The burning wire lr-9

by Jeffery Deaver

  "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 security 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 callusness 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 w
e'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 Raymond Galt, 40, single, living in Manhattan, 227 Suffolk St. -Terrorist connection? Relation to Justice For [unknown]? Terror group? Individual named Rahman involved? 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 life-long 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.

  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 other 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.