Текст книги "The Naked Edge"

Автор книги: David Morrell

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^{Despite how sick Brockman felt, he desperately needed water to soothe his parched lips, to clear the taste of bile from his mouth.}

^{"I bet I can read your mind. I bet you're thirsty. Right, Gerald?"}

^{Brockman closed his eyes.}

^{Ali peeled their lids upward. "Thirsty?"}

^{Hang tough , Brockman thought. Take it a moment at a time. Hope for somebody to break in and rescue me. Make Ali believe I'd rather die than tell him anything.}

^{But what if it comes to that? I might in fact die.}

^{Stop thinking like that.}

^{Ali held up a pitcher filled with water and ice cubes. He swirled the cubes, making them clink against the pitcher. On the outside, moisture beaded, trickling down like rain on a window.}

^{"Gerald, I'm getting tired of asking if you're thirsty."}

^{Brockman tried to nod, but the straps kept his head in place. "Yes." His voice reminded him of the sound of a boot breaking crusted mud.}

^{"That's all you needed to say." Ali poured ice cubes and water into a glass, inserted a straw, and raised it to Brockman's lips. "Easy. Only a little at a time. You don't want to get sick."}

^{Brockman sucked on the straw, feeling the delicious, cold water fill his mouth. Ali took the glass away as Brockman swallowed and ran his wet tongue over his crusted lips. He had thought that the crust was from dried bile. But now he tasted the copper of blood.}

^{Ali dipped a cloth into a basin of water. He twisted the excess from it and pressed the cloth against Brockman's forehead. He stroked Brockman's cheeks with it. The cloth felt wonderfully cool.}

^{"The Russian, Gerald. Tell me about the Russian. This doesn't need to be difficult. The Russian was long ago. Four years ago. I don't want you to talk about what's happening now . Four years ago. It's safe to talk about that . It's safe to talk about the Russian."}

^{Through his groggy, nausea-and-pain-filled thoughts, Brockman tried to decide what to do. Stay silent; suffer more pain. Or try to string Ali along. Seem to give him information but not really tell him anything. Stop him from . . .}

^{"Have more water, Gerald." Ali lifted the glass, extending the straw.}

^{Brockman opened his mouth. At once, Ali shoved the rag into it, then yanked the handles on the flex machine, thrusting Brockman's legs up, propelling his arms inward.}

^{Brockman's rotator cuff ripped. He could hear it give, like a zipper being yanked open. In the blazing lights, his mind went black. Fire filled his throat. He fought to breathe.}

^{Coughing. Mouth open. Rag gone.}

^{Water streaming over his head. Dripping. Cooling.}

^Shadows.

^{"Have more water, Gerald."}

^{Brockman blearily opened his eyes and saw that Ali had turned off most of the lamps. The one that stayed lit had its shade adjusted properly, shielding the bulb's glare. His parched, burned skin felt refreshingly cool.}

^{Ali took away the basin, part of the contents of which he had poured over Brockman's head. Again, Ali extended the glass and the straw. Desperately thirsty, Brockman studied it, afraid that, when he opened his mouth, Ali would again yank away the straw and shove the rag between his lips. He was conscious of his wet hair clinging to his scalp.}

^{"Drink, Gerald."}

^{Brockman opened his mouth and sucked on the straw. He rinsed bile from his tongue. He spit it out, unable to project it far, some of it landing on his pants. He sucked more water, swirling it, swallowing, purifying his throat.}

^{"I promise to protect you from Carl Duran," Ali said.}

^{"He kind of seems in control, don't you think?" Brockman murmured. "All the protectors who've already died. Nobody could protect them ."}

^{The shadows in the room were luxurious. He wanted to close his eyes and–}

^{"I can fix it so you seem to disappear, Gerald. He'd never be able to find you."}

^{Disoriented, Brockman realized that Ali had managed to engage him in a conversation, a sin of being interrogated that had to be avoided at all cost.}

^{At all cost? Brockman thought groggily. Look at what it's already cost me. After the last three years, do I care anymore? Do I want to keep living like this?}

^{He licked his coppery tasting lips. "What if . . ."}

^{Ali waited.}

^{"What if he's not the one I'm afraid of?" Brockman asked.}

^{"Then who are you afraid of?"}

^{"All of you. Need more water."}

^{Ali extended the straw.}

^{Brockman sipped.}

^{Ali prompted him. "Afraid of all of us?"}

^{"Protectors. Afraid of what you'll do if you find out."}

^{Ali set down the glass and raised an electrical box with a switch on it and numerous plugs attached to it. When he flicked the switch, the room blazed again. All the lamps were attached to the box, all the bulbs suddenly glaring.}

^{"No." Brockman groaned. The heat swept over him.}

^{From the shadows behind the glare, Ali asked, "What are you afraid we'll find out?"}

^{"Suppose I did something."}

^"Something?"

^{"Sleepy. Feel sleepy."}

^{"Don't worry, Gerald. The glare and the heat of the lights will keep you awake. What did you do?"}

^{"How can you protect me from . . ."}

^{"Stay awake, Gerald, or I might need to tear your other rotator cuff. Protect you from what?"}

^{"Keep me from being punished."}

^{"A deal, Gerald? Is that what you're asking me to make with you? A promise to protect you from Carl Duran and from your fellow protectors?"}

^{"Can you do it?"}

^{"I promise you this. You tell me what I want to hear, and I'll look after you as if you're my closest friend. I'll do everything in my power to get you out of whatever trouble you're in."}

^{"It'd be a . . ."}

^{"Be a what , Gerald?"}

^{"Relief. The bastard held it over me for so long."}

^{"Tell me," Ali said.}

^{Chapter 18.}

^{The building was made of weathered boards. It was twenty-feet-square, single-level, with a dusty window on two sides and a black stovepipe protruding from its sloped roof. The door was blank wood. On leashes, two dogs sniffed at it.}

^{"They don't seem interested," one of their handlers said.}

^{"The same as the other buildings. So far, no indication of explosives," the second handler told Cavanaugh.}

^{Cavanaugh looked around–at men coming in and out of the farmhouse, whose door they'd rammed in; at other men searching the barn, whose padlock they'd cut.}

^{"No indication of radiation, either," a man said, walking over with a Geiger counter. "A dirty bomb or anything like that."}

^{"Or smallpox or anthrax," another man said. He held a compact device programmed to identify the DNA of selected bacteria and viruses. His hands were covered with latex gloves.}

^{"And the place tests negative for stashes of drugs," Rutherford said, joining them.}

^{A man with bolt cutters indicated the building's locked door. "Shall I do the honors?"}

^{Cavanaugh walked to where a window provided an inside view of the door. Through the dusty glass, he didn't see any sign of a booby trap, but even though trained dogs had failed to indicate that they smelled explosives, he needed to be sure.}

^{Reaching into a windbreaker, he pulled out a twist tie. "Free the lock," he told the man with the bolt cutters.}

^{When the lock fell to the ground, Cavanaugh eased the door open a quarter inch, knelt, inserted the twist tie through the narrow gap, and slowly raised the pliant strip from the ground, alert for any sign of resistance from a wire attached to a detonator. While Jamie aimed her flashlight, searching for a reflection off a wire, Cavanaugh drew the twist tie along the entire door.}

^{"Anybody care to step back?" he asked the group.}

^{They thought about it.}

^{"Wouldn't hurt to crouch behind that car," one of the dog handlers said.}

^{"John, why don't you and Jamie go with them?" Cavanaugh asked.}

^{What Jamie did instead was cautiously open the door.}

^{Sunlight pierced shadows. Dust on the floor showed the footprints of someone who'd recently gone in and out. The marks were large, presumably a man's. They led past a metal stove that the old man had used for burning wood in the winter. They passed a dusty anvil and a table of equally dusty forging tools. Cavanaugh had worked with them so often that, even after many years, he recognized them as the old man's, especially the battered anvil. The footprints veered around a waist-high metal container that had a propane tank attached to it: the old man's forge. They led to another dusty table, upon which an envelope was set against a small wooden box.}

^{The box was made of oak so polished that it reflected Cavanaugh's flashlight.}

^{The box was open. It was lined with green felt into which was nestled the most beautiful knife Cavanaugh had ever seen.}

^{Hey , he warned himself, pay attention . He and Jamie looked for wires stretched across the shadowy floor. As Cavanaugh approached the far table, he stayed clear of the footprints, preserving them as evidence. But the closer he came, the more he found it difficult to take his eyes from the envelope and the contents of the box. At last, he stopped before them.}

^{The envelope had handwriting on it. Neat, solid strokes. In black ink.}

^{To Aaron}

^{"Looks like you've got a pen pal," Rutherford said.}

^{"It's Carl's handwriting." Trying to ignore the beckoning knife, Cavanaugh reached for the envelope but then hesitated. Turning toward the door, he saw one of the technicians peering in. "You'd better check this."}

^{The technician followed the trail Cavanaugh and Jamie had made in the dust. He moved his detector over the envelope and the knife. "No pathogens. At least, none that this device is programmed for."}

^{"Got any more gloves?"}

^{The technician reached into a jacket pocket and gave him a pair.}

^{After putting them on, Cavanaugh picked up the envelope and saw that it was sealed. He tore it open, removed a sheet of paper, and cautiously unfolded it. The handwritten message had the same neat, solid strokes. It was dated one day earlier.}

^{Aaron, Do you ever miss Lance? I used to lie awake nights wishing that old bastard was my father and you were my brother. All the adventures you and I had. Old buddy, you need to be reminded of the military virtues. Loyalty, courage, honor, and sacrifice. Thanks to them, we were able to fight our way out of a lot of trouble because we knew we could depend on one another.}

^{Loyalty. That's the greatest virtue. And Aaron, as I told you on the radio, you weren't a good enough friend. You should have backed me up when I got fired. I felt like you'd cut my parachute lines. I know you thought I killed that stalker to impress that twat singer. The truth is, I did it to impress YOU. I expected you to say, "Damned good job, man. You sure showed that piece of shit." Instead, you let me get fired. Okay, I made a mistake. But a true friend doesn't turn against another friend just because of a mistake. A friendship's supposed to be stronger than that. You can't choose your parents, but you CAN choose a friend.}

^{Trust. That's what a friendship's about. Being able to count on somebody no matter what. Well, buddy, I sure found out I couldn't count on YOU. None of this would have happened otherwise. I hope you're satisfied. Of course, you were supposed to be in a grave in Wyoming and not know any of this. You always could rise to a challenge. Not that it matters–two days from now, not even you will be able to find me. Just to show I'm big enough to stop hating you, here's a present. I think it's the best knife I ever made.}

^{Carl Cavanaugh showed the letter to the group.}

^{"So now he's justifying what he's done?" Rutherford asked. "This doesn't feel right."}

^{"And what's the significance of the knife?" Jamie wondered. "It's beautiful, I admit. The handle. Is it covered with . . ."}

^{"Gold quartz," Cavanaugh said.}

^{"And those red dots. They look like . . ."}

^{"Rubies embedded in gold rivets," Cavanaugh said.}

^{The slender knife was eleven inches long, five inches of which were the amazing handle.}

^{Cavanaugh couldn't take his gaze off it.}

^{"Michael Price," he finally said.}

^{"I don't understand."}

^{"Old San Francisco." Cavanaugh kept staring at the knife. Then he felt that he was being stared at. Breaking his concentration, he looked up at Jamie and Rutherford, who watched him, puzzled.}

^{"Who's Michael Price?" Jamie asked.}

^{Chapter 19.}

^{Old San Francisco. Eighteen forty-eight.}

^{The village had a population of about four hundred people when gold was discovered at Sutter's Mill a hundred miles away. Within a year, two hundred thousand miners passed through San Francisco on their way to the gold fields. The town was so undeveloped that necessities had to be brought in by ship.}

^{Knives were some of those necessities. In the east, most communities had blacksmiths who could forge crude blades, but quality knives needed to be imported from manufacturers in England. Suddenly, in San Francisco, a market developed for thousands of knives, dependable ones, blades that could be trusted to hold an edge while they pried nuggets from a stream and protected those nuggets from thieves.}

^{A shipment of knives took a year to travel from England to San Francisco. Seizing the opportunity, knife makers began setting up forges and charging top dollar. Soon a distinctive style and a high level of expertise became common. One of those knife makers was Michael Price, who came to San Francisco in the mid 1850s and whose clients were some of the richest, most powerful men in the community.}

^{Judges, bankers, merchants, and real-estate moguls were wealthy beyond their fantasies. To show it, they dressed extravagantly, including the knives they carried for self-defense. Michael Price's elegant designs were characterized by a handle made of gold, diamonds, mother of pearl, and other precious materials. The blade was enclosed in an elaborately engraved silver sheath attached prominently to a dress belt. Customers vied with each other to have the most beautiful, subtle, and yet ostentatious knife.}

^{"They're proof that knives can be works of art," Cavanaugh said. "Knife collectors search for them. Recently, a Michael Price dagger sold at auction for almost a hundred thousand dollars. One way master blade smiths prove their skill is by replicating a Michael Price knife."}

^{Cavanaugh pointed toward the knife in the box. "Carl did it flawlessly. At the back of the handle, you see that screw? If you detach it, you can take the handle apart and spread it out in small pieces: the grip, the bands that hold it onto the tang, the various fittings that form the guard. Each of those tiny parts is perfectly crafted."}

^{As if hypnotized, Jamie reached for it.}

^{Cavanaugh stopped her. "I don't think that's a good idea."}

^"Why?"

^{"The blade should be gleaming. It should have a satin polish. But it doesn't. Its finish is dull."}

^{Still wanting to touch the enticing knife, Jamie said, "Sure. It has dust on it."}

^{"After a day?" Cavanaugh said. "There wouldn't be that much dust. No, Carl put something on it. Probably the handle, also. I'm betting it's some kind of topical poison, something that the pathogen detectors haven't been programmed for. You wouldn't need to cut yourself. Skin contact would be enough. You'd probably die instantly."}

^{Jamie jerked her hand away. "Playing with us. Showing how smart he is. He's pissed at being rejected, and he's getting back at everybody."}

^{Cavanaugh re-read the letter. "He says that in two days he's going to disappear. The message is dated a day ago. So tomorrow, something's going to happen."}

^{"New Orleans. The World Trade Organization," Jamie said.}

^{Cavanaugh's cell phone rang. Reluctant to be distracted, he looked at its screen. The name made him frown. "Ali Karim."}

^{He pressed a button and said to the phone, "There's no point in trying to persuade me to change my mind. I can't even think about reinstating you until we finish the investigation."}

^{"Yeah, well, I believe you'll reinstate me a lot sooner than that," Ali's voice said. "I just had a heart-to-heart talk with Gerald. He says you figured out Carl Duran is arranging an attack in New Orleans. The World Trade Organization."}

^{Cavanaugh cut him off. "If you're the security leak, you knew that already."}

^{"Every available agent's been sent there, right?" Ali's voice asked. "Ditto the Secret Service, the Diplomatic Security Service, and the U.S. Marshals."}

^{"I can't discuss any of it," Cavanaugh told him.}

^{"Then let's discuss this, " Ali's voice ordered. "The agents are the real targets."}

^{A chill made Cavanaugh's chest contract.}

^{"Stay away from New Orleans." Ali's voice rose. "That's where Carl Duran wants everybody to go. It's a trap. "}

^*

^{PART SEVEN:}

^{THE MOST EXPENSIVE KNIFE IN THE WORLD}

^{Chapter 1.}

^{"What you did to me . . ." Brockman's features were contorted with pain. "None of it matters. I can bear anything."}

^{"Certainly," Ali said.}

^{It had been a long, painful night.}

^{"I'm as tough as you are. If I talk, it's not because you got the better of me."}

^{"Of course not."}

^{" Carl Duran matters."}

^{"Then we'll need to make sure he keeps away from you."}

^{"The only way to guarantee that is to kill him," Brockman said.}

^{"Tell me what you know. I'll see what I can arrange."}

^{"Don't you think I had plans to kill him? But first, you need to find the bastard." Strapped to the flex machine, Brockman's body was rigid with anguish. "And if anything happens to him, he left instructions for someone he trusts to release documents. About me."}

^{"Unless you tell me, I can't help you."}

^{Brockman took a long breath. "Duran had nothing to do with the hit on the Russian."}

^{Ali leaned forward, concentrating to hear Brockman's faint words.}

^{" I did," Brockman said. " I arranged the hit on the Russian."}

^{The revelation was far from what Ali expected. Concealing his surprise, he asked, "You? Why?"}

^"Money."

^{"We get paid a lot."}

^{"Not enough to risk our lives for strangers. Not those kinds of strangers. Do you ever hate them?"}

^"Hate?"

^{"I grew up in Pretoria." Anger cut through Brockman's pain. "In the alleys. I fought for a cardboard box to sleep in, for the rags on my back, for every scrap of food I managed to get my hands on." As sweat ran down his face, Brockman stared fiercely ahead. "When I got big enough, I thought, 'Hell, I've been fighting all my life. Might as well join the military.'" He took another anguished breath. "Turned out I was right–it wasn't any worse than what I'd already been through. In many ways, it was better. All the shit I had to do to qualify for special ops. Nights in the bush country with wild fires. Water holes dry. The petrol my instructors put in the only food I'd been given to eat. Even then, it was still better." Brockman's eyes were fierce. "Because I proved I was special. Because I had something to be proud of. My discipline. My skills."}

^{Brockman's voice cracked. Ali put the straw in his mouth, letting him drink.}

^{"Then I got too old," Brockman said. "Thirty. Too old. Shit. So I went to work for GPS," he said with contempt, "and was assigned to protect some of the most wealthy, attractive, and powerful people in the world. I'd read about people like that. But nothing prepared me for meeting them. They owned penthouses, villas, jets, yachts, islands, anything they wanted. In a world of poverty, starvation, and pain, they were blessed." Brockman inhaled. "They took it for granted. Vain, arrogant, domineering, greedy, and disgusting. I hated them."}

^{Ali used a cool washcloth to rub sweat from Brockman's face.}

^{"When I left the commandos, all I had were scars and empty pockets. These people had everything , but they didn't have the character to deserve it. The worst of them, the biggest pig of tall, was that Russian."}

^{Ali listened harder.}

^{"I'd been assigned to him two years earlier, before I was promoted. His language was filthy. His manners were . . ." Brockman faltered. "Shouting, bragging, insulting. I once saw him vomit in the middle of a business dinner. On the floor next to him. 'Must have been the red wine with the fish,' he said, and told the waiter to bring him more vodka. He was a subhuman who'd bullied his way into an oil fortune."}

^{Bound rigidly to the machine, Brockman tried to lower his eyes toward his swollen knees. "Do you think they can be repaired, or will I be crippled?"}

^{Ali didn't answer.}

^{"Well, my days of jumping from aircraft were probably over anyhow." Brockman stared into an imaginary distance. "I wanted what those clients had. The penthouses, the yachts, the villas, the islands. I overheard stock tips every day. These people made fortunes on insider knowledge. So when I learned about a drug company that would soon be bought by a rival for double its value, I invested everything I had in it. I borrowed heavily." Brockman lapsed into a self-hating chuckle. "The stock tip was only a rumor. The drug company went bankrupt. I lost it all."}

^{"Rough break," Ali said.}

^{"Wasn't it, though. The next time the Russian hired GPS to protect him . . ."}

^{"The Rome assignment? The one I worked on?"}

^{"Yes." As Ali wiped more sweat from his face, Brockman said, "The Russian's enemies were expert. They needed someone familiar with how he was protected." Another self-hating chuckle. "Somehow they got word of how much I hated the Russian. Somehow they learned about how desperate I was for money. I often wonder if they didn't arrange for me to hear the stock tip about the drug company."}

^{"They set you up?"}

^{Brockman tried to shrug, but he was bound too tightly to the machine. "They promised to pay off my debt. They promised to set my finances back the way they'd been. All I needed to do was arrange for a man I despised to be killed."}

^{"You were in New York while I was in charge of his protective team in Rome," Ali said. "Every time I reported to you, you told the hit team what I said."}

^{"You kept telling me that he wouldn't stay away from the windows in his hotel suite."}

^{"So you passed that information on, telling the sniper where to take his position?"}

^{"It was so easy," Brockman said. "The son of a bitch was no longer on the planet, and my debts vanished."}

^{"Carl Duran had nothing to do with the hit?"}

^{"Nothing. He had no influence on me. When he sliced up that stalker in front of the Plaza Hotel, I didn't have the slightest reason to keep him from being fired."}

^{"Then how does this relate to . . ."}

^{"The damned sniper. After Duran was fired, after he went to work for a drug lord in Colombia, he and the sniper crossed paths." Brockman's voice became thicker, sounding as if he'd swallowed sand.}

^{"Try," Ali said, giving him more water. "We're almost there. This'll soon be over. Tell me about the sniper."}

^{"Duran and the sniper compared notes, talking about former assignments."}

^{"The sniper told Duran about your involvement in the Russian's death?"}

^{"Everything." Brockman grimaced with self-loathing. "Duran threatened to expose me. At the least, it would have put me in prison. More than likely, it would have gotten me killed. The Russian had two brothers almost as vicious as he was. They'd have . . ." Brockman's voice trailed off.}

^{"You didn't see an alternative. You had to let Duran blackmail you into providing information about our agents and their assignments."}

^{"So there you have it," Brockman said with greater self-disgust.}

^{"No, I don't have it. Why is Duran doing this? "}

^{Brockman didn't answer, so Ali shoved the rag back into his mouth and pulled handles on the flex machine. Five minutes later, after tearing Brockman's left rotator cuff, after Brockman completed his silent scream, Ali removed the gag.}

^{" Why is he doing this? "}

^{"I don't know."}

^{Ali reached for the handles on the machine.}

^{"But I've got a strong suspicion."}

^{When Brockman told him, Ali felt his stomach turn cold.}

^{Chapter 2.}

^{In the shed, Cavanaugh clutched his cell phone, listening to what Ali told him. "How do I know this is true?"}

^{"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."}

^{Chapter 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."}