He and Raoul stepped from the van and made certain their loose shirts covered their weapons.
"Here's your party favor," Carl said, handing Raoul his knapsack. He put on his own.
They followed Magazine Street six blocks north of the convention center. As they neared the shouting, they saw a bus come to a stop. Amid numerous departing passengers, six members of their group emerged, keeping separate as instructed. Like good operators, they never glanced at each other as they took separate directions through the crowd.
"Don't you love it when a plan comes together?" Carl asked Raoul.
Progress became difficult. Carl passed one of his men halfway down the block, exactly where he should be. Although they didn't acknowledge one another, their brief eye contact told Carl how much the man was reassured.
And so it went. Shifting through the crowd, passing various members of his team, Carl verified that everyone was obeying instructions. That gave him reason to believe they would continue to obey.
By nine, he and Raoul reached the conference center, where the crowd was so immense, the protestors so animated that the four-lane boulevard in front was almost totally blocked. Behind barricades, police officers readied themselves to push back.
"Where are the cars?" a demonstrator demanded to his friends. "They should have been here by now!"
Energized by anticipation, Carl continued through the turmoil, buoying his widely separated men with his presence while he made sure they were in place.
23
Nine-thirty.
Cavanaugh and Jamie pushed through the crowd, reached the back of a large delivery truck, and showed their IDs to a camera above the rear doors. A moment later, one of the doors opened, hands helping them up.
Against the inside wall, armed men were ready in case Cavanaugh and Jamie were not who they claimed or someone charged in after them.
The truck's interior was a compact version of the communications center. Computers, two-way radios, and closed-circuit monitors seemed everywhere. An electronic glow filled the compartment. On the screens, the police and the protestors shoved at each other outside the convention center, but because the police had body armor, helmets, shields, clubs, and tasers, they had more success. The silence of the images contrasted with the tumult outside.
"I told as many as I could about the radio announcement that the conference was postponed," Jamie said.
"We've got plenty of other operators blending with the crowd, spreading the word," an FBI agent said.
"Doesn't seem to be doing any good." Cavanaugh frowned toward the violence on the monitors.
"Wait." An agent pointed.
On one of the screens, Cavanaugh saw the protestors shifting back from the police. On another screen, the shrubs that separated the four lanes of Convention Center Boulevard were becoming visible. Protestors stared both ways along the thoroughfare, baffled that the motorcade hadn't arrived.
At a two-way radio, an agent said, "I'm getting reports that portions of the crowd are beginning to realize the conference isn't going to happen."
"Look," Jamie said. "At the end of the boulevard. Near the casino. On Poydras Street. Some of them are drifting away."
24
Nine forty-five.
A cloud crossed the sun, casting a cool shadow. Then the sun returned, the heat again as palpable as the humidity. The press of bodies smelled of sweat as Carl and Raoul made their way through them. After crisscrossing the target area, they entered Girod Street, moving away from the conference center. Carl verified that the final man he needed to check was in place.
As Carl reached the intersection of Tchoupitoulas Street, where Raoul was scheduled to wait until 10 o'clock, he noticed that the going seemed easier, that he no longer needed to struggle against the crowd. Then he realized that the tide had turned, that the demonstrators were moving away from the conference center instead of toward it, that he was being carried by the flow.
He stopped an angry-looking man and woman. "What's going on? Why are you leaving?"
"Damned thing's been cancelled."
"No," Carl said, jostled by the passing crowd.
The woman held up an iPhone. "It's all over the Internet. Four hotels got smoked-bombed and tear-gassed last night. The trade ministers were evacuated."
"But that can't be!" Carl insisted.
"I'm telling you, the bastards left town."
"No motorcade? No opening ceremonies?"
"Nothing. Down at the convention center, they're getting their heads cracked for no reason."
As the disgusted man and woman moved onward away from the pointless battle, Carl stared down Girod Street. Except for a truck parked two blocks away, all he saw were demonstrators moving in his direction, a steady mass of them filling the pavement and the sidewalk.
Four hotels? Furious, Carl remembered following last night's sirens and arriving at hotels that were surrounded by the flashing lights of emergency vehicles while smoke streamed from the buildings.
Aaron? he thought. Was that your doing?
"Is it over?" Raoul asked.
For a moment, Carl didn't hear him. "Over?"
"If the conference isn't going to happen, what's the point of the smoke?"
"Quiet." Carl pulled him toward a wall. "Somebody might hear you."
"But we don't have much time. We need to split up and hurry so we can tell the men to forget about ten o'clock."
"Forget about ten o'clock? No way."
Carl's employers were more frightening than anyone could imagine. Good God, the last thing he needed was them hunting him because he took their money and didn't follow through on what he promised.
"But what's the point?" Raoul demanded. "You told us we were hired to make sure the conference didn't happen. Mierda, look around you. It isn't happening."
The point, Carl couldn't tell him, was the Secret Service, the U.S. Marshals, the Diplomatic Security Service, and the Homeland Security Response Team, not to mention operators from Global Protective Services and other major non-government firms. They'd been lured into coming to New Orleans to safeguard the World Trade Organization. In eleven minutes…
"We're going to do what we promised," Carl said.
"But-"
"This isn't some stupid-ass street gang. We don't act on impulse. We don't change our mind whenever we feel like it. We follow orders."
"But what if the orders stop making sense?"
"If a man pays me to do something, I do it. Maybe he didn't tell me all his reasons. My job isn't to think. It's to follow through on an assignment. Are you a coward?"
"Of course not," Raoul said, his face reddening. "You know I've done everything you asked."
"You're supposed to be an operator."
His face even redder, Raoul said, "I am an operator."
"Then show me!" Carl tugged Raoul along the wall. "Here. The middle of the block. This is where you're supposed to wait!"
More disappointed protestors went up the street.
Carl checked his watch. "In ten minutes, follow the plan!"
"Okay!" Raoul said angrily. "All right!"
Stop, Carl warned himself. What am I doing? Keep control.
He touched Raoul's shoulders with apparent affection. "Don't take it personally. I'm just stressed, keeping track of all the details. You're my most dependable operator. Never doubt that."
Raoul didn't reply, but the compliment clearly made him less angry.
"When you're in my place, you'll understand the burden of responsibility. I'm sorry." Carl gripped Raoul's shoulders harder. "I know you won't let me down."
Raoul didn't answer.
"Is everything straight between us?" Carl asked.
"Yes."
"Then make me proud." Carl stepped away.
"Where-"
"I need to hurry and get to my spot," Carl said over his shoulder. He struggled to conceal the irritation he felt for losing control.
What the hell's wrong with me? This is almost over. Keep cool. Don't screw things up.
The crowd carried him toward the edge of the killing zone. He reached the middle of the next block, where nine minutes from now he was supposed to pull the cord on his knapsack.