Jeffery Deaver - The burning wire

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.

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.

Could Amelia Sachs ever escape it?

And even if she scrubbed and scrubbed and threw her clothes out, could she ever forget it? Apparently the sleeve and hair of one of the victims had caught fire in the elevator car. The flames hadn't been bad but the smoke was thick and the smell was repulsive.

Sachs and Ron Pulaski were suiting up in their overalls. She asked one of the Emergency Service officers, "DCDS?" Gesturing toward the hazy car.

Deceased, confirmed dead at scene.

"That's right."