"The trucks, Rhyme," Sachs reminded. "Tell them about the trucks."
Rhyme nodded, never able to resist delivering a lesson in his craft. "Interesting thing about crime scene work--sometimes what you don't find at a scene is as important as what you do find. I was looking at our evidence board and I realized that something was missing: Where was the evidence of the trucks for the immigrants? My INS friend told me that ground transport is part of the smuggling contract. But there weren't any trucks. The only vehicle at the beach was Jerry Tang's--to pick up the Ghost and his bangshou. Well, why no trucks. Because the Ghost knew the immigrants would never get to shore alive."
The line of boarding passengers was shrinking.
Webley from State leaned down and whispered viciously into Rhyme's face, "You're in way over your head here, mister. You don't know what you're doing."
Rhyme gazed back at him in mock contrition. "Nope, I don't know a thing. Not about world politics, not about les affaires d'etat . . . . I'm just a simple scientist. My knowledge is woefully limited. To things like, say, fake dynamite."
Which shut up Webley from State instantly.
"This's where I come in," Dellray said. "Unfortunately for you folks."
Peabody cleared his throat uneasily. "What are you talking about?" he asked--but only because the script called for him to pose the question, the answer to which was the last thing in the world he wanted to hear.
"The bomb in Fred's car? Well, the results came back from the lab about the dynamite. Interesting--it wasn't dynamite at all. It was sawdust mixed with resin. Fake. Used for training. My INS friend told me that Immigration has its own bomb squad and bomb training facility in Manhattan and he stopped by the place this morning. They have dummy explosives on hand to teach rookies recognition and handling. The sticks in Fred's car match the samples from there. And the numbers on the detonator are similar to some he found in an INS evidence locker--they were confiscated last year when some agents arrested a dozen illegal Russian nationals in Coney Island."
Rhyme enjoyed the flicker of horror in Peabody's eyes. The criminalist was surprised that Webley from State could still manage to look so indignant. "If you're suggesting that anyone in the federal government would hurt a fellow agent--"
"Hurt? How could a small detonator hurt anyone? It was just a firecracker, really. No, the important criminal charge I'd think of would be felonious interference with an investigation--because it would seem to me that you might've wanted Fred off the case temporarily."
"And why?"
" 'Cause," white-suited Dellray took over, stepping forward, driving Webley from State against the wall, "I was makin' waves. Gettin' together the SPEC-TAC team. Who woulda taken the Ghost out no nonsense, not pissin' around like the INS folk were doing. Hell, I think that's why I was on the case in the first place. I din't know beans 'bout human smugglin'. An' when I arranged for an expert--Dan Wong--to take over the case, next thing we know his butt's on a plane headin' west."
Rhyme summarized, "Fred had to go--so you could dispose of the Ghost the way you'd planned--catching him alive and getting him safely out of the country as part of a deal between the State Department and Ling in Fujian." A nod toward the plane. "Just like what's happened."
"I didn't know anything about killing dissidents," Peabody blurted. "That was never expressed to me. I swear!"
"Watch it," Webley from State muttered threateningly.
"All they said was that they needed to keep the Justice Department minimized. There were important national security issues at stake. Nobody mentioned business interests, nobody mentioned--"
"Harold!" Webley from State cracked the whip. Then he turned away from the sweaty bureaucrat to Rhyme and said in a reasonable voice, "Look, if--I'm saying if--any of this is true, you have to realize there's a lot more to it than just this one man, Lincoln. The Ghost's cover's been blown. He's not going to be sinking any more ships. Nobody'll hire him as a snakehead after this. But," the diplomat continued smoothly, "if we send him back, that'll keep the Chinese happy. Beijing won't crack down on the provinces and the end result'll be a better economy for the people there. And with more American influence there'll be improved human rights." He lifted his hands, palms up. "Sometimes we have to make hard choices."
Rhyme nodded. "So what you're saying is that it's essentially an issue of politics and diplomacy."
Webley from State smiled, pleased that Rhyme finally understood. "Exactly. For the good of both countries. It's a sacrifice, sure, but it's one that I think has to be made."
Rhyme considered this for a moment. Then he said to Sachs, "We could call it the Historically Unprecedented Great Sacrifice for the Beneficial Good of the People."
Webley from State's face twisted at Rhyme's sarcasm.
"See," the criminalist explained, "politics are complicated, diplomacy is complicated. But crime is simple. I don't like complicated things. So here's the deal: either you hand the Ghost over to us for prosecution in this country or you let him fly back home. And if you do that we go public with the fact you're releasing a perp in a multiple homicide--for political and economic reasons. And that you assaulted an FBI agent in the process." He added flippantly, "Your choice. Up to you."
"Don't threaten us. You're just fucking city cops," said Webley from State.
The gate agent announced the final boarding of the flight. Now the Ghost was scared. Sweat on his forehead, face dark with rage, he walked up to Webley and raised his hands, the shackles jangling. He whispered angrily to him. The bureaucrat ignored him and turned back to Rhyme. "How the hell're you going to go public? Nobody's going to be interested in a story like this. You think it's fucking Watergate? We're sending a Chinese national back to his homeland to stand trial for various crimes."
"Harold?" Rhyme asked.
Miserable, Peabody said, "I'm sorry. There's nothing I can do."
"So that's your answer," Rhyme replied, smiling faintly. "That's all I wanted. A decision. You made one. Good." He thought, with both amusement and sorrow, that this was very much like playing a game of wei-chi.
"Thom, could you please show him our handiwork?" Rhyme asked his aide.
The young man took an envelope out of his pocket and handed it to Webley from State. He opened it. Inside was a long memo from Rhyme to Peter Hoddins, international desk reporter with The New York Times. It described in detail exactly what Rhyme had just told Peabody and Webley.
"Peter and I are good friends," Thom said. "I told him we might have an exclusive about the Fuzhou Dragon sinking and that it had implications all the way to Washington. He was very intrigued."
"Peter's a good reporter," Rhyme said then added proudly, "He was short-listed for a Pulitzer."
Webley from State and Peabody looked at each other for a moment. Then they retired to the corner of the now-empty gate area and each made phone calls.
"We must have Mr. Kwan on board the aircraft now," the gate agent said.
Finally the two federal telephones were hung up and a moment later Rhyme had his answer: Webley from State turned without a word and stalked down the corridor to the main lobby.
"Wait!" the Ghost cried. "There was a deal! We had a deal!"
The man kept going, tearing up Rhyme's memo as he walked, not even pausing as he tossed it toward a trash container.
Sellitto told the gate agent to close the door to the aircraft. Mr. Kwan wouldn't be making the flight.
The Ghost's eyes bored into Rhyme's and his shoulders slumped, a clear flag of defeat. But an instant later it seemed that the despair from this loss was immediately balanced by the hope of future victory, the yang was balanced by a surge of yin, as Sonny Li might've said. The snakehead turned toward Sachs. He looked her over with a chill smile. "I'm patient, Yindao. I'm sure we'll meet again. Naixin . . . . All in good time, all in good time."
Amelia Sachs returned his gaze and said, "The sooner the better."
Her eyes, Rhyme decided, were infinitely colder than his.
The uniformed NYPD cops took custody of the snakehead.
"I swear that I didn't know what this was all about," Harold Peabody said. "They told me that--"
But Rhyme had grown weary of the verbal fencing. Without a word he moved his finger slightly on the touch-pad to turn the Storm Arrow away from the bureaucrat.
It was Amelia Sachs who provided the final interaction between the various branches of government regarding Kwan Ang, Gui, the Ghost. She held out her hand to troubled Harold Peabody and asked, "Could you give me the cuff keys, please? If you want the shackles back after he's booked I'll leave them at Men's Detention for you."
Chapter Fifty
Several days later the Ghost had been arraigned and was being held without bail.
The laundry list of offenses was long: state and federal charges for murder, human smuggling, assault, firearms possession, money laundering.
Dellray and his bosses at Justice had pulled some strings at the U.S. Attorney's Office and, in exchange for his testimony against the Ghost, Sen Zi-jun, captain of the late Fuzhou Dragon, was given immunity from prosecution on the charges of human smuggling. He would testify at the Ghost's trial and, following that, be deported to China.
Rhyme and Sachs were presently alone in his bedroom and the policewoman was looking herself over in a full-length mirror.
"You look fine," the criminalist called. She was due to make an appearance in court in an hour. It was an important session and she was preoccupied, thinking about her impending performance before the judge.
She shook her head uncertainly. "I don't know." Amelia Sachs, who'd never looked back when she gave up modeling, called herself a "jeans and sweats girl." Presently she was dressed in a crisp blue suit, white blouse and, my God, Rhyme now observed, a pair of highly sensible navy-blue Joan & David's with heels that boosted her height to over six feet. Her red hair was perfectly arranged on top of her head.
Still, she remained his Sachs; her silver earrings were in the shape of tiny bullets.
The phone rang and Rhyme barked, "Command. Answer phone."
Click.
"Lincoln?" a woman's voice asked through the speaker.
"Dr. Weaver," Rhyme said to the neurosurgeon.
Sachs turned her attention away from couture and sat down on the edge of the Flexicair bed.
"I got your phone call," the doctor said. "My assistant said it was important. Is everything all right?"
"Fine," Rhyme said.
"You're following the regimen I gave you? No alcohol, plenty of sleep?" Then she added with some humor, "No, you tell me, Thom. Are you there?"
"He's in the other room," Rhyme responded, laughing. "No one's here to blow the whistle on me."
Except Sachs, of course, but she wasn't going to snitch.
"I'd like you to come into the office tomorrow for the final checkup before the surgery. I was thinking--"
"Doctor?"
"Yes?"
Rhyme held Sachs's eye. "I've decided not to have the operation."
"You're--"
"I'm canceling. Forfeiting my room deposit," he joked, "and down payment."
Silence for a moment. Then: "You wanted this more than any patient I've ever had."
"I did want it, that's true. But I've changed my mind."
"You'll recall I've told you all along that the risks were high. Is that why?"
He looked at Sachs. He said only, "In the end, I guess, I don't see that much of a benefit."
"I think this's a good choice, Lincoln. It's the wise choice." She added, "We're making a lot of progress with spinal cord injuries. I know you read the literature . . . . "
"I keep my finger on the pulse, true," he responded, enjoying the irony of the metaphor.
"But there're new things happening every week. Call me whenever you like. We can think about options in the future. Or just call me to talk if you want to."
"Yes. I'd like that."
"I'd like it too. Goodbye, Lincoln."
"Goodbye, Doctor. Command, disconnect."
Silence filled the room. Then a flutter of wings and a shadow disturbed the peace as a peregrine falcon landed on his window ledge. They both stared at the bird. Sachs asked, "Are you sure about this, Rhyme? I'm with you a hundred percent if you want to go ahead with it."
He knew that she would be.
But he knew too, without a doubt, that he didn't want the surgery now.
"Embrace your limitations . . . Fate make you this way, Loaban. And make you this way for purpose. Maybe you best detective you can be because of what happen. Your life balanced now, I'm saying."
"I'm sure," he told her.
She squeezed his hand. Then looked out the window again at the falcon. Rhyme watched the oblique, pale light hitting her face with the demure illumination of a Vermeer painting. Finally he asked, "Sachs, are you sure you want to do this?"
He nodded toward the file on the table nearby, which contained a picture of Po-Yee, a number of affidavits and official-looking documents.
The top sheet of paper was headed: PETITION FOR ADOPTION.
Then she glanced at Rhyme. The look in her eye told him that she too was sure about the decision she'd made.
*
Sitting in the judge's chambers, Sachs smiled down at Po-Yee, the Treasured Child, who sat beside her in the chair where the social worker had deposited her a few moments before. The girl played with her stuffed kitten.
"Ms. Sachs, this is a rather unorthodox adoption proceeding. But I assume you know that." Justice Margaret Benson-Wailes, a heavyset woman, sat behind her abysmally cluttered desk in the dark monolith of Manhattan Family Court.
"Yes, Your Honor."
The woman bent forward and read some more. "All I can say is in the past two days I've talked to more people from Human Services, Family Services, city hall, Albany, One Police Plaza and the INS than I talk to in a month in most placements. Tell me, Officer, how's a skinny girl like you get so much pull in this city?"
"I'm lucky, I guess."
"More to it than that," the judge said, returning to the file. "I hear good things about you."
Apparently Sachs too had good guanxi. Her connections reached from Fred Dellray to Lon Sellitto to Alan Coe (who was, far from being fired, taking over early-retiring Harold Peabody's job at the INS). In the space of several days the miles of red tape that accompany most adoptions had been shredded.
The jurist continued, "You understand, of course, that the welfare of this child comes first no matter what and if I'm not convinced that the disposition is in her best interest I will not sign the papers." The woman had the same benevolently gruff air that Lincoln Rhyme had mastered.
"I wouldn't want it any other way, Your Honor."
Like many judges, Sachs had learned, Benson-Wailes was prone to lecture. The woman eased back in the chair and addressed her audience. "Now, the adoption procedure in New York involves taking a home study, undergoing training and spending time with the child and usually a three-month probation period. I spent all morning reviewing papers and reports, talking to the social workers and the law guardian that we appointed for the girl. I've gotten very good reports but this's been moving faster than the Bulls' slide after Michael Jordan left. So here's what I'm going to do. I'll grant foster guardianship for a three-month period, subject to supervision by the Department of Social Services. At the end of that time if there are no problems I will grant permanent adoption, subject to the standard three-month probation period. How's that sound to you?"
Sachs nodded. "It sounds fine, Your Honor."
The justice examined Sachs's face carefully. Then, with a glance at Po-Yee, she jabbed her intercom button and said, "Send in the petitioners."
A moment later the door to the justice's chambers opened and Sam and Mei-Mei Chang cautiously entered. Beside them was their attorney, a Chinese man in a light gray suit and a shirt so boldly red that it might've come from Fred Dellray's closet.
Chang nodded to Sachs, who rose, st
epped forward and shook his hand then his wife's. Mei-Mei's eyes went wide when she saw the child, whom Sachs handed off to her. She hugged Po-Yee fiercely.
The judge said, "Mr. and Mrs. Chang, do you speak English?"
"I do, some," Chang said. "My wife, not good."
"You are Mr. Sing?" the judge asked the lawyer.
"Yes, Your Honor."
"If you could translate."
"Certainly."
"Usually the adoption process in this country is arduous and complicated. It is virtually impossible for a couple of uncertain immigration status to be given adoptive custody."
A pause while Sing translated. Mei-Mei nodded.
"But we've got some unusual circumstances here."
Another pause and the Chinese rattled explosively off Sing's tongue. Now both Chang and his wife nodded. They remained silent. Mei-Mei's eyes brightened, though, and her breathing was coming fast. She wanted to smile, Sachs could see, but she restrained herself.
"I'm told by Immigration and Naturalization that you've applied for asylum and, because of your dissident status in China, that it will probably be granted. That reassures me that you can bring some stability into the child's life. As does the fact that both you and your son, Mr. Chang, are employed."
"Yes, sir."
"'Ma'am,' not 'sir,'" sternly corrected Justice Benson-Wailes, a woman whose orders in court undoubtedly needed to be issued only once.
"I am sorry. Ma'am."
The judge now repeated for the Changs what she'd told Sachs about the probation and adoption.
Their understanding of English was apparently good enough so that they could comprehend the ultimate meaning of the justice's words without the need for complete translations. Mei-Mei began to cry quietly and Sam Chang hugged her, smiling and whispering in her ear. Then Mei-Mei stepped up to Sachs and hugged her. "Xiexie, thank you, thank you."
The justice signed a document in front of her. "You can take the child with you now," she said, dismissing them. "Attorney Sing, see the clerk about the disposition of the paperwork."
"Yes, Your Honor."
*
Sam Chang led his family, now officially increased by one, to the parking lot near the black-stone Family Court Building. This had been his second court appearance today. Earlier Chang had testified at the Wu family's preliminary hearing. Their asylum bid was less certain than the Changs' but their lawyer was guardedly optimistic that they would remain in the U.S.
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