The Watchmaker’s Hand

Assured that they were in the kill zone, Hale started up the street to his new SUV — a different color and make from the first. This was a black Pathfinder. As he walked, he placed a phone call from his burner. Inside the couple’s house, the receiving cell phone circuit silently took the call and began a countdown that would, after giving Hale twenty minutes to be nowhere near, set off a small packet of explosives. The charge would be so light that they would hear only a faint crack.

That the sound was gentle, however, did not mean that the consequences would also be. The explosion would shatter a container of hydrofluoric acid.

The liquid form is one of the most deadly surface toxins on earth, but anhydrous HF gas is worse. The resulting fumes — materializing spontaneously when the liquid met air at room temperature — would spread fast from the source and would flow through the entire house in less than a minute, as Hale had turned the HVAC fan up to high when he’d rigged the device.

And the deaths? Unpleasant, yes. HF on the skin was, ironically, not especially painful at first. Gas wafting into lungs and eyes and mouth and nose, though, caused instant unimaginable agony. But it wouldn’t last long, not with the quantity he’d filled the device with.

Now the threat posed by the inquisitive SUV voyeur had been eliminated. It was time to return to what was next on his agenda.

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’ve seen 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 his computer, “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