The burning wire lr-9

by Jeffery Deaver

  Mel Cooper made a copy of the list and they divided up the names. Sachs, Pulaski and Sellitto took half, McDaniel the rest, for his federal agents to follow up on. Sachs then looked through the personnel files she'd gotten at Algonquin and kept the ones that corresponded to the names they'd selected, gave the others to McDaniel.

  "This Sommers, you trust him?" Rhyme asked.

  "Yes. He checked out. And he gave me this." She whipped out a small black electronic device and pointed it toward a wire near Rhyme. She pressed a button and read a screen. "Hm. Two hundred forty volts."

  "And how about me, Sachs? Am I fully charged?"

  She laughed, playfully aimed it at him. Then lifted what he thought was a seductive eyebrow his way. Her phone buzzed and she glanced at the screen, answered. She had a brief conversation and hung up. "That was Bob Cavanaugh, the Operations vice president. He was the one checking out terrorist connections at the company branches around the region. No evidence of ecoterror groups threatening Algonquin or attacking their power plants. But there was a report of infiltration in one of the company's main Philadelphia substations. White male in his forties got inside. Nobody knows who he was or what he was doing there. No security tape and he got away before the police arrived. This was last week."

  Race, sex and age… "That's our boy. But what did he want?"

  "No other intrusions in the company's facilities."

  Was the perp's mission to get information about the grid, the security in substations? Rhyme could only speculate and, accordingly, filed the incident away for the time being.

  McDaniel got a phone call. He stared absently at the evidence chart whiteboards, then disconnected. "T and C's had more chatter about the Justice For terrorist group."

  "What?" Rhyme asked urgently.

  "Nothing big. But one thing interesting: they're using code words that've been used in the past for large-scale weapons. 'Paper and supplies' were the ones our algorithms isolated."

  He explained that underground cells often did this. An attack in France was averted recently when chatter among known negatives included the words "gateau," "farine" and "beurre." French for "cake," "flour" and "butter." They really referred to a bomb and its ingredients: explosives and detonator.

  "The Mossad's reported that Hezbollah cells sometimes use 'office supplies' or 'party supplies' for missiles or high explosives. Now, we also think that two people in addition to Rahman have been involved. Man and a woman, the computer's telling us."

  Rhyme asked, "Have you told Fred?"

  "Good idea." McDaniel pulled out his BlackBerry and made a speakerphone call.

  "Fred, it's Tucker. You're on speaker at Rhyme's. You had any luck?"

  "My CI's on it. Following up on some leads."

  "Following up? Nothing more concrete than that?"

  A pause. Dellray said, "I don't have anything more. Not yet."

  "Well, T and C's found a few things." He updated the agent on the code words and the fact that a man and woman were likely involved.

  Dellray said he'd report that to his contact.

  McDaniel asked, "So he was willing to work within the budget?"

  "That's right."

  "I knew he would. These people'll take advantage of you if you let them, Fred. That's the way CIs work."

  "Happens," Dellray said somberly.

  "Stay in touch." McDaniel disconnected, stretched. "This damn cloud zone. We're not hoovering up nearly as much as we'd like."

  Hoovering?

  Sellitto tapped the stack of personnel files from Algonquin. "I'll go downtown. Get people started on them. Brother, it's going to be a long night." The time was now eleven-ten.

  It was, Rhyme reflected. For him too. Particularly because there wasn't much for him to do at this point but wait.

  Oh, how he hated waiting.

  Eyes straying to the skimpy evidence boards, he thought: We're moving too damn slow.

  And here we are, trying to find a perp who attacks with the speed of light.

  UNSUB PROFILE

  – Male. -40's. -Probably white. -Possibly glasses and cap. -Possibly with short, blond hair. -Dark blue overalls, similar to those worn by Algonquin workers. -Knows electrical systems very well. -Boot print suggests no physical condition affecting posture or gait. -Possibly same person who stole 75 feet of similar Bennington cable and 12 split bolts. More attacks in mind? Access to Algonquin warehouse where theft occurred with key. -Likely he is Algonquin employee or has contact with one. -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. -Would have studied SCADA- Supervisory Control and Data Acquisition program. And EMP-energy management programs. Algonquin's is Enertrol. Both Unix-based. -To create arc flash would probably have been or currently is lineman, troubleman, licensed tradesman, generator construction, master electrician, military. Sixteen hours until Earth Day

  II

  THE PATH OF LEAST RESISTANCE

  "Someday, man will harness the rise and fall of the tides, imprison the power of the sun, and release atomic power." -THOMAS ALVA EDISON, ON THE FUTURE

  OF PRODUCING ELECTRICITY

  Chapter 25

  EIGHT A.M.

  Low morning light poured into the townhouse. Lincoln Rhyme blinked and maneuvered out of the blinding stream as he steered his Storm Arrow wheelchair out of the small elevator that connected his bedroom with the lab below.

  Sachs, Mel Cooper and Lon Sellitto had assembled an hour earlier.

  Sellitto was on the phone and said, "Okay, got it." He crossed through another name. He hung up. Rhyme couldn't tell if he'd changed clothes. Maybe he'd slept in the den or downstairs bedroom. Cooper had been home, at least for a time. And Sachs had slept beside Rhyme-for a portion of the night. She was up at five-thirty to keep reviewing employee files and narrowing the list of suspects.

  "Where are we?" Rhyme now asked.

  Sellitto muttered, "Just talked to McDaniel. They've got six and we've got six."

  "You mean we're down to twelve suspects? Let's-"

  "Uhm, no, Linc. We've eliminated twelve."

  Sachs said, "The problem is that a lot of the employees on the list are senior. They didn't put their early careers on their resumes or all of the continuing education computer courses. We have to do a lot of digging to find out if they had the skill to manipulate the grid and rig the device."

  "Where the hell's the DNA?" Rhyme snapped.

  "Shouldn't be long," Cooper said. "They're expediting it."

  "Expediting," was Rhyme's sour, muttered response. The new tests generally could be done in a day or two, unlike the old RFPL tests, which could take a week. He didn't understand why the results weren't back already.

  "And nothing more about Justice For?"

  Sellitto said, "Our people've been through all their files. McDaniel's too. And Homeland Security and ATF and Interpol. Nothing on them or Rahman. Zip. Fucking creepy, that cloud zone thing. Sounds like something out of a Stephen King novel."

  Rhyme started to call the lab running the DNA analysis but just as he flicked a finger to the touchpad to make a call, the phone buzzed. He lifted an eyebrow and instantly hit ANSWER CALL.

  "Kathryn. Morning. You're up early." It was 5 a.m. in California.

  "A bit."

  "Anything more?"

  "Logan was spotted again-near where he'd been seen before. Now, I just talked to Arturo Diaz."

  The law enforcer was up early too. A good sign.

  "His boss is on the case now. The one I mentioned. Rodolfo Luna."

  Luna was, it turned out, very senior indeed: the second in command of the Mexican Ministerial Federal Police, the equivalent of the FBI. Though burdened with the overwhelming task of running drug enforcement opera
tions-and rooting out corruption in government agencies themselves-Luna had eagerly taken over the chance to apprehend the Watchmaker, Dance explained. A threat of another killing in Mexico wasn't much news, and hardly required someone as high up as Luna, but he was ambitious and he'd be thinking that his cooperation with the NYPD would pay dividends with Mexico's tenuous allies to the north.

  "He's larger than life. Drives around in his own Lexus SUV, carries two guns… a real cowboy sort."

  "But is he honest?"

  "Arturo was telling me that he plays the system but, yes, he's honest enough. And he's good. He's a twenty-year veteran and sometimes goes into the field himself to work a case. He even collects evidence on his own."

  Rhyme was impressed. He'd done the same when he was an active captain on the force and working as head of Investigation Resources. He remembered many times when a young technician was startled to turn around at the sound of a voice and see his boss's boss's boss holding a pair of tweezers in gloved hands as he examined a fiber or hair.

  "He's made a name for himself cracking down on economic crimes and human trafficking and terrorism. Put some big people behind bars."

  "And he's still alive," Rhyme said. He wasn't being flippant. The head of the Mexico City police force had been assassinated not long ago.

  "He does have a huge security detail," Dance explained. Then added, "He'd like to talk to you."

  "Give me the number."

  Dance did. Slowly. She'd met Rhyme and knew about his disability. He moved his right index finger over the special touchpad and typed the numbers. They appeared on the flat screen in front of him.

  She then said that the DEA was continuing its interview with the man who'd delivered a package to Logan. "He's lying when he says he doesn't know what was inside. I watched the video and gave the agents some advice on how to handle the interrogation. The worker would've thought drugs or cash and taken a fast look. The fact he didn't steal it means that it wasn't those two things. They're about to start with him again."

  Rhyme thanked her.

  "Oh, one thing?"

  "Yes?"

  Dance gave him a URL of a website. This too Rhyme slowly typed into his browser.

  "Go to that site. I thought you'd like to see Rodolfo. I think it's easier to understand someone when you can picture them."

  Rhyme didn't know if that was the case or not. In his line of work, he tended not to see many people at all. The victims were usually dead and the ones who'd killed them were long gone by the time he got involved. Given his druthers he'd rather not see anyone.

  After disconnecting, though, he called the site up. It was a Mexican newspaper story in Spanish about a huge drug bust, Rhyme deduced. The officer in charge was Rodolfo Luna. The photo accompanying the story showed a large man surrounded by fellow federal policemen. Some wore black ski masks to hide their identities, others had the grim, vigilant look of people whose jobs turned them into marked men.

  Luna was a broad-faced, dark-complexioned man. He wore a military cap but it seemed that he had a shaved head underneath. His olive drab uniform was more military than police and he was decked out with plenty of shiny gingerbread on the chest. He had a bushy black mustache, surrounded by jowl lines. Frowning with an intimidating visage, he was holding a cigarette and pointing toward something to the left of the scene.

  Rhyme placed the call to Mexico City, again using the touchpad. He could have used the voice recognition system, but since he'd regained some motion in his right hand he tended to prefer to use the mechanical means.

  Placing the call took only a country code's extra effort and soon he was talking to Luna, who had a surprisingly delicate voice with only a slight and completely unrecognizable accent. He would be Mexican, of course, but his vowels seemed tinged with French.

  "Ah, ah, Lincoln Rhyme. This is very much a pleasure. I've read about you. And, of course, I have your books. I made sure they were in the course curriculum for my investigators." A moment's pause. He asked, "Forgive me. But are you going to update the DNA section?"

  Rhyme had to laugh. He'd been considering doing exactly that just a few days ago. "I'm going to. As soon as this case is finished. Inspector… are you an inspector?"

  "Inspector? I'm sorry," said the good-natured voice, "but why does everybody think that officers in other countries than the United States are inspectors?"

  "The definitive source for law enforcement training and procedures," Rhyme said. "Movies and TV."

  A chuckle. "What would we poor police do without cable? But no. I'm a commander. In my country the army and the police, we're often interchangeable. And you are a captain RET, I see from your book. Does that mean resident expert technician? I was wondering."

  Rhyme laughed aloud. "No, it means I'm retired."

  "Really? And yet here you are working."

  "Indeed. I appreciate your help with this case. This is a very dangerous man."

  "I'm pleased to be of assistance. Your colleague, Mrs. Dance, she's been very helpful in getting some of our felons extradited back to our own country, when there was considerable pressure not to."

  "Yes, she's good." He got to the meat of his question: "I understand you've seen Logan."

  "My assistant, Arturo Diaz, and his team have spotted him twice. Once yesterday in a hotel. And then not long ago nearby-among office buildings on Avenue Bosque de Reforma in the business district. He was taking pictures of the buildings. That aroused suspicion-they are hardly architectural marvels-and a traffic officer recognized Logan's picture. Arturo's men got there quickly. But your Mr. Watchmaker vanished before backup arrived. He's very elusive."

  "That describes him pretty well. Who are the tenants in the offices he was taking pictures of?"

  "Dozens of companies. And some small government ministries. Satellite offices. Transport and commerce operations. A bank on the ground floor of one. Would that be significant?"

  "He's not in Mexico for a robbery. Our intelligence is that this is a murder he's planning."

  "We're looking into the personnel and the purposes of all the offices right now to see if there might be a likely victim."

  Rhyme knew the delicate game of politics but he had no time for finesse, and he had a feeling Luna didn't either. "You have to keep your teams out of sight, Commander. You must be much more careful than usual."

  "Yes, of course. This man has the eye, does he?"

  "The eye?"

  "Like second sight. Kathryn Dance was telling me he's like a cat. He knows when he's in danger."

  No, Rhyme thought; he's just very smart and can anticipate exactly what his opponents are likely to do. Like a master chess player. But he said, "That's it exactly, Commander."

  Rhyme stared at the picture of Luna on his computer. Dance was right: Conversations seemed to have more to them when you could visualize the person you were speaking with.

  "We have a few of those down here too." Another chuckle. "In fact, I'm one of them. It's why I'm still alive when so many of my colleagues are not. We will continue the surveillance-subtly. When we capture him, Captain, perhaps you would like to come for the extradition."

  "I don't get out much."

  Another pause. Then a somber, "Ah, forgive me. I forgot about your injury."

  The one thing, Rhyme reflected, with equal sobriety, that he himself never could. He said, "No apologies are necessary."

  Luna added, "Well, we are very-what do you say?-accessible here in Mexico City. You would be welcome to come, and very comfortable. You could stay at my house and my wife will cook for you. I have no stairs to trouble you."

  "Perhaps."

  "We have very good food, and I am a collector of mescal and tequilas."

  "In that case a celebration dinner might be in order," Rhyme said to placate him.

  "I will earn your presence by capturing this man… and perhaps you could lecture to my officers."

  Now Rhyme laughed to himself. He hadn't realized they'd been negotiating. Rhyme's appearan
ce in Mexico would be a feather in this man's cap; it was one of the reasons he'd been so cooperative. This was probably the way all business-whether it was law enforcement or commerce-worked in Latin America.

  "It would be a pleasure." Rhyme glanced up and saw Thom gesturing to him and pointing to the hallway.

  "Commander, I have to go now."

  "I'm grateful you contacted me, Captain. I will be in touch as soon as I learn anything. Even if it seems insignificant, I will absolutely call you."

  Chapter 26

  THOM LED TRIM, energetic Assistant Special Agent in Charge Tucker McDaniel into the lab again. He was accompanied by an associate, spiffy and young and compensating, whose name Rhyme immediately forgot. He was easier to think of as the Kid, capital K, anyway. He blinked once at the quadriplegic and looked away.

  The ASAC announced, "We've eliminated a few more names from the list. But there's something else. We've got a demand letter."

  "Who from?" Lon Sellitto asked from an examination table, where he sat wrinkled as a deflated ball. "Terrorists?"

  "Anonymous and unspecified," McDaniel said, pronouncing every syllable primly. Rhyme wondered if he disliked the man as much as he thought he did. Partly it was how he'd treated Fred Dellray. Partly it was just his style. And sometimes, of course, you just didn't need a reason.

  Cloud zone…

  The agent continued, "Sounds mostly like a crank, eco issues, but who knows what it's a front for."

  Sellitto continued, "We sure it's him?"

  After an apparently motiveless attack, it wasn't unusual for a number of people to take credit for it. And threaten to repeat the incident if some demands weren't met, even though they themselves had nothing to do with it.

  McDaniel said in a stiff voice, "He confirmed details of the bus attack. Of course we checked that."