The Cold Moon

by Jeffery Deaver

  * A fire in the office of Mexicana Seguridad Privado, a security services company, resulted in the evacuation of all employees. No injuries were reported and the damage was minor.

  * A hacker shut down the main computer of a mobile phone provider, resulting in a disruption of service in a portion of Mexico City and its southern suburbs for about two hours.

  * A truck caught fire in the middle of Highway 160, south of Mexico City, near Chalco, completely blocking northbound traffic.

  * Henri Porfirio, the head of the Distrito Federal commercial real estate licensing commission, died when his SUV crashed through a one-lane bridge and plunged forty feet, struck a propane truck parked there and exploded. The incident occurred when drivers were following directions from a flagman to pull off the highway and take a side road to avoid a major traffic jam. Other vehicles had made it successfully over the bridge earlier but the commissioner's vehicle, being armor plated, was too heavy for the old structure, despite a sign that stated it could support the SUV's weight. Porfirio's security chief knew about the traffic jam and had been trying to contact him about a safer route but was unable to because the commissioner's mobile phone was not working. His was the only vehicle that fell.

  Porfirio's son was not in the SUV, which he otherwise would have been, because the child came down with a minor case of food poisoning the day before and remained at home with his mother.

  * Erasmo Saleno, a senior interior official in the Mexican federal government, was arrested after a tip led police to his summer home, where they found a stash of weapons and cocaine (curiously reporters had been alerted too, including a photographer connected with the Los Angeles Times).

  All in a day's news.

  A month later Hale's real estate project broke ground and he received from his fellow investors in Mexico a bonus of $500,000 U.S. in cash.

  He was pleased with the money. He was more pleased, though, with the connections he'd made through the Mexican businessman. It wasn't long before the man put him in touch with someone in America who needed similar services.

  Now, several times a year, between his business projects, he would take on an assignment like this. Usually it was murder, though he'd also engaged in financial scams, insurance fraud and elaborate thefts. Hale would work for anyone, whatever the motive, which was irrelevant to him. He had no interest in why somebody wanted a crime committed. Twice he'd murdered abusive husbands. He killed a child molester one week before he'd murdered a businesswoman who was a major contributor to the United Way.

  Good and bad were words whose definitions were different for Charles Vespasian Hale. Good was mental stimulation. Bad was boredom. Good was an elegant plan well executed. Bad was either a sloppy plan or one carelessly carried out.

  But his current plot--certainly his most elaborate and far-reaching--was humming along perfectly.

  God created the complex mechanism of the universe, then wound it up and started it running. . . .

  Hale got off the subway and climbed to the street, his nose stinging from the cold, his eyes watering, and started along the sidewalk. He was about to push the button that would set the hands of his real chronograph in motion.

  Lon Sellitto's phone rang and he took the call. Frowning, he had a brief conversation. "I'll look into it."

  Rhyme glanced up expectantly.

  "That was Haumann. He just got a call from the manager of a delivery service on the same floor as the company that the Watchmaker broke into in Midtown. He said a customer just called. A package they were supposed to deliver yesterday never showed up. Looks like somebody broke in and stole it around the time that we were sweeping the offices looking for the perp. The manager asked if we knew anything about it."

  Rhyme's eyes slipped to the photographs that Sachs had taken of the hallway. Bless her, she'd taken pictures of the entire floor. Below the name of the delivery service were the words High Security--Valuable Deliveries Guaranteed. Licensed and Bonded.

  Rhyme heard the white noise of people talking around him. But he didn't hear the words themselves. He stared at the photograph and then at the other evidence.

  "Access," he whispered.

  "What?" Sellitto asked, frowning.

  "We were so focused on the Watchmaker and the fake killings--and then on his scheme to flush out Baker--we never looked at what else was going on."

  "Which was?" Sachs asked.

  "Breaking and entering. The crime he actually committed was trespass. All of the offices on that floor were unguarded for a time. When they evacuated the building, they left the doors unlocked?"

  "Well, yeah, I suppose," the big detective said.

  Sachs said, "So while we were focused on the flooring company the Watchmaker might've put on a uniform or just hung a badge over his neck then strolled right inside the delivery service and helped himself to that package."

  Access . . .

  "Call the service. Find out what was in the package, who sent it and where it was going. Now."

  Chapter 36

  A taxicab pulled up in front of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, on Fifth Avenue. The huge building was decorated for Christmas, dolled up in the tasteful Victorian regalia that you'd expect on the Upper East Side. Subdued festive.

  Out of this cab climbed Charles Vespasian Hale, who looked around carefully on the remote chance that the police were following him. It would have been exceedingly unlikely that he'd be under surveillance. Still, Hale took his time, looked everywhere for anyone showing him the least attention. He saw nothing troubling.

  He leaned down to the open taxi window and paid the driver--tendering the cash in gloved hands--and, hooking a black canvas bag over his shoulder, he climbed the stairs into the large cathedral-like lobby, which echoed with the sound of voices, most of them young; the place was lousy with kids freed from school. Evergreens and gold and ornaments and tulle were everywhere. Bach two-part inventions plucked away cheerily on a recorded harpsichord, echoing in the cavernous entryway.

  'Tis the season . . .

  Hale left the black bag at the coat check, though he kept his coat and hat. The clerk looked inside the bag, noted the four art books, then zipped it back up and told Hale to have a nice day. He took the claim check and paid admission. He nodded a smile at the guards at the entrance and walked past them into the museum itself.

  "The Delphic Mechanism?" Rhyme was talking to the director of the Metropolitan Museum of Art via speakerphone. "It's still on display there?"

  "Yes, Detective," the man replied uncertainly. "We've had it here for two weeks. It's part of a multicity tour--"

  "Fine, fine, fine. Is it guarded?"

  "Yes, of course. I--"

  "There's a possibility that a thief's trying to steal it."

  "Steal it? Are you sure? It's a one-of-a-kind objet. Whoever took possession could never show it in public."

  "He doesn't intend to sell it," Rhyme said. "I think he wants it for himself."

  The criminalist explained: The package stolen from the delivery service in the building on Thirty-second Street was from a wealthy patron of the arts and was destined for the Metropolitan Museum. It contained a large portfolio of some antiques being offered to the museum's furniture collection.

  The Metropolitan Museum? Rhyme had wondered. He'd then recalled the museum programs found in the church. He'd asked Vincent Reynolds and the clock dealer, Victor Hallerstein, if Duncan had mentioned anything about the Met. He had, apparently--spending considerable time there--and he'd expressed particular interest in the Delphic Mechanism.

  Rhyme now told the director, "We think he may have stolen the package to smuggle something into the museum. Maybe tools, maybe software to disable alarms. We don't know. I can't figure it out at this point. But I think we have to be cautious."

  "My God . . . All right. What do we do?"

  Rhyme looked up at Cooper, who typed on his keyboard and gave a thumbs-up. Into the microphone the criminalist said, "We've just emailed you his picture. Could y
ou print it out and get a copy to all the employees, the security surveillance room and the coat check? See if they recognize him."

  "I'll do it right now. Can you hold for a few minutes?"

  "Sure."

  Soon the director came on the line. "Detective Rhyme?" His voice was breathless. "He's here! He checked a bag about ten minutes ago. The clerk recognized the picture."

  "The bag's still there?"

  "Yes. He hasn't left."

  Rhyme nodded at Sellitto, who picked up the phone and called Bo Haumann at ESU, whose teams were on their way to the museum, and told him this latest news.

  "The guard at the Mechanism," Rhyme asked, "is he armed?"

  "No. Do you think the thief is? We don't have metal detectors at the entrance. He could've brought a gun in."

  "It's possible." Rhyme looked at Sellitto with a lifted eyebrow.

  The detective asked, "Move a team in slow? Undercover?"

  "He checked a bag . . . and he knows clocks." He asked the museum director, "Did anybody look in the bag?"

  "I'll check. Hold on." A moment later he came back. "Books. He has art books inside. But the coat-check clerk didn't examine them."

  "Bomb for diversion?" Sellitto asked.

  "Could be. Maybe it's only smoke but even then people'll panic. Could be fatalities either way."

  Haumann called in on his radio. His crackling voice: "Okay, we've got teams approaching all the entrances, public and service."

  Rhyme asked Dance, "You're convinced he's willing to take lives."

  "Yes."

  He was considering the man's astonishing plot-making skills. Was there some other deadly plan he'd put into play if he realized he was about to be arrested at the museum? Rhyme made a decision. "Evacuate."

  Sellitto asked, "The entire museum?"

  "I think we have to. First priority--save lives. Clear the coatroom and front lobby and then move everybody else out. Have Haumann's men check out everybody who leaves. Make sure the teams have his picture."

  The museum director had heard. "You think that's necessary?"

  "Yes. Do it now."

  "Okay, but I just don't see how anyone could steal it," the director said. "The Mechanism's behind inch-thick bullet-proof glass. And the case can't be opened until the day the exhibit closes, next Tuesday."

  "What do you mean?" Rhyme asked.

  "It's in one of our special display cases."

  "But why won't it open until Tuesday?"

  "Because the case has a computerized time lock, with a satellite link to some government clock. They tell me nobody can break into it. We put the most valuable exhibits in there."

  The man continued speaking but Rhyme looked away. Something was nagging him. Then he recalled, "That arson earlier, the one that Fred Dellray wanted us to help out on. Where was it again?"

  Sachs frowned. "A government office. The Institute of Standards and Technology or something like that. Why?"

  "Look it up, Mel."

  The tech went online. Reading from the website, he said, "NIST is the new name for the National Bureau of Standards and--"

  "Bureau of Standards?" Rhyme interrupted. "They maintain the country's atomic clock. . . . Is that what he's up to? The time lock at the Met has an uplink to the NIST. Somehow he's going to change the time, convince the lock that it's next Tuesday. The vault'll open automatically."

  "Can he do that?" Dance asked.

  "I don't know. But if it's possible, he'll find a way. The fire at NIST was to cover up the break-in, I'll bet. . . ." Then Rhyme stopped talking, as the full implications of the Watchmaker's plan became clear. "Oh, no . . ."

  "What?"

  Rhyme was thinking about Kathryn Dance's observation: That to the Watchmaker, human life was negligible. He said, "Time everywhere in the country is governed by the U.S. atomic clock. Airlines, trains, national defense, power grids, computers . . . everything. Do you have any idea what's going to happen if he resets it?"

  In a cheap Midtown hotel, a middle-aged man and woman sat on a small couch that smelled of mildew and old food. They were staring at a television set.

  Charlotte Allerton was the stocky woman who'd pretended to be the sister of Theodore Adams, the first "victim" in the alley on Tuesday. The man beside her, Bud Allerton, her husband, was the man masquerading as the lawyer who'd secured Gerald Duncan's release from jail by promising that his client would be a spectacular witness in the crooked cop scandal.

  Bud really was a lawyer, though he hadn't practiced for some years. He'd resurrected some of his old skills for the sake of Duncan's plan, which called for Bud's pretending to be a criminal attorney from the big, prestigious law firm of Reed, Prince. The assistant district attorney had bought the entire charade, not even bothering to call the firm to check up on the man. Gerald Duncan had believed, correctly, that the prosecutor would be so eager to make a name for himself on a police corruption case that he'd believe what he wanted to. Besides, who ever asks for a lawyer's ID?

  The Allertons' attention was almost exclusively on the TV screen, showing local news. A program about Christmas tree safety. Yadda, yadda, yadda . . . For a moment Charlotte's gaze slipped to the master bedroom in the suite, where her pretty, thin daughter sat reading a book. The girl looked through the doorway at her mother and stepfather with the same dark, sullen eyes that had typified her expression in recent months.

  That girl . . .

  Frowning, Charlotte looked back to the TV screen. "Isn't it taking too long?"

  Bud said nothing. His thick fingers were intertwined and he sat forward, hunched, elbows on knees. She wondered if he was praying.

  A moment later the reporter whose mission was to save families from the scourge of burning Christmas trees disappeared and on the screen came the words Special News Bulletin.

  Chapter 37

  In doing his research into watchmaking, so that he could be a credible revenge killer, Charles Hale had learned of the concept of "complications."

  A complication is a function in a watch or clock other than telling the time of day. For instance, those small dials that dot the front of expensive timepieces, giving information like day of the week and date and time in different locations, and repeater functions (chimes sounding at certain intervals). Watchmakers have always enjoyed the challenge of getting as many complications into their watches as possible. A typical one is the Patek Philippe Star Calibre 2000, a watch featuring more than one thousand parts. Its complications offer the owner such information as the times of sunrise and sunset, a perpetual calendar, the day, date and month, the season, moon phases, lunar orbit and power reserve indicators for both the watch's movement and the several chimes inside.

  The trouble with complications, though, is that they're just that. They tend to distract from the ultimate purpose of a watch: telling time. Breitling makes superb timepieces but some of the Professional and Navitimer models have so many dials, hands and side functions, like chronographs (the technical term for stopwatches) and logarithmic slide rules, that it's easy to miss the big hand and the little hand.

  But complications were exactly what Charles Hale needed for his plan here in New York City, distractions to lead the police away from what he was really about. Because there was a good chance that Lincoln Rhyme and his team would find out that he was no longer in custody and that he wasn't really Gerald Duncan, they'd realize he had something else in mind other than getting even with a crooked cop.

  So he needed yet another complication to keep the police focused elsewhere.

  Hale's cell phone vibrated. He glanced at the text message, which was from Charlotte Allerton. Special Report on TV: Museum closed. Police searching for you there.

  He put the phone back in his pocket.

  And enjoyed a moment of keen, almost sexual, satisfaction.

  The message told him that while Rhyme had tipped to the fact that he wasn't who he seemed to be, the police were still missing the time of day and focusing on the complication of the Metrop
olitan Museum. He was pointing the police toward what appeared to be a plan to steal the famous Delphic Mechanism. At the church he'd planted brochures on the horologic exhibits in Boston and Tampa. He'd rhapsodized on the device to Vincent Reynolds. He'd hinted to the antiques dealer about his obsession with old timepieces, mentioning the Mechanism specifically, and that he was aware of the exhibit at the Met. The small fire he'd set at the National Institute of Standards and Technology in Brooklyn would make them think he was going to somehow reset the country's cesium clock, disabling the Met's time-security system, and steal the Mechanism.

  A plot to steal the device seemed to be just the clever, subtle deduction for the cops to seize as Hale's real motive. Officers would spend hours scouring the museum and nearby Central Park looking for him and examining the canvas bag he'd left. It contained four hollowed-out books, inside of which were two bags of baking soda, a small scanner and, of course, a clock--a cheap digital alarm. None of them meant anything but each was sure to keep the police busy for hours.

  The complications in his plan were as elegant, if not as numerous, as those in what was reportedly the world's most elaborate wristwatch, one made by Gerald Genta.

  But at the moment Hale was nowhere near the museum, which he'd left a half hour ago. Not long after he'd entered and checked the bag, he'd walked into a restroom stall, then taken off his coat, revealing an army uniform, rank of major. He'd donned glasses and a military-style hat--hidden in a false pocket in his coat--and had left the museum quickly. He was presently in downtown Manhattan, slowly making his way through the security line leading into the New York office of the Department of Housing and Urban Development.

  In a short time a number of soldiers and their families would attend a ceremony in their honor, hosted by the city and the U.S. Departments of Defense and State, in the HUD building. Officials would be greeting soldiers recently returned from foreign conflicts and their families, giving them letters of commendation for their service in recent world conflicts and thanking them for reenlisting. Following the ceremonies, and the requisite photo ops and trite statements to the press, the guests would leave and the generals and other government officials would reconvene to discuss future efforts to spread democracy to other places in the world.