They pulled out their room keys and unlocked the units that flanked Shana's. From there, they could easily get to her if she pressed a button linked to alarms in their rooms. When they opened their separate doors, they encountered the embodiment of a local proverb, You won't find a doctor to cure a bite from this snake , as a machete hissed toward each of them, slicing off their heads.
Chapter 2.
The fourth major airport in the New York City area (after Kennedy, La Guardia, and Newark International) was Teterboro, a so-called "reliever" airstrip that catered to charter, corporate, and private jets, relieving congestion from the larger airports. From there, a twelve-mile drive via the George Washington Bridge could have taken Cavanaugh to Global Protective Services' corporate offices in midtown Manhattan. But because the attack team might have anticipated that he was headed in that direction and might have put Teterboro under surveillance, he decided against the risk of using an automobile and instead took a helicopter.
Manhattan had three heliports. Cavanaugh chose the one farthest from GPS headquarters, reasoning that it was the least likely to be under surveillance. An armored van drove him and the others through sparse midnight traffic to the secure garage under the Madison Avenue building in which GPS had its fortieth-floor offices. A team was expecting the van's arrival. They escorted Cavanaugh and his group into the elevator and through the upper security checkpoints.
The view from the conference room was spectacular, lights gleaming throughout the city. But even though the windows had bullet-resistant glass, Cavanaugh pressed a button that closed the draperies the moment he and the group entered the room, the draperies so thick that silhouettes couldn't be seen through them. He glanced at the plush carpeting and oak-paneled walls. Every chair at the long conference table had its own computer terminal and phone console, one of which he used to summon three GPS officers who'd been alerted to remain after business hours.
"Looks like you're settling into authority nicely," William said.
"How do we make it official? Don't you have documents for me to sign?"
"I instructed my assistant to go to my office and bring them," William answered. "He ought to arrive shortly."
"It can't happen soon enough."
"Mrs. Patterson, if you want to get some sleep, we can find an empty office that has a couch," Jamie offered.
"Thanks, but I napped on the plane." Mrs. Patterson clearly didn't want to miss anything.
But Cavanaugh couldn't allow it. "This is where you need to step out of the loop. The less you know, the better it is for you."
She looked crestfallen.
"Think of it this way," Jamie said. "You had an interesting ride while it lasted."
"Interesting? I'm having trouble understanding why, as frightened as I was, it was just about the most exciting time of my life."
"Winston Churchill once said, 'There's nothing more exciting than to be shot at and to survive.' The thing is," Cavanaugh added, "we don't want to get excited like that too often. William, when did Duncan put me in his will?"
"A month before he died. Why do you ask?"
Three people entered the office.
The first was from East Indian parentage, born in Akron, Ohio. Late-thirties. Short, thick, black hair. Compact build. Strong, square face. Steady, dark eyes. Muscular shoulders. His name was Ali Karim, and when he'd served on a Special Forces team, his specialties were languages, medicine, and explosives, as well as the ability to blend into an Asian environment. He was currently in charge of recruiting, training, and monitoring GPS's protective agents.
The second person was Chinese, female, early thirties. Kim Lee. Raised in Seattle. Her lustrous black hair hung to her waist. Five feet four, slender, with thin, delicate but attractive features, she looked too vulnerable to work for a security corporation. But anyone who acted on the foolish assumption that she was defenseless quickly discovered that she was a black-belt instructor of aikido and jeet kune do. She was one of the few employees of GPS who had not been in special operations, but her expertise didn't require military training. Duncan had hired her because she was once a notorious computer hacker and virus designer, skills highly desirable in a company that defended against electronic assaults as well as physical ones. Cavanaugh wondered how Kim and Jamie would get along inasmuch as Jamie, too, was a computer specialist.
The third person was white. Gerald Brockman. Early forties. A handsome, solidly built Afrikaner who once belonged to South Africa's Reconnaissance Commandos: experts in working behind enemy lines in the most hostile outdoor environment. One of the unit's endurance tests involved surviving for five days among the lions, elephants, and fires of Africa's bush country with no food except a tin of condensed milk, half a day's ration pack, and twelve biscuits, the bulk of which students discovered to their dismay had been soaked in petrol by their instructors. In addition to his elite military background, Brockman had superior administration skills that qualified him to be the interim CEO of the company.
All three paused. Special operators were trained to control their emotions. Even so, it was clear that they were surprised.
"Cavanaugh?" Brockman stared.
When William had contacted Global Protective Services, he'd followed Cavanaugh's instructions and told Brockman only that William would be arriving with the new owner.
Brockman looked at Jamie and Mrs. Patterson, eliminated them from the possibilities, and said, " You're the new CEO?"
"But . . ." Kim turned her attention to the attorney. "William, for the past five months, you've been asking me to search our computer records for someone named Aaron Stoddard. I got the impression he was the person Duncan willed the company to."
"That's true," William replied. "Now that I have my client's permission, I can finally tell you--Aaron Stoddard inherited GPS."
" I'm Aaron Stoddard," Cavanaugh said.
The room became silent.
"I had a theory that a protector would be vulnerable if the bad guys learned about his private life," he explained. "Pressure could be put on his family and friends in order to put pressure on him . So I decided to use a pseudonym."
"But how could the bad guys get that information?" Ali asked. "Between Kim and me, those records are absolutely secure."
"Wrong," Cavanaugh told him. "Yesterday, a hit team attacked my home."
" What? "
"My home , for God's sake. The deed's in Aaron Stoddard's name. The people where I live know me only as Aaron Stoddard." Anger forced Cavanaugh to work to control his breathing. "But somehow the hit team found me. The only way that could have happened is through GPS's search for somebody with that name."
"What about William's office?" Ali suggested. "William's the one who started the search."
"I assure you I informed no one, other than the three of you, that it was essential to find a man named Aaron Stoddard." William turned toward Cavanaugh. "For reasons of confidentiality, I couldn't mention the terms of Duncan's will. But they quickly made the connection."
"What the hell are you implying?" Brockman demanded. "That we sent the hit team to keep you from inheriting the company? To give us a chance to gain control of it?"
"Until now, the thought hadn't even occurred to me," Cavanaugh lied.
"This is bullshit." Ali's perfect American idiom contrasted with his East Indian features. "As if we don't have enough problems, now we've got a guy who told us he doesn't want to be in the business any longer who decides he does want to be in the business and comes back to tell us we're all working for the other side."