The burning wire lr-9

by Jeffery Deaver

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 you," 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.

  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-"

  "Is Jamaica one?"

  "Yes."

  He realized too they'd been thinking of the numbers as five hundred seventy and three hundred seventy-nine. In fact, there was another way to refer to them. "Quick. Look up Lexus SUVs. Is there a model with a five seventy or a three seventy-nine in the designation?"

  This was even faster than the passport. "Let's see… Yep, the LX five-seventy. It's a luxury-"

  "Get me Luna on the phone. Now!" He didn't want to risk his own dialing, which would have taken some time and might have been inaccurate.

  He felt the sweat again but ignored it.

  "Si?"

  "Rodolfo! It's Lincoln Rhyme."

  "Ah, Captain-"

  "Listen to me! You are the target. The office building's a diversion! The package delivered to Logan? The rectangular images on the drawing? It was a diagram of the grounds of the Jamaican embassy, where you are right now. The rectangles are the blast barriers. And you drive a Lexus LX five-seventy?"

  "Yes… You mean, that was the five hundred seventy?"

  "I think so. And the Watchmaker was given a Jamaican passport to get into the compound. Is there a car parked nearby with three seven nine in the license plate?"

  "I don't… Why, yes. It's a Mercedes with diplomatic plates."

  "Clear the area! Now. That's where the bomb is! The Mercedes."

  He heard shouting in Spanish, the sound of footfalls, hard breathing.

  Then, a stunning explosion.

  Rhyme blinked at the startling noise that rattled the speakers of the phone.

  "Commander! Are you there?… Rodolfo?"

  More shouting, static, screams.

  "Rodolfo!"

  After a long moment: "Captain Rhyme? Hello?" The man was shouting-probably because he'd been partially deafened by the blast.

  "Commander, are you all right?"

  "Hello!"

  A hissing noise, moans, gasping. Shouts.

  Sirens and more shouting.

  Cooper asked, "Should we call-"

  And then "Que?… Are you there, Captain?"

  "Yes. Are you hurt, Rodolfo?"

  "No, no. No bad injuries. Some cuts, stunned, you know." The voice was gasping. "We climbed over barriers and got down on the other side. I see people cut, bleeding. But no one is dead, I think. It would have killed me and the officers standing beside me. How did you know?"

  "I'll go into that later, Commander. Where is the Watchmaker?"

  "Wait a moment… wait… All right. At the explosion he fled. Arturo's men were distracted by the blast-as he planned, of course. Arturo said a car drove into the park and he got inside. They're moving south now. We have officers following him… Thank you, Captain Rhyme. I cannot thank you enough. But now I must go.
I will call as soon as we learn something."

  Inhaling deeply, ignoring the headache and the sweat. Okay, Logan, Rhyme was thinking, we've stopped you. We've ruined your plan. But we still don't have you. Not yet.

  Please, Rodolfo. Keep after him.

  As he was thinking this, his eyes strayed over the evidence charts in the Galt case. Maybe this would be the conclusion of both of the operations. The Watchmaker would be apprehended in Mexico, and Ray Galt, in an abandoned school near Chinatown.

  Then his eyes settled on one bit of evidence in particular: Chinese herbs, ginseng and wolfberry.

  And another listing, a substance that had been found in proximity to the herbs: Diesel fuel.

  Rhyme originally had though that the fuel was from a possible site of an attack, a refinery perhaps. But it occurred to him now that diesel fuel would also run motors.

  Like in an electric generator.

  Then another thought occurred to him.

  "Mel, the call-"

  "Are you all right?"

  "I'm fine," Rhyme snapped.

  "You look flushed."

  Ignoring the comment, he instructed, "Find out the number of the cop who called in about Galt being in the school."

  The tech turned away and made a call. A few minutes later he looked up. "Funny. I got the number from Patrol. But it's out of service."

  "Give it to me."

  Cooper did, slowly. Rhyme typed it into a mobile phone database at the NYPD.

  It was listed as prepaid.

  "A cop with a prepaid mobile? And now out of service? No way."

  And the school was in Chinatown; that's where Galt had picked up the herbs. But it wasn't a staging area or where he was hiding out. It was a trap! Galt had run wires from a diesel-powered generator to kill whoever was searching for him and then, pretending to be a cop, he called in to report himself. Since the juice was off in the building, Sachs and the others wouldn't expect the electrocution danger.

  There's no power. It's safe…

  He had to warn them. He started to press "Sachs" on the speed-dial panel on the computer. But just at that moment his nagging headache swelled to a blinding explosion in his head. Lights like electric sparks, a thousand electric sparks, flashed across his vision. Sweat poured from his skin as the dysreflexia attack began in earnest.