The Burning Wire (26 page)

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.

The elevator car came and the two businessmen let her precede them inside, and she reflected that at least some semblance of chivalry remained in the twenty-first century. The workman entered too and hit the button for the floor two down. But, unlike the others, he rudely pushed past her to get to the back of the car.

They started to descend. A moment later Larry glanced down and said, "Hey, mister, watch it. You're leaking there."

Susan looked back. The workman had accidentally tilted the can and a stream of water was pouring onto the stainless-steel floor of the car.

"Oh, sorry," the man mumbled unapologetically. The whole floor was soaked, Susan noted.

The door opened and the worker got out. Another man entered.

Larry's friend said in a loud voice, "Careful, that guy just spilled some water in here. Didn't even bother to clean it up."

But whether the culprit had heard or not, Susan couldn't say. Even if he had she doubted he cared.

The door closed and they continued their journey downward.

Chapter 49

RHYME WAS STARING
at the clock. Ten minutes until the next deadline.

The last hour or so had involved coordinated searches throughout the city by the police and FBI, and, in the townhouse here, a frantic analysis of the evidence once more. Frantic . . . and futile. They were no closer to finding Galt or his next target location than they'd been just after the first attack. Rhyme's eyes swung to the evidence charts, which remained an elusive jumble of puzzle pieces.

He was aware of McDaniel's taking a call. The agent listened, nodding broadly. He shot a look to his protege. He then thanked the caller and hung up.

"One of my T and C teams had another hit about the terror group. A small one but it's gold. Another word in the name is 'Earth.' "

"Justice For the Earth," Sachs said.

"Could be more to it but we know those words for certain. 'Justice.' 'For.' And 'Earth.' "

"At least we know it's ecoterror," Sellitto muttered.

"No hits on any database?" Rhyme wondered aloud.

"No, but remember, this is all cloud zone. And there was another hit. Rahman's second in command seems to be somebody named Johnston."

"Anglo."

But how does this help? Rhyme wondered angrily to himself. How does any of this help us find the site of the attack, which's going to happen in just a few minutes?

And what the hell kind of weapon has he devised this time? Another arc flash? Another deadly circuit in a public place?

Rhyme's eyes were riveted on the evidence whiteboards.

McDaniel said to the Kid, "Get me Dellray."

A moment later the agent's voice came through the speaker. "Yes, who's this? Who's there?"

"Fred. It's Tucker. I'm here with Lincoln Rhyme and some other people from the NYPD."

"At Rhyme's?"

"Yes."

"How you doing, Lincoln?"

"Been better."

"Yeah. True about all of us."

McDaniel said, "Fred, you heard about the new demand and deadline."

"Your assistant called me. She told me about the motive too. Galt's cancer."

"We've got a confirmation that it's probably a terror group. Ecoterror."

"How does that play with Galt?"

"Symbiosis."

"What?"

"A symbiotic construct. It was in my memo. . . . They're working together. The group's called Justice For the Earth. And Rahman's second in command is named Johnston."

Dellray asked, "Sounds like they have different agendas. How'd they hook up? Galt and Rahman?"

"I don't know, Fred. That's not the point. Maybe they contacted him, read his postings about the cancer. It was all over the Internet."

"Oh."

"Now, the deadline's coming up at any minute. Has your CI found
anything
?"

A pause. "No, Tucker. Nothing."

"The debriefing. You said it was at three."

Another hesitation. "That's right. But he doesn't have anything concrete yet. He's going a little farther underground."

"The whole fucking world's underground," the FBI agent snapped, surprising Rhyme; he couldn't imagine an expletive issuing from the man's smooth lips. "So, call your guy up and get him the information about Justice For the Earth. And the new player, Johnston."

"I'll do it."

"Fred?"

"Yes?"

"He's the only one has any leads, this CI of yours?"

"That's right."

"And he didn't hear anything, not a name, nothing?"

"Afraid not."

McDaniel said distractedly, "Well, thanks, Fred. You did what you could." As if he hadn't expected to learn anything helpful anyway.

A pause. "Sure."

They disconnected. Rhyme and Sellitto both were aware of McDaniel's sour expression.

"Fred's a good man," the detective said.

"He is a good man," the ASAC replied quickly. Too quickly.

But the subject of Fred Dellray and McDaniel's opinion of him vanished as everyone in the townhouse, except Thom, got a cell call, all within five seconds of each other.

Different sources, but the news was the same.

Although the deadline was still seven minutes away, Ray Galt had struck again, once more killing innocents in Manhattan.

It was Sellitto's caller who gave them the details. Through speakerphone the NYPD patrolman, sounding young and distracted, started to give an account of the attack--a Midtown office building elevator car in which four passengers were riding. "It was . . . it was pretty bad." Then the officer choked, his voice dissolved in coughing--maybe from smoke created by the attack. Or maybe it was simply to cover up his emotion.

The officer excused himself and said he'd call back in a few minutes.

He never did.