Lincoln Rhyme: The Kill Room Part 41

"Exactly. And I'm going to get it. Running cases like this's my talent, not politics. Stopping rapists and people like Shreve Metzger, who're hiding behind the government and doing whatever the f.u.c.k they want, to h.e.l.l with the Const.i.tution."

An obscenity. She was angry. Sachs suspected this was the real Nance Laurel, rarely visible beneath the b.u.t.toned-up suits, the spray-painted makeup, the if-you-don't-mind verbiage.

"Amelia, yes, I took your name off the memos and emails. But that was purely for your sake and the sake of your career. It never occurred to me that you'd want credit. Who would?" She gave a shrug. "You know how dangerous this prosecution is? It's a career-ender, if the slightest thing goes wrong. Was.h.i.+ngton might cut Metzger and Barry Shales loose and let them swing in the wind. But they might also make this their Gettysburg, take a stand against me. And if they do and I lose on the immunity issue, then I'm history. The feds'll pressure Albany to get rid of me, and the attorney general will. In a heartbeat. That'll happen to everybody involved in the case, Amelia."

My case...

"I wanted to shelter you and the others as much as I could. Lon Sellitto's not mentioned in any of the memos. Ron Pulaski, the same."

Sachs pointed out, "But one of us'll have to testify in court as experts-to the evidence." Then she understood. "Lincoln."

Laurel said, "He's a consultant. He can't be fired."

"I didn't understand any of this," Sachs said. She apologized for her outburst.

"No, no. I should've shared the strategy with you."

Sachs felt her phone vibrate and she glanced at the screen. A text from Lon Sellitto.

A- Just learned. The suspension came from downtown. Capt. Myers. Thinks you're not up front on health issues. He got your medical records from your private doctor. I bought you a week to stay on Moreno case. But need full medical by May 28th.

So that was it. Laurel had had nothing to do with getting her sidelined. Thank G.o.d she hadn't blurted what she'd been thinking earlier. But then: How the h.e.l.l had Myers gotten her private records? She never made insurance claims through the department. She herself paid for the appointments with her orthopedist-for this very reason: so no one in the Big Building would find out.

"Everything okay?" Laurel asked, nodding at the phone.

"Sure, fine."

At that moment a buzz sounded from the end of the corridor. The door swung open and a man stepped inside, in his thirties, athletic, wearing a dark suit. He blinked in surprise, seeing the women at the end of the hall. Then he started forward, eyes taking in the rest of the hallway and the empty rooms.

Sachs spent a lot of time here. She knew many of the officers and guards. The detectives, of course. But she'd never seen this man before.

Maybe he was the s.e.x pervert's lawyer. But the expression on Laurel's face said that she didn't recognize him either.

Sachs turned back to Laurel. "I do have some news. Before I left we got a lead to the whistleblower."

"Really?" Laurel lifted an eyebrow.

Sachs explained about the tourist's photos of the tea-drinker who liked Splenda and had a b.u.m stomach. His inexpensive, odd-colored suit. His possible connection to the military.

Laurel asked a question but by then Sachs's instinct had kicked in and she wasn't paying attention.

The man who'd been buzzed in was ignoring the interrogation rooms. He seemed purposefully, but warily, making his way toward the women.

"You know that guy?" Sachs whispered.

"No." Laurel seemed troubled by the detective's concern.

A scenario played itself out in Sachs's imagination, honed by instinct: This wasn't Barry Shales-they'd seen his picture-but could it be Unsub 516? Sachs had been careful with the cell phones but who knew what NIOS was capable of. The man could have tracked her here-or followed Laurel. Maybe he'd just killed the guard out front and buzzed himself in.

Sachs looked for options. She had her switchblade but if this was the unsub he'd be armed. She recalled the terrible knife wounds on Lydia Foster's body. And he could easily have a gun. She'd have to get him in close before she could use the blade.

But as he approached he slowed and stopped, well out of knife range. She couldn't possibly draw the knife and attack before he opened fire. His smooth face, and cautious eyes, looked from one to the other. "Nance Laurel?"

"That's me. Who are you?"

The man had no interest in answering her question.

With a fast, a.s.sessing look at Sachs, he reached into his jacket.

Sachs prepared to launch herself into him, muscles tensing, fingers folding into fists.

Can I get to him in time to grab his hand when it appears, pull my knife out, flick it open?

She crouched and felt a stab of pain. Then got ready to surge forward.

Wondering too if, as before in the alley, her knee would give out again and send her sprawling to the floor, in helpless agony, giving the man all the time he needed to shoot or slash them both to death.

CHAPTER 67.

THE MOMENT BEFORE SHE LEAPT, though, Sachs saw that an envelope, not a Glock or a blade, was emerging.

The man noted Sachs's curious pose with a frown then stepped closer and handed the envelope to Laurel.

"Who are you?" Laurel persisted.

Still no response to her query. Instead he said, "I've been asked to give this to you. Before you go any further, you should know."

"'Go any further'?"

He didn't elaborate but simply nodded at the envelope.

The prosecutor extracted a single sheet of paper. She read methodically, word by word, to judge from her slow eye movements. Her teeth seemed to clench.

She looked up at the man. "You work for the State Department?"

Sachs's impression was that, though he said nothing, the answer was yes. What was this all about?

A glance at the doc.u.ment. "Is it authentic?" Laurel asked, eyeing the State Department minion closely.

The man answered, "I was asked to deliver a doc.u.ment to a.s.sistant District Attorney Laurel. I have no interest in or knowledge of the contents."

Good use of prepositions, Sachs reflected cynically. Lincoln Rhyme would have approved.

"Shreve Metzger had you do this, didn't he?" Laurel said. "Did he fake it? Answer the question. Is it real?"

No knowledge of, no interest in...

The man said nothing more. He turned away, as if the women no longer existed, and left them. He paused at the end of the corridor and was buzzed out.

"What is it?" Sachs asked.

"Didn't some of the intelligence we got from Fred Dellray report that Moreno was seen in or around U.S. emba.s.sies or consulates just before he was shot?"

"Right," she confirmed. "Mexico City and Costa Rica. After he left New York on May second."

Sachs's concerns were further allayed when she glanced back and saw the round, dark face of the guard at the door peering in, unharmed and unconcerned about the visitor. She returned to her station and her celebrities.

With a sigh Laurel said to Sachs, "If anybody was thinking that Moreno was going to attack an emba.s.sy they were wrong." She nodded toward the letter in her hand. "He was looking for an emba.s.sy, but one where he could fast-track his renunciation of U.S. citizens.h.i.+p. He did it on May fourth in San Jose, Costa Rica. The renunciation was effective immediately but the paperwork didn't make it into the State Department database until this morning." She sighed. "When he died Robert Moreno was a Venezuelan citizen, not U.S."

Sachs said, "That's why he told the limo driver in New York he couldn't come back to America. Wasn't because of any terrorist plot but because he'd be non grata and wouldn't be allowed in on a foreign pa.s.sport."

A phone appeared in Laurel's hand. She looked down at it. Her face had never seemed so wan. Why all the makeup? Sachs wondered yet again. Laurel hit a speed-dial b.u.t.ton. Sachs couldn't see which priority but of course it didn't much matter. A 9 is as easy to hit as a 1.

Laurel stepped to the side and had a conversation. Finally she put the phone away and remained for a full minute with her back to Sachs. Her phone rang. Another conversation, briefer.

When she'd ended that call she returned to Sachs. "My boss just talked to the attorney general in Albany. However much Shreve Metzger and his shooter overstepped their authority, there's no interest in pursuing a charge against him when the victim's not a U.S. citizen. I've been ordered to drop the case." She looked at the floor. "So. That's it."

"I'm sorry," Sachs offered. She meant it.

CHAPTER 68.

IN THE COOL, DIM SAFE HOUSE in Reynosa, Mexico, al-Barani Ras.h.i.+d completed the list of bomb components and pushed it toward the Fat Man.

That was how he'd thought of the cartel's chief IED expert when the man had first waddled inside a half hour ago, dusty and with unwashed hair. Ras.h.i.+d had given him the name contemptuously, though accurately-he really was quite heavy. Then he regretted the unkind thought about his physique and personal grooming habits; the cartel's man proved to be not only very cooperative but extremely talented. It turned out he was responsible for some of the more sophisticated explosive devices deployed in the Western Hemisphere over the past few years.

The man pocketed the shopping list he and Ras.h.i.+d had come up with and in Spanish said he'd be back by evening with all the parts and tools.

Ras.h.i.+d was satisfied that this weapon would do the job very efficiently, killing DEA regional director Barbara Summers and anyone at the church picnic within a thirty-foot circle, possibly wider, depending on how many people were waiting in line at the ice cream station, where the device would be planted.

Ras.h.i.+d nodded toward the room where the Mexican hostages were being kept. He asked the Fat Man, "His company has come up with the ransom?"

"Yes, yes, it's confirmed. The family's been told. They can leave tonight, as soon as the last of the money is transferred." He regarded Ras.h.i.+d closely. "It's only business, you know."

"Only business," Ras.h.i.+d said, thinking, No, it's really not.

The Fat Man walked to the kitchen, where he opened the refrigerator and, surprising Ras.h.i.+d, took out not a beer but two cartons of Greek yogurt. Eyeing the Arab, he peeled back both tops and ate one then the other with a plastic spoon, standing in the middle of the room. Then he wiped his mouth with a paper towel, tossed the empties into the trash and sipped from a bottle of water.

"Seor, I will see you soon." They shook hands and he stepped outside, waddling on shoes with heels worn angular.

After the door closed Ras.h.i.+d stepped to the window and looked out. The man climbed into a Mercedes, which sagged port side. The diesel purred to life and the black vehicle bounded down the drive, leaving a dust cloud.

Ras.h.i.+d remained at the window for ten minutes. No sign of surveillance, no neighbors glancing uneasily as they pa.s.sed by. No curtains dropping back over windows. Dogs stood about unsuspicious and no disembodied barks suggested intruders in unseen places nearby.

From the bedroom suite he heard voices. And then a soft noise he couldn't place at first, uneven, rising, falling in volume and tone. It grew regular and he knew the sound was a child's crying. The little girl. She'd been told she was going home but she wouldn't appreciate that. She wanted to be there now, with her stuffed toy, her bed, her blanket.

Ras.h.i.+d thought of his sister, who, with two schoolmates, was killed in Gaza. His sister...not much older than this girl. She hadn't had a chance to cry.

Ras.h.i.+d sipped more tea and examined the diagrams, listening to the mournful sound of the girl, which seemed all the more heart wrenching for being muted by the walls, as if she were a ghost trapped forever in this dusty tomb.

CHAPTER 69.

THE PHRASE "KILL ROOM" suggested something out of a science-fiction movie or the operations center in the TV show 24.

But the National Intelligence and Operations Service's Ground Control Station was a dingy s.p.a.ce that looked like a storage area in a medium-sized insurance business or ad agency. It was housed in a fifteen-by-forty-foot trailer and was divided into two rooms. The office area was where you entered from the NIOS parking lot. Lining the wall were cardboard cartons of varying ages, cryptic writing on them, some empty, some containing doc.u.ments or paper cups or cleaning supplies. A communications center, unoccupied at the moment. Computers. A battered gray desk and brown chair were in one corner and old, uncla.s.sified files littered it, as if a secretary had grown tired of finding the right drawer for them and had just given up. A broom, a box of empty Vitaminwater bottles, a broken lamp sat on the floor. Newspapers. Light bulbs. Computer circuit boards. Wires. A Runner's World magazine.

For decorations, maps of the Caribbean, Mexico, Canada and Central America, as well as of Iraq, and several OSHA posters warning about the dangers of lifting heavy loads with a bent back and not drinking enough water on hot days.

The place was dim; the overheads were rarely on. As if secrets kept better in hinted light.

You tended not to notice the shabbiness of the office, however, because of the other half of the trailer: The UAV operations station, visible through a thick gla.s.s wall.

Men and women like Barry Shales, the pilots and sensor operators, tended to refer to the operations station as a c.o.c.kpit, which n.o.body seemed to mind, though the word "drone" was discouraged. Maybe "unmanned aerial vehicle" sounded more sophisticated or sanitized. This term was certainly better-from a public relations view-than what UAVs were called among those who flew them: FFAs, or f.u.c.kers From Above.

Wearing dress slacks and a tie-less short-sleeved blue plaid s.h.i.+rt, slim Barry Shales was sitting in a comfortable overstuffed tan leather chair, which was more like Captain Kirk's in Star Trek than a seat in a jet's c.o.c.kpit. Before him was a three-foot-by-eighteen-inch tabletop metal control board, bristling with dozens of k.n.o.bs and b.u.t.tons, switches and readouts, as well as two joysticks. He was not touching them at the moment. The autopilot was flying UAV N-397.

The computer's being in charge was standard procedure at this point in a Special Task Order operation, which involved just getting the bird in the general area of the target. Shales didn't mind being copilot for the moment. He was having trouble concentrating today. He kept thinking about his prior a.s.signment.

The one NIOS had gotten so wrong.

He recalled the intel about the chemicals for Moreno's IED-the nitromethane, the diesel fuel, the fertilizer-that were going to reduce the oil company's headquarters in Miami to a smoking crater. The intel about Moreno's vicious attacks on America, calling for violent a.s.saults on citizens. The intel about the activist's reconnaissance of the emba.s.sies in Mexico and Costa Rica, planning to blow them to kingdom come too.

They'd been so sure...

And they'd been so wrong.

Wrong about avoiding collateral damage too. De la Rua and the guard.

The primary point of the Long-Range Rifle program at NIOS was to minimize, ideally eliminate, collateral, which was impossible to do when you fired missiles.

And the first time it had been tried in an actual mission, what had happened?