The Cutting Edge (Lincoln Rhyme #14)(134)

“It’s a dead burner, Lincoln. We’ve pinged it a dozen times.”

“Just the number, if you would.”

Rodney dictated it.

“Thanks,” Rhyme muttered and stared at the digits as he disconnected.

He verbally commanded his phone to send a text to the French one. It was a simple message:

Text or call this number. —Lincoln Rhyme.



After disconnecting he said to Sachs, “Didn’t we say this whole plot was complicated?”

“Yep.”

“And do you remember what the extra features of a watch are called? Like the date, phases of the moon, tides, different time zones.”

“They’re called complications. Where’s this going?”

“The encryption package that Mulbry’s suspect in Paris was using—and the one Carreras-López and his contact used—was written in the duodecimal system. Twelve. Like the hours on a clock.”

He nodded at the bit of metal. “It’s not a detonator. It’s a watch spring. And the radiation isn’t from a dirty bomb. It’ll be radium from the dial of a clock or watch. The man AIS was suspicious of…and the man hired to put together the El Halcón escape plot were one and the same. And he has a hobby. Building timepieces.”

“Rhyme, no!”

But the answer was yes, he believed.

The individual in question was none other than Charles Vespasian Hale, though he often used a favored pseudonym, Richard Logan, if he needed to be less obtrusive. Rhyme thought of him, however, exclusively by his nickname, the Watchmaker.

Rhyme closed his eyes briefly, recalling he’d been thinking of the Watchmaker just the other day, reflecting that Unsub 47’s plot, while smart, didn’t rise to the level of Hale’s brilliance. Now, though, knowing that Krueger was merely a gear, one might say, in the plan, the hallmarks of genius were evident.

“Rhyme,” Sachs said. “Letemps. French for ‘time.’”

He gave a brief laugh. “He’s got Mexican connections. Remember that case a few years ago? The Watchmaker was hired by one of the cartels. It was an assassination, if I remember. So Carreras-López must have known about him and signed him up to break his client out of lockup.”

Sachs asked, “Do you think you’ll hear from him? As soon as he learned the operation failed, I’d imagine he pitched that phone in the Seine.”

But Rhyme knew the phone was alive and well. The Watchmaker had held on to it for one reason, and one reason only.

No more than ten minutes later Rhyme’s own mobile chimed—several times—with a series of texts.

Hello, Lincoln. It’s been some time. Doing well, from what I’ve heard. My, I was afraid this might happen. I tried to plan El Halcón’s escape anywhere but New York, worried that you would leap into the fray. Sadly, there could be no change of venue—for El Halcón or for my plan. Brooklyn was the only weak link in security.



And so I created as smart a plan as I could, to keep you fooled, but we saw what happened. I have my down payment on the job but you cost me three million dollars for the rest of the fee. That, I don’t care so much about. What troubles me is the damage to my reputation. Word will get around and people might think: Perhaps his timepieces are not ticking as accurately as in the past. After all, a clock that loses only a thousandth of a second a year is still a faulty clock. Time is absolute.



This cannot happen again. 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.

Yours, Charles Vespasian Hale



Rhyme was not a classics scholar but he could translate that line well enough: Some enemies can be ignored; other enemies must die.

He read the text once more—to see if there were any clues as to where the Watchmaker was texting from or where he intended to go. Nothing. And by now the phone was, in fact, destroyed. He told Cooper to power down his own phone, remove the battery and throw it out. Then call the server and cancel that number.

He then moved to the landline and spoke into the microphone attached to it.

“Call Daryl Mulbry. AIS.”

The numbers trilled by quickly as the dialer went to work.

Two rings. Then a woman’s matter-of-fact voice: “Yes?”

“Daryl Mulbry. Please.”

“I’m sorry. He’s not available right now.”

“It’s important.”

“I’ll make sure he gets the message. If you—”

“Please tell him it’s Lincoln Rhyme calling.”

A pause. “Just a minute, sir. I’ll get him.”