The Burning Wire

by Jeffery Deaver

  Reading over the pages from Galt's printer, now scanned and up on the monitor in front of him, Rhyme said, "He also talks about the lines attracting airborne particles that can cause lung cancer."

  "None of that's ever been proven. I dispute it. I dispute the leukemia thing too."

  "Well, Galt doesn't."

  "What does he want us to do?"

  "I guess we won't know that until we get another demand note or he contacts you some other way."

  "I'll make a statement, ask him to give himself up."

  "It couldn't hurt." Though Rhyme was thinking that Galt had come too far simply to make a point and surrender. He had more retribution in mind, they had to assume.

  Seventy-five feet of cable and a dozen split bolts. So far he'd used about thirty feet of the stolen wire.

  As he disconnected, Rhyme noticed that Pulaski was on the phone, head down. The officer looked up and met his boss's eyes. He ended his call quickly--and guiltily--and walked over to the evidence table. He started to reach for one of the tools he'd collected and then froze, realizing he didn't have latex gloves on. He pulled on a pair, cleaned the rubber fingers and palm with the dog-hair roller. Then he picked up the bolt cutter.

  A comparison of the tool marks showed that both it and the hacksaw were the same tools used to create the trap at the bus stop, and the boots were the same brand and size too.

  But that just confirmed what they already knew: Raymond Galt was the perp.

  They took a look at the paper and the pens the young officer had collected from Galt's apartment. They could determine no source, but the paper and the ink in the Bics were virtually the same as had been used in the demand note.

  What they discovered next was much more disturbing.

  Cooper was studying the results from the gas chromatograph/mass spectrometer. He said, "Got some trace here. Found it in two separate locations: the lace of the boots and the handle of the bolt cutter in Galt's apartment. And then the sleeve of the worker who'd been attacked by Galt in the tunnel downtown, Joey Barzan."

  "And?" Rhyme asked.

  "It's a kerosene derivative, with minute amounts of phenol and dinonylnaphthylsulfonic acid added."

  Rhyme said, "It's standard jet A fuel. The phenol is an antigumming substance and the acid is an antistatic agent."

  "But there's more," Cooper continued. "Something odd, a form of natural gas. Liquefied, but stable across a wide range of temperatures. And . . . get this, traces of biodiesel."

  "Check the fuel database, Mel."

  A moment later the tech said, "Got it. It's an alternative aviation fuel that's being tested now. Mostly in military fighters. It's cleaner and it cuts down on fossil-fuel use. They say it'll be the wave of the future."

  "Alternative energy," Rhyme mused, wondering how this piece of the puzzle fit. But one thing he knew. "Sachs, call Homeland Security and the Department of Defense. FAA too. Tell them our boy may have been checking out fuel depos or air bases."

  An arc flash was bad enough. Combined with jet propellant, Rhyme couldn't even imagine the devastation.

  CRIME SCENE: BATTERY PARK

  HOTEL AND SURROUNDINGS

  * * *

  --Victims (deceased):

  --Linda Kepler, Oklahoma City, tourist.

  --Morris Kepler, Oklahoma City, tourist.

  --Samuel Vetter, Scottsdale, businessman.

  --Ali Mamoud, New York City, waiter.

  --Gerhart Schiller, Frankfurt, Germany, advertising executive.

  --Remote control switch for turning on current.

  --Components not traceable.

  --Bennington cable and split bolts, identical to first attack.

  --Galt's Algonquin uniform, hard hat and gear bag with his friction ridge prints, no others.

  --Wrench with tool marks that can be associated with tool marks on bolts at first crime scene.

  --Rat-tail file with glass dust that can be associated with glass from bottle found at substation scene in Harlem.

  --Probably working alone.

  --Trace from Algonquin worker Joey Barzan, assault victim of Galt.

  --Alternative jet fuel.

  --Attack at military base?

  CRIME SCENE: GALT'S APARTMENT,

  227 SUFFOLK ST.,

  LOWER EAST SIDE

  * * *

  --Bic SoftFeel fine-point pens, blue ink, associated with ink used in demand letter.

  --Generic 81/2 x 11 white computer paper, associated with demand letter.

  --Generic No. 10 size envelope, associated with envelope containing demand letter.

  --Bolt cutter, hacksaw with tool marks matching those at initial scene.

  --Computer printouts:

  --Articles about medical research on cancer linked to high-power electric lines.

  --Blog postings by Galt Re: same.

  --Albertson-Fenwick Model E-20 boots for electrical work, size 11, with treads the same as prints at initial scene.

  --Additional traces of alternative jet fuel.

  --Attack at military base?

  --No obvious leads as to where he might be hiding, or location of future attacks.

  CRIME SCENE: ALGONQUIN

  SUBSTATION MH-7,

  E. 119TH STREET, HARLEM

  * * *

  --Molotov cocktail: 750-ml wine bottle, no source.

  --BP gas used as accelerant.

  --Cotton cloth strips, probably white T-shirt, used as fuse, no source determined.

  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? 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.

  --Galt's involvement unknown.

  --Cancer patient; presence of vinblastine and prednisone in significant quantities, traces of etoposide. Leukemia.

  Chapter 43

  LINCOLN RHYME'S MAIN phone trilled.

  The caller ID registered a number he'd been hoping to see, though not at this particular moment. Still he immediately clicked ANSWER.

  "Kathryn, what do you have?"

  No time for pleasantries at the moment. But Dance would understand. She was the same way when it came to a case.

  "The DEA guys in Mexico City got the worker to talk--the man who gave the package to Logan just after he slipped into the country. He did take a look at what was inside, like we thought. I'm not sure it's helpful but here it is: a dark blue booklet with lettering on it. He didn't remember the words. Two letter C's, he thought. A logo of a company maybe. Then a sheet of paper that had a capital letter I followed by five or six lines. Like blanks to be filled in."

  "He have any idea what they were?"

  "No . . . Then a slip of paper containing some numbers. All he remembers is five hundred seventy and three hundred seventy-nine."

  "The Da Vinci Code," Rhyme said, discouraged.

  "Exactly. I like puzzles but not on the job."

  "True."

  I

  Fill in the blanks.

  And: Five hundred seventy and three hundred seventy-nine . . .

  Dance added, "Then he found something else. A circuit board. A small one."

  "For a computer?"

  "He didn't know. He was disappointed. He said he would have stolen it if it'd been something he could sell more easily."

  "And he'd be dead now if he had."

  "I think he's relieved to be in jail. For that very reason . . . I've had a talk with Rodolfo. He'd like you to call."

  "Of course."

  Rhyme thanked Dance and disconnected. He then called the Commander Rodolfo Luna in Mexico City.

  "Ah, Captain RET
Rhyme, yes. I just spoke to Agent Dance. The mystery . . . the numbers."

  "An address?"

  "Perhaps it is. But . . ." His fading voice meant, of course, that in a city of 8 million people, one would need more than a few numbers to find a specific location.

  "And maybe related, maybe not."

  "Two separate meanings."

  "Yes," Rhyme said. "Do they have any significance at all regarding the places he's been spotted?"

  "No."

  "And those buildings? The tenants?"

  "Arturo Diaz and his officers are speaking with them now, explaining the situation. The ones there who are legitimate businesspeople are mystified because they cannot believe they are in danger. The ones who are themselves criminals are mystified because they are better armed than my troops and believe no one would dare attack them."

  Five hundred seventy and three hundred seventy-nine. . . .

  Phone numbers? Coordinates? Parts of an address?

  Luna continued, "We've reconstructed the route the truck took from the airport to the capital. They were pulled over once. But you may have heard about our traffic police? A 'fine' was paid immediately and no questions were asked. Arturo tells me those officers--who are, by the way, now looking for new jobs--identified your Mr. Watchmaker. There was no one else in the truck other than the driver, and, of course, they didn't bother to look over his license. And there was, in the back, no equipment or contraband that would lead us in one direction or another. So we are left to focus on the buildings he seems to be focusing on. And hope--"

  "--that he isn't sneaking up behind his real victim, five miles away."

  "Very much what I was going to say."

  "Do you have any thoughts about the circuit board that Logan was given?"

  "I'm a soldier, Detective Rhyme, not a hacker. And so naturally I thought it was not a piece of computer hardware but a remote detonator for explosives. The booklet was perhaps an instruction manual."

  "Yes, I was thinking that too."

  "He would not want to travel with such a device. It would make sense to acquire it here. And I understand, from our news, that you have your hands full there. Some terrorist group?"

  "We don't know."

  "I wish I could help you."

  "Appreciated. But keep your attention focused on the Watchmaker, Commander."

  "Good advice." Luna gave a sound between a growl and a laugh. "Cases are so much easier to run when you start with a corpse or two. I hate it when the bodies are still alive and being elusive."

  Rhyme smiled at that. And couldn't disagree.

  Chapter 44

  AT 2:40 P.M. Algonquin security chief Bernard Wahl was walking along the sidewalk in Queens, coming back from his investigation. That's how he liked to think of it. His investigation about his company, the number-one energy provider in the East, maybe in the entire North American grid.

  He wanted to help. Especially now, since the horrific attack this afternoon at the Battery Park Hotel.

  Ever since he'd heard that woman, Detective Sachs, mention to Ms. Jessen about the Greek food, he'd been devising a strategy.

  "Microinvestigation" was how he thought of what he was doing. Wahl had read about it somewhere, or maybe seen it on the Discovery Channel. It was all about looking at the small clues, the small connections. Forget geopolitics and terrorists. Get a single fingerprint or hair and run with it. Until you collared the perp. Or it turned out to be a dead end and you went in a different direction.

  So he'd been on a mission of his own--checking out the nearby Greek restaurants in Astoria, Queens. He'd learned Galt enjoyed that cuisine.

  And just a half hour ago he'd hit pay dirt.

  A waitress, Sonja, more than cute, earned a twenty-dollar tip by reporting that twice in the past week, a man wearing dark slacks and a knit Algonquin Consolidated shirt--the sort worn by middle managers--had been in for lunch. The restaurant was Leni's, known for its moussaka and grilled octopus . . . and, more significant, homemade taramasalata, bowls of which were brought to everyone who sat down, lunch and dinner, along with wedges of pita bread and lemon.

  Sonja "couldn't swear to it," but when shown a picture of Raymond Galt, she said, "Yeah, yeah, that looks like him."

  And the man had been online the entire time--on a Sony VAIO computer. While he'd only picked at the rest of his food he'd eaten all his taramasalata, she'd noted.

  Online the whole time . . .

  Which meant to Wahl that there might be some way to trace what Galt had searched for or who he'd emailed. Wahl watched all those crime shows on TV, and did some continuing education in security on his own dime. Maybe the police could get the identification number of Galt's computer and find out where he was hiding.

  Sonja had reported the killer had also made a lot of cell phone calls.

  That was interesting. Galt was a loner. He was attacking people because he was pissed off about getting cancer from high-tension wires. So who was he calling? A partner? Why? That was something they could find out too.

  Hurrying back to the office now, Wahl considered how best to handle this. Of course he'd have to get word back to the police as fast as he could. His heart was slamming at the thought of being instrumental in catching the killer. Maybe Detective Sachs would be impressed enough to get him a job interview with the NYPD.

  But, hold on, don't be cagey here, he cautioned himself. Just do what's best and deal with the future in the future. Call everybody--Detective Sachs, Lincoln Rhyme and the others: FBI Agent McDaniel and that police lieutenant, Lon Sellitto.

  And, of course, tell Ms. Jessen.

  He walked quickly, tense and exhilarated, seeing ahead of him the red and gray smokestacks of Algonquin Consolidated. And in front of the building, those damn protesters. He enjoyed a brief image of turning a water cannon on them. Or, even more fun, a Taser. The company that made them also had a sort of a shotgun Taser, which would fire a number of barbs into a crowd for riot control.

  He was smiling at the thought of them dancing around on the ground, when the man got him from behind.

  Wahl gasped and barked a cry.

  A muzzle of a gun appeared against his right cheek. "Don't turn around," was the whisper. The gun now pressed against his back. The voice told him to walk into an alley between a closed car repair shop and a darkened warehouse.

  A harsh whisper: "Just do what I say, Bernie, and you won't get hurt."

  "You know me?"

  "It's Ray," came the whisper.

  "Ray Galt?" Wahl's heart thudded hard. He wondered if he'd be sick. "Oh, man, look. What're you--"

  "Shhh. Keep going."

  They continued into the alley for another fifty feet or so, and turned a corner into a dim recess.

  "Lie down, face first. Arms out at your sides."

  Wahl hesitated, thinking for some ridiculous reason about the suit he'd proudly put on that morning, an expensive one. "Always look better than your job title," his father had told him.

  The .45 nudged his back. He dropped like a stone into the greasy dirt.

  "I don't go to Leni's anymore, Bernie. You think I'm stupid?"

  Which told him that Galt had been tailing him for a while.

  And I hadn't even noticed. Oh, some fucking cop I'd be. Jesus.

  "And I don't use their broadband. I use a prepaid cell connection."

  "You killed those people, Ray. You--"

  "They're not dead because of me. They're dead because Algonquin and Andi Jessen killed them! Why didn't she listen to me? Why didn't she do what I asked?"

  "They wanted to, man. There just wasn't enough time to shut the grid down."

  "Bullshit."

  "Ray, listen. Turn yourself in. This is crazy, what you're doing."

  A bitter laugh. "Crazy? You think I'm crazy?"

  "I didn't mean that."

  "I'll tell you what's crazy, Bernie: companies that burn gas and oil and fuck up the planet. And that pump juice through wires that kills our children. Ju
st because we like fucking blenders and hair dryers and TVs and microwaves . . . Don't you think that's what's crazy?"

  "No, you're right, Ray. You're right. I'm sorry. I didn't know all the shit you'd been through. I feel bad for you."

  "Do you mean it, Bernie? Do you really mean it or are you just trying to save your ass?"

  A pause. "Little bit of both, Ray."

  To Bernard Wahl's surprise, the killer gave a laugh. "That's an honest answer. Maybe one of the only honest answers that's ever come out of somebody who works for Algonquin."

  "Look, Ray, I'm just doing my job."

  Which was a cowardly thing to say and he hated himself for saying it. But he was thinking of his wife and three children and his mother, who lived in their home on Long Island.

  "I don't have anything against you personally, Bernie."

  And with that, Wahl suspected that he was a dead man. He struggled not to cry. In a shaky voice he asked, "What do you want?"

  "I need you to tell me something."

  The security code for Andi Jessen's town house? What garage she parked her car in? Wahl didn't know either of those.

  But the killer's request was something very different. "I need to know who's looking for me."

  Wahl's voice cracked. "Who's . . . Well, the police're, the FBI. Homeland Security . . . I mean, everybody. There's hundreds of them."

  "Tell me something I don't know, Bernie. I'm talking about names. And at Algonquin too. I know employees're helping them."

  Wahl was going to cry. "I don't know, Ray."

  "Of course you know. I need names. Give me names."

  "I can't do that, Ray."

  "They almost figured out about the attack at the hotel. How did they know that? They almost got me there. Who's behind this?"

  "I don't know. They don't talk to me, Ray. I'm a security guard."

  "You're chief of security, Bernie. Of course they talk to you."

  "No, I really--"

  He felt his wallet coming out of his pocket.

  Oh, not that. . . .

  A moment later Galt recited Wahl's home address, tucked the wallet back.

  "What's the service in your house, Bernie? Two hundred amps?"

  "Oh, come on, Ray. My family never did anything to you."

  "I never did anything to anybody and I got sick. You're part of the system that made me sick, and your family benefited from that system. . . . Two hundred amps? Not enough for an arc. But the shower, the bathtub, the kitchen . . . I could just play with the ground fault interrupts and your whole house'd become one big electric chair, Bernie. . . . Now, talk to me."