Jeffery Deaver - The Kill Room

“Copy, Four Eight One.”

In the Kill Room, Barry Shales juggled a joystick and squinted at the video image of the speeding ship. He touched a black panel in front of him. A brief delay and, in eerie silence, three sequential plumes of water shot into the air a few feet in front of the speeding boat.

The slim vessel kept going, though everyone on board was looking around. Several of the sailors seemed very young, no more than teenagers.

“Florida Center to Four Eight One. We copy no change in target velocity. Payload launch is still authorized.”

“Copy. Four Eight One.”

Nothing happened for a moment. But then, with a lurch, the speedboat slowed and stopped in the water. Two of the sailors were pointing to the sky, nowhere near the camera, though. They couldn’t see the drone but they all now understood where their enemy was.

Almost in unison they raised their hands.

What followed was comical. The water was choppy and the boat small. They were trying to maintain balance but afraid if they lowered their arms, death from on high would find them. Two fell over and scrabbled quickly to their feet, shooting their hands into the air. They seemed like drunks trying to dance.

“Florida Center to UAV Four Eight One. Copy surrender. Navy advises Cyclone -class patrol ship, the Firebrand , one mile away, making thirty knots. Keep secondary target dead in the water until it arrives.”

“Copy. Four Eight One.”

CHAPTER 97

BARRY SHALES CLOSED THE DOOR to the Kill Room and, ignoring Shreve Metzger, walked to Rhyme and Sachs. He nodded.

The policewoman told him what a good job he’d done at the commands of the drone. “Sorry, I mean UAV.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said unemotionally, his bright blue eyes averted. Some of this reserve was perhaps because he was facing two people who’d intended to hang a murder charge on him. On reflection, though, Rhyme thought not. He simply seemed to be a very private person.

Maybe when you have his particular skill you’re mentally and emotionally in a different place much of the time.

Shales then turned to Rhyme. “We had to move pretty fast, sir. I never got the chance to ask how you figured it out—that there was going to be an attack on the rig, I mean.”

The criminalist said, “There was some evidence unaccounted for.”

“Oh, that’s right, sir. You’re the evidence tsar, someone was saying.”

Rhyme decided he liked that pithy phrase quite a bit. He’d remember it. “Specifically paraffin with a branched-chain molecule, an aromatic, a cycloalkane…oh, and some alkenes.”

Shales blinked twice.

“Or to put it in more common parlance: crude oil.”

“Crude oil?”

“Exactly. Trace amounts were found on Moreno’s and his guard’s shoes and clothes. They had to pick that up at some point before your attack on May ninth when they were out of the South Cove Inn, at meetings. Now, I didn’t think much of it—there are some refineries and oil storage facilities in the Bahamas. But then I realized something else: The morning he died Moreno met with some businesspeople about starting up transportation and agriculture operations there as part of his Local Empowerment Movement. But we’d also learned that fertilizer, diesel oil and nitromethane had been shipped weeks ago to his LEM companies. If those companies hadn’t even been formed yet, why buy the chemicals?”

“You put together crude oil and possible bomb.”

“We’d known about the rig from the initial intelligence about Moreno’s plans for May tenth. Since Moreno was so vocal against American Petroleum Drilling maybe the company was a target, after all—for a real attack, not just a protest. I think on Sunday or Monday he went to meet rig workers—maybe to get up-to-date information about security. Oh, and there was one other thing that didn’t make sense. Sachs here figured that out.”

She said, “When Moreno came to New York earlier in the month, the one meeting he had that he didn’t invite his interpreter to was with Henry Cross at the Classrooms for the Americas Foundation. Why not? Most of his meetings were innocent—Moreno wouldn’t let her interpret for him if the meeting was about something illegal. But what about the Cross meeting? If it was innocent, what was wrong with Lydia Foster being here, even if she didn’t have to interpret? Which told me maybe it wasn’t so innocent. And Cross told me about this mysterious blue jet that Moreno kept seeing. Well, we couldn’t find anything about any blue jets with travel patterns that seemed to match Moreno’s. That was the specific sort of thing somebody would tell a cop to lead them off.”

Rhyme picked up again: “Now, Classrooms for the Americas had offices in Nicaragua—which is where the diesel fuel, fertilizer and nitromethane were shipped from. There was too much to be coincidental. We looked into Cross and found out that he was really Cruz and that he and Moreno had a history together. It was Cruz’s brother who was Moreno’s best friend, killed in Panama during the invasion. That’s what turned him against the United States. We datamined Cruz’s travel records and credit cards and found he left New York for Nassau yesterday.

“My contact at the Bahamian police found that he and Moreno had chartered a cargo ship a month ago. It left port this morning. The police raided a warehouse where the ship had been docked and found traces of the explosive chemicals. That was good enough for me. I called Shreve. He called you.”

“So, Moreno wasn’t innocent after all,” Shales whispered, glancing at Metzger.

Sachs said, “No. You took out a bad guy, Airman.”

The officer looked at his boss. The expression in his blue eyes was complex. And conflicted. One way to read it was: You were right, Shreve. You were right.

Rhyme added, “And this wasn’t going to be his only project.” He told both men about the intercept Nance Laurel had read to them in their first meeting on Monday.

I have a lot more messages like this one planned…

“Barry,” Metzger said. “I’m going to see our visitors out. Then, could I talk to you in my office? Please.”

A pause worthy of Nance Laurel. Finally the airman nodded.

Metzger escorted them to the exit, across the parking lot, thanked them warmly.

Outside the security gate, Rhyme took the accessible cutaway in the sidewalk to cross the street to where the van waited, Thom at the wheel. Sachs stepped off the curb. As she did, Rhyme saw her wince, gasp slightly in pain.

She offered a furtive glance his way, as if to see if he’d caught her frown, and then looked ahead quickly.

This cut him. It was as if she’d just lied to him.

And he lied right back; he pretended he hadn’t noticed.

Across the street they continued to the van for a moment. Then Rhyme braked the Merits chair to a stop in the middle of the sidewalk.

She turned.

“What is it, Rhyme?”

“Sachs, there’s something we need to talk about.”

CHAPTER 98

THE PHONE RANG ON SCHEDULE.

Whatever else you could say about him, the Wizard was prompt.

Shreve Metzger, at his desk in a somewhat deserted NIOS this Saturday afternoon, looked at the blinking light of his magic red phone and listened attentively to the trill of the ringer, like a bird, he’d decided. He debated about not picking up.

And never taking a call from the man ever again.

“Metzger here.”

“Shreve! How are you doing? Heard about those interesting developments up there, I understand. Long Island. I used to belong to Meadowbrook, did you know that? You don’t golf, do you?”

“No.”

And squashed a “sir” dead.

The voice grew wizardly once again, low, raspy: “We’ve been talking about charges against Spencer.”