The Broken Window (56 page)

“No, you have to fight it!” Geddes said bitterly to Rhyme. “Every time you don’t stand up to them, everybody loses.”

Sterling turned to him and said in a voice just a few decibels above a whisper, “Calvin, let me tell you something. I lost three good friends in the Trade Towers on September eleventh. Four more were badly burned. Their lives’ll never be the same. And our country lost thousands of innocent citizens. My company had the technology to find some of the hijackers and the predictive software to figure out what they were going to do. We—
I
—could have prevented the whole tragedy. And I regret every single day that I didn’t.”

He shook his head. “Oh, Cal. You and your black-and-white politics… Don’t you see:
That
’s what SSD is about. Not about the thought police kicking in your door at midnight because they don’t like what you and your girlfriend are doing in bed or arresting you because you bought a book about Stalin or the Koran or because you criticized the President. The mission of SSD is to guarantee that you’re free and safe to enjoy the privacy of your home and to buy and read and say whatever you want to. If you’re blown up by a suicide bomber in Times Square, you won’t have any identity to protect.”

“Spare us the lectures, Andrew,” Geddes raged.

Brockton said, “Cal, if you don’t calm down, you’re going to find yourself in a lot of trouble.”

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Geddes gave a cold laugh. “We’re already in a lot of trouble. Welcome to the brave new world…” The man spun around and stormed out. The front door slammed.

Brockton said, “I’m glad you understand, Lincoln. Andrew Sterling is doing very good things. We’re all safer because of it.”

“I’m so happy to hear it.”

Brockton missed the irony entirely. But Andrew Sterling didn’t. He was, after all, the man who knew everything. But his reaction was a humorous, self-assured smile—as if he knew that the lectures eventually got through to people, even if they didn’t appreciate the message just yet. “Good-bye, Detective Sachs, Captain. Oh, and you too, Officer Pulaski.” He glanced wryly at the young cop. “I’ll miss seeing you around the halls. But if you want to spend any more time honing your computer skills, our conference room’ll always be available to you.”

“Well, I…”

Andrew Sterling gave him a wink and turned. He and his entourage left the town house.

“You think he knew?” the rookie asked. “About the hard drive?”

Rhyme could only shrug.

“Hell, Rhyme,” Sachs said, “I suppose the order’s legit but after all we’ve been through with SSD, did you have to cave so quickly? Brother, that Compliance dossier… I’m not happy all that information’s out there.”

“A court order’s a court order, Sachs. Not much we can do about it.”

Then she looked at him closely and must have noticed the glimmer in his eyes. “Okay, what?”

Rhyme asked his aide, “In your lovely tenor read me that order again. The one our SSD friends just delivered.”

He did.

Rhyme nodded. “Good… There’s a Latin phrase I’m thinking of, Thom. Can you guess what it is?”

“Oh, you know, I
should,
Lincoln, considering all those hours I have free here, sitting in the parlor and studying the classics. But I’m afraid I’m drawing a blank.”

“Latin… what a language that is. Admirable precision. Where else can you find five declensions of nouns, and those amazing verb conjugations?… Well, the phrase is
Inclusis unis, exclusis alterius.
It means that by including one category you automatically exclude other, related categories. Confused?”

“Not really. To be confused you have to be paying attention.”

“Excellent riposte, Thom. But I’ll give you an example. Say you’re a congressman and you write a statute that says, ‘No raw meat shall be imported into the country.’ By choosing those particular words you’re automatically giving permission to import canned or cooked meat. See how it works?”

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“Mirabile dictu,” said Ron Pulaski.

“My God,” Rhyme said, truly surprised. “A Latin speaker.”

He laughed. “A few years. In high school. And, being a choirboy, you tend to pick things up.”

“Where are we going with this, Rhyme?” Sachs asked.

“Brockton’s court order only bars giving Privacy Now information about the Compliance Division. But Geddes asked for everything we have about SSD. Therefore—ergo—anything else we have on SSD is fair to release. The files Cassel sold to Dienko were part of PublicSure, not Compliance.”

Pulaski laughed. But Sachs was frowning. “They’ll just get another court order.”

“I’m not so sure. What’re the NYPD and the FBI going to say when they find out that somebody who works for their own data contractor has been selling out high-profile cases? Oh, I’ve got a feeling the brass’ll back us on this one.” This thought led to another. And the conclusion was alarming. “Wait, wait, wait… In detention—that man who moved on my cousin. Antwon Johnson?”

“What about him?” Sachs asked.

“It never made any sense that he’d try to kill Arthur. Even Judy Rhyme mentioned that. Lon said he was a federal prisoner temporarily in state detention. I wonder if somebody from Compliance cut a deal with him. Maybe he was there to see if Arthur thought somebody was getting consumer information about him to use in the crimes. If so, Johnson was supposed to clip him. Maybe for a reduction in his sentence.”

“The government, Rhyme? Trying to take out a witness? That’s a bit paranoid, don’t you think?”

“We’re talking about five-hundred-page dossiers, chips in books and CCTVs on every street corner in the city, Sachs… But, okay, I’ll give them the benefit of the doubt: Maybe somebody from SSD

contacted Johnson. In any case we’ll call Calvin Geddes and give him all that information too. Let the pit bull run with it if he wants. Only wait until everybody’s files are cleaned up. Give it a week.”

Ron Pulaski said good-bye and left to see his wife and baby daughter.

Sachs walked up to Rhyme and bent down to kiss him on the mouth. She winced, probing her belly.

“You okay?”

“I’ll show you tonight, Rhyme,” she whispered flirtatiously. “Nine-millimeter slugs leave some interesting bruises.”

“Sexy?” he asked.

“Only if you think purple Rorschachs are erotic.”

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

Sachs gave a subtle smile to him, then walked into the hallway and called to Pam, who’d been in the front parlor, reading. “Come on. We’re going shopping.”

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“Excellent. What for?”

“A car. Can’t be without wheels.”

“Neat, what kind? Oh, a Prius’d be
way
cool.”

Both Rhyme and Sachs laughed hard. Pam smiled uncertainly and Sachs explained that though her life was green in many ways, gasoline mileage didn’t figure into her love of the environment. “We’re going to get a muscle car.”

“What’s that?”

“You’ll find out.” She brandished a list of potential vehicles she’d downloaded from the Internet.

“You going to get a new one?” the girl asked.

“Never, ever buy a new car,” Sachs lectured.

“Why?”

“Because cars today are just computers with wheels. We don’t want electronics. We want mechanics.

You can’t get grease on your hands with computers.”

“Grease?”

“You’ll love grease. You’re a grease kind of girl.”

“You think so?” Pam seemed pleased.

“You bet. Let’s go. Later, Rhyme.”

The phone trilled.

Lincoln Rhyme glanced up at a nearby computer screen, where caller ID displayed “44.”

At last. This was it.

“Command, answer phone.”

“Detective Rhyme,” said the impeccable British voice. Longhurst’s alto never gave anything away.

“Tell me.”

A hesitation. Then: “I’m so sorry.”

Rhyme closed his eyes. No, no, no…

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Longhurst continued, “We haven’t made the official announcement yet but I wanted to tell you before the press reported it.”

So the killer had succeeded after all. “He’s dead then, Reverend Goodlight?”

“Oh, no, he’s fine.”

“But—”

“But Richard Logan got his intended target, Detective.”

“He got…?” Rhyme’s voice faded as the pieces began coming together. The
intended
target. “Oh, no… Who was he really after?”

“Danny Krueger, the arms dealer. He’s dead, two of his security people too.”

“Ah, yes, I see.”

Longhurst continued, “Apparently after Danny went straight, some cartels in South Africa, Somalia and Syria felt he was too great a risk to stay alive. A conscience-stricken arms dealer made them nervous.

They hired Logan to kill him. But Danny’s security network in London was too tight so Logan needed to draw him out into the open.”

The reverend had been merely a diversion. The killer himself had planted the rumor that there was a contract out on Goodlight. And he’d forced the British and the Americans to turn to Danny for help to save the reverend.

“And it’s worse, I must say,” Longhurst went on. “He got all of Danny’s files. All his contacts, everybody who’s been working for him—informants, warlords who could be turned, mercenaries, bush pilots, sources of funds. All the potential witnesses will go to ground now. The ones who aren’t killed outright, that is. A dozen criminal cases’ll have to be dismissed.”

“How’d he do it?”

She sighed. “He was masquerading as our French liaison, d’Estourne.”

So the fox had been in the henhouse from the beginning.

“I would guess he intercepted the real d’Estourne in France on the way to the Chunnel, killed him and buried the body or dumped it at sea. It was brilliant, I must say. He researched everything about the Frenchman’s life and his organization. He spoke perfect French—and English with a perfect French accent. Even the idioms were spot-on.

“A few hours ago some chap shows up at a building in the London courtyard shooting zone. Logan had hired him to deliver a package. He worked for Tottenham Parcel Express; they wear gray uniforms.

Remember the fibers we found? And the killer had requested a particular driver he claimed he’d used before—who happened to be blond.”

“The hair dye.”

“Exactly. Dependable fellow, Logan said. Which is why he wanted him in particular. Everyone was so
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focused on the operation there, tracking this fellow through the shooting zone, looking for accomplices, worried about diversionary bombs, that the people in Birmingham lowered their guard. The killer just knocked on the door to Danny’s room in the Hotel Du Vin, while most of his security team were down in the champagne bar having a pint. He started shooting—with those dum-dum bullets. The wounds were horrible. Danny and two of his men were killed instantly.”

Rhyme closed his eyes. “So no fake transit papers.”

“All a diversion… It’s a bloody awful mess, I’m afraid. And the French—they’re not even returning my calls… I don’t even want to think about it.”

Lincoln Rhyme couldn’t help but wonder what would have happened if he’d stuck with the case, searched the scene outside Manchester with the high-def video system. Would he have seen something that revealed the true nature of the killer’s plan? Would he have decided that the Birmingham evidence too was planted? Or was there something that might have led him to conclude that the person who’d rented the room—the man he was so desperate to catch—was masquerading as the French security agent?

Was there something he might have seen at the NGO office break-in in London?

“And the name Richard Logan?” Rhyme asked.

“Wasn’t his, apparently. A complete alias. He stole somebody’s identity. It’s surprisingly easy to do, apparently.”

“So I’ve heard,” Rhyme said bitterly.

Longhurst continued, “One rather odd thing, though, Detective. That bag that was to be delivered in the shooting zone by the Tottenham chap? Inside was—”

“—a package addressed to me.”

“Why, yes.”

“Was it a watch or clock, by any chance?” Rhyme asked.

Longhurst barked an incredulous laugh. “A rather posh table clock, Victorian. How on earth did you possibly know?”

“Just a hunch.”

“Our explosives people checked it. It’s quite safe.”

“No, it wouldn’t be an IED… Inspector, please seal it in plastic and ship it over here overnight. And I’d like to see your case report when it’s finished.”

“Of course.”

“And my partner—”

“Detective Sachs.”

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“That’s right. She’ll want to video interview everybody involved.”

“I’ll put together a dramatis personae.”

Despite his anger and dismay, Rhyme had to smile at the expression. He loved the Brits.

“It’s been a privilege to work with you, Detective.”

“And with you too, Inspector.” He disconnected, sighed.

A Victorian clock.

Rhyme looked at the mantelpiece, on which was displayed a Breguet pocket watch, old and quite valuable, a gift from the very same killer. The watch had been delivered here just after the man had escaped from Rhyme on a cold, cold day in December not so long ago.

“Thom. Scotch. Please.”

“What’s wrong?”

“There’s nothing wrong. It’s not breakfast time and I want some scotch. I passed my physical with flying colors and the last time I looked you weren’t a Bible-thumping, teetotaling Baptist. Why the hell do you think there’s something wrong?”

“Because you said ‘please.’”

“Very funny. Quite the wit today.”

“I try.” But he frowned as he studied Rhyme and read something in his expression. “Maybe a double?”

he asked softly.

“A double would be lovely,” Rhyme said, lapsing into Brit English.

The aide poured a large tumblerful of Glenmorangie and arranged the straw near his mouth.

“Join me?”

Thom blinked. Then he laughed. “Maybe later.” It was the first time, Rhyme believed, that he’d ever offered his aide a drink.

The criminalist sipped the smoky liquor, staring at the pocket watch. He thought of the note the killer had included with the timepiece. Rhyme had long ago memorized it.