"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?"
Chapter 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."