He’d gotten the devices planted fine and then had turned to eliminating anyone who knew about the kimberlite.
Under Krueger’s knife, Jatin Patel gave up Saul Weintraub’s name. But Patel swore no one else knew about the kimberlite. After the man was dead, though, into the shop comes the young man—Vimal Lahori, it turned out—obviously an employee, since he knew the door code. Krueger shot him but he got away. And it was clear he knew about the kimberlite, too, because the bullet had struck a bag of the stuff.
Knowing that the young man would call 911 at any moment, Krueger had tried to figure out what to do. He didn’t have time to go through all of Patel’s papers and learn his identity—a fast search revealed nothing. Then, looking at the white squares of envelopes of diamonds he’d scattered on the floor, to make the police believe the crime was a simple robbery, he had an idea.
He would trick the police themselves into helping him find the boy and anyone else who might know about the kimberlite find.
In his job as a hired gun for the diamond and precious metal industry, Krueger often used identity theft as a tool (just as Rostov had done). He would do the same now.
In Patel’s shop, he’d found an empty diamond envelope and had written on it the names and specifications of four multi-million-dollar diamonds, along with the name of Grace-Cabot, a real South African mining operation. The phone number he wrote down, however, was a burner phone of Terry DeVoer, his business partner in South Africa.
Krueger left the envelope at a work station and, taking the hard drive and its telltale security video with him, fled.
He then called DeVoer in Cape Town to have him change the voicemail announcement on the number to Grace-Cabot and be ready for a call from the police about the stolen rough. He was to play the role of Llewellyn Croft—a real executive with the company. “Croft” would sound shocked about the loss and then send the police to the company’s insurance investigator, a man with experience in tracking down diamonds, a man who could assist them.
Krueger assumed that identity himself: Edward Ackroyd, with the real insurance company of Milbank Assurance, whose identity he’d “borrowed” in the past. Ackroyd, who was about Krueger’s age, was British, former Scotland Yard. And there was no picture of him on the Milbank website. Krueger had had Milbank cards printed up with Ackroyd’s name and that of the insurance company but with one of his own burner phone numbers on it.
Absurd, indeed. The plan could fall apart at any moment. There was a knife-edge chance it might work. Krueger had to take the risk.
His luck had held…for a time. The police believed his fake identity, the C4 charges went off as planned, the fires roasted a few people, the city halted the drilling, he found and killed Saul Weintraub and he was making some headway in finding Patel’s protégé.
But then he’d run smack into a brick wall: Lincoln Rhyme and Amelia Sachs, who managed to link the two parts of the plan that absolutely should not have been linked: That the man who’d killed Patel had also been present at the geothermal site. And, even worse, that he was behind faking the earthquakes. He could still recall with dismay how Rhyme had called him into the parlor to describe in perfect detail, thanks to the CCTV videos, what their suspect was really up to, faking the earthquakes and fires.
It’s Forty-Seven’s plan. It’s why he’s here: planting gas line bombs and C4 charges to mimic earthquakes…
It had taken all Krueger’s willpower to stay calm. He was sure Rhyme would turn to him and say, “I know you’re the one! Arrest him, Amelia!”
But, no. The Ackroyd fiction held. And, thank God, Rhyme and Sachs hadn’t made the leap that the reason for the scheme was sabotaging the diamond lode at the geothermal site. They identified the kimberlite, too, but fortunately it had no particular significance to them.
Of course, then, on top of it all, the unstable, meddling Russian, Vladimir Rostov, blusters his way onto the action.
“All right. So you decide to become my doppleganger and—”
“The fuck is that?”
“A double, you know. You imitated me. You hear me on the phone, talking about the witnesses I have to find, and you decide to help me out.”
“Yeah, yeah. I find this Iranian asshole—Nashim—and he gets me to Vimal’s friend, Kirtan. And he gives up Vimal’s name and girlfriend, Adeela. I am fucking good detective, huh? Columbo!” A shrug. “I got close. But didn’t work. Fuck me.”
Krueger now asked, point-blank, why he’d done it. Dobprom’s goal was the same as New World’s: to keep the diamond lode secret. Why not just let Krueger handle the matter?
Rostov tossed back his bourbon and poked a toothpick Krueger’s way. “Look, my friend. You are not offensed by my saying it, I hope: But this is big fucking deal. What happen, if you fucked up? That kimberlite, oh, is sweet. I am reading assay report. You see carats per ton?” He nodded his head out the window, presumably indicating the geothermal site in Brooklyn. He whispered reverently, “That is Botswana yield.”
Although it varied considerably, the rule in the industry was that on average a mine had to process one hundred to two hundred tons of rock to produce one carat of quality diamond. In the African nation of Botswana, the diamond concentration in ore was ten times higher. The best in the world.
The New York lode was the same.
“I am so very prosti, so very sorry, kuritsa, if you are sad. But we could not take chance. So, cheer up! Here I am come to help you. You are the Batman and I am the Robin! Pat me on back!”
Chapter 52
I’m not making this call. You never heard it. And you’re not reactin’ to it. Anyway, anyhow. Got that?”
Amelia Sachs, standing in the corner of Rhyme’s lab, was listening to the caller. Fred Dellray, special agent with the FBI’s New York office.
“Okay.”
“Is Lincoln nearby?”
The hell was this all about? she wondered.
“Yes.”
Rhyme was across the parlor, speaking with Ron Pulaski.
“Can he hear you?”
“No. Explain.”
“Okay, here’s the deal, and it ain’t so nice, Amelia. I heard through the vine, Lincoln’s under investigation. Ron too. Us. FBI, Eastern District.”
She didn’t move, felt the warmth of shock wash over her. “I see. And why would that be?”
Dellray was the bureau’s expert in undercover ops. The lanky African American was the epitome of subdued, as one would have to be when playing the role of an arms dealer offering to sell munitions to a twitchy neo-Nazi, pointing a Glock his way to aid in the negotiation process. But now, she heard dismay in his voice—a tone she’d never heard before.
“They’ve been helping the defense in the El Halcón case.”
She struggled not to utter any words of shock or disappointment. “And that’s confirmed?”
“Oh, yeah. Pretty boy Hank Bishop, prosecutor going after El Halcón, he’s got all the evidence he needs for an arrest. Both of ’em. Ron and Lincoln.”
She was stunned. “I see.”
Sachs recalled that Ron had been acting secretive lately. He’d gone off on several missions that seemed unrelated to the Unsub 47 case. And there was that visitor the other day, a man who was Hispanic in appearance. Maybe he was one of El Halcón’s aides or lawyers.
“I’m thinking he signed on because there was some funny business with the evidence. Maybe an agent or evidence tech played fast and loose, just to make sure El Halcón got put away good and long. I mean, he is a triple-A-rated shit. I can see Lincoln getting in a knot about that. But…” His voice dipped. “He didn’t go to Bishop or anyone else. He just took on the defense’s case on his own and…fuck, he’s getting paid for it. Bunch o’ money. In the K’s. Makes it look bad.”
Jesus, Rhyme. What the hell have you done?