The Burning Wire

by Jeffery Deaver

  Andi was one of the country's most outspoken advocates for the megagrid--one unified power grid that connected all of North America. This was, she felt, a far more efficient way to produce and deliver electricity to consumers. (With Algonquin as the major player, Rhyme supposed.)

  Her nickname--though apparently one never used to her face or in her presence--was "The All-Powerful." Apparently this was a reference to both her take-no-prisoners management style, and to her ambitions for Algonquin.

  Her controversial reservations about green power were on blunt display in one interview.

  "First of all, I wanted to say that we at Algonquin Consolidated are committed to renewable energy sources. But at the same time I think we all need to be realistic. The earth was here billions of years before we lost our gills and tails and started burning coal and driving internal combustion cars and it'll be here, doing just fine, long, long after we're history.

  "When people say they want to save the earth, what they really mean is that they want to save their lifestyle. We have to admit we want energy and a lot of it. And that we need it--for civilization to progress, to be fed and educated, to use fancy equipment to keep an eye on the dictators of the world, to help Third World countries join the First World. Oil and coal and natural gas and nuclear power are the best ways to create that power."

  The piece ended and pundits leapt in to criticize or say hurrah. It was more politically correct, and produced better ratings, to eviscerate her, however.

  Finally the camera went live to City Hall, four people on the dais: Jessen, the mayor, the police chief and Gary Noble, from Homeland Security.

  The mayor made a brief announcement and then turned over the mike. Andi Jessen, looking both harsh and reassuring, told everyone that Algonquin was doing all it could to control the situation. A number of safeguards had been put into place, though she didn't say what those might be.

  Surprising Rhyme, and everyone else in the room, the group had made the decision to go public about the second demand letter. He supposed that the reasoning was if they were unsuccessful in stopping Galt and somebody else died in another attack, the public relations, and perhaps legal, consequences to Algonquin would have been disastrous.

  The reporters leapt on this instantly and pelted her with questions. Jessen coolly silenced them and explained that it was impossible to meet the extortionist's requirements. A reduction in the amount of power he wanted would result in hundreds of millions of dollars in damages. And very likely many more deaths.

  She added that it would be a national security risk because the demands would hamper military and other governmental operations. "Algonquin is a major player in our nation's defense and we will not do anything to jeopardize that."

  Slick, thought Rhyme. She's turning the whole thing around.

  Finally, she ended with a personal statement to Galt to turn himself in. He'd be treated fairly. "Don't let your family or anyone else suffer because of the tragedy that's happened to you. We'll do whatever we can to ease your suffering. But please, do the right thing, and turn yourself in."

  She took no questions and was off the dais seconds after she finished speaking, her high heels clattering loudly.

  Rhyme noticed that while her sympathy was heartfelt she never once admitted that the company had done anything wrong or that high-voltage lines might in fact have led to Galt's or anyone else's cancer.

  Then the police chief took over and tried his best to offer concrete reassurance. Police and federal agents were out in force looking for Galt, and National Guard troops were ready to assist if there were more attacks or the grid was compromised.

  He ended with a plea to citizens to report anything unusual.

  Now that's helpful, Rhyme thought. If there's one thing that's the order of the day in New York City, it's the unusual.

  And he turned back to the paltry evidence.

  Chapter 48

  SUSAN STRINGER LEFT her office on the eighth floor of an ancient building in Midtown Manhattan at 5:45 p.m.

  She said hello to two men also making their way to the elevator. One of them she knew casually because they'd run into each other occasionally in the building. Larry left at about this same time every day. The difference was that he'd be returning to his office, to work through the night.

  Susan, on the other hand, was heading home.

  The attractive thirty-five-year-old was an editor for a magazine that had a specialized field: art and antiques restoration, primarily eighteenth and nineteenth century. She also wrote poetry occasionally, and was published. These passions gave her only a modest income but if she ever had any doubts about the wisdom of sticking to her career, all she had to do was listen to a conversation like the one Larry and his friend were having at the moment, and she knew she could never go into that side of business--law, finance, banking, accounting.

  The two men wore very expensive suits, nice watches and elegant shoes. But there was a harried quality about them. Edgy. It didn't seem they liked their jobs much. The friend was complaining about his boss breathing down his neck. Larry was complaining about an audit that was in the "fucking tank."

  Stress, unhappiness.

  And that language too.

  Susan was pleased she didn't have to deal with that. Her life was the Rococo and neoclassical designs of craftsmen, from Chippendale to George Hepplewhite to Sheraton.

  Practical beauty, she phrased their creations.

  "You look wasted," the friend said to Larry.

  He did, Susan agreed.

  "I am. Bear of a trip."

  "When'd you get back?"

  "Tuesday."

  "You were senior auditor?"

  Larry nodded. "The books were a nightmare. Twelve-hour days. The only time I could get out on the golf course was Sunday and the temperature hit a hundred and sixteen."

  "Ouch."

  "I've got to go back. Monday. I mean, I just don't know where the hell the money's going. Something's fishy."

  "Weather that hot, maybe it's evaporating."

  "Funny," Larry muttered in an unfunny way.

  The men continued their banter about financial statements and disappearing money but Susan tuned them out. She saw another man approach, wearing a workman's brown overalls and a hat, as well as glasses. Eyes down, he carried a tool kit and a large watering can, though he must've been working in a different office since there were no decorative plants in the hallway here, and none in her office. Her publisher wouldn't pay for any flora and he sure wouldn't pay for a person to water them.

  The elevator car came and the two businessmen let her precede them inside, and she reflected that at least some semblance of chivalry remained in the twenty-first century. The workman entered too and hit the button for the floor two down. But, unlike the others, he rudely pushed past her to get to the back of the car.

  They started to descend. A moment later Larry glanced down and said, "Hey, mister, watch it. You're leaking there."

  Susan looked back. The workman had accidentally tilted the can and a stream of water was pouring onto the stainless-steel floor of the car.

  "Oh, sorry," the man mumbled unapologetically. The whole floor was soaked, Susan noted.

  The door opened and the worker got out. Another man entered.

  Larry's friend said in a loud voice, "Careful, that guy just spilled some water in here. Didn't even bother to clean it up."

  But whether the culprit had heard or not, Susan couldn't say. Even if he had she doubted he cared.

  The door closed and they continued their journey downward.

  Chapter 49

  RHYME WAS STARING at the clock. Ten minutes until the next deadline.

  The last hour or so had involved coordinated searches throughout the city by the police and FBI, and, in the town house here, a frantic analysis of the evidence once more. Frantic . . . and futile. They were no closer to finding Galt or his next target location than they'd been just after the first attack. Rhyme's eyes swung to the e
vidence charts, which remained an elusive jumble of puzzle pieces.

  He was aware of McDaniel's taking a call. The agent listened, nodding broadly. He shot a look to his protege. He then thanked the caller and hung up.

  "One of my T and C teams had another hit about the terror group. A small one but it's gold. Another word in the name is 'Earth.' "

  "Justice For the Earth," Sachs said.

  "Could be more to it but we know those words for certain. 'Justice.' 'For.' And 'Earth.' "

  "At least we know it's ecoterror," Sellitto muttered.

  "No hits on any database?" Rhyme wondered aloud.

  "No, but remember, this is all cloud zone. And there was another hit. Rahman's second in command seems to be somebody named Johnston."

  "Anglo."

  But how does this help? Rhyme wondered angrily to himself. How does any of this help us find the site of the attack, which's going to happen in just a few minutes?

  And what the hell kind of weapon has he devised this time? Another arc flash? Another deadly circuit in a public place?

  Rhyme's eyes were riveted on the evidence whiteboards.

  McDaniel said to the Kid, "Get me Dellray."

  A moment later the agent's voice came through the speaker. "Yes, who's this? Who's there?"

  "Fred. It's Tucker. I'm here with Lincoln Rhyme and some other people from the NYPD."

  "At Rhyme's?"

  "Yes."

  "How you doing, Lincoln?"

  "Been better."

  "Yeah. True about all of us."

  McDaniel said, "Fred, you heard about the new demand and deadline."

  "Your assistant called me. She told me about the motive too. Galt's cancer."

  "We've got a confirmation that it's probably a terror group. Ecoterror."

  "How does that play with Galt?"

  "Symbiosis."

  "What?"

  "A symbiotic construct. It was in my memo. . . . They're working together. The group's called Justice For the Earth. And Rahman's second in command is named Johnston."

  Dellray asked, "Sounds like they have different agendas. How'd they hook up? Galt and Rahman?"

  "I don't know, Fred. That's not the point. Maybe they contacted him, read his postings about the cancer. It was all over the Internet."

  "Oh."

  "Now, the deadline's coming up at any minute. Has your CI found anything?"

  A pause. "No, Tucker. Nothing."

  "The debriefing. You said it was at three."

  Another hesitation. "That's right. But he doesn't have anything concrete yet. He's going a little farther underground."

  "The whole fucking world's underground," the FBI agent snapped, surprising Rhyme; he couldn't imagine an expletive issuing from the man's smooth lips. "So, call your guy up and get him the information about Justice For the Earth. And the new player, Johnston."

  "I'll do it."

  "Fred?"

  "Yes?"

  "He's the only one has any leads, this CI of yours?"

  "That's right."

  "And he didn't hear anything, not a name, nothing?"

  "Afraid not."

  McDaniel said distractedly, "Well, thanks, Fred. You did what you could." As if he hadn't expected to learn anything helpful anyway.

  A pause. "Sure."

  They disconnected. Rhyme and Sellitto both were aware of McDaniel's sour expression.

  "Fred's a good man," the detective said.

  "He is a good man," the ASAC replied quickly. Too quickly.

  But the subject of Fred Dellray and McDaniel's opinion of him vanished as everyone in the town house, except Thom, got a cell call, all within five seconds of each other.

  Different sources, but the news was the same.

  Although the deadline was still seven minutes away, Ray Galt had struck again, once more killing innocents in Manhattan.

  It was Sellitto's caller who gave them the details. Through speakerphone the NYPD patrolman, sounding young and distracted, started to give an account of the attack--a Midtown office building elevator car in which four passengers were riding. "It was . . . it was pretty bad." Then the officer choked, his voice dissolved in coughing--maybe from smoke created by the attack. Or maybe it was simply to cover up his emotion.

  The officer excused himself and said he'd call back in a few minutes.

  He never did.

  Chapter 50

  THAT SMELL AGAIN.

  Could Amelia Sachs ever escape it?

  And even if she scrubbed and scrubbed and threw her clothes out, could she ever forget it? Apparently the sleeve and hair of one of the victims had caught fire in the elevator car. The flames hadn't been bad but the smoke was thick and the smell was repulsive.

  Sachs and Ron Pulaski were suiting up in their overalls. She asked one of the Emergency Service officers, "DCDS?" Gesturing toward the hazy car.

  Deceased, confirmed dead at scene.

  "That's right."

  "Where're the bodies?"

  "Up the hall. I know we fucked up the scene in the elevator, Detective, but there was so much smoke, we didn't know what was going on. We had to clear it."

  She told him that was all right. Checking on the conditions of victims is the first priority. Besides, nothing contaminates a crime scene like fire. A few emergency worker footprints would make little difference.

  "How'd it work?" she asked the ESU officer.

  "We aren't sure. The building supervisor said the car stopped just above the ground floor. Then smoke started. And the screams. By the time they got the car down to the main floor and the door opened, it was all over."

  Sachs shivered at the thought. The molten metal disks were bad enough, but, being claustrophobic, she was even more troubled by the thought of those four people in a confined space filled with electricity . . . and one of them burning.

  The ESU officer looked over his notes. "The vics were an editor of an arts magazine, a lawyer and an accountant on the eighth floor. A computer parts salesman from the sixth. If you're interested."

  Sachs was always interested in anything that made the victims real. Partly this was to keep her heart about her, to make certain she didn't become callous because of what she encountered on the job. But partly it was because of what Rhyme had instilled in her. For a man who was pure scientist, a rationalist, Rhyme's talent as a forensic expert was also due to his uncanny ability to step into the mind of the perp.

  Years ago, at the very first scene they'd worked, a terrible crime also involving death by a utility system--steam, in that case--Rhyme had whispered to her something that seated itself in her mind every time she walked the grid: "I want you to be him," he'd told her, speaking of the perp. "Just get into his head. You've been thinking the way we think. I want you to think the way he does."

  Rhyme had told her that while he believed forensic science could be taught, this empathy was an innate talent. And Sachs believed the best way to maintain this connection--this wire, she thought now, between your heart and your skill--was never to forget the victims.

  "Ready?" she asked Pulaski.

  "I guess."

  "We're going to do the grid, Rhyme," she said into the microphone.

  "Okay, but do it without me, Sachs."

  She was alarmed. Despite his protests to the contrary, Rhyme hadn't been well. She could tell easily. But it turned out that there was another reason he was signing off. "I want you to walk the grid with that guy from Algonquin."

  "Sommers?"

  "Right."

  "Why?"

  "For one thing, I like his mind. He thinks broadly. Maybe it's his inventor's side. I don't know. But beyond that, something's not right, Sachs. I can't explain it. I feel we're missing something. Galt had to have planned this out for a month, at least. But now it looks like he's accelerating the attacks--two in one day. I can't figure that out."

  "Maybe," she suggested, "it's because we've gotten on to him faster than he hoped."

  "Could be. I don't know. But if
that's the case it also means he'd love to take us out too."

  "True."

  "So I want a fresh perspective. I've already called Charlie, and he's willing to help. . . . Does he always eat when he talks on the phone?"

  "He likes junk food."

  "Well, when you're on the grid, make sure he's got something that doesn't crunch. Communications will patch you in, whenever you're ready. Just get back here ASAP with whatever you find. For all we know Galt's rigging another attack right now."

  They disconnected. She glanced at Ron Pulaski, who was still clearly troubled.

  I need you with us, Rookie. . . .

  She called him over. "Ron, the major scene's downstairs, where he probably rigged the wires and that device of his." She tapped her radio. "I'll be online with Charlie Sommers. I need you to run the elevator." Another pause. "And process the bodies too. There probably won't be much trace. His MO is he doesn't have any direct contact with the vics. But it needs to be done. Are you okay with that?"

  The young officer nodded. "Anything you need, Amelia." Sounding painfully sincere. He was making amends for the accident at Galt's apartment, she guessed.

  "Let's get to it. And Vicks."

  "What?"

  "In the kit. Vicks VapoRub. Put some underneath your nose. For the smell."

  In five minutes she was online with Charlie Sommers, grateful that he was helping her in running the scene--to give "technical support," which he defined, in his irreverent way, as helping to "save her ass."

  Sachs clicked on her helmet light and started down the stairs into the basement of the building, describing to Charlie Sommers exactly what she saw in the dank, filthy area at the base of the elevator shaft. She was linked to him only through audio, not video, as she usually was with Rhyme.

  The building had been cleared by ESU, but she was very aware of what Rhyme had told her earlier--that Galt could easily have decided to start targeting his pursuers. She looked around for a moment, taking only a few detours to shine the light on shadows that had a vaguely human form.

  They turned out to be only shadows that had a vaguely human form.

  He asked, "You see anything bolted to the railings the elevator rides on?"

  She focused again on her search. "No, nothing on the rails. But . . . there's a piece of that Bennington cable bolted to the wall. I'm--"

  "Test the voltage first!"