Rhyme offered an amused: “Good thing you’re working for us.”

Mel Cooper said, “The drone . . . it was illegal, you know.”

“Ah, but I thought I’d have to take the chance.”

Sellitto shrugged. “It’ll be fine. If anybody complains, I’ll handle it.”

The student smoothed his fine slacks and said, “Of course, you understand it’s impossible to guess the details of the real killer’s plan. But I found the vulnerability he’ll exploit.”

Rhyme nodded. “The one thing I can’t live without: evidence.”

“Your Achilles’ heel,” Sellitto said.

Renard rose and buttoned his suit jacket. It really was a fine garment, the gray cloth supple and rich. “I’ll see you in class, Professor.”

Rhyme thanked him once more and the curious man left.

As she pitched out the fake evidence she’d collected in Spanish Harlem, Amelia Sachs said, “We may know the how, but we still don’t know the who.”

Rhyme said, “Time will tell.” He then turned his attention to the evidence from the DSE break-in that Andy Gilligan had brought him. And asked Mel Cooper to return to the lab and start the analysis. It was time to get back to work.

—

“O’Connor?” came the voice from his phone.

Sitting in his flat in Manchester, England, well past midnight, the man responded, “Aye, it’s me. What’s the status?”

“Worked out perfectly. They bought into everything.”

“That’s music to my ears, isn’t it? And the data?”

“I’ve got more than we even dreamed of. It’s encrypted and uploaded to the cloud site.”

The relief was palpable and soon solidified into joy. “I’ll be wiring ya the next portion of your fee in the morning.”

“Thanks, O’Connor. Appreciate it. And next steps?”

“You’ll be hearing from me.” He disconnected the call, slipped on latex gloves and removed the SIM card from the phone. He broke it into several pieces, which he wrapped in foil, to be tossed into a street rubbish bin in the morning. The gloves, which he now pulled off, would be disposed of in acid, as the inside surface contained his fingerprints and DNA.

Pouring a glass of wine, an old Barolo from Piemonte, he pulled his chair to the window, through which he had a pleasant view of a picturesque canal, a Caffé Nero and the massive, brilliantly lit BBC complex. It bustled still; the news never sleeps.

He was glad he could drop the phony Irish brogue and working-class vernacular. The man masquerading as Sean O’Connor was in fact American, born and bred, and it took some effort to maintain a credible performance—necessary because of the minuscule chance that GCHQ or MI5 or the FBI was, in fact, pursuing him.

But he truly doubted that was the case and he now allowed himself to bask in his success.

The plan was unfolding just as he’d orchestrated it—the plan that had two goals. The first was to cause considerable mischief in the city of New York (an assignment for which he was being well paid).