A sigh from the left side of the Atlantic.

The “they” were the estimable spies in the Doughnut, the apt name of the circular building housing the Government Communications Headquarters in Benhall, in the suburbs of Cheltenham. He had been assured that the communications protocol between the two men was secure but it apparently had not been. (The person who’d set it up was no longer of this world.) The new connection, he’d confirmed, was safe.

“They know everything?” the American co-conspirator asked.

A sip of bitter. “No, no. Just that somebody here is targeting somebody in New York and has recruited somebody there to assist. But they know who our target’s gonna be.”

A pause. “How much of a problem is it?”

“I’m thinking he’ll be more cautious is all, more suspicious. We’ll just have to be taking that into account, won’t we?” He looked around the pub to make sure once again no one could hear. The place smelled of a floral air freshener. Pubs—any time of day, in every corner of the British Isles—used to smell of cigarette smoke. He asked, “Now, I’m asking: are you good to continue?”

This was a test.

“Yes.” No hesitation.

The man had passed. “Ach, good. I’m pleased with ya.”

There was a screech of brakes, a horn, shouting. New York City traffic. “Everything’s on schedule. I’ll be at the target location soon. I’m getting everything set up.”

Target location . . . Sipping bitter, he pictured Lincoln Rhyme’s town house. And he wondered, as he had before, how the criminalist had managed to come by the expensive piece of property—and more curious, how he had managed to assemble such a formidable forensic lab.

Though, of course, he knew the answer: Rhyme was very, very good at what he did.

He said into the phone, “You’ll be getting the next installment tonight, if everything goes well.”

“It will.”

Spoken with confidence.

He rose from the pub booth, saying, “We’ve been on the line long enough. Call me when you have results.”

And he disconnected before he heard the reply.

—

Carrying a small paper grocery bag that contained a navel orange and a McIntosh apple, Valentin Renard strolled east along a quiet sidewalk on the Upper West Side. Over his shoulder was a bulky backpack and around his neck was a pair of Nikon binoculars. He oriented himself and walked into Central Park, resplendent this fine autumn day, filled with colorful leaves and rich green grass and the not unpleasant scent of vehicle exhaust laced with charcoal smoke from chestnut and pretzel vending carts.

Strolling south, he gazed up at trees, occasionally lifting his binoculars and jotting in a notebook as if documenting the presence of a particular bird. Throughout New York City, bird-watching was a popular sport. No one paid attention to the optically enhanced voyeurs.

When he arrived at a tangle of brush across from Lincoln Rhyme’s brownstone, he looked around him and noticed few people nearby. None were paying any attention to him. He lifted the binoculars and pointed them toward the front windows of the town house. He had assumed they were bulletproof and this was confirmed by the distinctive refraction of the thick glass.