"If you don't believe me," Ali's voice said, "maybe you'll believe Gerald."
Cavanaugh heard a bump as the phone was repositioned.
Ali's voice was now muffled by distance. "Tell him, damn it. Tell him what you just told me."
Another bump. Then Brockman's pain-ridden voice said, "I… It was me… I'm the security leak."
"Tell him about New Orleans!" Ali insisted in the background.
Brockman obeyed. Hoarsely. Between difficult breaths. His thick words sounded as if they were forced through swollen lips.
Cavanaugh felt that the shadows around him got darker. Staring at the Michael Price knife that Carl had expertly reproduced, smelling the dust and the old metal around him, he was hardly aware of Jamie and Rutherford reacting to his strained features.
Ali's voice returned. "Now do you believe me?"
"Stay with him. Don't leave the apartment. I'll send a team to protect you."
"Get a doctor for Gerald," Ali said.
Cavanaugh broke the connection, then quickly arranged the help he'd promised. As he hurried toward the door, he told Jamie and Rutherford what Ali had discovered.
After the murky interior, the glare of the cold sun was blinding. Passing members of the search team, taking long strides down the lane toward Rutherford's car, Cavanaugh said, "At yesterday's meeting, we tried to find a link among the agents who were killed with sharp weapons. Brockman steered the conversation. We were looking for a common denominator based on their previous assignments or the military units they'd been in. But it was Brockman who suggested their past assignments didn't matter. The next assignments. Brockman made us look at those. I can still hear him saying 'The World Trade Organization.' That was his final job. In case we missed the significance of the blade killings, Carl ordered him to make sure we noticed the connection. He wanted to focus us on New Orleans. The note Carl left here reinforced that idea."
"But why would he go out of his way to warn us when and where the attack will be?" Rutherford asked.
"Every available agent's been sent there. Duran wants to destroy as many targets as possible, but he doesn't care about the trade ministers and corporate executives at the conference. They're a bonus. The agents are his targets. He's already strained the system. Now he wants to bring it to its knees. If he cripples the entire U.S. security network, it'll take months to train new operators. Meanwhile, whoever hired him will be able to attack domestic targets at will."
3
The warehouse was next to the Mississippi. Despite dampness that rose from the floor, the building was used as a dormitory. Cots with sleeping bags formed three rows, twenty in each. Men sat on the cots, cleaning weapons. Others sat at tables, playing manhunter video games or watching action movies that emphasized accurate tradecraft. Ample food was available. After the punishing youth most of these men had known, after their prison experience, after the pride and discipline they'd acquired at the training camp, they were content.
When a side door opened, they looked toward a man silhouetted by sunlight. His tall, lanky figure and powerful-looking forearms were immediately recognizable. Dressed in hiking boots, multi-pocketed pants, and a slightly large shirt hanging over his hidden gun, he closed the door, obscuring two men outside who looked like dock workers but were actually sentries.
As he walked to a podium, the men gathered before him. Without needing to be told, each assumed a military posture with his feet apart and his hands behind his back.
"Good afternoon, gentlemen." Carl's voice echoed off the metal walls.
Eyes alert, they nodded in response to the respectful way he addressed them.
"Let's deal with the most important thing first. Are you getting enough to eat?"
They chuckled.
"Well, are you?"
"Yes, sir."
"Taste good?"
"Yes, sir!"
"Nothing beats New Orleans cooking. Oysters. Crawfish. Shrimp in Creole sauce. Pecan-crusted catfish. Red beans and Cajun rice. Praline bread pudding. Lord, I'm making myself hungry."
They laughed.
"When we get this job done, I'll arrange a feast worthy of Antoine's or some other of those fancy restaurants around here. In the meantime, just remember when there's ample tasty chow, make sure you take advantage. You never know when famine follows feast. That's a soldier's law. Got all the equipment you need?"
They nodded.
"If you have any doubts about the weapon you were given, get another one. Load up on ammunition. After all, you're not paying for it."
They laughed again.
"Speaking of pay, this fine-looking gentleman over here-" Carl indicated Raoul. "-has your next month's cash. You can pick it up after the briefing."
Guns, money, and respect. This was heaven.
"I mentioned work. Are you ready to get down to it?"
"Yes, sir!"
"Positive?"
"Yes, sir!"
"Then here's the drill. Tomorrow, a conference starts. They call it the World Trade Organization, and it brings a ton of important people to town. Politicians. Billionaires. The fat cats who run international corporations. It also brings a ton of people who think the World Trade Organization wants to chop down the world's forests and strip-mine what's left. They believe it wants to keep poor folks in the mud so rich guys can get richer by paying twenty cents an hour in an overseas factory and then slapping a big price tag on shoes and shirts or whatever they make. These protestors start a riot. It always happens. It's as sure as sunrise and sunset. They riot. Which is where we come in. The people we work for want us to help the rioters. They want us to make this a really impressive riot. A riot the World Trade Organization will never forget. To make them think twice about chopping down forests and strip-mining and paying poverty wages. So how are we going to make this the end-all and be-all of riots? We're going to give each of you one of these."
Carl held up a battered knapsack that looked as if it had been tied to a truck and dragged along a dirt road for ten miles. The group studied it, the only time anyone would ever pay attention to the nondescript object.
"Each of these knapsacks has a smoke canister in it. You're going to mix with the crowd. There'll be so many protestors, thousands of them, that no one'll pay attention to you. Each knapsack has a number. Go over to the map on the wall, and find your number on it. Convention Center Boulevard. Fulton Street. Commerce Street. Poydras Street. Along Riverwalk. Outside Harrah's Casino. Up past LaFayette Square. Duncan Plaza. The City Hall. Each street has one of your numbers. That's where you'll place yourself. And when the riot gets going, when they start torching cars and smashing windows and throwing Molotov cocktails, when the police march in to stop the festivities, you're going to find a place to hide your knapsack. At eleven hundred hours on those expensive, synchronized, Navy SEAL watches you were given, you'll tug this cord here and trigger your smoke canister.
"Wait until the smoke's thick enough. With all these knapsacks evenly spaced, there'll be plenty. As soon as the cops can't see you, draw your gun and rapid fire above everybody's head. We don't want to kill anybody. Just scare them. Sixty guns going off. It'll sound like a war. But nobody'll be able to see you to know you're doing the shooting. The rioters'll think the cops are doing it. The cops'll think it's the rioters. There'll be screaming and yelling and stampeding.
"Use all your ammo. Drop your piece. Make sure you've got these stick-on latex pads on your finger tips so you don't leave prints, and make sure you wore gloves when you loaded the magazines so there won't be any prints on the ejected cartridges. Then get out of there. Rendezvous two days from now at the campground I told you about near Galveston, Texas. We'll celebrate and plan the next mission.
"Your part in all this shouldn't take more than a minute, but it requires steady nerves. That's why you've been training. A can-do attitude. Dependability. Resolve. Control. A cool head. That's the secret to getting along in life, gentlemen. You're not punks anymore. Prove it. Show me how professionals behave. But being a professional also means knowing your limitations. If there's anybody here who doesn't think he's ready, who needs more training, tell me now, and you can walk away with no hard feelings."