The Burning Wire

by Jeffery Deaver

  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 threads 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 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 couple 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."

  "What's the, you know, significance of the demand?" Sellitto asked.

  "I don't know why he's asking. It doesn't make any sense to me. Maybe his point is reducing cancer risk to people near the transmission lines. But I'd guess fewer than a thousand people in North America live near DC lines."

  Rhyme said, "Galt isn't necessarily behaving rationally."

  "True."

  "Can you do it? Meet his demand?"

  "No, we can't. It's impossible. It's just like before, with the grid in New York City, except worse. It would cut out service to thousands of small towns around the country. And there are direct feeds into military bases and research facilities. Homeland Security's saying to shut it down would be a national security risk. The Defense Department concurs."

  Rhyme added, "And presumably you'd be losing millions of dollars."

  A pause. "Yes. We would. We'd be in breach of hundreds of contracts. It would be a disaster for the company. But, anyway, the argument about complying is moot. We physically couldn't do this in the time he's given us. You don't just flip a wall switch with seven hundred thousand volts."

  "All right," Rhyme said. "How did you get the note?"

  "Galt gave it to one of our employees."

  Rhyme and Sachs exchanged glances.

  Jessen continued, explaining that Galt accosted se
curity chief Bernard Wahl as the man was returning from lunch.

  "Is Wahl there with you?" Sachs asked.

  "Hold on a minute," Jessen said. "He was being debriefed by the FBI. . . . Let me see."

  Sellitto whispered, "They didn't fucking bother to even tell us they were talking to him, the feebies? It had to come from her?"

  A moment later solid-shouldered Bernard Wahl appeared on the screen and sat down next to Andi Jessen. His round, black scalp glistened.

  "Hello," Sachs said.

  The handsome face nodded.

  "Are you all right?"

  "Yes, Detective."

  He wasn't all right, though, Rhyme could see. His eyes were hollow. They were avoiding the webcam.

  "Tell us what happened."

  "I was coming back from lunch. And Galt came up behind me with a gun and took me to an alleyway. Then he shoved the letter into my pocket and said get it to Ms. Jessen right away. Then he was gone."

  "That's all?"

  A hesitation. "Pretty much. Yes, ma'am."

  "Did he say anything that might lead us to where he's hiding out or where the next target might be?"

  "No. Mostly he just rambled about electricity causing cancer and being dangerous and how nobody cares."

  Rhyme was curious about something. "Mr. Wahl? Did you see the weapon? Or was he bluffing?"

  Another hesitation. Then the security man said, "I caught a look. A forty-five. Nineteen-eleven. The old army model."

  "Did he grab you? We could get some trace evidence off your clothes."

  "No. Only his gun."

  "Where'd this happen?"

  "Somewhere in an alley near B and R Auto Repair. I don't really remember, sir. I was pretty shaken up."

  Sachs asked, "And that was it? He didn't ask anything about the investigation?"

  "No, ma'am, he didn't. I think all he cared about was getting the letter to Ms. Jessen right away. He couldn't think of another way to do it except to stop an employee."

  Rhyme had no more questions for him. He glanced to Sellitto, who shook his head.

  They thanked him, and Wahl moved off camera. Jessen looked up, nodding at somebody who'd come into the doorway. Then back to the camera for the video conference. "Gary Noble and I are meeting with the mayor. Then I'm doing a press conference. I'll make that personal appeal to Galt. Do you think that'll work?"

  No, Rhyme didn't think it would work. But he said, "Anything you can do--even if it just buys us some time."

  After they disconnected the call, Sellitto asked, "What wasn't Wahl telling us?"

  "He got scared. Galt threatened him. He probably gave up some information. I'm not too worried. He was out of the loop pretty much. But whatever he spilled, frankly, we can't worry about that now."

  At that moment the doorbell rang. It was Tucker McDaniel and the Kid.

  Rhyme was surprised. The FBI agent would have known there was a pending press conference and yet here he was, not leveraging his way onto the podium. He'd yielded to Homeland Security so he could bring evidence to Rhyme in person.

  The ASAC's stock rose slightly once more.

  After being briefed about Galt and his motive, the agent asked Pulaski, "And in his apartment you found no reference to Justice For or Rahman? Terrorist cells?"

  "No, nothing."

  The agent looked disappointed but said, "Still, that doesn't contradict a symbiosis construct."

  "Which is?" Rhyme asked.

  "A traditional terror operation using a front man, with mutually aligned goals. They may not even like each other but they want the same thing in the end. An important aspect is that the professional terror cell keeps themselves completely isolated from the primary negative actor. And all communications is--"

  "Cloud?" Rhyme asked, the agent's index dipping a bit now.

  "Exactly. They have to minimize any contact. Two different agendas. They want societal destruction. He wants revenge." McDaniel nodded at the profile on the whiteboard. "What Parker Kincaid was saying. Galt didn't use pronouns--didn't want to give away any clue that he was working with somebody else."

  "Eco or political/religious?"

  "Could be either."

  It was hard to picture al-Qaida or the Taliban in league with an unstable employee bent on revenge because his company had given him cancer. But an ecoterror group made some sense. They'd need somebody to help them get into the system. Rhyme would find it more credible, though, if there was some evidence to support that supposition.

  McDaniel added that he'd heard from the warrants people, who'd gotten the okay for T and C teams to go through Galt's email and social networking accounts. Galt had emailed and posted comments in a number of places about his cancer and its relationship to high-power lines. But nothing in the hundreds of pages he'd written had given them any clues to where he was or what he might have in store.

  Rhyme was growing impatient at the speculation. "I'd like to see the note, Tucker."

  "Sure." The ASAC gestured at the Kid.

  Please, be chock-full of trace. Something helpful.

  In sixty seconds they were looking at the second demand letter.

  To Andi Jessen, CEO and Algonquin Consolidated Power and Light: You've made the decision to ignore my earlier request and that's not acceptable. You could have responded to that reasonable request for a brownout but you didn't, YOU have raised the stakes, no one else has. Your callousness and greed lead to the deaths this afternoon. You MUST show the people they do not need the drug that you've addicted them to. They can return to a PURER way of life. They don't think they can but they can be shown the way. You will cease all high voltage DC transmission to the other North American Interconnections for one hour starting at 6 p.m. this evening. This is non-negotiable.

  Cooper began his analysis of the letter. Ten minutes later he said, "There's nothing new, Lincoln. Same paper, same pen. Unsourceable. As far as trace goes, more jet fuel. That's about it."

  "Shit." Like opening a beautifully wrapped box on Christmas morning and finding it empty.

  Rhyme noticed Pulaski in the corner. His head, with the blond spiky hair, was cast forward as he spoke softly into his mobile. The conversation seemed furtive and Rhyme knew it didn't have anything to do with the Galt case. He'd be calling the hospital about the man he'd run into. Or maybe he'd gotten the name of the next of kin and was offering condolences.

  "You with us, Pulaski?" Rhyme called harshly.

  Pulaski snapped his phone shut. "Sure, I--"

  "Because I really need you with us."

  "I'm with you, Lincoln."

  "Good. Call FAA and TSA and tell them we've had another demand and that we've found more jet fuel on the second note. They should step up security at all the airports. And call the Department of Defense too. It could be an attack on a military airfield, especially if Tucker's terrorist connection pans out. You up for that? Talking to the Pentagon? Impressing the risk on them?"

  "Yes, I'll do it."

  Turning back to the evidence charts, Rhyme sighed. Symbiotic terrorist cells, cumulonimbus communications and an invisible suspect with an invisible weapon.

  And as for the other case, the attempt to trap the Watchmaker in Mexico City? Nothing but the mysterious circuit board, its owner's manual and two meaningless numbers: Five hundred seventy and three hundred seventy-nine . . .

  Which put him in mind of other digits. Those on the clock nearby, the clock counting down to the next deadline.

  SECOND DEMAND NOTE

  * * *

  --Delivered to Bernard Wahl, Algonquin security chief.

  --Assaulted by Galt.

  --No physical contact; no trace.

  --No indication of whereabouts or site of next attack.

  --Paper and ink associated with those found in Galt's apartment.

  --Additional traces of alternative jet fuel embedded in paper.

  --Attack on military base?

  PROFILE

  * * *

  --Identified as Ray
mond Galt, 40, single, living in Manhattan, 227 Suffolk St.

  --Terrorist connection? Relation to Justice For [unknown]? Terror group? Individual named Rahman involved? Coded references to monetary disbursements, personnel movements and something "big."

  --Algonquin security breach in Philadelphia might be related.

  --SIGINT hits: code word reference to weapons, "paper and supplies" (guns, explosives?).

  --Personnel include man and woman.

  --Galt's relationship unknown.

  --Cancer patient; presence of vinblastine and prednisone in significant quantities, traces of etoposide. Leukemia.

  --Galt is armed with military 1911 Colt .45.

  Chapter 47

  THE TV WAS on in Rhyme's lab.

  As a prelude to Andi Jessen's press conference, which would start in a few minutes, a story about Algonquin Consolidated and Jessen herself was airing. Rhyme was curious about the woman and paid attention to the anchorman as he traced Jessen's career in the business. How her father had been president and CEO of the company before her. There was no nepotism involved, though; the woman had degrees in engineering and business and had worked her way up, actually starting as a lineman in upstate New York.

  A lifelong employee of Algonquin, she was quoted as saying how devoted she was to her career and to her goal of building the company into the number-one player in both the generation of electricity and the brokering of it. Rhyme had not known that because of deregulation a few years ago power companies had increasingly taken to brokerage: buying electricity and natural gas from other companies and selling it. Some had even sold off their interest in the generation and transmission of power and were, in effect, commodity dealers, with no assets other than offices, computers and telephones.

  And very large banks behind them.

  This was, the reporter explained, the thrust of Enron's business.

  Andi Jessen, though, had never slipped over to the dark side--extravagance, arrogance, greed. The compact, intense woman ran Algonquin with an old-fashioned austerity and shunned the splashy life. She was divorced and had no children. Jessen seemed to have no life other than Algonquin. Her only family was a brother, Randall Jessen, who lived in Philadelphia. He was a decorated soldier in Afghanistan and had been discharged after an injury by a roadside bomb.