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Her nickname--though apparently one never used to her face or in her presence--was "The All-Powerful." Apparently this was a reference to both her take-no-prisoners management style, and to her ambitions for Algonquin.
Her controversial reservations about green power were on blunt display in one interview.
"First of all, I wanted to say that we at Algonquin Consolidated are committed to renewable energy sources. But at the same time I think we all need to be realistic. The earth was here billions of years before we lost our gills and tails and started burning coal and driving internal combustion cars and it'll be here, doing just fine, long, long after we're history.
"When people say they want to save the earth, what they really mean is that they want to save their lifestyle. We have to admit we want energy and a lot of it. And that we need it--for civilization to progress, to be fed and educated, to use fancy equipment to keep an eye on the dictators of the world, to help Third World countries join the First World. Oil and coal and natural gas and nuclear power are the best ways to create that power."
The piece ended and pundits leapt in to criticize or say hurrah. It was more politically correct, and produced better ratings, to eviscerate her, however.
Finally the camera went live to City Hall, four people on the dais: Jessen, the mayor, the police chief and Gary Noble, from Homeland Security.
The mayor made a brief announcement and then turned over the mike. Andi Jessen, looking both harsh and reassuring, told everyone that Algonquin was doing all it could to control the situation. A number of safeguards had been put into place, though she didn't say what those might be.
Surprising Rhyme, and everyone else in the room, the group had made the decision to go public about the second demand letter. He supposed that the reasoning was if they were unsuccessful in stopping Galt and somebody else died in another attack, the public relations, and perhaps legal, consequences to Algonquin would have been disastrous.
The reporters leapt on this instantly and pelted her with questions. Jessen coolly silenced them and explained that it was impossible to meet the extortionist's requirements. A reduction in the amount of power he wanted would result in hundreds of millions of dollars in damages. And very likely many more deaths.
She added that it would be a national security risk because the demands would hamper military and other governmental operations. "Algonquin is a major player in our nation's defense and we will not do anything to jeopardize that."
Slick, thought Rhyme. She's turning the whole thing around.
Finally, she ended with a personal statement to Galt to turn himself in. He'd be treated fairly. "Don't let your family or anyone else suffer because of the tragedy that's happened to you. We'll do whatever we can to ease your suffering. But please, do the right thing, and turn yourself in."
She took no questions and was off the dais seconds after she finished speaking, her high heels clattering loudly.
Rhyme noticed that while her sympathy was heartfelt she never once admitted that the company had done anything wrong or that high-voltage lines might in fact have led to Galt's or anyone else's cancer.
Then the police chief took over and tried his best to offer concrete reassurance. Police and federal agents were out in force looking for Galt, and National Guard troops were ready to assist if there were more attacks or the grid was compromised.
He ended with a plea to citizens to report anything unusual.
Now that's helpful, Rhyme thought. If there's one thing that's the order of the day in New York City, it's the unusual.
And he turned back to the paltry evidence.
Chapter 48
SUSAN STRINGER LEFT her office on the eighth floor of an ancient building in Midtown Manhattan at 5:45 p.m.
She said hello to two men also making their way to the elevator. One of them she knew casually because they'd run into each other occasionally in the building. Larry left at about this same time every day. The difference was that he'd be returning to his office, to work through the night.
Susan, on the other hand, was heading home.
The attractive thirty-five-year-old was an editor for a magazine that had a specialized field: art and antiques restoration, primarily eighteenth and nineteenth century. She also wrote poetry occasionally, and was published. These passions gave her only a modest income but if she ever had any doubts about the wisdom of sticking to her career, all she had to do was listen to a conversation like the one Larry and his friend were having at the moment, and she knew she could never go into that side of business--law, finance, banking, accounting.
The two men wore very expensive suits, nice watches and elegant shoes. But there was a harried quality about them. Edgy. It didn't seem they liked their jobs much. The friend was complaining about his boss breathing down his neck. Larry was complaining about an audit that was in the "fucking tank."
Stress, unhappiness.
And that language too.
Susan was pleased she didn't have to deal with that. Her life was the Rococo and neoclassical designs of craftsmen, from Chippendale to George Hepplewhite to Sheraton.
Practical beauty, she phrased their creations.
"You look wasted," the friend said to Larry.
He did, Susan agreed.
