of approaching footsteps. Suddenly, Brockman felt a sharp sensation in his right thigh. Reaching to draw his pistol from under his suit coat, he saw Ali Karim's dark face glaring from the hallway. Brockman's leg felt warm. As the dart in him spread its toxin, Ali's angry features seemed to waver.
Brockman floated backward, downward, Ali's blurred hands striking him, yanking his pistol away.
14
A phone rang. Muffled. As if blankets were wrapped around it.
"Hello?" The voice seemed a far-away whisper. It sounded eerily like Brockman. "Pick me up to go to the airport? No, I changed my plans. There's something urgent I need to attend to. I won't be leaving until tomorrow. I'll call you."
Silence gathered. Slowly, Brockman understood that he was sitting upright, his back against something metallic. Tied against something metallic. A sudden light blazed toward his face. Many bright lights. He wanted to paw them away, but his arms wouldn't move.
Footsteps. The air seemed denser as someone hovered in front of him.
"Hey!" Slap. "Wake up!" Slap. "I know you're faking!" Slap. "Open your damned eyes, or I'll tape them open so you can't blink!"
Brockman warily opened his eyes and squinted from the pain of numerous lamps. Their shades had been tilted backward, their exposed bulbs aimed in his direction, nearly blinding him. Unable to move his head, he shifted his eyes this way and that to try to protect them, but the heat from the lights was inescapable. His right leg, where the dart from the tranquilizer gun had struck him, felt swollen and throbbed.
Ali stood close before him. Along with his dark hair, his dark features, and dark suit, he wore dark leather gloves.
Brockman strained to move. Shifting his eyes blurrily from side to side, he saw barbells, a treadmill… His exercise room. His pistol and his cell phone were on a table, along with his claw-shaped knife, its plastic sheath and breakaway chain that Ali had found on him. He angled his eyes down, realizing that he was secured to the flex machine, his legs strapped to the leg-curl extensions, his arms raised and attached to the butterfly extensions.
"I know I'm not the security leak," Ali said. "And Cavanaugh was awfully sure Kim wasn't. After all, who would be stupid enough to blackmail her and trust a druggie to deliver information on time and accurately? That means you, my friend, and would you like to know why I'm sure you're the son of a bitch who told Carl Duran where our agents would be, on what assignments, and when?"
Brockman relied on his rugged military training, on the weeks he'd spent in the South African outback, with hardly any food and water, amid brush fires, lions, and elephants. He gathered all his discipline, everything he'd ever learned about withstanding interrogation. "You're making a mistake."
Slap. "I asked, would you like to know why I'm sure you're the son of a bitch who's the security leak?"
"Have you gone out of your-"
Slap. Ali's glove burned Brockman's cheek. "Because protectors are getting killed right and left. Because all of us are constantly checking over our shoulders, wondering if we'll be next. Except you, my friend. I've been watching you the last few days. When you're on the street, you don't seem the slightest bit threatened or nervous the way the rest of us are. You're not acting as if you're worried that somebody's going to stick a knife in you the way I'm worried. Now why would that be? Do you suppose it's because you're part of this, because you know you're safe?"
Brockman didn't answer.