The Cutting Edge

Wednesday, March 17

Chapter 68

As placid as ever, the Mexican attorney Antonio Carreras-López tugged at his vest and looked over at his client, sitting opposite him.

Eduardo Capilla — El Halcón, the Hawk — was the least avian-looking criminal who ever existed. (A more appropriate nickname for him would be La Tortuga.) Fat, balding, squint-eyed, with a broad, upturned nose. Still, he was one of the most dangerous men on earth. His hands and feet were shackled, and those shackles affixed to steel rings in the floor.

The interview room was in the federal courthouse for the Eastern District of New York, Cadman Plaza. The building was modern and stylish and only a little scuffed. Plenty of suspects from mean streets had passed through here but, as their offenses were federal, they tended to scrub up better than their counterparts in state court.

Both men here were in suits — even the defendant, as was customary, since a prisoner in a jumpsuit might prejudice the jury to think guilt and taint the Sixth Amendment’s right to a fair and impartial trial.

The U.S. Constitution, the Mexican lawyer had reflected on occasion, was just so quaint, so charming...

Outside the room were two guards — both dedicated to making sure El Halcón didn’t fly the coop, a witticism that Carreras-López couldn’t resist.

Carreras-López’s pen made whispering noises on the yellow pad before him. One would think that the notes he was jotting had to do with the appalling information that federal prosecutor Henry Bishop had just presented: that a new analysis of the evidence had proven, to a certainty, that his client was not hiding in the bathroom at the time of the shoot-out but was, in fact, armed and firing at the police.

That son of a bitch, Lincoln Rhyme, had set him up.

This was, of course, an irony in itself, because Carreras-López had himself contacted Rhyme with the express purpose of setting him up. The lawyer had come up with the absurd argument about tainted evidence solely to give himself a chance to meet Rhyme and look into to his eyes. Carreras-López was a master of assessing men, and could tell in an instant if Rhyme suspected the plot had nothing to do with any diamond lodes in Brooklyn, but was about something else altogether, directly involving El Halcón. But no, the criminalist might be brilliant at analyzing fingerprints and trace evidence, but he was completely oblivious about what was really going on.

Which was that within the hour, El Halcón would be free. The plan to break him out of the courthouse here and spirit him away to a compound in Venezuela was proceeding perfectly.

There is a rumor that there is no extradition treaty between the United States and that troubled South American nation. That’s not correct. The 1922 treaty between the two nations remains in effect, though the extraditable offenses are a bit bizarre — bigamy, for instance. There are rules about shipping fugitive murderers and drug dealers back to the U.S. but, of course, they are enforced only if the foreign authorities want to enforce them. And, depending on where the decimal point falls, the Venezuelans’ motivation for enforcement can be a bit limp.

The escape plan had been long in the making — from the moment El Halcón had been taken into custody after the shoot-out at the warehouse on Long Island.

Carreras-López had known that a legal defense wouldn’t work — El Halcón had in fact grabbed the pistol of the warehouse manager, Chris Cody’s, and shot Barry Sales, the cop on the tactical team. Escape was the only option. He’d called a troubleshooter whom the cartels in Mexico sometimes used, a man in Geneva, Switzerland, named François Letemps. Carreras-López had paid a million-dollar deposit against a three-million-dollar fee for Letemps to break the man out of custody.

Letemps had suggested staging the escape in some locale other than New York, which he viewed as problematic. But, no, that wouldn’t work. There could be no change of venue; the Eastern District of New York had sole jurisdiction. And once he was convicted, as surely he would be, he would be in high-security lockdown until he was transferred by a government plane to the infamous Colorado super prison, from which escape was not possible.

No, New York was the only option. And since the federal courthouse in Brooklyn was the most vulnerable spot in the system, Letemps set to work on a plan to orchestrate a mass evacuation of the courthouse when El Halcón was present. In the chaos, it should be possible to take control of his armored transport van and escape.

But simply calling in a bomb threat, for instance, would have been far too suspicious and brought even more law enforcement down on El Halcón, Letemps reasoned.

He therefore decided to create a potentially deadly gas leak in the courthouse for reasons that appeared to have nothing to do with any escape attempt. Specifically, Letemps’s plan provided, a mercenary — hired to sabotage geothermal drilling nearby — would set gas bombs in the neighborhood.

Letemps had arranged for a shipment of diamond-rich kimberlite to be delivered to New York from Botswana. Carreras-López had some of his men, who’d accompanied him from Mexico, strew these rocks around the geothermal site and the waste dump where debris from the site was taken. One of the men also took some kimberlite to a famous diamond cutter — Jatin Patel — who had it analyzed and found that it was indeed diamond-rich stone. Whatever Patel thought of the stone was irrelevant. The plot merely depended on getting the kimberlite to him.

Letemps himself pretended to be the contractor representing New World Mining in Guatemala, which was not involved in any way. He hired Andrew Krueger to plant the bombs and kill Patel and the assayer Weintraub. Then that mad Russian had showed up, worried about the diamond find too, but in the end none of that mattered. The important thing was that the police were convinced there was a series of gas line devices planted throughout Brooklyn, near the courthouse.

Any other gas leaks would immediately be attributed to Krueger and his attempts to sabotage the drilling.

Poor Andrew Krueger — he was merely an oblivious pawn; he believed that he’d been hired by the Guatemalan mining company and had no idea that he’d been set up. And set up to fail: A key part of the plan was making sure the police figured out the diamond lode sabotage plot.

Lincoln Rhyme had, unwittingly, accommodated in this regard.

With a frown of concentration, Carreras-López jotted more notes on the pad before him. He shook his head, crossed off one entry. Added another. This was an important document: a grocery list for a dinner party he was planning to cook in Mexico City tomorrow night. His wife did not enjoy the kitchen; he did.

Chicken, poblano peppers, crème fraîche, cilantro, white Burgundy wine (Chablis?).

Now, as El Halcón pretended to read some court documents and fantasized about añejo tequila, the building shook with a faint tremor.

This was the result of a C4 charge planted not by Krueger but by one of Carreras-López’s men at the geothermal site. This IED was not on a timer but had been detonated by radio signal, as the explosion had to coincide with El Halcón’s presence in the courthouse.

The guards in the hallway outside looked briefly at each other, then returned to staring at nothing.

Carreras-López’s mobile gave a brief tone. He looked at the text.

This meant that the lawyer’s men were beginning to release the natural gas odorant — not the gas itself — into the courthouse HVAC system from outside the building.

Carreras-López switched his screen to the local news. A breaking story reported yet another explosion, meant to mimic an earthquake. Residents in Brooklyn were urged to be on the lookout for gas leaks and to evacuate immediately if they were aware of any. Another text:

The helicopter had landed and was standing by at a construction site in Brooklyn, near the water — the craft that would spirit Carreras-López and El Halcón to an airstrip on Staten Island, where private jets would speed them to, respectively, Caracas and Mexico City.

Carreras-López prepared himself for what was coming next: the emergency evacuation of the courthouse. The guard detail would have Carreras-López leave and would usher El Halcón to his armored van in the loading dock on the ground floor for transport back to the detention center.

But El Halcón’s evacuation wouldn’t go quite as the federal marshals planned. The armored transport van would not be driven by the guards assigned to the vehicle. Carreras-López’s men, dressed in guard uniforms, would have shot them with silenced weapons and taken over the van. It would drive up to the exit to await El Halcón and his two guards. Once they were in the van and the door closed, those guards would die too and the van would speed to the helicopter.

By tomorrow El Halcón would be enjoying life in his compound outside of Caracas. And Carreras-López — to whom no links to the plot could be proven — would be at home whipping up a Latin coq au vin, his own recipe.

And marveling at the plan.

Gracias, Monsieur François Letemps.

Or, merci.

Accompanying this thought was the first whiff of natural gas.

His eyes rose and met those of his client. El Halcón’s brow furrowed only slightly. Carreras-López ripped the grocery list from his yellow pad and carefully folded and slipped it into his pocket.

Only sixty seconds later the door burst open and the guards streamed inside.

“The building’s being evacuated.” To Carreras-López, one said, “Out the main exit. Front.” Then turning to El Halcón. “You’re coming with us. Not a word. Keep your head down and walk where we tell you.”

Out of courtesy, or adherence to the rules, they repeated the statement in Spanish. El Halcón rose to his feet and a guard bent to undo the shackles from the floor rings.

With concern on his face, Carreras-López asked, “But what’s going on?”

“Gas leak. That asshole set the gas bombs? In the news? He planted one here or nearby. Move. Now!”

“Dios mío!” Carreras-López muttered and, blessing himself, walked to the doorway.

Chapter 69

He had asked for chaos and chaos had been delivered.

Antonio Carreras-López was across the street from the prisoner entrance loading dock of the federal courthouse. He was on the second floor of a coffee shop, where he had planned to observe the operation.

The streets were jammed with rescue workers — actually rescue preparers since no explosions or conflagrations had yet occurred. Fire trucks, police, ambulances. The press too, of course. And plenty of gawkers, arms lifted like saluting Fascists as they held high cell phones to record the anticipated carnage. Loudspeakers urged pedestrians and onlookers to back up behind the barricades. “Immediately! There is a major fire and explosion risk! Move back!” The voices were stern. Nobody paid any attention to the warnings.

Behind this coffee shop Carreras-López’s limo awaited. He had confidence in Letemps’s scheme but, ever a practical man, the attorney was hedging bets. If the plan stumbled now, which was a possibility, of course, and the guards shot and killed his men and kept the Mexican drug lord in custody, the lawyer would hightail it from the country.

He had a family and a fortune and a cooking engagement awaiting at home. And he had a jet of his own all paid for.

Now he stiffened. He observed the armored transport van assigned to El Halcón pull forward. He had received another text.

Meaning that the prison guards in the van were dead and Carreras-López’s men had taken over as driver and accompanying guard.

Now for the most critical moment.

The two guards from outside the interview room would soon appear, accompanying El Halcón as he walked to the van. Carreras-López could count three other guards, armed with submachine guns, presently outside, eyeing the crowd. It seemed to him that they were distracted, and understandably. Yes, they would not want their prisoner to escape, but they also would not want to burn to death when the gas blew; by now the scent should be overwhelming. And they would know, like the rest of the city, that the timer on the gas line was counting down — ten minutes from tremor to blast.

Then El Halcón and the two guards — only two — appeared from the doorway.

They hurried to the van as fast as they could — the crime boss’s legs were still shackled — and the door opened. In they went. The door slammed shut.

Then, very faint, came several flashes of light from inside.

The silenced pistol killing the guards.

Pulling into the street, which had been cleared of traffic, the van accelerated away and turned the corner.

Another text.

The last of the coded messages meant that the guards were dead and the van was proceeding to the rendezvous spot.

Carreras-López turned and hurried down the back stairs of the coffee shop to his limo. He climbed inside. The driver greeted him and they started off, the Caddie circling the blocked streets. Soon they hit the highway, about five minutes behind the van.

The security van would have GPS; its progress would be tracked. So Letemps had picked a rendezvous spot that was just off the highway on the way to the detention center. Anyone tracking the van would think that, when it pulled off, it was simply diverting briefly to avoid a traffic jam.

It would stop fast to let El Halcón and the other men out. The stop would eventually alarm the security people at detention. But by the time they got reinforcements here, El Halcón and Carreras-López would be long gone.

Now the Cadillac in which Antonio Carreras-López sat was gaining on the van. He could see it about a hundred yards ahead. In sixty seconds they were at the turnoff, and the van, then Carreras-López’s limo, turned into the empty, weed-filled parking lot that surrounded a dilapidated factory. The towering sign read only H&R Fab icat s, I c. These remaining letters, six feet high, would have been proudly red at one point but were now scarred and sickly pink.

The van and limo stopped near the helicopter, its rotors idling, and a van, in front of which the lawyer’s men stood.

Carreras-López glanced back and saw no police vehicles. Nor any choppers overhead or boats in the choppy water where the East River met the harbor.

None of the authorities suspected a thing. They would have ten minutes before anyone at detention grew concerned about the van’s absence and sent cars.

Carreras-López climbed from the limo. He said to the driver, “Leave now.” He gave the man five hundred-dollar bills and shook his hand.

“Thank you, sir. I’ve enjoyed driving you. I’ll see you when you’re back.”

Which would never happen. But he said, “I’ll look forward to it.”

The Cadillac slowly bounded out of the broken, uneven parking lot.

Carreras-López waved to the van, where El Halcón was probably stripping the dead guards of their money and weapons. His client had once killed a man for his wallet — not for the money but because he liked the embossed leather... and the picture of the victim’s wife and daughter. El Halcón had told Carreras-López that he’d kept the picture on his bedside table for years.

A thought that even now gave the lawyer a shiver. What a man I have for a client.

The door to the van opened.

“Hola!” Carreras-López called.

Then he froze. He whispered, “Mierda.”

Because it wasn’t El Halcón climbing from the vehicle. But a redheaded policewoman, in full tactical gear and holding a machine gun. She was followed by three, no four, no six other officers, half with the letters ESU on their body armor. Half with FBI.

“No!” the lawyer cried.

Two of these officers ran to the helicopter and dragged out the pilot, and the others arrested the men by the van. The policewoman stepped quickly to the lawyer, with a younger, blond male officer. “Hands!” she shouted. The lawyer sighed, licked his lips with a dry tongue and lifted his arms. He remembered seeing her in Lincoln Rhyme’s apartment.

How? How had it happened?

A perfect plan.

So perfectly ruined.

How? The question looped through his mind.

As he was cuffed by the woman and patted down by the man, he tried to figure this out.

The texts were the right codes.

El Halcón had gotten into the van. I saw him.

I saw the flashes of the gunshots.

Or did I?

A clever man himself, he thought: No, no, no. They had learned of, or guessed, the plan and had located Carreras-López’s men before they could murder the driver and guard. The police had offered them a plea bargain in exchange for the codes and the details of the escape.

The flashes from inside the vehicle weren’t a gun but a cell phone or flashlight to convince anyone watching that the second set of guards had died. As soon as the van was out of sight, it had diverted and this one, with the tactical officers, had taken its place for the trip to the factory here.

But that didn’t answer the bigger question of how: How had someone — Lincoln Rhyme, surely — come to suspect that an escape was in the works, in the first place?

The policewoman said, “Sit down here. I’ll help you.”

She eased him to the ground. “Please. How did you figure it out? How did you possibly know what we were doing? I want to know. Will you tell me?”

She ignored him as her attention was drawn to an approaching black limo. It stopped and a tall, lean man got out.

Carreras-López sighed. It was Henry Bishop, the U.S. attorney.

The policewoman walked to the man and they had a conversation. Not surprisingly, as they spoke, they both kept their eyes on him.

Finally, Bishop nodded. They both began walking, in slow strides, to the lawyer.

Chapter 70

Rhyme was in his accessible van, not far from the takedown site by the water’s edge in Brooklyn.

He was presently watching through the window and listening to the staccato voice traffic on the police scanner.

Yes, he and Sachs had had a lovely dinner last night.

But they hadn’t discussed movies or politics or the thousands of other topics grand and topics small that husbands and wives talked about over meals; they talked about the loose ends that had piqued Rhyme’s interest about the Diamond District case.

“Anomalies, Sachs. Pieces don’t fit quite right.”

“Such as?”

She had been enjoying quite the nice Burgundy. Chardonnay, of course. But not overly oaked, a subtlety that the French — unlike the Californians — had mastered. Rhyme took this on faith; he had swapped the Glenmorangie for a Cab. If one had to drink wine, it should be red and formidable.

He’d explained the loosest of the ends: “How did Jatin Patel come into possession of the kimberlite in the first place?”

She’d cocked her head. “Never thought about it. A good question.”

He’d asked with more than a dusting of irony, “Somebody strolling past the geothermal site or the refuse dump happens to notice an unremarkable dark hunk of rock and takes it to a diamond merchant for assessment?”

“Doesn’t make sense.”

“Another problem: Didn’t the whole fake-earthquake thing, didn’t it seem just a bit improbable? Almost as if we were supposed to figure out it was staged.”

“True. You get caught up in a fast-moving case, you don’t step back.”

Rhyme had said, “Say there’s a Mr. Y.”

“Is ‘X’ taken?”

A smile. “Remember? I used that before.”

“Okay, go ahead. Mr. Y.”

“He has a plan too. Mr. Y or somebody working for him calls Krueger — anonymously — and claims he’s working for New World Mining. They’re all in a frenzy because a drilling site in Brooklyn has dug up diamond-rich kimberlite. They hire Krueger to create fake earthquakes to shut down the drilling and kill Patel and anyone else who knows about it.”

“And,” Sachs had said, “Mr. Y ships some kimberlite from Africa and plants it at the geothermal site.”

“Exactly. Remember the trace we found? Coleonema pulchellum — the confetti bush — also from Africa.”

Rhyme had then enjoyed another piece of veal in a fennel cream sauce, laced with vermouth. Back in the day, for years after the accident, Thom had had to feed him. Of late, as long as someone cut up his food, or it arrived naturally in bite-sized form, he could handle the dining part on his own just fine.

She had said, “Got it, so far. Mr. Y sets up this elaborate plan for fake earthquakes apparently to stop diamond production... but he’s got some other plan entirely. Which is...?”

“I couldn’t figure that out. Not at first. But then I asked myself, why Brooklyn, why the Northeast Geo site? Mr. Y could’ve picked any construction site in the area. No, there was something special about Cadman Plaza. And what was unique there?”

“The government buildings. The courts.”

Rhyme had smiled once more. “And was there any other piece of the puzzle that connected the dots?”

“I have a feeling,” Sachs had said, “that is an extremely rhetorical question.”

“The other day Pulaski smelled gas in the town house. I assumed it was because Lon had just come from the scene at Claire Porter’s apartment — where they recovered the lehabah, the gas bomb. It didn’t go off but it did melt through the gas line, and there was a major leak. I figured he’d picked up the scent there. But I called him. And he hadn’t been to the scene.”

“So where did the scent come from?”

“From the box of files on the El Halcón case. Delivered to me by Mr. Y.”

“Mr. Y!” Her eyes glowed. “Carreras-López.”

“Exactly. One of his minders brought the case files to me. Wherever they’d been, it was also where they’d stored the odorant. Maybe they tested it, maybe it leaked. But some odorant got on the files. So. The gas bombs had some connection with El Halcón’s attorney and, presumably, his trial.”

Sachs had mused, “And that explains why Carreras-López came to you with that claim about somebody planting the gunshot residue evidence in the warehouse.”

“Yep. He wanted to get inside the Unsub Forty-Seven op. Keep tabs on us, make sure we weren’t suspicious that the diamond plot was fake. If I hadn’t given Bishop the capital murder lead, I think he would have been a regular guest — well, spy.”

She’d set down her fork. “But, Jesus, Rhyme. He’s going to try to break El Halcón out... tomorrow, maybe. We’re just sitting here.”

He’d shrugged. “Nothing can happen until then. I called my new friend Hank Bishop and found out El Halcón’s arriving at ten a.m. Besides, we haven’t finished our meal.”

She’d given him a coy look. “And you’ve already called Lon, Ron, Fred Dellray and probably someone from ESU. When will they be here?”

“A half hour. Won’t interfere with dessert. Thom! Thom! Weren’t you going to flambé something special for Amelia?”

Then this morning Sellitto and Dellray had initiated the operation that had been put together the night before. They decided that Carreras-López probably would have his own men, dressed as guards, hijack the transport vehicle, so FBI agents and undercover detectives did a sweep of the guards in and around the courthouse. They found two men who were imposters — and armed with weapons equipped with silencers. Dellray — in his inimitable, and intimidating, style — convinced them to give up details of the plot in exchange for reduced charges. (“I’m triple-guaranteeing you, you will not be enjoying the par-tic-u-lar prison, not to mention the population, you will be going to, if you don’t help. Are we all together on that?”)

So far, so good.

Then had come the debate. Rhyme, Sachs, Dellray and Sellitto — and some senior NYPD brass, as well as City Hall.

They knew that there was no risk of an actual gas attack. Carreras-López’s men would merely release the odorant, to start the evacuation; they couldn’t risk burning up their client with a real gas leak. The federal marshals and NYPD could simply have ignored the release, and passed the word on that there was no danger. Open the windows, ventilate the place. And let the trial continue.

But, Rhyme believed, if they could nail Carreras-López, they could offer the lawyer a plea bargain in exchange for El Halcón’s partner.

Which meant they had to let the escape plan go forward — but divert El Halcón’s van and use a second one, filled with tactical officers, to proceed to the helicopter and take down the lawyer and his entire crew.

Exactly as had happened, without a glitch.

Rhyme’s phone now hummed with a text.

Rhyme now heard the sound of the Sprinter door opening behind him. He turned.

Sachs stood in the doorway, her machine gun slung, muzzle down, from her shoulder. Her helmet in her left hand. Rhyme reflected that she was nearly as appealing in this outfit as she had been in the green dress.

“Can I hitch a ride?” she asked.

“Think we can fit you in.”

Sachs climbed in and slammed the door. She sat, pulled the magazine from her weapon and ejected the round in the chamber. Their eyes met.

“So,” she said. “That’s it.”

“That’s it, Sachs.”

Chapter 71

Vimal Lahori had not seen his father yesterday.

After supper with his mother and brother, Vimal had gone to spend the evening with Adeela. He’d returned late and by the time he arrived home, he noted his father’s car was in the drive but he had gone to bed.

Upon waking this morning, he learned that Papa was again out.

Whatever business the man was about, he hadn’t shared it with his wife, much less his younger son. But then Papa never shared anything unless it was a pronouncement coming down from on high.

Vimal knew, without doubt, but with dread, what the man’s mission was: finding Vimal another apprenticeship. But it wouldn’t be easy, despite Vimal’s skills. The young man was tainted. He was now associated with the worst thing that could happen in the diamond world — a robbery and murder. Oh, he wasn’t guilty of anything himself, and the crimes had turned out to be something quite different, but diamantaires wouldn’t dwell on those distinctions. They would forever link Vimal with the death of the genius Jatin Patel, one of their own.

Vimal Lahori had become a living reminder of the dark and perilous side of these miraculous gems, from blood diamonds in Africa, to slave labor in Siberia, to armed robberies in Belgium.

But his father would beg or bluster until someone signed Vimal on.

He was presently in his studio, looking over a two-pound piece of lapis lazuli. Vimal loved this intensely blue mineral. It was generally used for jewelry but one could find pieces large enough for sculpting, at reasonable prices. The metamorphic rock has a long history in both jewelry and art. Tutankhamun’s funeral mask featured it, and Chinese artists would carve miniature mountainside villages into vertical pieces, just as they did with jade. Lapis was first discovered in Badakhshan province of Afghanistan and is now found there, as well as such exotic places as Siberia, Angola, Burma, Pakistan and — where this particular stone had come from — Pleasant Gulch, Colorado.

He was turning the stone over and over in his hand, waiting for it to talk to him and explain what incarnation it wished to achieve through Vimal’s eager hands. Yet at the moment it was silent.

Then footsteps on the stairs.

Vimal knew the tread falls. He set down the brilliant blue stone, layered with gold pyrite, and sat on the work chair.

“Son.”

Vimal nodded to the bleary-eyed man. He reflected: must be hard work trying to pimp a whore nobody wants.

Papa was carrying two envelopes, one large and one small. Vimal glanced at them, supposing they were contracts for cutting assignments. His eyes slipped back to his father.

The man said, “I missed you last night. I was very tired. I went to bed. But your mother told me you were well. Unharmed after that incident with the man. The killer.”

Incident...

“Yes.”

“I was very grateful for that,” Papa said, then seemed to realize the absurdity of the words.

His father’s eyes were on the lapis. “Mr. Patel’s children and their families have come to town. They and his sister have held the funeral and cremation privately.” In the Hindu religion, cremation is the only acceptable way to treat the body. In India the funeral and the cremation occur at the same place — traditionally, of course, the body is burned on an open pyre. Here, the Hindu funeral rites, the Antyesti, are modified to allow for Western custom and laws.

His father added, “But they are holding a memorial at his sister’s house tonight. That’s one reason I’ve been away. I was helping with that. You will come?”

“Sure. Yeah, of course.”

“You can say something if you like. But you don’t have to.”

“I will.”

“Good. You’ll do a good job.”

Silence.

One reason I’ve been away...

Now it was time to learn of the other reason. Who was to be his new master?

Well, Vimal Lahori decided. No one would be. This was the end. He was going to say no to the man.

At last he would say no.

He took a deep breath to do so but his father handed him the smaller of the envelopes. The trembling of his hand was not so bad today. “Here.”

Vimal held back on the monologue he was prepared to deliver and took the envelope. He glanced into his father’s eyes.

The man’s shrug said, Open it.

Vimal did. He looked at what was inside and his breath stopped momentarily. He looked to his father then back to the contents.

“This is—” He actually choked.

“Yes, a check from Dev Nouri’s company.”

Payable to Vimal Lahori. Only to him.

“Papa, it’s almost one hundred thousand dollars.”

“You will have to pay tax on it. But you’ll still keep about two-thirds.”

“But...”

“The rough that you cut for him. That parallelogram.” The word came awkwardly from his mouth. “Dev sold it at private auction for three hundred thousand dollars. He was going to give you ten percent.”

A talented diamond cutter in the New York area could expect to make around fifty thousand dollars a year. The thirty that Mr. Nouri had offered for a one-day job was very generous by any standard throughout the world.

“But I said no. He and I had some discussions. He agreed, as you can see, to thirty-three percent. It’s less than an even one hundred, because he insisted on subtracting the money he’d already paid you. I thought we could not object to that.”

Vimal could not help but smile.

“Open an account, deposit it. It’s your money. You can do with it as you like. Now, I will say something else. You will be getting many phone calls. There is not a single diamantaire in the New York area that does not want you to work for them. I have heard from a number of them who would want you to apprentice to them. They have all heard of the parallelogram. Some people are calling it the Vimal Cut.”

The news was interesting — he was not a pariah — but it was also disheartening. The pressure from his father was back. More subtle, but pressure nonetheless.

Papa muttered, “You can get a job at any one of them and they will pay very well. But before you do that, think about this.” He offered the larger envelope.

Vimal removed from it a college catalog, for an accredited, four-year university on Long Island. A yellow Post-it was stuck in the middle. Vimal opened to the page, which described the MFA, master in fine arts, program. There was a track for sculpting, which included a semester abroad in Florence and Rome.

Feeling his heart stutter, he looked up to his father.

The man said, “So. I have been the messenger. The rest is up to you. You may want a different school, of course. Though your mother and I were hoping that if you do, we would prefer you become the Michelangelo of Jackson Heights, rather than of Los Angeles. But, as I say, it’s up to you, son.”

Vimal had no intention of flinging his arms around his father but he couldn’t help himself.

The awkwardness faded quickly, and the embrace lasted considerably longer than he and, he guessed, his father anticipated. Then they stepped away.

“We will leave for Mr. Patel’s sister’s at five.” He turned and started for the stairs. “Oh, and why don’t you invite Adeela?”

Vimal stared. “How did...?”

The look on his father’s face was cryptic but the message might very well have been: Never underestimate the intelligence — in both senses of the word — of one’s parents.

His father left the studio and trooped upstairs. Vimal picked up the lapis lazuli and began turning it over and over and over in his hands once more, waiting for the stone to speak.

Chapter 72

Barry.” Rhyme was in his parlor, on the speakerphone.

“Lincoln. I’m pissed off at you, you know that.”

“Yeah? Why?”

“I was a bottom-shelf kinda guy. You turned me on to real scotch. The pricey stuff. Actually, Joan is pissed at you. Me, not so much.”

A pause.

Then Rhyme said, “We nailed him, Barry. He’s going away forever. El Halcón.”

“Jesus. I thought the case was dicey.”

“It became undicey.”

More silence.

“And we got his partner. The American.”

Rhyme could hear the man breathing.

“You have anything to do with that?”

“Not much. A little.”

Sales laughed. “Bullshit. I’m not believing that.”

“Well, believe what you want.”

“That’s the Lincoln Rhyme I know and love.” Then, diverting from the edge of maudlin, Sales said, “Hey. Talked to my sister? She had an idea. I’m getting a temporary prosthesis. Just a hook, you know. She’s going to bring the kids over and, guess what? We’ll do the Wolverine thing. They’ll love it.”

“The what thing?”

“The movie. You know.”

“There’s a movie about wolverines?”

“You don’t get out much, do you, Lincoln?”

“Well, I’m happy it’s working out.”

“We’ll get together soon. I’ll buy the whisky.”

They disconnected and Rhyme was wheeling back to the evidence table when his mobile hummed with an incoming call.

He hit Answer.

“Lincoln,” came the voice through the phone, obscured by a cacophony of electric guitar licks.

Rhyme snapped in response, “Rodney, for God’s sake. Turn down the music.”

“You do know that’s Jimmy Page.”

A sigh. Which the Computer Crimes expert couldn’t possibly hear, owing to the raw decibels.

“All right. Just saying. Did you know that Led Zeppelin holds the number two record for most albums sold in the U.S.?” Szarnek dimmed the volume. Somewhat. You’d expect him to have shoulder-length curly hair, inked skin and body piercings and wear shirts open to the navel — if that’s what heavy-metal band lead guitarists still looked like. In fact, though, he fit the image of the computer nerd he was.

Amelia Sachs walked into the parlor, bent down and kissed Rhyme.

Szarnek said, “Found some things you’ll want to know about the Kimberlite Affair.”

“That’s what you’re calling it?” Sachs asked. Her voice was amused.

“I kind of like it. Don’t you? Nice ring. K, here’s what I’m talking about. You sent me the number of that lawyer’s burner phone, Carreras-López? I checked the log. A lot of calls were to the folks who got rounded up at the courthouse and helipad and in the hoosegow.”

“The what?”

“A jail. Like in old-time Westerns. The pokey.”

“Rodney. Get to the point.”

“But this’s interesting. Most of the calls and texts were to and from somebody in Paris. In the Sixth Arrondissement. That means ‘district.’”

“I know,” Sachs said.

“In and around the Jardin du Luxembourg. That’s a garden. But you probably know that too.”

“That I didn’t know.”

Szarnek added, “Whoever it was, the lawyer called and texted him or her a lot over the past few weeks. Almost like he was reporting in.”

“Maybe a consultant,” Sachs said, walking to the evidence cartons on an examination table. “You thought the lawyer was Mr. Y, who planned it all out. Might have been this person.”

“Could be.”

“Rhyme,” Sachs said, lifting an evidence bag. It was Carreras-López’s day planner. Pasted inside the cover was a Post-it note with the name François Letemps. A series of numbers was beside it. Account numbers maybe.

French name. Was he the man on the other end of the line in Paris?

Szarnek said, “Now, here’s the weird part.”

In an already weird case.

“The texts were encrypted with exactly the same algorithm you were asking about a few days ago. Duodenal. Using numbers zero through nine plus the upside-down two and three. Never rains but it pours.”

Jesus. Rhyme’s eyes slowly eased to the evidence boards.

“And no chance of cracking it?”

“About the same as me appearing on Dancing with the Stars.”

“The hell is that?”

“Let’s say impossible.”

“I’ve got to go.” Rhyme disconnected and shouted to Mel Cooper, “That package we got from the Alternative Intelligence Service? The international delivery?”

It had arrived last night but Rhyme had been too preoccupied with the case to look at it.

Cooper sliced open the box. There was no letter, only a note from Daryl Mulbry.

Here you go. Any thoughts would be helpful.

Cooper lifted a small evidence envelope. Inside was the small crescent of metal that had tested positive for radiation, though not of any dangerous dosage. Rhyme now studied it.

He recalled that Mulbry was concerned that the bit of springy metal might be a timer in a dirty bomb — part of a mechanical detonator, intended to avoid the countermeasures to defeat an electronic one.

This, Rhyme now knew, was not correct.

But the truth behind the bit of metal was, in a way, even more troubling.

Rhyme placed a call to Mulbry now.

“Lincoln! How are you?”

“Not much time here. Maybe have a situation. That bit of metal you sent me?”

“Yes.” The man’s voice was sober.

“Let me ask a couple more questions.”

“Of course.”

“You found anything more about your suspect, the man who dropped it?”

“We finally found the café he was hanging out in when he made a lot of his calls. It was—”

“Near the Jardin du Luxembourg.”

“Mon dieu, Lincoln. Yes. How—”

“And what did the EVIDINT unit find?”

“Nothing. No prints, no usable trace, no DNA. Just a description.”

“Which is?”

“White male, forties, fifties. Spoke perfect French but possibly with an American accent.”

Rhyme’s head rested back against the leather pad. Thoughts swirled. “It’s not a bomb, Daryl. No terrorist issues.”

“No?”

“You don’t have anything to worry about.” He paused. “I do.”

“You? That’s a bit cryptic.”

“I’ll send you a detailed report,” Rhyme told him. They disconnected.

He was now looking over the charts. Impossible. But on the other hand...

“Rhyme, what is it?” Sachs asked. She’d be noting the frown.

He didn’t answer but called Rodney Szarnek back and asked for the number of the phone that Carreras-López had repeatedly called in Paris.

“It’s a dead burner, Lincoln. We’ve pinged it a dozen times.”

“Just the number, if you would.”

Rodney dictated it.

“Thanks,” Rhyme muttered and stared at the digits as he disconnected.

He verbally commanded his phone to send a text to the French one. It was a simple message:

After disconnecting he said to Sachs, “Didn’t we say this whole plot was complicated?”

“Yep.”

“And do you remember what the extra features of a watch are called? Like the date, phases of the moon, tides, different time zones.”

“They’re called complications. Where’s this going?”

“The encryption package that Mulbry’s suspect in Paris was using — and the one Carreras-López and his contact used — was written in the duodecimal system. Twelve. Like the hours on a clock.”

He nodded at the bit of metal. “It’s not a detonator. It’s a watch spring. And the radiation isn’t from a dirty bomb. It’ll be radium from the dial of a clock or watch. The man AIS was suspicious of... and the man hired to put together the El Halcón escape plot were one and the same. And he has a hobby. Building timepieces.”

“Rhyme, no!”

But the answer was yes, he believed.

The individual in question was none other than Charles Vespasian Hale, though he often used a favored pseudonym, Richard Logan, if he needed to be less obtrusive. Rhyme thought of him, however, exclusively by his nickname, the Watchmaker.

Rhyme closed his eyes briefly, recalling he’d been thinking of the Watchmaker just the other day, reflecting that Unsub 47’s plot, while smart, didn’t rise to the level of Hale’s brilliance. Now, though, knowing that Krueger was merely a gear, one might say, in the plan, the hallmarks of genius were evident.

“Rhyme,” Sachs said. “Letemps. French for ‘time.’”

He gave a brief laugh. “He’s got Mexican connections. Remember that case a few years ago? The Watchmaker was hired by one of the cartels. It was an assassination, if I remember. So Carreras-López must have known about him and signed him up to break his client out of lockup.”

Sachs asked, “Do you think you’ll hear from him? As soon as he learned the operation failed, I’d imagine he pitched that phone in the Seine.”

But Rhyme knew the phone was alive and well. The Watchmaker had held on to it for one reason, and one reason only.

No more than ten minutes later Rhyme’s own mobile chimed — several times — with a series of texts.

Rhyme was not a classics scholar but he could translate that line well enough:

Some enemies can be ignored; other enemies must die.

He read the text once more — to see if there were any clues as to where the Watchmaker was texting from or where he intended to go. Nothing. And by now the phone was, in fact, destroyed. He told Cooper to power down his own phone, remove the battery and throw it out. Then call the server and cancel that number.

He then moved to the landline and spoke into the microphone attached to it.

“Call Daryl Mulbry. AIS.”

The numbers trilled by quickly as the dialer went to work.

Two rings. Then a woman’s matter-of-fact voice: “Yes?”

“Daryl Mulbry. Please.”

“I’m sorry. He’s not available right now.”

“It’s important.”

“I’ll make sure he gets the message. If you—”

“Please tell him it’s Lincoln Rhyme calling.”

A pause. “Just a minute, sir. I’ll get him.”