Edge

principals.
    I knew the layout of the compound and the safe house perfectly and Ahmad, who’d never been here, had studied the place. I’d tested him several times—most recently a month ago—and I knew that he was familiar with the layout. I had him brief Garcia and I explained to the FBI agent about the com system and the weapons locker. I gave him the combination to the lock. Inside there wasn’t much; some H&Ks and M4 Bushmasters, tripped to fullyauto, sidearms and flash-bang grenades, like the sort that we’d used against Loving at the flytrap.
    With my principals now safely inside their fortress, I walked into the den, which I used as my office, sat at the ancient oak desk and booted up my laptop. I plugged it and my phone into the wall socket; in the personal security business there are many important rules, Abe had recited, but high on the list: “Never miss a chance to recharge batteries or use the bathroom.”
    I’d done the former; I now did the latter, walking into the front bedroom. I washed my hands and face in the hottest water I could stand and checked the scrapes and bruises from the pursuit of Loving at the flytrap. Nothing serious, though my back ached like hell from the jarring escape in the Yukon at the Hillside Inn.
    I walked through the house, checking sensors and making sure all the software and com systems were working. I felt like an engineer.
    Personal security is a state-of-the-art profession; it has to be, since the bad guys know all the toys . . . and have seemingly unlimited budgets to buy them. Although, as you’d think with somebody who prefers board to computer games, I’m not inherently high tech, I nonetheless made sure we too had the latest gadgets: explosives sniffers as small as a computer mouse, which they resemble; high-density carbon-fiber detectors for nonmetallic firearms; audio sensors that can alert us to the sounds of an automatic weapon slide slamming a round into the chamber, or the click of a revolver cocking; microphones that will reassemble conversations from vibrations on the other side of the wall;communications jammers; GPS signal reorienters that will send the car following you right off the road.
    I always carried in my breast or hip pocket a video camera disguised as a pen. It was linked to software whose algorithms alerted me that the body language of a person approaching was consistent with that of an impending attack. I also used it to record crowds in public when I was transporting principals, to see if faces of passersby in one locale turn up in another.
    A second “pen” is actually a wireless signal detector to sweep for bugs.
    There was even what we call a “mail box”; it’s about a foot square and unfolded explosively outward when it heard a detonation of an IED, shooting a Kevlar and metal mesh—like knight’s chain mail—upward, to intercept as much shrapnel and blast force as possible.
    Sometimes these devices worked and sometimes they didn’t. But you do whatever you can to get an edge over your opponent, Abe Fallow used to say. That edge could be microscopic, but often that was enough.
    I returned to my computer and downloaded several emails that duBois had sent. I was sending replies when I sensed a presence. I looked up and saw the Kesslers in the kitchen. I heard cabinets opening, the refrigerator door. This facility does have a bar, which separated the dining room and kitchen, but it’s stocked only with sodas. In the kitchen our facilities person usually has some wine and beer. Although we can’t drink on duty, of course, we try to keep our principals as comfortableas possible—and more important, try to give them little to complain about.
    Ryan limped to the bar and poured some Coke into a glass that was already half full of amber liquid. Joanne got a Sierra Mist. “You want something in it?” I heard him ask.
    She shook her head.
    His shrug said, Suit yourself.
    He glanced into the den and saw me looking at them. He turned and walked back to the bedroom.
    I returned to my computer, reviewing the encrypted e-files duBois had sent me.
    She was responding to several of my various requests that day and assured me that she expected to have more details about Ryan’s two relevant cases. There was some more research I needed to do—by myself. I logged into a secure search engine we use—routing my requests through a proxy in Asia.
    The information came back instantly; I wasn’t looking for classified material but