The Burning Wire

by Jeffery Deaver

  "Sure."

  "You find anything else yesterday at Galt's?"

  "Went over it again top to bottom, Lincoln. But nothing, sorry."

  Sellitto too arrived, looking more disheveled than usual. The outfit seemed the same--light blue shirt and navy suit. Rhyme wondered if he'd slept in his own office last night. The detective gave them a synopsis of how things were unfolding downtown--the case had bled over into the public relations world. Political careers could be at stake and while local, state and federal officials were putting bodies on the street and bringing "resources to bear," each was also carefully suggesting that it was doing more than the others.

  Settling into a noisy wicker chair, he loudly slurped coffee and muttered, "But the bottom line is nobody knows how to run this thing. We've got portables and feebies and National Guard at the airports, subways, train stations. All the refineries and docks. Special harbor patrols around the tankers--though I don't know how the fuck he'd attack a ship with an arc flash or whatever. And they've got people on all the Algonquin substations."

  "He's not going after the substations anymore," Rhyme complained.

  "I know that. And so does everybody, but nobody knows where exactly to expect him. It's everywhere."

  "What is?"

  "This fucking juice. Electricity." He waved his hand, apparently indicating the entire city. "Everybody's goddamn house." He eyed the outlets in Rhyme's wall. Then said, "At least we haven't got any more demands. Christ, two yesterday, within a few hours. I was thinking he just got pissed off and decided to kill those guys in an elevator, no matter what." The big man sighed. "I'll be taking the stairs for a while, I'll tell you. Good for the weight, at least."

  Eyes sweeping across the evidence boards, Rhyme was in agreement about the rudderless nature of the case. Galt was smart but he wasn't brilliant, and he was leaving ample trace behind. It just wasn't leading them anywhere, other than offering general ideas of his targets.

  An airport?

  An oil depot?

  Though Lincoln Rhyme was also thinking something else: Are the paths there and am I just missing them?

  And felt again the tickle of sweat, the faint recurring headache that had plagued him recently. He'd successfully ignored it for a time but the throbbing had returned. Yes, he was feeling worse, there was no doubt about it. Was that affecting his mental skills? He would admit to no one, not even Sachs, that this was perhaps the most terrifying thing in the world to him. As he'd told Susan Stringer last night, his mind was all he had.

  He found his eyes drawn to the den across the hall. The table where Dr. Arlen Kopeski's Die with Dignity brochure rested.

  Choices. . . .

  He then tipped the thought away.

  Just then Sellitto took a call, sitting up as he listened and setting down his coffee quickly. "Yeah? Where?" He jotted in his limp notebook.

  Everyone in the room was watching him intently. Rhyme was thinking: a new demand?

  The phone clicked closed. He looked up from his notes. "Okay, may have something. A portable downtown, near Chinatown, calls in. Woman'd come up to him and says she thinks she saw our boy."

  "Galt?" Pulaski asked.

  Sourly: "What other boy we interested in, Officer?"

  "Sorry."

  "She thinks she recognized the picture."

  "Where?" Rhyme snapped.

  "There's an abandoned school, near Chinatown." Sellitto gave them the address. Sachs was writing.

  "The portable checked it out. Nobody there now."

  "But if he was there, he'd've left something behind," Rhyme said.

  At his nod, Sachs stood. "Okay, Ron, let's go."

  "You better take a team." Sellitto added wryly, "We've probably got a few cops left who aren't guarding fuse boxes or wires around town."

  "Let's get ESU in the area," she said. "Stage nearby but keep 'em out of sight. Ron and I'll go in first. If he's there after all and we need a takedown, I'll call. But we don't want a team running through the place, screwing up the evidence, if it's empty."

  The two of them headed out the door.

  Sellitto called Bo Haumann of Emergency Service and briefed him. The ESU head would get officers into the area and coordinate with Sachs. The detective disconnected and looked around the room, presumably for something to accompany the coffee. He found a plate of pastry, courtesy of Thom, and grabbed a bear claw pastry. Dunked it and ate. Then he frowned.

  Rhyme asked, "What?"

  "Just realized I forgot to call McDaniel and the feds and tell 'em about the operation in Chinatown--at the school." Then he grimaced and held up his phone theatrically. "Aw, shit. I can't. I didn't pay for a cloud zone SIM chip. Guess I'll have to tell him later."

  Rhyme laughed and ignored the searing ache that spiked momentarily in his head. Just then his phone rang and both humor and headaches vanished.

  Kathryn Dance was calling.

  His finger struggled to hit the keypad. "Yes, Kathryn? What's going on?"

  She said, "I'm on the phone with Rodolfo. They've found the Watchmaker's target."

  Excellent, he reflected, though part of him was also thinking: Why now? But then he decided: The Watchmaker's the priority, at least for the moment. You've got Sachs and Pulaski and a dozen ESU troops after Galt. And the last time you had a chance at the Watchmaker, you turned away from the search to focus on something else, and he killed his victim and got away.

  Not this time. Richard Logan isn't escaping this time.

  "Go ahead," he told the CBI agent, forcing himself to turn away from the evidence boards.

  There was a click.

  "Rodolfo," Dance said. "Lincoln's on the line. I'll leave you two to talk. I've got to see TJ."

  They said good-bye to her.

  "Hello, Captain."

  "Commander. What do you have?"

  "Arturo Diaz has four undercover officers in the office complex I was telling you about. About ten minutes ago Mr. Watchmaker, dressed as a businessman, entered the building. From the lobby he used a pay phone to call a company on the sixth floor--on the opposite side of where the fire alarm was yesterday. Just like you thought. He spent about ten minutes inside and then left."

  "He vanished?" Rhyme asked, alarmed.

  "No. He's now outside in a small park between the two main buildings in the complex."

  "Just sitting there?"

  "So it seems. He's made several mobile calls. But the frequency is unusual or they're scrambled, Arturo tells me. So we can't intercept."

  Rhyme supposed rules about eavesdropping in Mexico might be somewhat less strict than in the U.S.

  "They're sure it's the Watchmaker?"

  "Yes. Arturo's men said they had a clear view. He has a satchel with him. He still is carrying it."

  "He is?"

  "Yes. We still can't be sure what it is. A bomb, perhaps. With the circuit board detonator. Our teams are surrounding the facility. All plainclothed but we have a full complement of soldiers nearby. And the bomb squad."

  "Where are you, Commander?"

  A laugh. "It was very considerate of your Watchmaker to pick this place. The Jamaican consulate is here. They have bomb barriers up and we're behind those. Logan can't see us."

  Rhyme hoped that was true.

  "When will you move in?"

  "As soon as Arturo's men say it's clear. The park is crowded with innocents. A number of children. But he won't get away. We have most of the roads sealed off."

  A trickle of sweat slipped down Rhyme's temple. He grimaced and twisted his head to the side to wipe it on the headrest.

  The Watchmaker . . .

  So close.

  Please. Let this work out. Please . . .

  And again squelched the frustration that he felt from working on such an important case at a distance.

  "We'll let you know soon, Captain."

  They disconnected the call and Rhyme forced himself to focus on Raymond Galt once again. Was the lead to his whereabouts solid? He looked
like an everyman, approaching middle age, not too heavy, not too slim. Average height. And in the paranoid climate he'd created, people were undoubtedly primed to see things that weren't there. Electrical traps, arc flash risks . . . and the killer himself.

  Then he started, as Sachs's voice snapped through the radio. "Rhyme, you there, K?"

  She'd ended her transmission with the traditional conclusion of a comment or question in the police radio parlance, K, to let the recipient know it was okay to transmit. He and she usually disposed of this formality, and for some reason Rhyme found it troubling that she'd used the shorthand.

  "Sachs, go ahead. What do you have?"

  "We just got here. We're about to go in. I'll let you know."

  Chapter 58

  A MAROON TORINO Cobra made for a bad undercover car, so Sachs had glided it to a stop about two blocks away from the school where Galt had been sighted.

  The school had closed years ago and, according to the signage, was soon to be demolished and condominiums built on the grounds.

  "Good hidey-hole," she said to Pulaski as they jogged close, noting the seven-foot-high wooden fence around the grounds, covered with graffiti and posters of alternative theater, performance pieces and music groups plummeting to obscurity. The Seventh Seal. The Right Hands. Bolo.

  Pulaski, who seemed to be forcing himself to concentrate, nodded. She'd have to keep an eye on him. He'd done well at the elevator crime scene in Midtown but it seemed that the accident at Galt's apartment--hitting that man--was bothering him again.

  They paused in front of the fence. The demolition hadn't started yet; the gate--two hinged pieces of plywood chained together and padlocked--had enough play so they could have squeezed through, which is probably how Galt had gotten in, if in fact he had. Sachs stood to the side of the gap and peered in. The school was largely intact, though it seemed that a portion of the roof had fallen in. Most of the glass had been stoned out of the windows but you could see virtually nothing inside.

  Yep, it was a good hidey-hole. And a nightmare to assault. There'd be a hundred good defensive positions.

  Call in the troops? Not yet, Sachs thought. Every minute they delayed was a minute Galt could be finishing the last touches on his new weapon. And every ESU officer's footfall might destroy trace evidence.

  "He could have it booby-trapped," Pulaski whispered in an unsteady voice, looking at the metal chain. "Maybe it's wired."

  "No. He wouldn't risk somebody just touching it casually and getting a shock; they'd call the police right away." But, she continued, he could easily have something rigged to tell him of intruders' presence. So, sighing and with a grimace on her face, she looked up the street. "Can you climb that?"

  "What?"

  "The fence?"

  "I guess I could. If I were chasing or being chased."

  "Well, I can't, unless you give me a boost. Then you come after."

  "All right."

  They walked to where she could make out, through a crack in the fence, some thick bushes on the other side, which would both break their fall and give them some cover. She recalled that Galt was armed--and with a particularly powerful gun, the .45. She made sure her Glock holster was solidly clipped into her waistband and then nodded. Pulaski crouched down and laced his fingers together.

  Mostly to put him at ease, she whispered gravely, "One thing to remember. It's important."

  "What's that?" He looked into her eyes uneasily.

  "I've gained a few pounds," said the tall policewoman. "Be careful of your back."

  A smile. It didn't last long. But it was a smile nonetheless.

  She winced from the pain in her leg as she stepped onto his hands, and twisted to face the wall.

  Just because Galt hadn't electrified the chain didn't mean he hadn't rigged something on the other side. She saw in her mind's eye once more the holes in Luis Martin's flesh. Saw too the sooty floor of the elevator car yesterday, the quivering bodies of the hotel guests.

  "No backup?" he whispered. "You're sure?"

  "I'm sure. On three. One . . . Two . . . Three."

  And up she went, Pulaski much stronger than she'd expected, launching her nearly six-foot frame straight up. Her palms caught the top and she lodged there, sitting momentarily. A glance at the school. No sign of anyone. Then a look downward, and she saw beneath her only the bush, nothing to burn her flesh with five-thousand-degree arc flashes, no metal wires or panels.

  Sachs turned her back to the school, gripped the top of the fence and lowered herself as far as she could. Then, when she knew she'd have to let go, she let go.

  She hit rolling, and the pain rattled through her knees and thighs. But she knew her malady of arthritis as intimately as Rhyme knew his bodily limitations and she understood this was merely a temporary protest. By the time she'd taken cover behind the thickest stand of shrub, gun drawn and looking for any presenting targets, the pain had diminished.

  "Clear," she whispered through the fence.

  There was a thump and a faint grunt and, like some kung-fu movie actor, Pulaski landed deftly and silently beside her. His weapon too appeared in his hand.

  There was no way they could approach the front without being seen if Galt happened to look out. They'd go around to the back but Sachs needed to do one thing first. She scanned the grounds and, gesturing Pulaski to follow her, stayed behind the bushes and Dumpsters awaiting filling, heading to the right side of the school.

  With Pulaski covering her, she moved fast to where two large rusting metal boxes were fitted to the brick. Both had peeling decals with the name Algonquin Consolidated on the side and a number to call in an emergency. She took from her pocket Sommers's current detector, turned it on and swept the unit over the boxes. The display showed zero.

  Not surprising, since the place had been deserted for years, it seemed. But she was happy to see the confirmation.

  "Look," Pulaski whispered, touching her arm.

  Sachs gazed at where he was pointing, through a greasy window. It was dim and hard to make out anything inside clearly, but after a moment she could see the faint movement of a flashlight, she believed, slowly scanning. Possibly--the shadows were deceptive--she was looking at a man poring over a document. A map? A diagram of an electrical system he was going to turn into a deadly trap?

  "He is here," Pulaski whispered excitedly.

  She pulled the headset on and called Bo Haumann, the ESU head.

  "What do you have, Detective? K."

  "There's somebody here. I can't tell if it's Galt or not. He's in the middle part of the main building. Ron and I are going to flank him. What's your ETA? K."

  "Eight, nine minutes. Silent roll-up, K."

  "Good. We'll be in the back. Call me when you're ready for the takedown. We'll come in from behind."

  "Roger, out."

  She then called Rhyme and told him that they might have the perp. They'd go in as soon as ESU was on site.

  "Look out for traps," Rhyme urged.

  "There's no power. It's safe."

  She disconnected the transmission and glanced at Pulaski. "Ready?"

  He nodded.

  Crouching, she moved quickly toward the back of the school, gripping her weapon tightly and thinking: Okay, Galt. Haven't got your juice to protect you here. You've got a gun, I've got a gun. Now, we're on my turf.

  Chapter 59

  AS HE DISCONNECTED from Sachs, Rhyme felt another tickle of sweat. He finally had to resort to calling Thom and asking him to wipe it off. This was perhaps the hardest for Rhyme. Relying on somebody for the big tasks wasn't so bad: the range-of-motion exercises, bowel and bladder, the sitting-transfer maneuver to get him into the wheelchair or bed. The feeding.

  It was the tiny needs that were the most infuriating . . . and embarrassing. Flicking away an insect, picking fuzz off your slacks.

  Wiping away a rivulet of sweat.

  The aide appeared and easily took care of the problem without a thought.

  "Thank yo
u," the criminalist said. Thom hesitated at the unexpected show of gratitude.

  Rhyme turned back to the evidence boards, but in fact he wasn't thinking much of Galt. It was possible that Sachs and the ESU team were about to collar the crazed employee at the school in Chinatown.

  No, what was occupying his overheated mind exclusively was the Watchmaker in Mexico City. Goddamn it, why wasn't Luna or Kathryn Dance or somebody calling to give him a blow-by-blow description of the takedown?

  Maybe the Watchmaker had already planted the bomb in the office building and was using his own presence as a diversion. The satchel he carried might be filled with bricks. Why exactly was he hanging out in the office park like some goddamn tourist trying to figure out where to get a margarita? And could it be a different office altogether he was targeting?

  Then Rhyme said, "Mel, I want to see where the takedown's happening. Google Earth . . . or whatever it's called. Pull it up for me. Mexico City."

  "Sure."

  "Avenue Bosque de Reforma . . . How often do they update the images?"

  "I don't know. Probably every few months. It's not real time, though, I don't imagine."

  "I don't care about that."

  A few minutes later they were looking at a satellite image of the area: a curving road, Avenue Bosque de Reforma, with the office buildings separated by the park where the Watchmaker was sitting at that moment. Across the street was the Jamaican consulate, protected by a series of concrete barriers--the bomb blast shields--and a gate. Rodolfo Luna and his team would be on the other side of those. Behind them were official vehicles parked in front of the embassy itself.

  He gasped as he stared at the barriers. To the left was a blast shield running perpendicular to the road. To the right were six others, parallel to it.

  JAMAICAN

  CONSULATE

  |

  Avenue Bosque de Reforma

  This was the letter I and the blank spaces from the package delivered to the Watchmaker at Mexico City airport.

  Gold letters . . .

  Little blue booklet . . .

  The mysterious numbers . . .

  "Mel," he said sharply. The tech's head snapped up at the urgency. "Is there any passport that has the letters CC on the cover? Issued in blue?"

  A moment later Cooper looked up from the State Department archive. "Yes, as a matter of fact, there is. Navy blue with interlocking C's at the top. It's the Caribbean Community passport. There're about fifteen countries in--"