The Kill Room (Lincoln Rhyme 10)

He didn't elaborate but simply nodded at the envelope.

The prosecutor extracted a single sheet of paper. She read methodically, word by word, to judge from her slow eye movements. Her teeth seemed to clench.

She looked up at the man. "You work for the State Department?"

Sachs's impression was that, though he said nothing, the answer was yes. What was this all about?

A glance at the document. "Is it authentic?" Laurel asked, eyeing the State Department minion closely.

The man answered, "I was asked to deliver a document to Assistant District Attorney Laurel. I have no interest in or knowledge of the contents."

Good use of prepositions, Sachs reflected cynically. Lincoln Rhyme would have approved.

"Shreve Metzger had you do this, didn't he?" Laurel said. "Did he fake it? Answer the question. Is it real?"

No knowledge of, no interest in...

The man said nothing more. He turned away, as if the women no longer existed, and left them. He paused at the end of the corridor and was buzzed out.

"What is it?" Sachs asked.

"Didn't some of the intelligence we got from Fred Dellray report that Moreno was seen in or around U.S. embassies or consulates just before he was shot?"

"Right," she confirmed. "Mexico City and Costa Rica. After he left New York on May second."

Sachs's concerns were further allayed when she glanced back and saw the round, dark face of the guard at the door peering in, unharmed and unconcerned about the visitor. She returned to her station and her celebrities.

With a sigh Laurel said to Sachs, "If anybody was thinking that Moreno was going to attack an embassy they were wrong." She nodded toward the letter in her hand. "He was looking for an embassy, but one where he could fast-track his renunciation of U.S. citizenship. He did it on May fourth in San Jose, Costa Rica. The renunciation was effective immediately but the paperwork didn't make it into the State Department database until this morning." She sighed. "When he died Robert Moreno was a Venezuelan citizen, not U.S."

Sachs said, "That's why he told the limo driver in New York he couldn't come back to America. Wasn't because of any terrorist plot but because he'd be non grata and wouldn't be allowed in on a foreign passport."

A phone appeared in Laurel's hand. She looked down at it. Her face had never seemed so wan. Why all the makeup? Sachs wondered yet again. Laurel hit a speed-dial button. Sachs couldn't see which priority but of course it didn't much matter. A 9 is as easy to hit as a 1.

Laurel stepped to the side and had a conversation. Finally she put the phone away and remained for a full minute with her back to Sachs. Her phone rang. Another conversation, briefer.

When she'd ended that call she returned to Sachs. "My boss just talked to the attorney general in Albany. However much Shreve Metzger and his shooter overstepped their authority, there's no interest in pursuing a charge against him when the victim's not a U.S. citizen. I've been ordered to drop the case." She looked at the floor. "So. That's it."

"I'm sorry," Sachs offered. She meant it.

CHAPTER 68

IN THE COOL, DIM SAFE HOUSE in Reynosa, Mexico, al-Barani Rashid completed the list of bomb components and pushed it toward the Fat Man.

That was how he'd thought of the cartel's chief IED expert when the man had first waddled inside a half hour ago, dusty and with unwashed hair. Rashid had given him the name contemptuously, though accurately--he really was quite heavy. Then he regretted the unkind thought about his physique and personal grooming habits; the cartel's man proved to be not only very cooperative but extremely talented. It turned out he was responsible for some of the more sophisticated explosive devices deployed in the Western Hemisphere over the past few years.

The man pocketed the shopping list he and Rashid had come up with and in Spanish said he'd be back by evening with all the parts and tools.

Rashid was satisfied that this weapon would do the job very efficiently, killing DEA regional director Barbara Summers and anyone at the church picnic within a thirty-foot circle, possibly wider, depending on how many people were waiting in line at the ice cream station, where the device would be planted.

Rashid nodded toward the room where the Mexican hostages were being kept. He asked the Fat Man, "His company has come up with the ransom?"

"Yes, yes, it's confirmed. The family's been told. They can leave tonight, as soon as the last of the money is transferred." He regarded Rashid closely. "It's only business, you know."

"Only business," Rashid said, thinking, No, it's really not.

The Fat Man walked to the kitchen, where he opened the refrigerator and, surprising Rashid, took out not a beer but two cartons of Greek yogurt. Eyeing the Arab, he peeled back both tops and ate one then the other with a plastic spoon, standing in the middle of the room. Then he wiped his mouth with a paper towel, tossed the empties into the trash and sipped from a bottle of water.

"Senor, I will see you soon." They shook hands and he stepped outside, waddling on shoes with heels worn angular.