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It was, indisputably, the most important aspect of his mission.
And the one about which he was the most curious.
21.
“DON’T THINK I’VEseen you looking quite so surprised, Linc.”
Which was a mild way of putting it.
“I’ve been expecting Hale,” Rhyme said slowly. And he reminded them of a communique that he’d not long ago received via a rather circuitous route. The British Government Communications Headquarters—an innocuous name for one of the most effective snooping agencies in the world—had been listening in on terrorist traffic and coincidentally heard that anonymous actors, one of whom was in Manchester, England, were plotting Rhyme’s death. They’d gotten word to the FBI, which in turn alerted the criminalist.
Manchester was Hale’s temporary base of operation.
“He was going to get here sooner or later—killing me is not the kind of job he’d contract out. But how the hell is he involved with the cranes?”
“Well, I guess the Kommunalka Project hired him, didn’t they?” Sellitto asked.
Rhyme’s eyes went from the evidence boards to the windows. “Maybe. But his being here, it opens up a lot more possibilities. It might explain why nobody’s heard of our resident communists. Thinking about it, a radical underground group, affording Hale’s fees? Not impossible, especially if the Kommunalka’s a front for a bigger operation, but not necessarily likely. Maybe he’s up to something else entirely.
“And good job, Pulaski. Without the facial reconstruction trick, we never would have known.”
But the young officer seemed not to hear the compliment. He was staring at the board. “You know what it means, right? Gilligan’s death? Hale’s going to move on you soon.”
“True. Gilligan was here to check out my security. If Hale killed him, he’s learned what he needs. He’ll act before I change anything.”
Sellitto was shaking his head. “So, Andy Gilligan was bought. That’s tough. But not completely a surprise. You know he’s got a brother?”
Rhyme said, “I didn’t.”
“Yeah. Mick Gilligan’s connected. A crew in Brooklyn. We knew it, of course. And they saw each other some. Andy was up front about it. He told his commander. All he said was he wouldn’t be involved in any operation against Mick. The brass let it slide.” A scowl. “Andy was a damn good cop. He closed cases … But now? We’ve got to go back and check out every one he ran. Look over the recovered drug and cash inventories. See if anything got skimmed.”
Rhyme was thinking of the phone calls to and from England. He called to Thom, “When was the last one?”
The aide looked over the sheet he’d logged the calls on. “Three days ago.”
“That’s when he left the UK and came here. But how’d he get into the country? Man’s on a dozen watch lists.” Rhyme told hiscomputer, “Send Zoom invite. Fred Dellray. Schedule a meeting now.”
The computer did as told and a few moments later the FBI agent was on the screen.
“Lincoln, Lon, and there’s young Pulaski dwelling in the corners.” Dellray was in his office in the federal building in downtown Manhattan. It was a perfunctory place with government-tan paint on the walls, a bookcase behind him filled with carefully ordered volumes. A desktop computer.
Another phone rang and he held up a bony finger, dark as the brown leather of his desk chair. He took the call and muted Zoom.
Though Dellray had advanced degrees, there were no certificates or diplomas on the walls. The only decoration was a poster of a disheveled man in a toga, beneath which were the words:
Luck is what happens when preparation meets opportunity.
—Seneca
Beneath it sat a copy of Title 18 of the U.S. Code. The federal criminal statutes. Post-it notes protruded. They were pink, blue and yellow.
Dellray was wearing a very un-FBI suit in powder blue, along with the equally nonconforming yellow shirt and pink tie. He could get away with offending J. Edgar Hoover’s ghost because he was the best runner of undercover agents and CIs in the Bureau—and he got out into the field himself from time to time to play the role of an obscenely rich warlord or arms dealer or the corrupt government official with a gambling problem eager to take a bribe from a contractor.
He disconnected the call and returned to Zoom. “So. Anything interesting on the crane situation? I’ll tell you, all I have to do is peek outside my window and there’s one there, looming. Allour counterterror people decided to decamp to the other side of the building in case it does a Humpty Dumpty. It’s. A. Distraction. What do you need?”
“Any unauthorized entries into the U.S. three days ago, or so, of a male, white, forties. Originating in the UK, but he might’ve transited anywhere in the world. And I’ve sent a picture. Mug shot.”
“I’ll do some rings here, Lincoln. I’ll get back. Who’s this arch vill-i-an?”
