Jeffery Deaver - The burning wire

Edison would probably have gazed enviously at the halogen bulbs, knowing how hard it had been to find a filament that worked in his. And laughed to see the displays on micro-nuclear reactors, which could travel on barges to where they were needed (Edison had predicted in the 1800s that we would one day be using nuclear energy to power generators). He would also undoubtedly have been awed by the convention center building itself. The architect had made no attempt to hide the infrastructure; the beams, the walls, the ducts, even portions of the floor were gleaming copper and stainless steel.

It was, Sommers considered, like being inside a huge switchgear array.

The special project manager kept his guard up, though. There's a seamy side to invention. The creation of the lightbulb had been a fierce battle-not only technologically but legally. Dozens of people were involved in knock-down, drag-out battles for credit for-and the profit from-the lightbulb. Thomas Edison and England's Joseph Wilson Swan emerged as the victors but from a field littered with lawsuits, anger, espionage and sabotage. And destroyed careers.

Sommers was thinking of this now because he'd seen a man in glasses and a cap not far from the Algonquin booth. He was suspicious because the guy had been lingering at two different booths nearby. One company made equipment for geothermal exploration, devices that would locate hot spots deep in the earth. The other built hybrid motors for small vehicles. But Sommers knew that someone interested in geothermal would likely have no interest in hybrids.

True, the man was paying little attention to Sommers or Algonquin, but he could easily have been taking pictures of some of the inventions and mockups on display at the booth. Spy cameras nowadays were extremely sophisticated.

Sommers turned away to answer a woman's question. When he looked back, the man-spy or businessman or just curious attendee-was gone.

Ten minutes later, another lull in visitors. He decided to use the restroom. He asked the man in the booth next to his to keep an eye on things and then headed down a nearly deserted corridor to the men's room. One advantage of being in the cheaper, small-booth area was that you had the toilets largely to yourself. He stepped into a corridor whose stylish steel floor was embossed with bumps, presumably to simulate the flooring of a space station or rocket.

When he was twenty feet away his cell phone started to ring.

He didn't recognize the number-from a local area code. He thought for a moment then hit the IGNORE button.

Sommers continued toward the toilet, noticing the shiny copper handle on the door and thinking, They sure didn't spare any expense here. No wonder it's costing us so damn much for the booth.

"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!"

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.