The burning wire lr-9

by Jeffery Deaver

  "He have any idea what they were?"

  "No… Then a slip of paper containing some numbers. All he remembers is five hundred seventy and three hundred seventy-nine."

  "The Da Vinci Code," Rhyme said, discouraged.

  "Exactly. I like puzzles but not on the job."

  "True."

  I _ _ _ _ _ _

  Fill in the blanks.

  And: Five hundred seventy and three hundred seventy-nine…

  Dance added, "Then he found something else. A circuit board. A small one."

  "For a computer?"

  "He didn't know. He was disappointed. He said he would have stolen it if it'd been something he could sell more easily."

  "And he'd be dead now if he had."

  "I think he's relieved to be in jail. For that very reason… I've had a talk with Rodolfo. He'd like you to call."

  "Of course."

  Rhyme thanked Dance and disconnected. He then called the Commander Rodolfo Luna in Mexico City.

  "Ah, Captain RET Rhyme, yes. I just spoke to Agent Dance. The mystery… the numbers."

  "An address?"

  "Perhaps it is. But…" His fading voice meant, of course, that in a city of 8 million people, one would need more than a few numbers to find a specific location.

  "And maybe related, maybe not."

  "Two separate meanings."

  "Yes," Rhyme said. "Do they have any significance at all regarding the places he's been spotted?"

  "No."

  "And those buildings? The tenants?"

  "Arturo Diaz and his officers are speaking with them now, explaining the situation. The ones there who are legitimate businesspeople are mystified because they cannot believe they are in danger. The ones who are themselves criminals are mystified because they are better armed than my troops and believe no one would dare attack them."

  Five hundred seventy and three hundred seventy-nine…

  Phone numbers? Coordinates? Parts of an address?

  Luna continued, "We've reconstructed the route the truck took from the airport to the capital. They were pulled over once. But you may have heard about our traffic police? A 'fine' was paid immediately and no questions were asked. Arturo tells me those officers-who are, by the way, now looking for new jobs-identified your Mr. Watchmaker. There was no one else in the truck other than the driver, and, of course, they didn't bother to look over his license. And there was, in the back, no equipment or contraband that would lead us in one direction or another. So we are left to focus on the buildings he seems to be focusing on. And hope-"

  "-that he isn't sneaking up behind his real victim, five miles away."

  "Very much what I was going to say."

  "Do you have any thoughts about the circuit board that Logan was given?"

  "I'm a soldier, Detective Rhyme, not a hacker. And so naturally I thought it was not a piece of computer hardware but a remote detonator for explosives. The booklet was perhaps an instruction manual."

  "Yes, I was thinking that too."

  "He would not want to travel with such a device. It would make sense to acquire it here. And I understand, from our news, that you have your hands full there. Some terrorist group?"

  "We don't know."

  "I wish I could help you."

  "Appreciated. But keep your attention focused on the Watchmaker, Commander."

  "Good advice." Luna gave a sound between a growl and a laugh. "Cases are so much easier to run when you start with a corpse or two. I hate it when the bodies are still alive and being elusive."

  Rhyme smiled at that. And couldn't disagree.

  Chapter 44

  AT 2:40 P.M. Algonquin security chief Bernard Wahl was walking along the sidewalk in Queens, coming back from his investigation. That's how he liked to think of it. His investigation about his company, the number-one energy provider in the East, maybe in the entire North American grid.

  He wanted to help. Especially now, since the horrific attack this afternoon at the Battery Park Hotel.

  Ever since he'd heard that woman, Detective Sachs, mention to Ms. Jessen about the Greek food, he'd been devising a strategy.

  "Microinvestigation" was how he thought of what he was doing. Wahl had read about it somewhere, or maybe seen it on the Discovery Channel. It was all about looking at the small clues, the small connections. Forget geopolitics and terrorists. Get a single fingerprint or hair and run with it. Until you collared the perp. Or it turned out to be a dead end and you went in a different direction.

  So he'd been on a mission of his own-checking out the nearby Greek restaurants in Astoria, Queens. He'd learned Galt enjoyed that cuisine.

  And just a half hour ago he'd hit pay dirt.

  A waitress, Sonja, more than cute, earned a twenty-dollar tip by reporting that twice in the past week, a man wearing dark slacks and a knit Algonquin Consolidated shirt-the sort worn by middle managers-had been in for lunch. The restaurant was Leni's, known for its moussaka and grilled octopus… and, more significant, homemade taramasalata, bowls of which were brought to everyone who sat down, lunch and dinner, along with wedges of pita bread and lemon.

  Sonja "couldn't swear to it," but when shown a picture of Raymond Galt, she said, "Yeah, yeah, that looks like him."

  And the man had been online the entire time-on a Sony VAIO computer. While he'd only picked at the rest of his food he'd eaten all his taramasalata, she'd noted.

  Online the whole time…

  Which meant to Wahl that there might be some way to trace what Galt had searched for or who he'd emailed. Wahl watched all those crime shows on TV, and did some continuing education in security on his own dime. Maybe the police could get the identification number of Galt's computer and find out where he was hiding.

  Sonja had reported the killer had also made a lot of cell phone calls.

  That was interesting. Galt was a loner. He was attacking people because he was pissed off about getting cancer from high-tension wires. So who was he calling? A partner? Why? That was something they could find out too.

  Hurrying back to the office now, Wahl considered how best to handle this. Of course he'd have to get word back to the police as fast as he could. His heart was slamming at the thought of being instrumental in catching the killer. Maybe Detective Sachs would be impressed enough to get him a job interview with the NYPD.

  But, hold on, don't be cagey here, he cautioned himself. Just do what's best and deal with the future in the future. Call everybody-Detective Sachs, Lincoln Rhyme and the others: FBI Agent McDaniel and that police lieutenant, Lon Sellitto.

  And, of course, tell Ms. Jessen.

  He walked quickly, tense and exhilarated, seeing ahead of him the red and gray smokestacks of Algonquin Consolidated. And in front of the building, those damn protesters. He enjoyed a brief image of turning a water cannon on them. Or, even more fun, a Taser. The company that made them also had a sort of a shotgun Taser, which would fire a number of barbs into a crowd for riot control.

  He was smiling at the thought of them dancing around on the ground, when the man got him from behind.

  Wahl gasped and barked a cry.

  A muzzle of a gun appeared against his right cheek. "Don't turn around," was the whisper. The gun now pressed against his back. The voice told him to walk into an alley between a closed car repair shop and a darkened warehouse.

  A harsh whisper: "Just do what I say, Bernie, and you won't get hurt."

  "You know me?"

  "It's Ray," came the whisper.

  "Ray Galt?" Wahl's heart thudded hard. He wondered if he'd be sick. "Oh, man, look. What're you-"

  "Shhh. Keep going."

  They continued into the alley for another fifty feet or so, and turned a corner into a dim recess.

  "Lie down, facefirst. Arms out at your sides."

  Wahl hesitated, thinking for some ridiculous reason about the suit he'd proudly put on that morning, an expensive one. "Always look better than your job title," his father had told him.

 
; The.45 nudged his back. He dropped like a stone into the greasy dirt.

  "I don't go to Leni's anymore, Bernie. You think I'm stupid?"

  Which told him that Galt had been tailing him for a while.

  And I hadn't even noticed. Oh, some fucking cop I'd be. Jesus.

  "And I don't use their broadband. I use a prepaid cell connection."

  "You killed those people, Ray. You-"

  "They're not dead because of me. They're dead because Algonquin and Andi Jessen killed them! Why didn't she listen to me? Why didn't she do what I asked?"

  "They wanted to, man. There just wasn't enough time to shut the grid down."

  "Bullshit."

  "Ray, listen. Turn yourself in. This is crazy, what you're doing."

  A bitter laugh. "Crazy? You think I'm crazy?"

  "I didn't mean that."

  "I'll tell you what's crazy, Bernie: companies that burn gas and oil and fuck up the planet. And that pump juice through wires that kills our children. Just because we like fucking blenders and hair dryers and TVs and microwaves… Don't you think that's what's crazy?"

  "No, you're right, Ray. You're right. I'm sorry. I didn't know all the shit you'd been through. I feel bad for you."

  "Do you mean it, Bernie? Do you really mean it or are you just trying to save your ass?"

  A pause. "Little bit of both, Ray."

  To Bernard Wahl's surprise, the killer gave a laugh. "That's an honest answer. Maybe one of the only honest answers that's ever come out of somebody who works for Algonquin."

  "Look, Ray, I'm just doing my job."

  Which was a cowardly thing to say and he hated himself for saying it. But he was thinking of his wife and three children and his mother, who lived in their home on Long Island.

  "I don't have anything against you personally, Bernie."

  And with that, Wahl suspected that he was a dead man. He struggled not to cry. In a shaky voice he asked, "What do you want?"

  "I need you to tell me something."

  The security code for Andi Jessen's townhouse? What garage she parked her car in? Wahl didn't know either of those.

  But the killer's request was something very different. "I need to know who's looking for me."

  Wahl's voice cracked. "Who's… Well, the police're, the FBI. Homeland Security… I mean, everybody. There's hundreds of them."

  "Tell me something I don't know, Bernie. I'm talking about names. And at Algonquin too. I know employees're helping them."

  Wahl was going to cry. "I don't know, Ray."

  "Of course you know. I need names. Give me names."

  "I can't do that, Ray."

  "They almost figured out about the attack at the hotel. How did they know that? They almost got me there. Who's behind this?"

  "I don't know. They don't talk to me, Ray. I'm a security guard."

  "You're chief of security, Bernie. Of course they talk to you."

  "No, I really-"

  He felt his wallet coming out of his pocket.

  Oh, not that…

  A moment later Galt recited Wahl's home address, tucked the wallet back.

  "What's the service in your house, Bernie? Two hundred amps?"

  "Oh, come on, Ray. My family never did anything to you."

  "I never did anything to anybody and I got sick. You're part of the system that made me sick, and your family benefited from that system… Two hundred amps? Not enough for an arc. But the shower, the bathtub, the kitchen… I could just play with the ground fault interrupts and your whole house'd become one big electric chair, Bernie… Now, talk to me."

  Chapter 45

  FRED DELLRAY WAS walking down a street in the East Village, past a row of gardenias, past a gourmet coffee shop, past a clothing store.

  My, my… Was that $325 for a shirt? Without a suit, tie and pair of shoes attached?

  He continued past storefronts in which sat complicated espresso machines and overpriced art and the sorts of glittery shoes that a girl would lose at 4 a.m. en route from one hazy downtown club to another.

  Thinking how the Village had changed in the years since he'd started being an agent.

  Change…

  Used to be a carnival, used to be crazy, used to be gaudy and loud, laughter and madness, lovers entwined or shrieking or floating sullenly down the busy sidewalks… all the time, all the time. Twenty-four hours. Now this portion of the East Village had the formula and sound track of a homogenized sitcom.

  Man, had this place changed. And it wasn't just the money, not just the preoccupied eyes of the professionals who lived here now, cardboard coffee cups replacing chipped porcelain…

  No, that wasn't what Dellray kept seeing.

  What he saw was everybody on fucking cell phones. Talking, texting… and, Jesus our Savior in heaven, here were two tourists right in front of him using GPS to find a restaurant!

  In the East fucking Village.

  Cloud zone…

  Everywhere, more evidence that the world, even this world-Dellray's world-was now Tucker McDaniel's. Back in the day, Dellray would play dress-up here, looking homeless, pimp, dealer. He was good at pimp, loved the colored shirts, purple and green. Not because he worked vice, which wasn't a federal crime, but because he knew how to fit.

  The chameleon.

  He fit in places like this. And that meant people talked to him.

  But now, hell, there were more people on phones than there weren't. And every one of those phones-depending on the inclination of the federal magistrate-could be tapped into and give up information that it would have taken Dellray days to get. And even if they weren't tapped, there apparently were still ways to get that information, or some of it.

  Out of the air, out of clouds.

  But maybe he was just overly sensitive, he told himself, using a word that had rarely figured in the psyche of Fred Dellray. Ahead of him he saw Carmella's-the old establishment that may very well have been a whorehouse a long time ago and was presently an island of tradition here. He walked inside and sat down at a rickety table. He ordered a regular coffee, noting that, yes, espresso and cappuccino and latte were on the menu, but of course, they always had been. Long before Starbucks.

  God bless Carmella.

  And around him, of the ten people here-he counted-only two were on cell phones.

  This was the world of Mama behind the cash register, her pretty-boy sons waiting tables and even now, midafternoon, customers twirling pasta, glistening orange not supermarket red. And sipping from small hemispheres of wineglasses. The whole place filled with animated talk, punctuating gestures.

  This filled him with comfort. He believed that he was doing this the right way. He believed in William Brent's reassurance. He was about to receive some value, something for the dubious one hundred thousand dollars. Only a tenuous lead, but it would be enough. That was something else about Street Dellray. He'd been able to weave cloth from the tiny treads his CIs delivered, usually they themselves oblivious to the value of what they'd found.

  A single hard fact that would lead to Galt. Or to the site of the next attack. Or to the elusive Justice For.

  And he was well aware that fact, that find, that save… they'd vindicate him too, Dellray, the old-school street agent, far, far from the cloud zone.

  Dellray sipped the coffee and snuck a glance at his watch. Exactly 3 p.m. He'd had never known William Brent to be late, even by sixty seconds. ("Not efficient," the CI had said of being either early or tardy.)

  Forty-five minutes later, without as much as a phone call from Brent, a grim-faced Fred Dellray checked his messages once more on the cold phone. Nothing. He tried Brent's for the sixth time. Still straight to the robotic voice telling him to leave a message.

  Dellray gave it ten minutes longer, tried once more, then called in a big favor from a buddy of his at one of the mobile providers and learned that the battery had been removed from Brent's phone. The only reason to do that was to prevent tracing, of course.

  A young cou
ple approached and asked if Dellray was using the other chair at his table. The responsive glance must have been pretty intimidating because they retreated instantly and the boyfriend didn't even try for a moment of chivalric bravado.

  Brent's gone.

  I've been robbed and he's gone.

  Replaying the man's confidence, his reassurance.

  Guarantee, my ass…

  One hundred thousand dollars… He should have known that something was going on when Brent had insisted on that huge sum, considering the shabby suit and threadbare argyle socks.

  Dellray wondered whether the man had decided to settle in the Caribbean or South America on his windfall.

  Chapter 46

  "WE'VE HAD ANOTHER demand."

  Grim Andi Jessen was staring out of Rhyme's flat-screen monitor, on a video conference call. Her blond hair stiff, oversprayed. Or perhaps she'd spent the night in the office and hadn't showered that morning.

  "Another one?" Rhyme glanced at Lon Sellitto, Cooper and Sachs, all frozen in various places and attitudes around the lab.

  The big detective tossed down half the muffin that he'd snagged from a plate Thom had brought in. "We just had an attack, and he's hitting us again?"

  "He wasn't happy we ignored him, I suppose," Jessen said brittlely.

  "What does he want?" Sachs asked, at the same time as Rhyme said, "I'd like the note here. ASAP."

  Jessen answered Rhyme first. "I gave it to Agent McDaniel. It's on its way to you now."

  "What's the deadline?"

  "Six p.m."

  "Today?"

  "Yes."

  "Jesus," Sellitto muttered. "Two hours."

  "And the demand?" Sachs repeated.

  "He wants us to stop all the DC-the direct current-transmission to the other North American grids for an hour, starting at six. If we don't he'll kill more people."

  Rhyme asked, "What does that mean?"

  "Our grid is the Northeastern Interconnection, and Algonquin's the big energy producer in it. If a power company in another grid needs supply, we sell it to them. If they're more than five hundred miles away, we use DC transmission, not AC. It's more cost effective. Usually it goes to smaller companies in rural areas."