London Bridges Part 3

Chapter 60.

The large beach house outside Montauk on Long Island didn't belong to the Wolf. It was a rental, forty thousand a week, even in the off-season. A complete rip-off, the Wolf knew, but he didn't mind so much. Not today, anyway.It was quite an impressive place, though-Georgian style, three stories rising above the beach, immense swimming pool shielded from the wind by the house itself, pebbled driveway lined with cars-mostly limousines, muscular drivers in dark suits congregating around them.Everything here, he thought with some bitterness, paid for with my money, my sweat, my ideas!They were waiting for him, several of his a.s.sociates in the Red Mafiya. They were gathered inside a library/sitting room with panoramic views of the deserted beach and the Atlantic.They pretended to be his dearest, closest friends as he entered the room, shaking his hand, patting his broad back and shoulders, muttering easy lies about how good it was to see him. The very few who know what I look like. The inner circle, the ones I trust more than anyone else.Lunch had been served before he arrived, and then the entire household staff had been removed from the house. He had parked in back, then come in through the kitchen. No one had seen him except the men in this room, nine of them.He stood before them and lit up a cigar. To victory."They have asked for an extension of the deadline. Can you believe it?" the Wolf said between satisfying puffs.The Russian men around the table began to laugh. They shared the Wolf's disdain for the current governments and leaders around the world. Politicians were weak by nature and the few strong ones who snuck into office somehow were soon weakened by the process of government. It had always been that way."Drop the hammer!" one of the men shouted.The Wolf smiled. "You know, I should. But they have a point-if we act now, we lose, too. Let me get them on the line. They're expecting an answer. This is interesting, no? We negotiate with the United States, Britain, and Germany. As if we were a world power."The Wolf raised his index finger as the call went through. "They're expecting to hear from me. . . .""You're all on the line?" he spoke into the phone.They were."No small talk, the time for that has pa.s.sed. Here is my decision. You have another two days, till seven o'clock, eastern standard time, but . . ."The price has just doubled!"He disconnected. Then he looked around at his people."What? You approve, or what? Do you know how much money I just made for you?"They all began to clap, then cheer.The Wolf stayed with them for the remainder of the afternoon. He endured their false compliments, their requests thinly disguised as suggestions. But then he had other business in New York City, so he left them to enjoy the house by the sea, and whatever."The ladies will arrive soon," he promised. "Models and beauty queens from New York. They say the most beautiful p.u.s.s.y in the world. Have fun." On my money, my sweat, my brilliance.He was back in the Lotus then, heading toward the Long Island Expressway. He was squeezing the black rubber ball, but finally he set it down. He took out his cell phone again. Pressed a few numbers. A code was transmitted. A circuit closed. A primer fired.Even from that far away, he heard the beach house explode. He didn't need them anymore; he didn't need anyone.Zamochit! The bombs had broken every bone in all of their worthless, useless bodies.Payback, revenge.It was a beautiful thing.

Chapter 61.

We received word in London that the deadline had been extended forty-eight hours, and the relief, though temporary, was still extraordinary for all of us. Within the hour, we got word of a bombing on Long Island-several Red Mafiya bosses reported dead. What did it mean? Had the Wolf struck again? At his own people?There was nothing useful for me to do after the long round of meetings at Scotland Yard. About ten at night, I met with a friend from Interpol at a London restaurant, the Cinnamon Club, which was on the site of what had once been the Old Westminster Library on Great Smith Street.I was past being exhausted and, in fact, had gotten my second wind. Besides, I always looked forward to spending time with Sandy Greenberg, who was probably the smartest police officer I had ever worked with. Maybe she had a new idea about the Wolf. Or the Weasel. At any rate, no one knew the European underworld better than she did.Sandy is Sondra to all but her closest friends, and I am fortunate enough to be one of them. She's tall, attractive, chic, a little gawky, witty, and very funny. She gave me a big hug and kisses on both cheeks."Is this the only way I get to see you, Alex? Some kind of terrifying international emergency? Where's the love?""You could always come to Washington to see me," I said as we pulled apart. "You look absolutely great, by the way.""I do, don't I?" said Sandy. "Come, we have a table in the back. I've missed you terribly. G.o.d, it's good to see you. You look wonderful yourself, even with all of this going on. How do you do it?"The dinner was a fusion of Indian and European that couldn't be found in the States, at least not anywhere around Washington. Sandy and I talked for well over an hour about the case. But over coffee we lightened up and let things get a little more personal. I noticed a gold signet ring and a trinity band she wore on her pinkie finger."Beautiful," I told her."From Katherine," she said, and smiled. Sandy and Katherine Grant had been living together for about ten years and were one of the happiest couples I had ever met. Lessons to be learned, but who can ever figure it all out? Not me. I couldn't even master my own life."I see you're still not married," she said."You noticed."Sandy smirked. "Detective, you know. Investigator par excellence. So tell me everything, Alex.""Not a lot to tell," I said, and found my choice of words interesting. "I'm seeing someone I like a lot -"Sandy interrupted. "Oh, h.e.l.l, you like everyone a lot. That's the way you are, Alex. You even liked Kyle Craig. Found some good in the creepy, psychopathic b.a.s.t.a.r.d.""You could be right, generally speaking. But I'm over Kyle. And I don't like anything about Colonel Geoffrey Shafer. Or the Russian who calls himself the Wolf.""I am right, dear boy. So who is this incredible woman you like a lot and whose heart you'll break, or she'll break yours-one or the other, I'm certain of it already. Why do you keep torturing yourself?"I grinned, couldn't help it. "Another detective-well, actually, her t.i.tle is inspector. She lives in San Francisco.""How convenient. That's brilliant, Alex. What is it, two thousand miles from Washington? So you have a date, what, every other month?"I laughed again. "I see your tongue is as sharp as ever.""Practice, practice. So you still haven't found the right woman. Pity. A real shame. I have a couple of friends. Well, h.e.l.l, let's not even go there. Let me ask you a personal question, though. Do you think you're truly over Maria?"The thing about Sandy, as an investigator, is that she has thoughts that others don't; she explores areas that are often ignored. My wife, Maria, had been murdered over ten years ago in a drive-by shooting. I'd never been able to solve it-and maybe I wasn't over Maria. Maybe, just maybe, I couldn't find closure until I solved her murder. The case was still open. That thought had been tugging at me for years and still caused some pain whenever it entered my head."I am totally smitten with Jamilla Hughes," I said. "That's all I know for now. We enjoy each other. Why is that a bad thing?"Sandy smiled. "I heard you the first time, Alex. You like her a lot. But you haven't told me that you're madly in love, and you're not the kind of person who settles for smitten. Right? Of course I'm right. I'm always right.""I love you," I said.Sandy laughed. "Well, then, it's settled. You're staying at my place tonight.""All right. Fine," I agreed.We both laughed, but half an hour later Sandy dropped me at my hotel off Victoria Street."You think of anything?" I said as I climbed out of the taxi."I'm on it," said Sandy, and I knew she was as good as her word, and I needed all the help I could possibly get in Europe.

Chapter 62.

Henry Seymour lived not too far from the Weasel's hideout on Edgware Road in the area between Marble Arch and Paddington that is sometimes known as Little Lebanon. Colonel Shafer walked to the former SAS member's flat that morning, and as he trudged along, he wondered what had happened to the city, his city, and to his b.l.o.o.d.y country as well. What a dismal scene.The streets were filled with Middle Eastern coffee shops and restaurants and grocers. The aromas of ethnic cuisines were thick in the air that morning by eight-tabbouleh, lentil soup, b'steeya. In front of a paper store two elderly men smoked tobacco through a water-filtered hookah. b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l! What the f.u.c.k has happened to my country?Henry Seymour's apartment was located above a men's clothing shop, and the Weasel went straightaway to the third floor. He knocked once and Seymour opened up for him.As soon as he saw Henry, though, Shafer was concerned. The man had lost thirty or forty pounds since he'd seen him last, and that was only a few months ago. His full head of curly black hair was almost gone, replaced by a few scraggly tufts of gray and white frizz.Indeed, it was a struggle for Shafer to connect this man with his former army mate, one of the best demolition experts he'd ever seen. The two had fought side by side in Desert Storm and then again as mercenaries in Sierra Leone. In Desert Storm, Shafer and Seymour had been part of the Twenty-second SAS Regiment mobility troop. Mobility's primary mission was to go behind enemy lines and cause havoc. n.o.body was better at it than Shafer and Henry.Poor Henry didn't look capable of causing too much havoc now, but looks could be deceiving. Hopefully, anyway."So, are you ready for a job, an important mission?" Shafer asked.Henry Seymour smiled, and he was missing a couple of front teeth. "Suicide, I hope," he said."As a matter of fact," said the Weasel, "that's rather a nice idea."He sat down across from Henry and gave him his piece, and his old friend actually applauded once he'd heard the plan."I've always wanted to blow up London," he said. "I'm just the man for the job.""I know," said the Weasel.

Chapter 63.

Dr. Stanley S. Bergen of Scotland Yard addressed several hundred of us in a conference room that was filled to the rafters with police and other government officials. Dr. Bergen was a little over five feet and had to be close to two hundred pounds, and at least sixty years of age. But he was still a commanding presence.He spoke without notes, and not once during his talk did any of us look away. We were definitely operating on borrowed time, and everyone in the room knew it all too well."We are at a critical point where we have to implement our contingency plans for London," Dr. Bergen said. "Responsibility is under the London Resilience Forum. I have every confidence in them. You should, too."All right, this is how we will respond in London. If we have any warning that a disaster is coming, it will be required that all broadcasters turn over their airtime to us. Text-messaging alerts to mobile phones and pagers will also be available. Other less-effective methods include loud-hailers, mobile public address, et cetera."Suffice it to say that the people will know if we know ahead of time that an attack is coming. The Met's police commissioner or the home secretary will go on TV with the message."If there is a bomb or a chemical attack, the police and fire services will set up immediately in the area. Once it is clear exactly what has happened, the affected area will be isolated as best we can. The fire brigade and police will then define three zones at the scene- hot, warm, and cold."Those in the hot zone-if they are alive-will be kept there until they are decontaminated, if that is possible."Fire and ambulance services will be set up in the warm zone. So will decontamination shower units."The cold zone will be used for investigation, command-and-control vehicles, and also for loading ambulances."Dr. Bergen stopped talking and looked out at us. His face was set in a worried look but also revealed the compa.s.sion he was feeling for his city and its people. "Some of you may have noticed that I have not actually made mention of the word 'evacuation.' This is because the evacuation of London is not a possibility, not unless we begin now, and the repugnant and villainous Wolf has promised to strike immediately, should we do so."Maps and other emergency materials were then distributed around the room. It seemed to me that the mood was as low as it could possibly go.As I sat there looking at the paperwork, Martin Lodge came up to me. "We got a call from the Wolf," he said in a whisper. "You'll appreciate this. He says he likes our plan very much. And he agrees, it's hopeless to try and evacuate London -"Suddenly there was a terrible explosion in the building.

Chapter 64.

When I finally made it downstairs to the site of the bombing, I was stunned by the unbelievable scene of chaos and confusion. The world-famous Scotland Yard sign in front had been completely blown away. There was rubble and a smoking hole where the Broadway road entrance had been. The remains of a black van were embedded in the sidewalk outside.A decision had already been made not to abandon the building, to hold our ground. I thought that was smart, or at least courageous. A couple of dozen men and women were already viewing a videotape in semidarkness when I arrived at the crisis center. One of them was Martin Lodge.I took a seat in back and began to watch. I looked down, and my hands were trembling.The film segment showed Broadway that morning, the usual armed policemen on duty outside the huge, imposing building. A black van appeared, driven at reckless speed the wrong way down Caxton Street opposite the main entrance to Scotland Yard. It roared straight across Broadway and crashed into the barrier erected at the entrance. Almost instantly there was a fiery explosion. It was silent on the film. The whole building was illuminated.I heard someone speak from near the front of the room. Martin Lodge had taken the floor. "Our enemy is truly a terrorist, and obviously single-minded. He wants us to know that we are vulnerable. I think we've got the message by now, don't you? It's interesting that no one was killed this morning, other than the driver of the vehicle. Maybe the Wolf has a heart after all."A voice came from the back of the room. "He doesn't have a heart. He just has a plan." The voice, which I almost didn't recognize, was my own.

Chapter 65.

I worked at Scotland Yard for the rest of the day and slept on a cot there that night.I awoke at three in the morning and went right back to work. The second deadline would run out at midnight. No one could begin to imagine what would happen then.At seven that morning I was in cramped quarters, inside an unmarked police van headed to an estate in Feltham, out near Heathrow Airport. I rode with Martin Lodge and three of his detectives from the Met. We had recently been granted special permission to carry guns on this a.s.signment. That was better.Lodge explained the situation during the ride. "Our men, along with Special Branch, are all over Heathrow and the surrounding areas. We're working with the airport police, too. One of our people spotted a suspect with a missile launcher on the rooftop of a private home. We have surveillance there now. We don't want to go in, for obvious reasons, made only too clear yesterday. He's bound to be watching the neighborhood. I wouldn't doubt it for a minute."One of the other detectives asked, "Do we have an idea who it is inside the house, sir? Have we sussed out anything at all?""The house is rented. It belongs to a property developer. Pakistani, if that means anything. We don't know who the tenants are yet. The house is a few hundred yards from the runways at Heathrow. Need I say more?"I looked over at Lodge, who had his arms wrapped tightly around his chest. "Very nasty stuff," he said. "Understatement of the year, right, Alex?""I've had that feeling for a while. Ever since I first encountered the Wolf. He enjoys hurting people.""You have no idea who he is, Alex? What makes him this way?""He seems to change his ident.i.ty on a regular basis. He . . . or she? We got close a couple of times. Maybe we'll get lucky now.""It better happen soon."We arrived at our destination in Feltham a few minutes later. Lodge and I met up with SO19, British Specialist Operations, who would execute the raid. Police surveillance had video monitors set up inside several nearby buildings. Tape was being shot from half a dozen different cameras."Like watching a movie. Nothing we can do to influence the action," Lodge said after we'd studied the videos for a few minutes. What an impossible mess. We weren't supposed to be there. We'd been warned against it. But how could we go away?Lodge had a list of all the flights scheduled into Heathrow that morning. In the next hour or so, more than thirty flights would be arriving. The next few were from Eindhoven, three from Edinburgh, two from Aberdeen, then a British Airways flight from New York. Serious discussions were being held about halting all flights into both Heathrow and Gatwick, but no decision had yet been made. The jet from New York was due in nineteen minutes.One of the police pointed."There's someone on the roof! There! There he is!"Two monitors showed the rooftop from opposite angles. A man in dark clothing had appeared. Then a second man, this one carrying a small surface-to-air missile launcher, came out of a hatchway."f.u.c.king h.e.l.l," somebody hissed. Tempers were running very high now. Mine, too."Reroute all the flights now! We have no choice," Lodge barked. "Do our snipers have these two b.a.s.t.a.r.ds covered?"Word came back that SO19 had the rooftop covered. Meanwhile, we watched the two men get into position. There could be little doubt now that they were there to bring down a plane. And we were watching the frightening scene, without being able to stop it."a.r.s.eholes!" Lodge swore at the monitors. "Not going to be anything for you b.a.s.t.a.r.ds to shoot at. How do you like that?""They look Middle Eastern to me," said one of the other detectives. "They certainly don't look Russian!""We don't have the go-ahead to shoot," a man wearing headphones announced. "We're still on hold.""What the b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l is going on?" Lodge complained in a high-pitched voice. "We have to take them out. Come on!"Suddenly there were gunshots! We could hear them on the video. The man with the launcher on his shoulder went down. He didn't get up, didn't move at all. Then the second suspect was. .h.i.t. Two clean head shots."What the h.e.l.l?" someone shouted in the van where we were watching. Then everyone was cursing and yelling."Who gave the order to shoot? What's going on here?" screamed Lodge.Word finally came back, but n.o.body could believe it. Our snipers hadn't made the hit. Somebody else had shot the two men on the roof.Madness.It was total madness.

Chapter 66.

Everything was a wild ride like nothing anyone could imagine, like nothing anyone ever had imagined. The latest deadline was hours away and n.o.body in the rank and file knew what was happening. Maybe the prime minister knew something? The president? The chancellor of Germany?Every pa.s.sing hour just rubbed it in for us. Then it was the pa.s.sing minutes that hurt. There was nothing we could do, except pray that the ransom would be paid. Soldiers in Iraq, I kept thinking to myself. That's what we are like. Observers of absurdity.Back in London, at one point in the late afternoon I took a brief walk down near Westminster Abbey. There was so much powerful history on display in this part of the city. The streets weren't deserted, but traffic was very light around Parliament Square, with few tourists and pedestrians. The people of London didn't know what was happening, but whatever it was, it wasn't good.I called my house in Washington several times. n.o.body answered. Had Nana moved? Then I talked to the kids at their aunt Tia's in Maryland. No one knew where Nana Mama was. Another thing to worry about-just what I needed.There really was nothing to do but wait; the waiting was frustrating and nerve-racking. Still, no one had a clue what was going on. And not just in London-in New York, Washington, and Frankfurt. No announcement had been made, but the rumor was that none of the ransoms would be paid. In the end, the governments weren't willing to negotiate, were they? They couldn't give in to terrorists, not without a fight. Was that what came next? The fight?Once again the deadline pa.s.sed, and I felt as if we were playing Russian roulette.There were no attacks in London, New York, Washington, or Frankfurt that night. The Wolf didn't retaliate right away. He just let us stew.I talked to the kids at my aunt's house and then, finally, to Nana. Nothing had happened in D.C. so far. Nana had gone for a walk in the neighborhood with Kayla, she told me. Everything was fine there. Walk in the park, right, Nana?Finally, at 5:00A.M. in London most of us went home to get some needed rest, if we could sleep.I dozed for a few hours, then the phone rang. Martin Lodge was on the line."What's happened?" I asked as I sat upright in my hotel bed. "What has he done?"

Chapter 67.

"Nothing's happened, Alex. Calm down. I'm downstairs in the hotel lobby. Nothing's happened. Maybe he was bluffing. Let's hope so. Get dressed and come for breakfast at my house. I want you to meet my family. My wife wants to meet you. You need a break, Alex. We all do."How could I say no? After all that we'd been through in the past few days? Half an hour later, I was in Martin's Volvo headed out to Battersea, just over the river from Westminster. Along the way, Martin tried to prepare me for breakfast, and for his family. We both wore our beepers, but neither of us wanted to talk about the Wolf or his threats. Not for an hour or so, anyway."The wife is Czech-Klara Cernohosska, born in Prague, but she's a real Brit now. Listens to Virgin and XFM, and all the talk shows on BBC Radio. She insisted on a Czech breakfast this morning, though. She's showing off for you. You'll love it. I hope so. No, I think you will, Alex."I thought so, too. Martin was actually smiling as he drove and talked about his family. "The eldest of my brood is Hana. Guess who chooses the names in our family? Hint: the kids are Hana, Daniela, and Jozef. What's in a name, though? Hana is obsessed with Trinny and Susannah on the TV show What Not to Wear. She's fourteen, Alex. The middle child, Dany, plays hockey at Battersea Park-and she's also crazy about ballet. Joe is mad about football, skateboarding and PlayStation. That just about covers it, don't you think? Did I mention that we're eating Czech for breakfast?"A few minutes later we arrived in Battersea. The Lodge house was a Victorian redbrick with a slate roof and largish garden. Very neat and nice, proper, appropriate for the neighborhood. The garden was colorful and well tended and showed that somebody had his priorities in order.The whole family was waiting in the dining room, where the food was just being laid out. I was formally introduced to everyone, including a cat named Tigger, and I immediately felt pretty much at home, as well as missing my own family, feeling a sharp pang that stayed with me for a while.Martin's wife, Klara, identified the food as it was laid out on the sideboard. "Alex, these are kolace, pastries with a cream cheese center. Rohliky -rolls. Turka, which is Turkish-style coffee. Parek, two kinds of sausage, very good, a specialty of the house."She looked at the eldest daughter, Hana, who was a neat blend of her mother and dad. Tall, slim, a pretty face but with Martin's hooked nose. "Hana?"Hana grinned at me. "What kind of eggs would you like, sir? You can have vejce na mekko. Or michana vejce. Smazena vejce, if you like. Omeleta?"I shrugged, then said, " Michana vejce.""Excellent choice," said Klara. "Perfect p.r.o.nunciation. Our guest is a born linguist.""Good. Now what is it?" I asked. "The food I ordered?"Hana giggled. "Just scrambled eggs. Perfect with the rohliky and parek.""Yes, the rolls and sausage," I said, and the girls clapped for my show-off performance.It went that way for the next hour or so, most pleasantly, with Klara asking a lot of informal questions about my life in America while telling me about the American mystery novels she enjoyed, as well as the latest Booker Prize winner Vernon G.o.d Little, which she said "is very funny, and captures the craziness of your country much like Gunter Gra.s.s did with Germany in The Tin Drum. You should read it, Alex.""I live it," I told Klara.It was only at the end of the meal that the kids admitted that the names for the breakfast foods were just about the only Czech words they knew. Then they began to clear away the food and started in on the dishes."Oh, and there's ty vejce jsou hnusn," said Jozef, or Joe, the eight-year-old."I'm almost afraid to ask-what does that mean?""Oh, that the eggs were gross," said Joe, who laughed with little-boy delight at his joke.

Chapter 68.

There was nothing to do once I left Martin and Klara's, except obsess and worry about the Wolf and where he might strike, if he was going to retaliate. Back at the hotel, I caught a few more hours of sleep, then I decided to walk and I felt that this might be a long walk. I needed it.Something strange, though. I was strolling along Broadway and I had the feeling that somebody was following me. I didn't think I was being paranoid. I tried to see who it was, but either he was very good or I wasn't that skilled at spy games. Maybe if this had been Washington instead of London. But it was difficult for me to spot who or what was out of place here-except me, of course.I stopped in at Scotland Yard and there was still no word from the Wolf. And so far, no reprisals. Not in any of the targeted cities. The calm before the storm?An hour or so later, having walked up Whitehall, past No. 10 Downing Street to Trafalgar Square and back, and feeling much better for the exercise, I made my way to the hotel and had that same creepy feeling again-as if someone was watching me, following. Who? I didn't actually see anyone.Back in my room, I called the kids at Aunt Tia's. Then I talked to Nana, who was on Fifth Street by herself. "Oddly peaceful," she joked. "But I wouldn't mind a full house again. I miss everybody.""So do I, Nana."I fell off to sleep again, in my clothes, and didn't wake until the phone rang. I hadn't bothered to pull the drapes and it was dark outside. I looked at the clock-Jesus-four in the morning. I guess I was finally catching up on some of the sleep I'd lost."Alex Cross," I said into the phone."It's Martin, Alex. I'm on my way from home. He wants us to go to the Houses of Parliament, to meet him on the sidewalk outside the Strangers' Entrance. Shall I pick you up?""No. It's faster if I walk. I'll meet you there." Parliament at this time of the morning? It didn't sound good.Maybe five minutes later I was back outside again, hurrying along Victoria Street, heading toward Westminster Abbey. I was certain that the Wolf was going to pull something and that it would hurt like h.e.l.l. Did that mean all four cities were about to be hit? That wouldn't surprise me. Nothing would at this point."h.e.l.lo, Alex. Fancy meeting you here."A man stepped out of the shadows. I hadn't even noticed him standing there. Preoccupied, maybe only half awake, a little careless.He stepped all the way out of the shadows and I saw his gun. It was pointed at my heart."I'm supposed to be out of the country by now. But I had this one thing I had to do. Kill you. I wanted you to see it coming, too. Just like this. I've had dreams about this moment. Maybe you have, too."The speaker was Geoffrey Shafer. He was so c.o.c.ky and confident, and he clearly had the upper hand. Maybe that's why I didn't even think about what I should do, and I didn't hesitate. I barreled into Shafer, waited for the thundering gunshot to follow.It came, too. Only he didn't hit me, at least I didn't think so. I suspected the shot was deflected to the side. Didn't matter. I blocked Shafer hard into the building behind him. I saw surprise and pain in his eyes, and that was the motivation I needed. Also his gun had gone flying in the scuffle.I hit him hard with a roundhouse into his midsection, probably below the belt, maybe a nut cruncher. I hoped so. He grunted and I knew I'd hurt him. But I wanted to hurt Shafer more, for all kinds of reasons. I wanted to kill him right there in the street. I crunched another shot to his stomach and I could feel it go weak under my fist. Then I went for the b.a.s.t.a.r.d's head. I slammed a hard right hand into his temple. Then a left to his jaw. He was hurt badly, but he wouldn't go down."That all you got, Cross? Here's something for you," he snarled.He had a switchblade and I started to step away-but then I realized that he was hurt and that this was my best chance. I hit Shafer again, on his nose. Broke it! He still wouldn't go down and he swiped out viciously with the knife. He sliced my arm, and I realized how crazy I was, how lucky not to be hurt, or killed.I had a chance to reach for my own gun and I pulled it out of the holster on the back of my belt.Shafer charged at me, and I'm not sure if he saw the gun. Maybe he thought I wouldn't be armed in London."No!" I yelled. It was all I had time to say.I fired point-blank into his chest. He fell back against the wall and slowly slid to the ground.His face was nothing but shock, as maybe he realized that he was mortal after all. "f.u.c.ker, Cross," he muttered. "b.a.s.t.a.r.d."I bent down over him. "Who is the Wolf? Where is he?""Go to h.e.l.l," he said, and then he died, and went there instead.

Chapter 69.

London Bridge is falling down,Falling down, falling down.Minutes after the Weasel died on the streets of London, his old army mate, Henry Seymour, drove an eleven-year-old white van through the night-and he was thinking that he had no fear of death. None at all. He welcomed it, actually.At a little past 4:30, traffic was already heavy on the Westminster Bridge. Seymour parked as close to it as he could, then walked back and rested his arms on the parapet, looking west. He loved the sight of Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament from the grand old bridge, always had, ever since he was a small boy visiting London on day trips from Manchester, where he'd been raised.He was noticing everything this morning. On the opposite bank of the Thames he saw the London Eye, which he thoroughly despised. The Thames was as dark as the early-morning sky. The smell in the air was slightly salty and fishy. Rows of plum-colored tourist buses sat idle near the bridge, waiting for the day's first pa.s.sengers to arrive in just an hour or so.Isn't going to happen, though. Not on this day of days. Not if old Henry has his way this morning.Wordsworth had written of the view from Westminster Bridge (he thought it was Wordsworth): "Earth has not anything to show more fair." Henry Seymour always remembered that one, though he wasn't much for poets, or what they had to say.Write a poem about this s.h.i.t. Somebody write a poem about me. The bridge and poor Henry Seymour and all these other poor b.a.s.t.a.r.ds out here with me this morning.He went to fetch the van.At 5:34 the bridge seemed to ignite at its center. Actually, Henry Seymour's van was what blew up. The strip of roadway beneath it rose up and then split apart; the bridge's supports toppled; triple-globed lampposts flew into the air like uprooted flowers blowing in the fiercest wind anyone could imagine. For a moment everything was quiet, deathly quiet, as Seymour's spirit floated away. Then police sirens began to scream all over London.And the Wolf called Scotland Yard to take credit for his handiwork. "Unlike you people, I keep my promises," he said. "I tried to build bridges between us, but you keep tearing them down. Do you understand? Do you finally understand what I'm saying? "The London bridge is gone . . . and it's only the beginning. This is too good to end-I want it to go on and on."Payback.Part FourPARIS, SCENE OF THE CRIME

Chapter 70.

The test track was a familiar one, located sixty kilometers south of Paris. The Wolf was there to drive a prototype race car, and he had some company for the ride.Walking beside him was a former KGB man who had handled his business in France and Spain for many years. His name was Ilya Frolov, and Ilya knew the Wolf by sight. He was one of the few men still alive who did, which filled him with some dread that day, though he thought of himself as one of the Wolf's few friends."What a beauty!" the Wolf said as the men walked up beside a red Porsche-powered prototype Fabcar. This very model had run in the Rolex Sports Car Series."You love your cars," Ilya said. "Always have.""Growing up outside Moscow, I never thought I would own a car, any car. Now I own so many that I lose count sometimes. I want you to take a ride with me. Get in, my friend."Ilya Frolov shook his head and raised both his hands in protest. "Not me. I don't like the noise, the speed, anything about it.""I insist," said the Wolf. He raised the gull wing on the pa.s.senger side first. "Go ahead, it won't bite you. You'll never forget the ride, Ilya."Ilya forced a laugh, then started to cough. "That's what I'm afraid of.""After we finish, I want to talk to you about the next steps. We're very close to getting our money. They're weakening day by day, and I have a plan. You're going to be a rich man, Ilya."The Wolf climbed into the driver's seat, which was on the right side. He flipped a switch, the dashboard lit up, and the car roared and shook. The Wolf watched Ilya's face go pale and laughed merrily. In his own strange way he loved Ilya Frolov."We're sitting right on the engine. It's going to get very hot in here now. Maybe a hundred and thirty degrees. That's why we wear a 'cool suit.' It's going to get noisy, too. Put on your helmet, Ilya. Last warning."And then they were off!The Wolf lived for this-the exhilaration, the raw power of the world's finest race cars. At this speed he had to concentrate on the driving-nothing else mattered, there was nothing else while he spun around the test track. Everything about the ride was about power: the noise, since there was no sound-dampening material inside; the vibration-the stiffer the suspension, the faster the car could change direction; the g-force, resulting in as much as six hundred pounds of pressure on some turns.G.o.d, what a glorious machine-so perfect-whoever made it was a genius.There are still some of us in the world, he thought to himself. I should know.Finally he slowed and steered the highly temperamental car off the track. He climbed out, pulled off his helmet, shook out his hair, and shouted to the skies."That was so great! My G.o.d, what an experience. Better than s.e.x! I've ridden women and cars-I prefer the race car!"He looked over at Ilya Frolov and saw that the man was still pale and shaking a bit. Poor Ilya."I'm sorry, my friend," the Wolf spoke softly. "I'm afraid you don't have the b.a.l.l.s for the next ride. Besides, you know what happened in Paris."He shot his friend dead on the test track. Then the Wolf just walked away, never looking back. He had no interest in the dead.

Chapter 71.

That same afternoon the Wolf visited a farmhouse about fifty kilometers southeast of the test track. He was the first to arrive and settled in the kitchen, which he kept as dark as a crypt. Artur Nikitin had been ordered to come alone, and he did as he was told. Nikitin was former KGB and had always been a loyal soldier. He worked for Ilya Frolov, mostly as an arms dealer.The Wolf heard Artur approaching on the back steps. "No lights," he called. "Just come inside."Artur Nikitin opened the door and stepped inside. He was tall, with a thick white beard, a big Russian bear of a man, physically not unlike the Wolf himself."There's a chair. Sit. Please. You are my guest," said the Wolf.Nikitin obeyed. He showed no fear. Actually, he had no fear of death."You have always done good work for me in the past. This will be our last job together. You'll make enough to walk away from the life, to do as you wish. Does that sound all right?""It sounds very good. Whatever you wish, I do. It's the secret of my success.""Paris is very special to me," the Wolf continued. "In another life, I lived there for two years. And now, here I am again. It's no coincidence, Artur. I need your help here. More than that, I need your loyalty. Can I depend on you?""Of course. Without a doubt. I'm here, aren't I?""I plan to blow a big hole in Paris, cause lots more trouble, then get filthy rich. I can still depend on you?"Nikitin found himself smiling. "Absolutely. I don't like the French anyway. Who does? It will be a pleasure. I especially like the 'filthy rich' part."The Wolf had found his man for the job. Now he gave him his piece of the puzzle.

Chapter 72.

Two days after the bombing of Westminster Bridge, I traveled back to Washington. During the long flight, I forced myself to make extensive notes about what the Wolf might do next. What could he do? Would he strike again, keep on bombing cities until he got his money? And what was the significance of bridges to him?Only one thing seemed obvious to me: the Wolf wasn't going to disappear and leave things as they had been before. He wasn't going away.Even before my plane landed I got a message from Ron Burns's office. I was to go to headquarters as soon as I arrived in Washington.But I didn't go to the Hoover Building; I went home instead. Like Bartleby the Scrivener, I respectfully declined my employer's request. I didn't think twice about it. The Wolf would still be there in the morning.The kids had come into the city with their aunt Tia. Nana was there on Fifth Street, too. We spent the night together at our house, the one Nana had been born in. In the morning the kids would return to Maryland with Tia. Nana would stay on Fifth Street, and so would I. Maybe the two of us were more alike than I wanted to admit.About eleven that night, someone was at the front door. I had been playing the piano on the sunporch, and it was only a few steps to the door. I opened up and saw Ron Burns standing there with a couple of his agents. He ordered his men to go wait by the car. Then he invited himself in."I need to talk to you. Everything has changed," the director said as he walked past me at the door.And so I sat out on our small sunporch with the director of the FBI. I didn't play the piano for Burns; I just listened to what he had to say.The first thing had to do with Thomas Weir. "We have no doubt that Tom had some connection with the Wolf back when he came out of Russia. He may have known who the Russian was. We're on it, Alex, and so is the CIA. But, of course, this puzzle refuses to unravel easily.""Everybody's cooperating with everybody else, though," I said, frowning. "How nice."Burns stared at me. "I know that this has been tough for you. I know the job isn't the perfect fit so far. You want to be in the middle of the action. And you want to be with your family."I couldn't deny it, not any of what Burns had said. "Go ahead, Director. I'm still listening.""Something happened in France, Alex. It involved Tom Weir and the Wolf. It happened a long time ago. A mistake was made, a big one.""What mistake?" I asked. Were we finally getting close to some answers? "You have to stop playing games with me. Do you wonder why I'm having second thoughts about my job?""Believe me, we don't know what happened back then. We're getting closer to an answer. A lot has happened in the last few hours. The Wolf made contact again, Alex."I sighed heavily, but I listened, because I promised that I would."You said it before, that he wants to hurt us, to break our back if he can. He says that he can. He said that the rules are changing and that he's the one changing them. He's the only one with the answers to this puzzle. You're the only one with a clue about him."I had to stop Burns. "Ron, what are you trying to say? Just tell me. I'm either in this thing-all the way-or I'm all the way out.""He gave us ninety-six hours. Then he promised a doomsday scenario."He changed some of the target cities. It's still Washington and London, but also Tel Aviv and Paris. He won't explain the change. He wants four billion dollars, and he wants the political prisoners released. He won't explain a G.o.dd.a.m.n thing to us.""That's all?" I said. "Four doomed cities? A few billion in ransom? Free some murderers?"Burns shook his head. "No, that's not all. He's given everything to the press this time. There's going to be panic around the world. But especially in the four cities: London, Paris, Tel Aviv, and here in Washington. He's gone public."

Chapter 73.

On Sunday morning, after breakfast with Nana, I left for Paris. Ron Burns wanted me in France. End of discussion.Exhausted and probably depressed, I slept for a good part of the flight. Then I read a lot of CIA files about a KGB agent who had lived in Paris eleven years ago and might have worked with Thomas Weir. That agent supposedly was the Wolf. And something had happened. A "mistake." A big one, apparently.I'm not sure what kind of reception I was expecting from the French, especially given the recent history between our countries, but things went fairly smoothly once I arrived. In fact, it seemed to me that the command center in Paris worked better than the similar command centers I'd seen in London and Washington. The reason for this was clear immediately.The infrastructure in Paris was simpler, the organization much smaller. One official told me, "It's easy to share here, because the file you need is next door or right down the hall."I received a quick briefing, then was thrown into a high-level meeting. A general in the army looked at me and addressed me in English. "Dr. Cross, to be honest with you, we haven't ruled out the possibility that this violence is part of the jihad, that is to say, Islamic terrorist attacks. Please believe me, they are clever enough to dream up something bizarre like this. They are duplicitous enough to have even dreamed up the Wolf. This would explain the demand to release the hostages, would it not?"I didn't say a word. How could I? Al Qaeda? Behind everything so far? Behind the Wolf? That was what the French believed? That was why I was there?"As you know, our two countries don't share the same perspective on the connection between the Islamic terror networks and the current situation in the Middle East. We believe that the jihad isn't actually a war against Western values. It is a complex reaction against the leaders of Muslim nations who haven't adopted radical Islam.""And yet the four main targets of radical Islam are the United States, Israel, France, England," I spoke from my seat. "And the current targets of the so-called Wolf? Washington, Tel Aviv, Paris, London.""Please keep an open mind on the matter. In addition, you should know that former KGB officers were involved and very influential with Saddam Hussein in Iraq. As I say, keep an open mind."I nodded. "I have an open mind. But I have to tell you, I've seen no evidence that Islamic terrorists are behind this threat. I've dealt with the Wolf before. Believe me, he doesn't embrace the values of Islam. He isn't a religious man."

Chapter 74.

That night I had dinner by myself in Paris. Actually, I walked around just to see the situation in the city firsthand. There were heavily armed French soldiers everywhere. Tanks and jeeps in the streets. Not too many people out walking. Worried looks on the faces of those who ventured out for whatever reason.I ate at one of the few places open for business, Les Olivades on avenue de Segur. The restaurant and clientele were extremely laid-back, which was what I needed, given the jet lag and confusion, not to mention the state of the siege in Paris.After the meal I walked some more, thinking about the Wolf and also Thomas Weir. The Wolf murdered Weir on purpose, didn't he? He's targeted Paris for a reason, too. Why? What is his thing with bridges? A possible clue for us? Are bridges symbolic for him? What is the symbolism?It was sad and strange to walk around Paris, knowing that a deadly attack could come at any time. I was there to find some way to stop it-but honestly, no one knew where to start; no one had turned up one clue as to the ident.i.ty of the Wolf or where he might be staying, not even a country. The Wolf had lived there, eleven years ago. Something bad had happened. What was it?That section of Paris was gorgeous, broad avenues and wide sidewalks cutting a swath between the well-kept stone buildings. Wavering trails of a few car lights streamed up and down the avenues. People leaving Paris? And then-when we would least expect it- boom! Kiss your a.s.s good-bye.The scary thing was that a really bad end seemed almost inevitable. And not just another bridge this time.That's how well he had us set up. He was in full control-but we had to turn that around somehow.When I got back to my hotel, I called the kids. It was six at night in Maryland; their aunt Tia would just be getting dinner ready, the kids complaining they were too busy to help. Jannie answered the phone, "Bonsoir, Monsieur Cross." Was she psychic?Then Jannie launched into half a dozen questions she'd been saving up for me. In the meantime, Damon had picked up the extension. Both of them began to rattle off questions. I think they wanted to lessen the tension all of us were feeling.Had I visited Notre Dame Cathedral? Did I meet the Hunchback (ha, ha)? Did I see the famous gargoyles, like the one they remembered who was eating another one?"I didn't have time to climb the towers to the Gallery of Fabulous Beasts today. I'm working here." I got in a couple of sentences."We know that, Dad," Jannie said. "We're just trying to keep everything light. We miss you," she whispered."Miss you, Dad," Damon said."Je t'aime," said Jannie.Minutes later I was alone in a faraway hotel room, in a city under a death threat.Je t'aime aussi.

Chapter 75.

The clock was ticking . . . loudly. Or was that just my heart getting ready to explode?Early the next morning it was arranged for me to have a partner. His name was Etienne Marteau, a detective with the French National Police. Marteau was a small and wiry man, cooperative and competent on the face of it. But I had the sense that he'd been a.s.signed to watch me more than to work with me. That was so messed up, so counterproductive, it started to drive me crazy.In the late afternoon I spoke to Ron Burns's office about going home. My request was denied. By Tony Woods! Tony never even bothered to take it to the director. He reminded me that Thomas Weir and the Wolf had probably met in Paris."I didn't forget, Tony," I told him, and hung up.So I began to wade through the records and data that had been collected by the National Police. I looked for connections to Thomas Weir, or even the CIA. I was even trying to keep an open mind about Islamic terrorists, for G.o.d's sake!Detective Marteau was slightly helpful, but the process was slow and the Frenchman needed frequent breaks for cigarettes and coffee. This wasn't going anywhere, and again I had the feeling that whatever help I could bring to the situation was being wasted there. I was getting a really bad headache, too.About six o'clock we gathered in the crisis center. The G.o.dd.a.m.n clock was ticking! The Wolf would call again, I finally learned. The mood in the room was charged but clearly negative: we all knew we were being manipulated and insulted. I was sure the atmosphere was the same in Washington, London, Tel Aviv.Suddenly we heard his voice on the speakerphone. Heavily filtered. Familiar. Obscene."Sorry to keep everybody waiting," he said, and although he didn't laugh, there was nothing but derision in his tone. I wanted to scream at the b.a.s.t.a.r.d."But then, of course, I have been kept waiting, haven't I? I know, I know, it's because the precedent is unacceptable to all the governments, the loss of face. I understand. I get it."And now, I need you to understand something, too. This deadline is the final one. I will even make a concession. If it makes you feel better, go ahead and try to find me. Bring your investigations out into the open. Catch me if you can."But know this, and know it well, you b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. This time, the money must be paid on time. All of it. The prisoners of war must be released. All of them. The deadline will not be extended, and believe me, it is a dead line. If you miss it, even by minutes, there will be tens of thousands of murders in each of the four cities. You heard me right-I said murders. Believe me, I will push the b.u.t.ton. I will kill in a way the world has rarely seen. Especially in Paris. Au revoir, mes amis."

Chapter 76.

Later that night Etienne Marteau and I thought we might have stumbled onto something useful and maybe even important. At that point every clue was being looked at as vital.The French National Police had intercepted several messages dialed on the phone of a known arms dealer working out of Ma.r.s.eilles. The dealer specialized in hardware from the Red Army, contraband that was floating all over Europe, especially in Germany, France, and Italy. In the past, he'd sold contraband to radical Islamic groups.Marteau and I read and re-read the transcript of a phone conversation between the arms dealer and a suspected terrorist with ties to al Qaeda. The conversation was coded, but the French police had broken most of it down:ARMS DEALER:Cousin, how is your business these days? [Are you ready to do the job?] Are you coming to see me soon? [Can you travel?]TERRORIST:Oh, you know, I have a wife and too many children. These things are sometimes complicated. [He has a large team.]ARMS DEALER:For G.o.d's sake, I have told you before-bring your woman and the children with you. You should come right now. [Bring your whole team now.]TERRORIST:We are all very tired. [We are being watched.]ARMS DEALER:Everyone is tired. But you will love it here. [It's safe for you.] I guarantee it.TERRORIST:All right, then. I will start loading up my family.ARMS DEALER:I have my stamp collection ready for you. [Probably special tactical weapons.]"What does he mean, 'my stamp collection'?" I asked. "That's a key phrase, isn't it?""They're not sure, Alex. They believe it's weapons. What kind-who knows for certain? Something serious.""Will they stop the terrorist team now? Or let them into France and watch them?""I think the plan is to let them come in and hope they lead us to others. Higher-ups. Everything is moving quickly and very loosey-goosey now.""Maybe a little too loosey-goosey," I said."We do things differently. Please try to respect that, to understand it if you can."I nodded. "Etienne, I don't think there will be any contact with higher-ups on the ground here. That isn't how the Wolf works. Every player has a part to play, but no clue about the larger plan."The detective looked me in the eye. "I'll pa.s.s that on," he said.But I doubted very much that he would. An idea struck me, and it was hard to handle. I am all alone over here, aren't I? I am the Ugly American.

Chapter 77.

I finally went back to the Relais at two in the morning. I was up again at 6:30. No rest for the righteous, or the ridiculous. But the Wolf didn't want us rested, did he? He wanted us stressed and afraid and capable of making mistakes.I walked to the Prefecture de Police, obsessing about the twisted mind behind all of this. Why was he twisted? The Wolf had supposedly been a KGB agent before he came to America, where he became a powerful force in the Red Mafiya. He'd spent time in England and here in France. He was clever enough that we still didn't know his ident.i.ty, not even a name, and we definitely didn't have a complete history for him.He thought big. But why would he align himself with Islamic terrorist groups? Unless he'd been involved with al Qaeda from the start? Was that really a possibility? If so, it scared the h.e.l.l out of me. Because it was so incredibly unthinkable, so preposterous in a way. But so much that was happening in the world seemed preposterous these days.Out of the corner of my eye-a flash!Suddenly I was aware of a silver and black motorcycle coming at me on the sidewalk! My heart clutched and I jumped out into the street. I spread my arms and balanced myself to move quickly, left or right, depending on the motorcycle's path.But then I noticed that none of the other pedestrians around me seemed concerned. A smile finally crossed my lips. I remembered Etienne mentioning that oversize motorcycles were popular in Paris and that their riders acted as if they were on much smaller mopeds or scooters, sometimes circ.u.mnavigating traffic by going up onto sidewalks.The bike rider, decked out in his blue blazer and tan slacks, was a Paris businessman, not an a.s.sa.s.sin. He pa.s.sed by without so much as a nod. I'm losing it, aren't I? But that was understandable. Who wouldn't begin to lose it under this pressure?At 8:45 that morning, I walked to the front of a room full of important French police and army officials. We were inside the Ministere de l'Interieur which was located in L'Hotel Beauvau.We had just over thirty-three hours left to doomsday. The room was a strange mix of expensive-looking eighteenth-century-style furniture and genuinely expensive modern technology. In sharp contrast, scenes from London, Paris, Washington, and Tel Aviv played on TV monitors on the walls. Mostly empty streets. Heavily armed soldiers and police everywhere.We are at war, I thought to myself, with a madman.I'd been told that I could speak in English to the group, but it would be best if I went slowly and enunciated my words clearly. I figured they were afraid I was going to deliver my talk in street slang that no one in the room would understand."My name is Dr. Alex Cross. I'm a forensic psychologist," I began. "I was a homicide detective in Washington, D.C., before I became an agent with the FBI. Less than a year ago, I worked on a case that put me in touch with the Red Mafiya. In particular, I was involved with a former KGB man known only as the Wolf. The Wolf is my subject this morning."I could have done the rest in my sleep. For the next twenty minutes I talked about the Russian. But even as I was finishing up and the question-and-answer period began, it was clear to me that although the French were willing to listen to what I had to say, they were steadfast in their belief that Islamic terrorists were the real source of the threat to the four targeted cities. Either the Wolf was part of al Qaeda or he was working with them.I was trying to keep my mind open, but if their theory was correct, my mind would be completely blown. I just didn't buy it. The Wolf was Red Mafiya.About eleven o'clock, I went back to my cubicle office and found that I had a new partner.

Chapter 78.

A new partner? Now?Everything was going so fast; it was all a blur to me, often incomprehensible. I had to a.s.sume that the FBI had contacted someone and pulled some strings. Someone had. The new partner was an agent de police, a woman named Maud Boulard, who immediately informed me that we would be working in the "French police way," whatever the h.e.l.l that was supposed to mean.Physically, she was very much like Etienne Marteau: thin, with an aquiline nose and sharp features-but shiny red hair. She went out of her way to tell me she had visited New York and Los Angeles and didn't care for either city at all."Our deadline is close," I told her."I know the deadline, Dr. Cross. Everyone does. To work fast does not mean to work intelligently."What she called "our surveillance of the Red Mafiya" began along the Parc Monceau in the eighth arrondiss.e.m.e.nt. Unlike in the United States, where the Russians seemed to hang out in such working-cla.s.s neighborhoods as Brighton Beach in New York, the Mafiya was apparently situated in pricier digs here."Maybe because they know Paris better and have operated here longer," Maud suggested. "I think so. I have known the Russian thugs for many years. They don't believe in your Wolf, by the way. Believe me, I've asked around."And that's what we did for the next hour or so. Talked about the Wolf to Russian thugs Boulard knew. If nothing else, the morning was beautiful, with bright blue skies, which made it excruciating for me. What was I doing there?At 1:30, Maud said cheerfully, "Let's have lunch. With the Russians, of course. I know just the place."She took me into what she called "one of the oldest Russian restaurants in Paris," Le Daru. The front room was paneled with warm pine as if we were inside the dacha of a wealthy Muscovite.I was angry, but trying not to show it. We simply didn't have time for a sit-down lunch.Nevertheless, Maud and I ate. I wanted to strangle her, the obsequious waiter, anybody I could get my hands on. I'm certain she had no idea how angry I was. Some detective!As we finished, I noticed that two men at a nearby table were watching us, or maybe they were eyeing Maud, with her l.u.s.trous red hair.I told her about the men, and she shrugged it off as "the way men are in Paris. Pigs.""Let's see if they follow," she said as we got up and left the restaurant. "I doubt that they will. I don't know them. I know everybody here. Not your Wolf, though.""They're leaving right behind us," I told her."Good for them. It is the exit after all."The short rue Daru ended at rue du Faubourg Saint-Honore, which Maud told me was a window-shopping experience that continued all the way to the place Vendome. We had walked only a block when a white Lincoln limousine pulled up alongside us.A dark-bearded man opened the rear door and looked out. "Please get in the car. Don't make a scene," he said in English with a Russian accent. "Get in, now. I'm not fooling around.""No," said Maud. "We don't get in your car. You come out here and talk to us. Who the h.e.l.l are you? Who do you think you are?"The bearded man pulled a gun and fired twice. I couldn't believe what had just happened right in the middle of a Paris street.Maud Boulard was down on the sidewalk, and I was certain she was dead. Blood seeped from a horrible, jagged wound near the center of her forehead. Her red hair was splayed in a hundred directions. Her eyes were open wide, staring up into the blue sky. In the fall, one of her shoes had been thrown off and lay out in the middle of the street."Get in the car, Dr. Cross. I won't ask you again. I'm tired of being polite," said the Russian, whose gun was pointed at my face. "Get in, or I'll shoot you in the head, too. With pleasure."

Chapter 79.

"Now comes show-and-tell time," the black-bearded Russian man said once I was inside the limousine with him. "Isn't that how they say it in American schools? You have two children in school, don't you? So, I'm showing you things that are important, and I'm telling you what they mean. I told the detective to get in the car and she didn't do it. Maud Boulard was her name, no? Maud Boulard wanted to act like the tough cop. Now she's the dead cop, not so tough after all."The car sped away from the murder scene, leaving the French detective dead in the street. We changed cars a few blocks from the shooting, getting into a much less obtrusive gray Peugeot. For what it was worth, I memorized both license plates."Now we go for a little ride in the country," said the Russian man, who seemed to be having a good time so far."Who are you? What do you want from me?" I asked him. He was tall, maybe six-five, and muscular. Very much the way I had heard the Wolf described. He was holding a Beretta pointed at the side of my head. His hand was rock steady, and he was no stranger to guns and how to use them."It doesn't matter who I am, not in the least. You're looking for the Wolf, aren't you? I'm taking you to meet him now."He threw me a dark look, then handed me a cloth sack. "Put this over your head. And do exactly as I say from now on. Remember, show-and-tell.""I remember." I put on the hood. I would never forget the cold-blooded murder of Detective Boulard. The Wolf and his people killed easily, didn't they? What did that mean for the four cities under threat? Would they kill thousands and thousands so easily? Was that their plan to demonstrate power and control? To get revenge for some mysterious crime in the past?I don't know how long we rode around in the Peugeot, but it was well over an hour: slow city driving at first, then an hour or so on the open highway.Then we were slowing again, possibly traveling on a dirt road. Hard bounces and b.u.mps shocked and twisted my spine."You can take off the hood now," Black Beard spoke to me again. "We're almost there, Dr. Cross. Nothing much to see out here, anyway."I took off the hood and saw that we were in the French countryside somewhere, riding down an unpaved road with tall gra.s.s waving on either side. No markers or signs anywhere that I could see."He's staying out here?" I asked. I wondered if I was really being taken to the Wolf. For what possible reason?"For the moment, Dr. Cross. But then he'll be gone again. As you know, he moves around a lot. He is like a ghost, an apparition. You'll see what I mean in a moment."The Peugeot pulled up in front of a small stone farmhouse. Two armed men immediately came out the front door to meet us. Both held automatic weapons aimed at my upper body and face."Inside," said one of them. He had a white beard but was nearly as large and muscular as the man who had accompanied me thus far.It was obvious that he had seniority over Black Beard, who had seemed in control until now. "Inside!" he repeated to me. "Hurry up! Can't you hear, Dr. Cross?""He is an animal," White Beard then said to me. "He shouldn't have killed the woman. I am the Wolf, Dr. Cross. It's good to meet you at last."