“Shcherbatskoy’s this scholar in modern Buddhist philosophy. His thing is presentism, you know.”
The bedraggled detective scoffed, “Of course I don’t.”
Fred Dellray was not only a brilliant undercover agent but was a talented amateur philosopher as well. Rhyme had never known one could pursue philosophy as a hobby like golf or stamp collecting until he met Dellray.
“Lemme explain. Presentism’s point’s that everything in the past is unreal, everything in the future is unreal. Shcherbatskoy said, ‘Ultimately, real is only the present moment.’ Which I, ’course, reject most soundly.”
Sellitto muttered, “This going anywhere, Fred?”
“Betcha. Now, I myself hew to eternalism. The past does exist. So, for that matter, does the future, but that’s a whole different kettle of fishies. And let’s not muddy up the already-muddy waters with relativity. I’m bringing this up for one very important reason, Lincoln. Presentism and eternalism’re both theories in the philosophy of time. We all together on that?”
“Ah, got it, Fred. You’re thinking that Person X might be the Watchmaker.”
Rhyme objected to the word “nemesis” — the idea of a single villain somehow paired with you like a destructive doppelganger was melodramatic in the extreme — yet he had to admit that if he let down his rationalist’s guard just a bit, he could accept that the word applied to Charles Vespasian Hale.
A.k.a., the Watchmaker.
A for-hire criminal, Hale constructed his criminal plots — for terrorism or assassination or larceny or sabotage — with the complexity and skill of constructing clocks and watches, which was his passion. The last time they had joined in combat, Rhyme foiled a horrific crime he tried to commit. Afterward the Watchmaker had sent an ominous message.
The next time we meet — and we will meet again, I promise you — will be the last. Farewell, for now, Lincoln. I’ll leave you with this sentiment, which I hope you will ponder on sleepless nights: Quidam hostibus potest neglecta; aliis hostibus mori debent.
The Latin translated into: Some enemies can be ignored; other enemies must die.
Rhyme now told Sellitto and Dellray, “He was the first one I thought of. But I think Person X is something else.”
Sellitto said, “He wants you dead.”
“Of course he does. But he wouldn’t hire the job out — to Person Y. He’d come in person. No, this smells of something else. But until Fred finds more, or we do, it’s pointless to speculate. Maybe it’s all just one big mistake. There’s nobody out there at all.”
The man sat in the back of the pub, dressed in a workout kit, dark green, without any team insignia. Here, just outside of Manchester, England, you could get into trouble with a boisterous fan if you were wearing United or City, and he the opposite. Or — even worse — if you were in Chelsea or Arsenal colors. Better to avoid any hint of loyalty.
He was nursing a pint of bitter, as he perused the internet. The pub had good Wi-Fi but he was using his own router — and was, of course, using proxies. Glancing at his watch, he noted that the time in New York would be midday. He extracted his burner phone and placed a call to another one.
The man answered. “Yes?”
“It’s O’Connor.” The Irish brogue was thick. “McAdams?”
“That’s right,” came the low voice, American English.
The names were, of course, codes.
“Ach, I confirmed it. Yeah, they made us.”
A sigh from the left side of the Atlantic.
The “they” were the estimable spies in the Doughnut, the apt name of the circular building housing the Government Communications Headquarters in Benhall, in the suburbs of Cheltenham. He had been assured that the communications protocol between the two men was secure but it apparently had not been. (The person who’d set it up was no longer of this world.) The new connection, he’d confirmed, was safe.
“They know everything?” the American co-conspirator asked.
A sip of bitter. “No, no. Just that somebody here is targeting somebody in New York and has recruited somebody there to assist. But they know who our target’s gonna be.”
A pause. “How much of a problem is it?”
“I’m thinking he’ll be more cautious is all, more suspicious. We’ll just have to be taking that into account, won’t we?” He looked around the pub to make sure once again no one could hear. The place smelled of a floral air freshener. Pubs — any time of day, in every corner of the British Isles — used to smell of cigarette smoke. He asked, “Now, I’m asking: are you good to continue?”
This was a test.
“Yes.” No hesitation.
The man had passed. “Ach, good. I’m pleased with ya.”
There was a screech of brakes, a horn, shouting. New York City traffic. “Everything’s on schedule. I’ll be at the target location soon. I’m getting everything set up.”
Target location... Sipping bitter, he pictured Lincoln Rhyme’s town house. And he wondered, as he had before, how the criminalist had managed to come by the expensive piece of property — and more curious, how he had managed to assemble such a formidable forensic lab.
Though, of course, he knew the answer: Rhyme was very, very good at what he did.
He said into the phone, “You’ll be getting the next installment tonight, if everything goes well.”
“It will.”
Spoken with confidence.
He rose from the pub booth, saying, “We’ve been on the line long enough. Call me when you have results.”
And he disconnected before he heard the reply.
Carrying a small paper grocery bag that contained a navel orange and a McIntosh apple, Valentin Renard strolled east along a quiet sidewalk on the Upper West Side. Over his shoulder was a bulky backpack and around his neck was a pair of Nikon binoculars. He oriented himself and walked into Central Park, resplendent this fine autumn day, filled with colorful leaves and rich green grass and the not unpleasant scent of vehicle exhaust laced with charcoal smoke from chestnut and pretzel vending carts.
Strolling south, he gazed up at trees, occasionally lifting his binoculars and jotting in a notebook as if documenting the presence of a particular bird. Throughout New York City, bird-watching was a popular sport. No one paid attention to the optically enhanced voyeurs.
When he arrived at a tangle of brush across from Lincoln Rhyme’s brownstone, he looked around him and noticed few people nearby. None were paying any attention to him. He lifted the binoculars and pointed them toward the front windows of the town house. He had assumed they were bulletproof and this was confirmed by the distinctive refraction of the thick glass.
Not that it mattered; the curtains were drawn. Rhyme knew he was the target of an assassination and was in security mode.
The roof was gabled and difficult to scale, given the angle; also, an intruder would be exposed to hundreds of pedestrians, drivers and park strollers. As for the back, Renard knew that Rhyme rarely if ever ventured there. And even if he did, there was no good sniper nest from which to shoot.
Renard noted cameras covering all the approaches to the front door. Nary a blind spot.
But he noted all of these things merely because his nature was to be observant. His plan regarding Lincoln Rhyme did not involve snipers or frontal assaults.
He placed the fruit — his lunch for later — into the backpack, from which he then removed a metal briefcase, eighteen by eighteen inches, and opened it. Inside was a small drone. He thought of the last one he had seen — he’d been on the beach in St. Nevis, in the company of a woman who was a stockbroker and quantitative analyst, as smart as she was beautiful. The resort drone was a moneymaking ploy by the company that operated the beach. It would take pictures of the tourists and then offer framed snapshots to take home as souvenirs. Renard had reached into a backpack, not unlike this one, extracted a powerful green laser and subtly targeted the device’s navigation system. The vehicle ditched at sea in quite the spectacular fashion.