The Burning Wire (37 page)

Chapter 72

"PLEASE," SACHS MUTTERED
out loud, hovering over the speakerphone. "Charlie, pick up! Please!"

She'd called Sommers just a moment before but the phone rang only once and then went to voice mail.

She was trying again.

"Come on!" Rhyme too said.

Two rings . . . three . . .

And finally, in the speaker, a click. "Hello?"

"Charlie, it's Amelia Sachs."

"Oh, did you call a minute ago? I was on my way--"

"Charlie," she broke in, "you're in danger."

"What?"

"Where are you?"

"In the convention center, about to . . . What do you mean, danger?"

"Are you near anything metal, anything that could produce an arc flash or something that could be rigged with a hot line?"

He gave an abrupt laugh. "I'm standing on a metal floor. And I was just about to open a bathroom door with a metal handle." Then the humor faded from his voice. "Are you saying they might be booby-trapped?"

"It's possible. Get off the metal floor now."

"I don't understand."

"There's been another demand and a deadline. Six-thirty. But we think the attacks--the hotel, the elevator--don't have anything to do with the threats or demands. They're cover-ups to target certain people. And you might be one of them."

"Me? Why?"

"First of all, get someplace safe."

"I'll go back to the main floor. It's concrete. Hold on." A moment later he said, "Okay. You know, I saw somebody here, watching me. But I don't think it was Galt."

Rhyme said, "Charlie, it's Lincoln. We think Ray Galt was set up. He's probably dead."

"Somebody
else
is behind the attacks?"

"Yes."

"Who?"

"Andi Jessen. The man you saw might've been her brother, Randall. The evidence shows that they're working together."

"What? That's crazy. And why'm I in danger?"

Sachs continued, "Some of the people killed in the other attacks were involved in alternative energy production. Like you. We think that she may have been bribing renewable power companies to cut back generation, to keep up demand for Algonquin's electricity."

There was a pause. "Well, it's true, one of my projects's been to consolidate regional grids so that they could be more self-sufficient--and start supplying juice to the big interconnections, like Algonquin. I guess that could be a problem for her."

"Have you been to Scottsdale recently?"

"I'm working on some solar farm projects near there, yes, among other places. California, it's wind farms and geothermal. Arizona is mostly solar farms."

Sachs said, "I was thinking back to something you said when I met you at Algonquin. Why did she ask
you
to help me with the investigation?"

He paused. "You're right. She could've asked a dozen people."

"I think she was setting you up."

Then he gasped and said, "Oh, Jesus."

"What?" Rhyme asked.

"Maybe it's not just me who's at risk. Think about it:
Everybody
here at the convention's a threat to Algonquin. The whole event's about alternative energy, microgrids, decentralization. . . . Andi could see every exhibitor here as a threat, if she's that obsessed with Algonquin being the number-one energy provider in North America."

"Is there somebody at Algonquin we can trust? Somebody to shut off power there? And not let Andi know?"

"Algonquin doesn't run service here. Like some of the subway lines, the convention center makes its own juice. The plant's next to the building here. Should we evacuate the place?"

"Would people have to go over a metal floor to get outside?"

"Yes, most of them would. The front lobby and the loading docks are all steel. Not painted. Pure steel. And do you know how much electricity there is feeding in here? The load on a day like this is close to twenty million watts. Look, I can go downstairs, find the supply. Maybe I can pull the breakers. I could--"

"No, we need to find out exactly what they're doing. And how they're doing it. We'll call as soon as we know more. Stay put!"

Chapter 73

SWEATING, FRANTIC, CHARLIE
Sommers looked around him at the tens of thousands of visitors at the New Energy Expo, some hoping to make a fortune, some hoping to help, if not save, the planet, some here because it seemed like a fun idea to stop in for a while.

Some were young, teenagers who, like him years ago, would be inspired to take different courses in high school after seeing these exhibits. More science, less foreign language and history. And become the Edisons of their generations.

They were all at risk.

Stay put, the police had told him.

Crowds jostled, carting colorful bags--the exhibitors' giveaways, with the company logos printed boldly: Volt Storage Technologies, Next Generation Batteries, Geothermal Innovations.

Stay put . . .

Except his mind was in a place his wife called "Charlie-think." It was spinning on its own, like a dynamo, like an electricity storage flywheel. Ten thousand RPM. Thinking of the electricity usage here in the convention center. Twenty megawatts.

Twenty million watts.

Watts equals volts times amps . . .

Enough electricity, if channeled through this conductive superstructure, to electrocute thousands. Arc flashes, or just ground faults, the massive current surging through bodies, taking lives and leaving smoldering piles of flesh and clothing and hair.

Stay put . . .

Well, he couldn't.

And, like any inventor, Sommers considered the practical details. Randall Jessen and Andi would have somehow secured the power plant. They couldn't risk that the police would call the maintenance staff and simply cut the supply. But there'd be a main line coming into this building. Probably like an area transmission line it would be carrying 138,000v. They would have cut into the line to electrify floors or stairways or doorknobs. The elevators again maybe.

Sommers reflected:

The attendees here couldn't avoid the juice.

They couldn't protect themselves against it.

So he'd have to cut its head off.

There was no
staying put.

If he could find the incoming line before Randall Jessen ran the splice, Sommers could short it out. He'd run a cable from the hot line directly to a return. The resulting short circuit, accompanied by an arc flash as powerful as the one at the bus station the other morning, would pop breakers in the convention center power plant, eliminating the danger. The emergency lighting system would kick on but that was low voltage--probably from twelve-volt lead-calcium batteries. There'd be no risk of electrocution with that small supply. A few people would be stuck in the elevators, maybe there'd be some panic. But injuries would be minimal.

But then reality came home to him. The only way to short out the system was to do the most dangerous procedure in the utility business: bare hand work on an energized line carrying 138,000 volts. Only the top linemen ever attempted this. Working from insulated buckets or helicopters to avoid any risk of ground contact and wearing faraday suits--actual metal clothing--the linemen connected themselves directly to the high-voltage wire itself. In effect, they became part of it, and hundreds of thousands of volts streamed over their bodies.

Charlie Sommers had never tried bare hand work with high voltage, but he knew how to perform it--in theory.

Like a bird on a wire . . .

At the Algonquin booth he now grabbed his pathetically sparse tool kit and borrowed a length of lightweight high-tension wire from a nearby exhibitor. He ran into the dim hallway to find a service door. He glanced at the copper doorknob, hesitated only a moment then yanked it open and plunged into the dimness of the center's several basements.

Stay put?

I don't think so.

Chapter 74

HE SAT IN
the front seat of his white van, hot because the air conditioner was off. He didn't want to run the engine and draw attention to himself. A parked vehicle is one thing. A parked vehicle with an engine running exponentially increased suspicion.

Sweat tickled the side of his cheek. He hardly noticed it. He pressed the headset more firmly against his ear. Still nothing. He turned the volume higher. Static. A clunk or two. A snap.

He was thinking of the words he'd sent via email earlier today:
If you ignore me this time, the consequences will be far, far greater than the small incidents of yesterday and the day before, the loss of life far worse. . . .

Yes and no.

He tilted his head, listening for more words to flow through the microphone he'd hidden in the generator he'd planted at the school near Chinatown. A Trojan horse, one that the Crime Scene Unit had courteously carted right into Lincoln Rhyme's townhouse. He'd already gotten the lowdown on the cast of characters helping Rhyme and their whereabouts. Lon Sellitto, the NYPD detective, and Tucker McDaniel, ASAC of the FBI, were gone, headed downtown to City Hall, where they would coordinate the defense of the convention center.

Amelia Sachs and Ron Pulaski were speeding to the center right now, to see if they could shut the power off.

Waste of time, he reflected.

Then he stiffened, hearing the voice of Lincoln Rhyme.

"Okay, Mel, I need you to get that cable to the lab in Queens."

"The--?"

"The cable!"

"Which one?"

"How the hell many cables are there?"

"About four."

"Well, the one Sachs and Pulaski found at the school in Chinatown. I want the trace between the insulation and the wire itself dug out and run through their SEM."

Then came the sound of plastic and paper. A moment later, footsteps.
"I'll be back in forty minutes, an hour."

"I don't care when you get back. I care when you
call
me with the results."

Footsteps, thudding.

The microphone was very sensitive.

A door slammed. Silence. The tapping of computer keys, nothing else.

Then Rhyme, shouting:
"Goddamn it, Thom! . . . Thom!"

"What, Lincoln? Are you--"

"Is Mel gone?"

"Hold on."

After a moment the voice called,
"Yes, his car just left. You want me to call him?"

"No, don't bother. Look, I need a piece of wire. I want to see if I can duplicate something Randall did. . . . A long piece of wire. Do we have anything like that here?"

"Extension cord?"

"No, bigger. Twenty, thirty feet."

"Why would I have any wire that long here?"

"I just thought maybe you would. Well, go find some. Now."

"Where am I supposed to find wire?"

"A fucking wire store. I don't know. A hardware store. There's that one on Broadway, right? There used to be."

"It's still there. So you need thirty feet?"

"That should do it. . . . What?"

"It's just, you're not looking well, Lincoln. I'm not sure I should leave you."

"Yes, you should. You should do what I'm asking. The sooner you leave, the sooner you'll be back and you can mother-hen me to your heart's content. But for now: Go!"

There was no sound for a moment.

"All right. But I'm checking your blood pressure first."

Another pause.

"Go ahead."

Muffled sounds, a faint hiss, the rasp of Velcro.
"It's not bad. But I want to make sure it stays that way. . . . How are you feeling?"

"I'm just tired."

"I'll be back in a half hour."

Faint steps sounded on the floor. The door opened again then closed.

He listened for a moment more and then rose. He pulled on a cable TV repairman's uniform. He slipped the 1911 Colt into a gear bag, which he slung over his shoulder.

He checked the front windows and mirrors of the van and, noting that the alley was empty, climbed out. He verified there were no security cameras and walked to the back door of Lincoln Rhyme's townhouse. In three minutes he'd made sure the alarm was off and had picked the lock, slipping into the basement.

He found the electrical service panel and silently went to work, rigging another of his remote control switchgear units to the incoming service line, 400 amps, which was double that of most other residences in the area.

This was interesting to note but not particularly significant, of course, since he knew that all he needed to cause virtually instant death was a tiny portion of that.

One tenth of one amp . . .