Detective Danny Cavanaugh 01 - The Brink

section of northern Mexico seemed an ironic place to Stefan Taber. It had been a monastery before an American corporation, Phoenix Oil, bought it from the struggling Iglesia Católica Mejicana , the Catholic Church of Mexico. What was once a humble dwelling to a handful of pious men who had devoted their lives and their passion to Jesus Christ had been transformed into a plush bird-hunting outpost for American executives.
    Hunting season was still months away. Nathan Broederlam, head of the finance chamber for the International Court of Justice, had promised the other two chamber members who accompanied him to this place that they could meet in complete privacy.
    But Taber was fully aware that privacy was Broederlam’s secondary concern. His first concern was to gauge the other judges’ reactions to the lawsuit he had presented this morning. It was all part of the plan set in motion by Broederlam’s and Taber’s other employer, a faction only referred to as The Group.
    The meeting was not even an hour old before Sydney Dumas, the only female judge on the ICJ, urged them to table their discussions and consider the case independently before reconvening that afternoon. Joseph Ambrose, the third judge who made up the chamber, had agreed.
    Now, as Taber stared at the elaborate stained-glass window depicting Christ’s crucifixion that accented the end of the hallway near Joseph Ambrose’s quarters, he couldn’t help thinking about trust. Like Jesus Christ, both Joseph Ambrose and Sydney Dumas had trusted their fellow man. They trusted Nathan Broederlam had picked this desolate location because of the unnerving sensitivity this lawsuit demanded. Instead, Broederlam wanted an isolated place where the deaths of his colleagues could be explained. Death here in a monastery, a place originally built to celebrate the Giver of Life. Ironic indeed.
    Trust was also the reason why Taber was waiting out here in the hallway. He glanced at his watch. The stopwatch function was engaged. It had now passed the one-minute mark. He’s taking too much time , Taber thought. Too much time meant problems, the least of which was the fact that Declan Drake, Taber’s new protégé, might be having second thoughts.
    Taber reminded himself about the target. Joseph Ambrose was a German civil rights lawyer before serving on the ICJ. He had made a name for himself in his home country, winning several landmark civil rights cases, including one that made international headlines. He had led a group of German lawyers that sued the U.S. government to turn over a half dozen CIA agents sought in the alleged kidnapping of a German citizen with suspected ties to a terrorist cell. The case strained relations between the two countries for many months until a deal was brokered behind closed doors and the German citizen was returned.
    Since meeting him almost thirty-two hours ago at the Amsterdam Airport Schiphol, Taber had immediately liked Ambrose. His fondness only grew as the hours passed. Taber could tell Ambrose was a quiet island in a sea of surging noise. That quality shouted volumes about his confidence. He didn’t need to plug himself to the world. Men only became like Ambrose after ascertaining a lifetime of knowledge, which they usually parlayed into positions of power.
    But after listening to Ambrose’s initial criticisms of the lawsuit, which had been transmitted to The Group over a secure satellite connection, they felt Ambrose would continue to be a vocal critic of it. While his critique was exactly what Broederlam and The Group wanted in order to make sure the lawsuit was credible, his nonstop ranting could rip holes in their clandestine plan, exposing it to the light of unwanted scrutiny. The Group also realized that ultimately, as a civil rights lawyer who lived a modest lifestyle, Joseph Ambrose could not be bought.
    Taber twisted the doorknob and eased into Ambrose’s bedroom. He saw nothing at first. Then a breeze tickled his face. He stalked over to the open door that led out to a small balcony. The drape billowing in the doorway obstructed his view. He ripped through it, confident that his ability to kill could overcome any situation.
    He stepped onto the balcony and saw Declan Drake standing over Joseph Ambrose. Blood was still flowing from Ambrose’s neck with considerable propulsion.
    Taber held up his watch. “One minute thirty-eight seconds.”
    “It’s done, isn’t it?” Declan declared, his Irish accent adding to his