And with that:
Gotcha.
The choreography of the interview, carefully worked out by Rhyme and Sachs ahead of time, had had the desired effect. The trap snapped shut.
It was not public knowledge how the emails got into Cody’s account. There’d been no press report about Woman X’s induction hacking device or Emery Digital.
Their eyes met. She said, “I want my lawyer.”
Sachs rose and, tucking the notebook into the same rear pocket that contained her switchblade, said, “You’ll get that chance. Downtown.”
Leppert turned back to Rhyme. In a whisper: “How? How did you find out?”
“Oh, I had an informer.”
“Who?” Leppert asked bitterly.
But Lincoln Ryme did not answer.
Now, the day after Leppert’s arrest, it was at last time for Thom’s dinner.
The scent was arresting.
Rhyme detected mild fish, mushrooms more pungent than generic fungi, garlic, dry white wine. Vermouth, he decided. Fresh bread too.
Sachs was setting the table, and Lincoln Rhyme was once again in the hallway where Charles Hale had died.
An old Glenmorangie whisky was in hand.
He was thinking of the other day, his exchange with Thom, after he’d been in the hallway — parked on the spot where the Watchmaker had died.
“Who’s here?”
“How’s that?”
“I heard you talking to someone.”
“Hardly...”
Ah, but that was not exactly the truth.
He recalled now his comment to Marie Leppert: that it was an informer that led to her.
And it was.
Charles Vespasian Hale himself.
Though more accurately: his ghost.
That was whom Rhyme had been talking to here in the hallway.
Charles, if anyone were to ask, I will deny to the hilt that I’m speaking with a person no longer of this earth. But I have to say that something is troubling me. You dismissed my comment that I was skeptical that you did this for yourself, claiming that, no, you had no client.
You pitched a good case for your self-interest — tweaking the NTP servers and collecting enough money to give yourself an unlimited bankroll for your life in Venezuela or wherever you would make your own personal Leisure World.
But on reflection I now believe I was right. A timepiece exists for a purpose: it serves its owner. For you, the same.
You are, if you’ll forgive me, on the clock for someone.
But for whom?
Let’s run through it alclass="underline" I tip to the fact that the assassination plot’s fake and your whole point is to plant the infamous device underneath Emery Digital. I confront you with it. And what do you do? Why, you improvise, of course, and spin the tale of hacking the network time protocols. But, when you look at it, wasn’t that an awful lot of work just to make some money? Don’t you have Romanian or Chinese connections happy to crack into a hedge fund or bank directly? A weekend’s work, and suddenly you’re a hundred million richer.
So take NTP out of the equation. You obviously breached Emery for a purpose. What was it?
Could Woman X’s device possibly be used to doctor someone’s email account? Maybe someone whose messages have made the news in a big way lately — because they spoke favorably about that most horrific of crimes: presidential assassination.
Representative Stephen Cody’s?
A man whom my expert interrogator, Lyle Spencer, had vetted and to whom he’d given a clean bill of health.
And if so, who would gain from the forgery?
For one, the candidate who was behind Cody in the polls: Marie Leppert, former prosecutor in Texas, near Mexico, where you had a base of operation.
That’s what this was about all along: discrediting Cody, just long enough for him to lose the election. The Kommunalka, its secret radical parent cell, the assassination... All complications.
You’re not responding, Charles, hm? Hardly expect you to. Though I believe your eyes, those intense blue eyes that I am picturing now, are telling me that I’m spot-on.
Well, there’s a way to find out for certain.
And so their “conversation” over, Rhyme had then motored into the parlor, instructing his phone: “Call Sachs.”
While Rhyme had called Emery Digital and learned that, yes, Emery did handle both the.com and.gov email accounts of Stephen Cody, Amelia had gone to the garage where Hale had swapped SUVs one final time and learned of his meeting with Marie Leppert.
“Quod erat demonstrandum, Charles. I’ve proved my case.”
Now, tonight, en route to the dining room, Rhyme paused. His eyes went to the pocket watch on the mantel. The Breguet.
And he gave a sudden laugh of understanding. Hale needed some way to execute his sham assassination attempt by diverting the president. But he could have picked any number of ways — a series of bombs, ending with a small one in the Holland Tunnel. That would’ve done the trick.
But he’d decided to sabotage cranes.
Why?
Drama, certainly. A tumbling tower crane got the city’s attention.
But there was another reason, Rhyme believed, and it was the source of his brief laugh.
Because cranes resemble the hands of timepieces.
Hands...
And was there yet one additional meaning as well? I’ll forego the poker metaphor and pick this one: Was Hale saying that his complex plot here — his last, as it turned out — was, of all his schemes through the years, his finest sleight of hand?
A play on words for anyone who might get it, though Rhyme had a feeling it was meant exclusively for him.
“Dinner,” his aide called.
Noting that no one was watching, Lincoln Rhyme now lifted his glass toward the watch and sipped.
He then moved from the parlor into the dining room, where Thom was placing the first course on the table, and Amelia Sachs was lighting candles.