Had Brockman decided that he could no longer tolerate being part of this? Had he fled? Was he being detained for questioning? Because the latter had the more serious implications, Carl was forced to give weight to it. In the worst-case scenario, how long would Brockman resist interrogation? Would he be weak enough to confess his involvement in the deaths of so many operators? Would he tell the authorities that Carl manipulated them into sending as many agents as possible to New Orleans?
Disloyalty was the worst sin.
For a final time, Carl angrily pressed Brockman's numbers on his cell phone.
5
"You're lucky I'm on retainer to Global Protective Services." The doctor was a spectacled fifty-year-old, who'd once been a nurse in a mobile military hospital. She nodded toward Brockman, who lay in his bed, groggy from pain relievers.
"He'll need physical therapy on his knees and his torn rotator cuffs," she told Ali. "Considering all the damage you inflicted, another doctor would have phoned the police."
"Talk to Cavanaugh," Ali said. "He'll explain why it needed to be done this way."
Down the hall, in the exercise room, Brockman's cell phone rang. It wasn't the first time. Several times throughout the interrogation, calls had been attempted, none of which Ali had answered. Most callers had left messages, all of them related to GPS business, wondering why Brockman hadn't reported for work in New Orleans.
Only one caller had not left a message. The phone's display had shown the name William Scagel and a telephone number.
Now, as the phone rang again, Ali left the bedroom and walked to the exercise room.
After six rings, the phone stopped. Ali went to a table, where the cell phone sat next to Brockman's pistol and claw knife. Its display again showed the name William Scagel.
Troubled, he unclipped his own phone from his belt and pressed numbers.
Two rings later, Cavanaugh answered. "I hope this is good news."
"Just a question. Does the name William Scagel mean anything to you?"
"Hell, yes. Scagel was a famous knife maker. Where did his name come up?"
"He's been calling Brockman's cell phone and his home phone. But he doesn't leave a message."
The transmission was silent for a moment. "It's Carl."
"Hang on. Let's find out if he left a message this time." Ali pressed buttons on Brockman's cell phone.
"What's the telephone number on the display?" Cavanaugh's voice asked.
Ali dictated the numbers to him, then listened for a message on Brockman's phone. An electronic hiss indicated that something had in fact been recorded. Leaning against the table, shifting Brockman's weapons aside, Ali waited, hopeful. The hiss was interrupted by an electronic shriek.
The exercise room blew apart.
6
Carl clipped his cell phone onto his belt and put his small radio transmitter into a camera bag he carried. He strolled along the riverfront, nodding to tourists, pretending to admire boats on the Mississippi, although what attracted his attention were more police officers than usual and numerous barricades stacked to the side in preparation for tomorrow's demonstrations. He imagined Brockman-more likely an interrogator-listening to Brockman's phone, hoping to hear a message. But the only message was the trigger signal from Carl's radio transmitter. He reasoned that the claw knife he'd given Brockman wouldn't be far. He imagined the radio signal reaching the miniature detonator in the knife's sheath. The blast from the powerful explosive molded into the sheath would have destroyed everything around it.
7
One instant, the transmission Cavanaugh listened to was alive. The next, it was dead. That word came involuntarily to Cavanaugh's mind. Dead. En route to New Orleans aboard GPS's jet, he felt something inside him drop. Reminding himself that phone communication on an aircraft wasn't reliable, that an electronic glitch might have interrupted the transmission, he stifled his premonition and called Ali's cell phone again, but the only response he got was a computerized voice that told him the number he had called was unavailable.
"Is something wrong?" Jamie asked.
"I'm afraid there is." Cavanaugh hurriedly called GPS headquarters in Manhattan.
The duty officer had already heard from two GPS agents outside Brockman's apartment.
"An explosion?" Tightness took Cavanaugh's breath away. He lowered the phone. "God damn you, Carl."
8
When the Gulfstream landed in New Orleans, a row of emergency vehicles waited, the lights on their roof racks flashing in the darkness. Somber officials with handguns under their jackets formed a protective square as Cavanaugh, Jamie, and Rutherford stepped from the jet into Louisiana's humid air.
"The phone number your man read to you before he was killed has a local area code," a Secret Service agent told Cavanaugh. "William Scagel bought the phone yesterday in St. Charles twenty miles from here."
"Carl probably didn't do it in person. Someone working for him did the honors so the clerk couldn't provide an accurate description."
"The address the buyer gave was bogus."
"What a surprise."
"I'll bet several other phones got purchased in various other stores-by the same person using more fake names and IDs," Rutherford said.
Police officers flanked a van. Accompanied by FBI agents, Cavanaugh, Jamie, and Rutherford scrambled inside. The moment the side door was secured, the driver headed toward an exit gate, cruisers to the front and back.
"We can't assume Carl will keep that phone much longer," Cavanaugh said as they sped onto a freeway. "Is the satellite in position?"
"Ready and willing," an agent answered. "The eyes and ears of the sky are aimed at New Orleans."
"Then do it. "
The agent spoke into a walkie-talkie. "Baker to Butcher, do you copy?"
"Affirmative," a voice replied.
"Commence tracking."
"Tracking engaged."
The agent nodded to Cavanaugh, who pulled out his cell phone and pressed the numbers Ali had dictated to him seconds before he was killed.
The group watched intently, but Cavanaugh was conscious only of the phone pressed against his ear and the sound of ringing at the other end.
One.
Two.
Three.
"He got rid of the phone," Rutherford said. "If anybody does answer, it'll probably be a junkie."
Cavanaugh's heart sped as Carl's voice said, "Hello, Aaron."
The van swayed, veering around car lights on the freeway.
"Good guess, Carl."
"No guessing involved. I know you, old buddy. I can predict what you'll do."
"Same here." Cavanaugh noted that there was something odd about the sound. He heard music and laughter in the background. Carl's voice was muffled and distant. "You were sure I'd call?"
"Unless you were interrogating Gerald Brockman, in which case you'd be a smear across a wall right now."
Acid burned Cavanaugh's throat. He wished he could reach through the phone and-
With effort, he kept his voice steady. "You also blew apart Ali Karim, plus two protectors and a doctor."
"Karim. Good man to work with. Knew his stuff. Sorry to hear he's gone."
"Try to sound more sincere."
"Who were the other…" Carl's voice faded, although the music and voices strangely persisted.
"I can barely hear you," Cavanaugh said.
The voice strengthened. "Who were the other protectors?"
Cavanaugh gave their names.
"Didn't know them. They must have been brought aboard after I was fired," Carl's voice said pointedly.
"I told you, I had nothing to do with getting you fired."
Headlights blazing, the van veered down an exit ramp, forcing Cavanaugh to grip the wall for balance.
"But you didn't do anything to prevent it, buddy," Carl said, "and deep in your heart, you know you could have."
"You kept exceeding orders. You were out of control. When Duncan fired you, it was the right thing to do."