The Burning Wire (12 page)

Cavanaugh gave a sour smile. "And they don't see the irony that half of them took a subway over here from the New Energy Expo at the convention center, courtesy of Algonquin-generated current. Or made their little posters last night by the light provided by us. Forget irony. How's hypocrisy?"

Sachs said, "Until we get some communication from somebody, though, or learn more, I'd still like to consider ecoterrorists. Have you heard anything about a group that starts with the words 'Justice For'?"

"For what?" Cavanaugh asked.

"We don't know."

"Well, I never have," Jessen said. Cavanaugh hadn't either. But he said he'd check with the regional offices of Algonquin to see if they had heard anything.

He took a call. He lifted his eyes to Andi Jessen. He listened then disconnected and said to Sachs, "No service in the steam access manhole for over a year. Those lines're shut down."

"Okay." Sachs was discouraged at the news.

Cavanaugh said, "If you don't need me, I'll go check with the regional offices now."

After he left, a tall African American appeared in the doorway--the second of the men she'd summoned--and Jessen motioned him to sit. She introduced them. Security Director Bernard Wahl was, Sachs realized, the only nonwhite she'd seen in the company not in worker's overalls. The strongly built man was draped in a dark suit and white shirt, heavily starched. His tie was red. His head was shaved and glistened in the overhead lights. Glancing up, Sachs saw that every other lightbulb was missing from the ceiling fixtures. An economy move? Or, given her anti-green stance, had Jessen decided that reducing energy use would be advantageous from a public relations standpoint?

Wahl shook Sachs's hand and snuck a glimpse at the bulge on her hip where her Glock resided. Somebody who'd come out of policing would not have any interest in her piece, which was just a tool of the trade like cell phones or ballpoint pens. It was the amateur cops who were fascinated with armament.

Andi Jessen briefed him and asked about access to the codes for the computers.

"The codes? That's just a few people. I mean, they're very senior. You ask me, it'd be too obvious. You sure we weren't hacked? Those kids're real smart nowadays."

"Ninety-nine percent sure," Sachs said.

"Bernie, have somebody check on access to the safe file room beside the control center."

Wahl pulled out his mobile phone and placed a call, told an assistant to handle the request. He disconnected and then added, "I've been waiting for a terrorist announcement. But you're thinking it's from the inside?"

"We think it was either inside or with the
help
of somebody inside. But we did want to ask about ecoterror threats."

"Not in my four years here. Just protesters." A nod out the window.

"Have you ever heard of a group called Justice For something? Having to do with environmental issues?"

"No, ma'am." Wahl was placid, exuded no emotion whatsoever.

Sachs continued, "Any problems with employees who've been fired recently, who've had complaints with the company?"

"With the
company
?" Wahl asked. "They tried to take out a city bus. It wasn't the company they were after."

Jessen said, "Our stock's down eight percent, Bernie."

"Oh, sure. I didn't think about that. There're a few. I'll get the names."

Sachs continued, "I'd also like any information you have about employees with mental issues, anger management problems, or who've shown some instability."

Wahl said, "Security doesn't generally get their names unless it's serious. Some risk of violence to themselves or others. I can't think of anybody off the top of my head. But I'll check with HR and our medical department. Some details'll be confidential but I'll get you the names. You can go from there."

"Thanks. Now, we think he might've stolen the cable and hardware from an Algonquin warehouse, the one on a Hundred and Eighteenth Street."

"I remember that," Wahl said, a grimace on his face. "We looked into it but the loss was only a few hundred dollars. And there were no leads."

"Who'd have the keys?"

"They're standard. All our field workers have a set. In the region? Eight hundred people. Plus the supervisors."

"Any employees fired or under suspicion of pilfering or stealing recently?"

He glanced at Jessen to make sure he should be answering the questions. He got the subtle message that he should.

"No. Not that my department's been aware of." His cell phone chirped and he looked at the screen. "Excuse me. Wahl here. . . ." Sachs watched his face as he took in some troubling news. He looked from one to the other then disconnected. He cleared his throat in a baritone rumble. "It's possible--I'm not sure--but it's possible we had a security breach."

"What?" Jessen snapped, face reddening.

"The log-in records of Nine East." He looked at Sachs. "The wing where the control center and the safe file room are."

"And?" Jessen and Sachs asked simultaneously.

"There's a security door between the control room and the safe files. It should close on its own, but the smart lock records show it was open for about two hours a couple of days ago. A malfunction or it got jammed somehow."

"Two hours? Unsupervised?" Andi Jessen was furious.

"That's right, ma'am," he said, lips taut. He rubbed his glistening scalp. "But it wasn't like anybody from the outside could get in. There was no breach in the lobby."

Sachs asked, "Security tapes?"

"We don't have them there, no."

"Anybody sitting near the room?"

"No, it opens on an empty corridor. It's not even marked, for security."

"How many people could've gotten into the room?"

"As many as had clearance to Nine through Eleven East."

"Which is?"

"A lot," he admitted, eyes downcast.

Discouraging news, though Sachs hadn't expected more. "Can you get me the list of anybody who had access that day?"

He made another call while Jessen herself picked up the phone and raised hell about the breach. A few minutes later a young woman in a lavish gold blouse and teased hair stepped shyly into the doorway. She glanced once at Andi Jessen and then offered sheets of paper to Wahl. "Bernie, I've got those lists you wanted. The one from HR too."

She turned and was happy to flee the lioness's den.

Sachs looked at Wahl's face as he reviewed the list. Apparently the task of compiling it hadn't taken long but the results weren't good. Forty-six people, he explained, would have had access to the room.

"Forty-six? Oh, Christ." Jessen slumped, staring out the window.

"All right. What we need to find out is who among them--" gesturing at the access list--"had alibis and who had the skill to reroute the computer and rig the wire at the bus stop."

Jessen stared at her immaculate desktop. "I'm not a technical expert. I got my father's talent for the business side of the power industry--generation, transportation, brokering." She thought for a moment. "But I know somebody who could help."

She made another phone call, then looked up. "He should be here in a few minutes. His office is on the other side of the Burn."

"The . . . ?"

"The turbine room." A gesture outside the window at the portion of the building from which the smokestacks blossomed. "Where we produce the steam for the generators."

Wahl was looking over the shorter list: "Employees we've had to discipline or let go for various problems over the past six months--some mental problems, a few drug test failures, drinking on the job."

"Only eight," Jessen said.

Was there pride in her voice?

Sachs compared the two lists. None of those on the shorter one--the problem employees--had access to the computer codes. She was disappointed; she'd hoped it would pay off.

Jessen thanked Wahl.

"Anything else I can do, Detective, just call me."

She too thanked the security chief, who left. Then she said to Jessen, "I'd like copies of their resumes. Everybody on the list. Or if you have employee profiles, CVs. Anything."

"Yes, I can arrange for that." She asked her assistant to make a copy of the list and pull together personnel information for everybody on it.

Another man, slightly out of breath, arrived in Jessen's office. Midforties, Sachs estimated. He was a little doughy and had unruly brown hair, mixed with gray. "Cute" seemed to fit. There was a boyish quality about him, Sachs decided. Sparkling eyes and raised eyebrows and a fidgety nature. The sleeves of his wrinkled striped shirt were rolled up. Food crumbs, it seemed, dusted his slacks.

"Detective Sachs," Jessen said. "This is Charlie Sommers, special projects manager."

He shook the detective's hand.

The president looked at her watch, stood and donned a suit jacket she'd selected from a large closet of clothes. Sachs wondered if she pulled all-nighters. Jessen brushed at skin flakes or dust on the shoulders. "I have to meet with our PR firm and then hold a press conference. Charles, could you take Detective Sachs back to your office? She's got some questions for you. Help her however you can."

"Sure. Be happy to."

Jessen was looking out the window at her dynasty--the massive building, the superstructure of towers and cables and scaffolding. With the fast-flowing East River glistening in the background, she seemed like the captain of a huge ship. The woman was obsessively rubbing her right thumb and forefinger together, a gesture of stress that Sachs recognized immediately, since she often did the same. "Detective Sachs, how much wire did he use for that attack?"

Sachs told her.

The CEO nodded and kept looking out the window. "So he's got enough left for six or seven more. If we can't stop him."

Andi Jessen didn't seem to want a response. She didn't even seem to be speaking to the other people in the room.

Chapter 18

AFTER WORK, A
different social tone emerged in Tompkins Square Park, in the East Village. Young couples, some in Brooks Brothers, some pierced and sporting tats, strolling with their toddlers. Musicians, lovers, clusters of twenty-somethings headed home from despised day jobs and filled with expanding joy at what the night might hold. The smells here were hot dog water, pot, curry and incense.

Fred Dellray was on a bench near a large, spreading elm tree. He'd glanced at the plaque when he'd arrived and learned this was where the founder of the Hari Krishna movement had chanted the group's mantra in 1966 for the first time outside India.

He'd never known that. Dellray preferred secular philosophy to theology but had studied all major religions and he knew that the Hari Krishna sect included four basic rules in order to follow dharma, the righteous path: mercy, self-control, honesty and cleanliness of body and spirit.

He was reflecting on those qualities and how they were figured in today's New York City versus South Asia, when feet scuffed behind him.

His hand hadn't even made it halfway to his weapon when he heard the voice, "Fred."

It troubled Dellray deeply that he'd been caught off guard. William Brent wasn't a threat but he easily could have been.

Another sign of losing his touch?

He nodded to the man to sit. Wearing a black suit that had seen better days, Brent was nondescript, a little jowly with direct eyes under swept-back hair, sprayed into place. He wore steel-rimmed glasses that had been out of style when Dellray had been running him. But they were practical. Typical of William Brent.

The CI crossed his legs and glanced at the tree. He wore argyle socks and scuffed penny loafers.

"Been well, Fred?"

"Okay. Busy."

"You always were."

Dellray didn't bother to ask what Brent had been up to. Or what his present name was, for that matter. Or career. It would have been a waste of energy and time.

"Jeep. Strange creature, isn't he?"

"Is," Dellray agreed.

"How long you think he'll live?"

Dellray paused but then answered honestly, "Three years."

"Here. But if Atlanta works out, he'd probably last for a while. If he doesn't get stupid."

Dellray was encouraged by the extent of his knowledge. Even Dellray hadn't known exactly where Jeep was going.

"So, Fred, you know I'm a working man now. Legitimate. What'm I doing here?"

"Because you listen."

"Listen?"

"Why I liked running you. You always listened. You heard things. Got this feeling you hear things still."

"This about that explosion at the bus stop?"

"Uh-huh."

"Some electrical malfunction." Brent smiled. "The news said that. I've always wondered about this obsession we have with the media. Why should I believe anything? They tell us that untalented actors and twenty-nine-year-old pop stars with excessive tits and cocaine problems behave badly. Why does that merit more than a millisecond of our consciousness? . . . That bus stop, Fred. Something else happened there."

"Something else happened." Dellray had been assuming one role with Jeep. That was a made-for-TV movie, melodramatic. But here, with William Brent, he was a Method actor. Subtle and real. The lines had been written over the years but the performance came from his heart. "I really need to know what."

"I liked working with you, Fred. You were . . . difficult but you were always honest."

So, I'm one quarter of the way to dharmic enlightenment. The agent said, "Are we going to keep going here?"

"I'm retired. Being a snitch can be detrimental to your health."

"People come outa retirement all the time. Economy's fucked. Their social security checks don't go as far as they thought." Dellray repeated, "We going to keep going here?"

Brent stared at the elm tree for a long, long fifteen seconds. "We'll keep going. Give me some deets and I'll see if it's worth my time and the risk. To both of us."

To both of us? Dellray wondered. Then continued, "We don't
have
many details. But there's maybe a terror group called Justice For we don't know what. The leader might be somebody named Rahman."

"They were behind it, the bus stop?"

"Possibly. And somebody who might be connected with the company. No ID yet. Man, woman, we don't know."

"What exactly happened that they aren't saying? A bomb?"

"No. The perp manipulated the grid."

Brent's eyebrow rose behind the archaic glasses. "The grid. Electricity . . . think about it. That's worse than an IED. . . . With the grid, the explosive's already there, in everybody's house, in everybody's office. All he has to do is pull a few switches. I'm dead, you're dead. And not a pretty way to go."

"Why I'm here."

"Justice For something . . . Any idea what's on their to-do list?"

"No. Islamic, Aryan, political, domestic, foreign, eco. We don't know."

"Where'd the name come from? Translated?"

"No. Was intercepted that way. 'Justice.' And 'For.' In English. Other words too. But they didn't get 'em."

" 'They.' " Brent gave a furrow of a smile, and Dellray wondered if he knew exactly what Dellray was doing here, that he'd been tweaked aside by the brave new world of electronics. SIGINT. "Anybody take credit?" the man asked in his soft voice.

"Not yet."

Brent was thinking, hard. "And it would take a whole lot of planning to put something like this together. Lot of strands to get woven."

"Would, sure."

And a flutter of muscles in Brent's face told Dellray that some pieces were falling together. He was thrilled to see this. But of course revealed nothing.

Brent confirmed in a whisper, "I have heard something, yes. About somebody doing some mischief."

"Tell me." Trying not to sound too eager.

"There's not enough to tell. It's smoke." He added, "And the people who can tell me? I can't let you contact them directly."

"Could it be terror related?"

"I don't know."

"Which means you can't say it isn't."

"True."

Dellray felt an uneasy clicking in his chest. He'd run snitches for years and he knew he was close to something important. "If this group or whoever it is keeps going . . . a lot of people could be hurt. Hurt really bad."

William Brent made a faint, candle-extinguishing noise. Which meant that he didn't care one bit, and that appeals to patriotism and what was right were a waste of breath.

Wall Street should take a lesson. . . .

Dellray nodded. Meaning the negotiation was under way.

Brent continued, "I'll give you names and locations. Whatever I find, you get it. But
I
do the work."

Unlike Jeep, Brent had himself displayed several qualities of dharmic enlightenment when Dellray had been running him. Self-control. Cleanliness of spirit--well, body at least.

And the all-important honesty.

Dellray believed he could trust him. He snared him in a tight gaze. "Here it is. I can live with you doing the work. I can live with being cut out. What I can't live with is slow."

Brent said, "That's one of the things you'd be paying for. Fast answers."

"Which brings us to . . ." Dellray had no problem paying his snitches. He preferred to bargain favors--reducing sentences, cutting deals with parole board case officers, dropping charges. But money worked too.

Paying value, getting value.

William Brent said, "The world's changing, Fred."

Oh, we're back to that? Dellray mused to himself.

"And I've got some new prospects I need to pursue. But what's the problem? What's always the problem?"

Money, of course.

Dellray asked, "How much?"

"One hundred thousand. Up front. And you have a guarantee. I
will
get you something."

Dellray coughed a laugh. He'd never paid more than five large to a snitch in all his years running them. And that princely sum had bought them indictments in a major dockside corruption case.

One hundred
thousand
dollars?

"It's just not there, William," he said, not thinking about the name, which Brent probably hadn't used in years. "That's more than our entire snitch bag put together. That's more than
everybody's
snitch bag put together."

"Hm." Brent said nothing. Which is exactly what Fred Dellray himself would have done, had he been on the other side of the negotiation.

The agent sat forward, his bony hands clasped. "Give me a minute." Like Jeep in the stinky diner earlier, Dellray rose and walked past a skateboarder, two giggling Asian girls, and a man handing out fliers, looking surprisingly rational and cheerful, considering his cause was the 2012 end of days. Near the dharma tree he pulled out his phone and made a call.

"Tucker McDaniel," was the clipped greeting.

"It's Fred."

"You got something?" The ASAC sounded surprised.

"Maybe. A CI of mine, from the day. Nothing concrete. But he's been solid in the past. Only he wants some money."

"How much?"

"How much we got?"

McDaniel paused. "Not a lot. What's he got that's gold?"

"Nothing yet."

"Names, places, acts, numbers? Scraps? . . .
Anything?
"

Like a computer rattling off data in a list.

"No, Tucker. Nothing yet. It's like an investment."

Finally the ASAC said, "I could do six, eight thousand probably."

"That's all?"

"How the hell much does he want?"

"We're negotiating."

"Fact is, we've had to adjust bottom lines for this one, Fred. Took us by surprise. You know."

McDaniel's reluctance to spend was suddenly clear. He'd moved all the money in the Bureau operating accounts to the SIGINT and T and C teams. Naturally one of the first places he'd raided was the snitch fund.

"Start with six. See the merchandise. If it's meaty, maybe I could go nine or ten. Even that's pushing it."

"I think he could be on to something, Tucker."

"Well, let's see some proof. . . . Hold on. . . . Okay, Fred, it's T and C on the other line. I better go."

Click.

Dellray snapped the phone shut and stood for a moment, staring at the tree. He heard: "She was hot, you know, but there was this one thing didn't seem right . . . no, it's the Mayan calendar, I mean, maybe Nostradamus . . . that's totally fucked up . . . yo, where you been, dog? . . ."

But what he was really hearing was his partner in the FBI some years ago saying,
No problem, Fred. I'll take it.
And going on a trip that Dellray had been scheduled to handle.

And then hearing the voice of his special agent in charge of the New York office two days later, that voice choking, telling Dellray that the partner had been one of the people killed in a terrorist bombing in the Oklahoma City federal building. The man had been in the conference room that Dellray should have been occupying.

At that moment, Fred Dellray, in a comfortable air-conditioned conference room of his own many miles from the smoking crater, had decided that a priority in his law enforcement career from then on would be to pursue terrorists and anyone else who killed the innocent in the name of ideas, whether political or religious or social.

Yes, he was being marginalized by the ASAC. He wasn't even being taken seriously. But what Dellray was about to do had very little to do with vindicating himself, or striking a blow for the old ways.

It was about stopping what he thought was the worst of evils: killing innocents.

He returned to William Brent, sat down. He said, "Okay. One hundred thousand." They exchanged numbers--both cold phones, prepaid mobiles that would be discarded after a day or so. Dellray looked at his watch. He said, "Tonight. Washington Square. Near the law school, by the chess boards."

"Nine?" Brent asked.

"Make it nine-thirty." Dellray rose and, according to the tradecraft of the CI world, left the park alone, with William Brent remaining behind to pretend to read the paper or contemplate the Krishna elm.

Or figure out how to spend his money.

But the CI was soon lost to thought, and Fred Dellray was considering how best to plan the set, what part the chameleon should now play, how to cast his eyes, how to convince and wheedle and call in favors. He was pretty sure he could pull it off; these were skills he'd honed for years.

He'd just never thought he'd ever be using his talents to rob his employer--the American government and the American people--of $100,000.