London Bridges Part 4

Chapter 80.

"Don't try to do anything heroic, by the way. Because then I'll have to kill you and find a new messenger," he said as we walked inside the farmhouse."I'm a messenger now? For what?" I asked.The Russian waved off my question as if it were a pesky fly buzzing around his hairy face."Time is flying. Weren't you thinking that with the French detective? They were just keeping you out of the way, the French. Didn't you think as much?""The thought crossed my mind," I said. Meanwhile, I couldn't believe that this was the Wolf. I didn't believe it. But who was he? Why had I been brought there?"Of course it did. You're not a stupid man," he said.We had entered a small, dark room with a fieldstone fireplace, but no fire. The room was cluttered with heavy wooden furniture, old magazines, yellowing newspapers. The windows were tightly shuttered. The place was airless. The only light came from a single standing lamp."Why am I here? Why show yourself to me now?" I finally asked him."Sit down," said the Russian."All right. I'm a messenger," I said, and lowered myself into a chair.He nodded. "Yes. A messenger. It's important that everyone fully understand the seriousness of the situation. This is your last chance.""We understand," I said.Almost before I had finished speaking, he lunged forward and hit me in the jaw.My chair went over backward, I was in free fall, then my head struck the stone floor. I might have gone out for a couple of seconds.But then I was being dragged back up by a couple of the other men in the room. My head was spinning and there was blood in my mouth."I want to be clear about this," the Russian continued. It was as if hitting me had been a necessary pause in his speech. "You are a messenger. And none of you fools understand the seriousness now. Just as no one seems to understand, really understand, that they are going to die, and what that means, until the moment it happens. . . . The stupid woman in Paris today? Do you think she understood before a speeding bullet blew open her brain? The money must be paid this time, Dr. Cross. In full. In all four cities. The prisoners must be released.""Why the prisoners?" I asked.He hit me again, but this time I didn't go down. Then he turned and left the room. "Because I say so!"He came back a moment later, with a heavy black valise. He set it on the floor right in front of me."This is the dark side of the moon," he said. Then he opened it for me to see inside."It's called a tactical nuclear explosive device. More simply, a 'suitcase nuke.' Produces a horrific explosion. Unlike conventional warheads, it operates at ground level. Easy to conceal, easy to transport. No mess, no fuss. You've seen pictures of Hiroshima, of course. Everyone has.""What about Hiroshima?""This suitcase has approximately the same yield. Devastating. We, the old Soviet Union, used to manufacture these bombs by the truckload."Want to know where some of the others are right now? Well, there is one or more in Washington, D.C., Tel Aviv, Paris, London. So, as you see, we have a new member in the exclusive 'nuclear community.' We are the new members."I was starting to feel cold all over. Was there really a nuclear bomb in the suitcase?"That's the message you want me to deliver?""The other reactors are in place. And to show my good faith, you can take this reactor back with you. Let the boys in the shop look it over. But tell them to look very quickly."Now, maybe, maybe, you understand. Get out of here. To me, you are a gnat, but at least you are a gnat. Take the nuclear weapon with you. Consider it a gift. Don't say I didn't warn you about what was going to happen. Now, go. Hurry, Dr. Cross."

Chapter 81.

Everything was a blur from there on that afternoon. The dark cloth hood had just been for show, I figured, since I wore nothing over my eyes on the ride back to Paris, which seemed a lot shorter than the ride out.I kept asking my captors where I was being taken with the suitcase bomb, but neither man in the car would give me an answer. Not a word. They spoke nothing but Russian on the ride.To me, you are a gnat. . . . Take the nuclear weapon with you. . . .Soon after we entered Paris, the Peugeot stopped in the crowded parking lot of a shopping center. A gun was held in my face, and then I was handcuffed to the suitcase. "What's this about?" I asked my captors but received no answer.Moments later the Peugeot stopped again, at place Igor Stravinsky, one of the more populated areas of Paris, though mostly deserted now."Get out!" I was told-the first English words I'd heard in close to an hour.Slowly, carefully, I emerged from the sedan with the bomb. I felt a little dizzy. The Peugeot roared off.I was aware of a certain liquidity in the air, particles, a real sense of atoms. I stood motionless near the huge plaza of the Centre National d'Art et de Culture Georges Pompidou, handcuffed to a black valise that weighed at least fifty pounds, probably more.Supposedly it carried a nuclear bomb, the full equivalent of the ones Harry Truman had ordered dropped on j.a.pan. My body was already covered with cold sweat, and I felt as if I were watching myself in a dream. Could it all end like this? Of course it could. All bets were off, but especially any bets on my life. Was I about to be blown up? Would I suffer radiation sickness if I wasn't?I spotted two policemen near a Virgin record store and made my way up to them. I explained who I was, and then told them to please call the directeur de la securite publique.I didn't tell the cops what was in the black valise, but I quickly revealed the contents to the director when he came on the line. "Is the threat real, Dr. Cross?" he wanted to know. "Is the bomb live?""I don't know. How could I? Please respond as if it is. That's what I'm doing." Get your bomb squad over here. Now! Get off the phone!Within a few minutes, the whole of the Beaubourg district had been evacuated, except for a dozen or so patrolmen, the military police, and several bomb-squad experts. At least I hoped they were experts, the best France had to offer.I was told to sit on the ground, which I did. Right alongside the black valise, of course. I did everything I was told to do, because I had no choice in the matter. I was feeling sick to my stomach, and sitting made it a little better, though not much. At least the initial dizziness I'd felt was starting to pa.s.s.First, a bomb-sniffing dog was brought in to smell me and the suitcase. A handsome, young German shepherd, the chien explo, approached very cautiously, eyeing the suitcase as if it were a rival dog, an enemy.When the shepherd got within five yards, she completely froze. A low growl rumbled up from her chest. The hair on her neck rose. Oh s.h.i.t. Oh G.o.d, I thought.The dog continued to growl until she was certain of radioactive contents, then she quickly retreated to her handlers. Very wise of the shepherd. I was left alone again. I'd never been more frightened in my life, nothing had come even close. The thought of being blown apart, possibly vaporized, isn't pleasant. It's a tough one to wrap your mind around.After what seemed like an eternity, though it was only a few minutes, two bomb-squad technicians in moon suits cautiously headed my way. I saw that one of them was clutching bolt cutters. G.o.d bless him! This was such an incredibly surreal moment.The man with the cutters knelt down beside me. "It's okay, you're okay," he whispered. Then he carefully sliced through the handcuffs."You can leave. Get up slowly," he said. I rose cautiously, rubbing my wrist, but already backing away from the suitcase.My alien-looking escorts and I hurried out of the designated "hot zone" to where two black bomb-squad vans were parked. Of course, the van was still in the "hot zone" as well. If a nuclear bomb went off, at least a square mile of Paris would be vaporized instantly.From inside one of the vans I watched the team of technicians work to deactivate the bomb. If they could. I never considered leaving the scene, and the next few minutes were the longest of my life. No one in the van spoke, and we were all holding our breath. The idea of dying like this, so suddenly, was almost impossible to conceive.Word came back from the French bomb technicians: "The suitcase is open."Then, less than a minute later, "The fissile material is there. It's real. It seems to be in working order, unfortunately."The bomb was real. It wasn't a fake threat. The Wolf was still keeping his promises, wasn't he? The s.a.d.i.s.tic b.a.s.t.a.r.d was everything he said he was.Then I saw one of the technicians pump his arm in the air. A cheer went up around the console in the van. I didn't understand exactly what had happened at first, but it seemed like good news. No one explained anything to me."What just happened?" I finally asked in French.One of the techs turned to me. "There's no trigger! It couldn't blow up. They didn't want it to explode, thank G.o.d. They only wanted to scare the s.h.i.t out of us.""It worked," I told him. "I s.h.i.t you not."

Chapter 82.

Over the next couple of hours it was revealed that the suitcase bomb had everything necessary for a nuclear explosion except a single part, a pulsed neutron emitter, a trigger. All the difficult elements were there. I couldn't eat that night, couldn't keep anything down, couldn't concentrate at all. I'd been tested, but I couldn't get the idea of radiation poisoning to leave my brain.I also couldn't get Maud Boulard out of my mind: her face, the tenor of her voice, our absurd lunch together, the detective's stubbornness and naivete, her red hair splayed out on the sidewalk. The casual brutality of the Wolf and his people.I kept flashing back to the Russian who had struck me in the farmhouse. Had it been the Wolf? Why would he let me see him? And then, why not?I went back to the Relais and suddenly wished that I hadn't asked for a room facing the street. My body felt numb all over, exhausted, but my mind wouldn't stop racing at warp speed. The noise rising from the street was a disturbance that I couldn't handle right now. They have nuclear weapons. This isn't a bluff. It's going to happen. A holocaust.I decided to call the kids at about six o'clock, their time. I talked to them about all the things in Paris that I didn't see that day-everything except what had really happened to me. So far, the media had none of it, but that wouldn't last.Then I called Nana. I told her the truth about how it had felt sitting on the pavement with a bomb attached to my wrist. She was the one I always told about my worst days, and this was probably the worst of them all.

Chapter 83.

When I arrived at my small office at the Prefecture I got another surprise. Martin Lodge was waiting there for me. It was 7:15: ten hours and forty-five minutes to doomsday.I shook Martin's hand, and told him how glad I was that he was there. "Not much time left. Why are you here?""Last words, I suppose. I have to give the final update on the situation in London. As well as Tel Aviv. From our vantage point, anyway.""And?"Martin shook his head. "You don't want to hear the same rotten story twice.""Yeah. I do.""Not this story, you don't. Oh h.e.l.l, it's all c.o.c.ked up, Alex. I think he might have to blow up a city to get them to act. That's how bad it is. The worst is Tel Aviv. I think it's basically hopeless there. They don't make deals with terrorists. You asked."The morning briefing started at eight sharp and included a quick summary on the briefcase bomb from the technicians who had taken it apart. They reported that the bomb was authentic in design, but there was no neutron emitter, no trigger, and possibly not enough radioactive material inside.An army general spoke about the current situation in Paris: the people were frightened and staying off the streets, but only a small percentage had actually fled the city. The army was prepared to move in and declare martial law about the time of the deadline, which was sixP.M.Then it was time for Martin. He strode to the front of the room and spoke in French. "Good morning. Isn't it incredible what can happen once we adapt ourselves to a new reality? The people of London have been splendid, for the most part. Some rioting. Not too much in terms of what could have happened. I suspect that those who might have given us the most trouble got out of London early. As for Tel Aviv, they're so accustomed to crisis and living under threatening scenarios-let's just say that they're handling this very well."Anyway, that's the good news. The bad is that we've raised most of the money, but not all of it. That's in London. And Tel Aviv? As best we can tell, they're not going to make a deal. The Israelis hold their cards very close to the vest, so we're not sure what's transpired there."We're putting on pressure, of course. And so is Washington. I know that private individuals have been approached to put up the entire ransom. That could still happen. But it isn't clear if the government will take the money. They simply don't want to meet terrorist demands."Less than ten hours," Martin Lodge said. "To be blunt, we don't have time for a lot of bulls.h.i.t. Somebody has to drop the hammer on anyone who's resisting paying the ransom."A policeman had come up to me and was whispering against my ear. "Sorry. You're needed, Dr. Cross.""What is it?" I whispered back. I wanted to hear everything that was being said in this meeting."Just come. It's an emergency. Right now, please."

Chapter 84.

I knew that, ironically, an "emergency" had to be considered good news at this point in the countdown. At 8:30 that morning I was inside a speeding police cruiser, the blare of its siren disturbing the peace all along our route across Paris.My G.o.d, the streets were bleak and deserted. Except for soldiers and the police, anyway. My part in an ongoing interrogation was explained to me during the ride. "We have an arms dealer in custody, Dr. Cross. We have reason to believe that he helped supply the bombs. Maybe he's one of the men who you saw out in the country. He's a Russian-with a white beard."Minutes later we arrived in front of the Brigade Criminelle, a dark, nineteenth-century building in a quiet neighborhood along the Seine. Actually, this was the infamous "La Crim" from countless French movies and police stories, including several about Inspector Maigret that Nana and I had read together when I was a kid. Life imitates art, or something like that.Once inside La Crim I was led up a rickety staircase, all the way to the top floor, the fourth. The interrogation was being conducted up there.I was brought down a narrow hallway to room 414. The brigadier who escorted me knocked once, and then we stepped inside.I recognized the Russian arms dealer instantly.They had caught White Beard, the one who'd told me he was the Wolf.

Chapter 85.

The room was small and cramped, as it was situated right under the eaves. It had a low, rain-stained, sloping ceiling and a tiny Velux, a skylight. I looked at my watch-8:45. Tick, tick, tick.I was hurriedly introduced to the interrogation team of Captain Coridon and Lieutenant Leroux-and their prisoner, a Russian arms dealer, Artur Nikitin. I already knew Nikitin, of course. He wore no shirt or shoes and was cuffed, hands behind his back. He was also sweating profusely. He was definitely the white-bearded Russian from the farmhouse.I had been told during the ride over that the Russian hoodlum did business with al Qaeda that had made him millions. It was believed that he was involved with suitcase nukes, that he knew how many had been sold, and that he knew who had bought them."Cowards!" he was shouting at the French police as I entered the room. "f.u.c.king G.o.dd.a.m.n cowards. You can't do this to me. I've done nothing wrong. You French claim to be such liberals, but you are not!"He looked at me and pretended he had no idea who I was. His bad acting made me smile.Captain Coridon told him, "You may have noticed that you have been brought to the Prefecture de Police rather than the offices of the DST. That's because you're not being charged as an 'illegal trafficker in arms.' The charge is murder. We are homicide detectives. Trust me, there are no liberals in this room, unless it's you."Nikitin's brown eyes remained wide with anger, but I also detected traces of confusion, especially now that I was there. "This is bulls.h.i.t! I can't believe it. I've done nothing wrong. I am a businessman! A French citizen. I want my lawyer!"Coridon looked at me. "You try."I stepped forward and threw a hard uppercut into the Russian's jaw. His head snapped back. "We're not even close to being even," I told him. "No one knows that you're here! You will be tried as a terrorist, and you will be executed. No one will care, not after tomorrow. Not after your bombs help destroy Paris and kill thousands."The Russian yelled at me. "I tell you again-I've done nothing! You can't do anything to me. What weapons? What bombs? Who am I, Saddam Hussein? You can't do this.""We can, and we will execute you," shouted Captain Coridon from off to the side. "You are a dead man as soon as you leave this room, Nikitin. We have other sc.u.m to talk to. Whoever helps us first, we help them.""Get him out of here!" Coridon finally said. "We're wasting time with this b.a.s.t.a.r.d!"The brigadier grabbed Nikitin by his hair and by the band of his pants. He threw him halfway across the room. The Russian's head smacked against the wall, but he scrambled to his bare feet. His eyes were large and fearful now. Maybe he was beginning to understand that the rules of interrogation had changed. Everything had changed now."Last chance to talk," I said. "Remember, you're just a gnat to us.""I didn't sell anything to anyone here in France! I sell in Angola, for diamonds!" Nikitin said."I don't care, and I don't believe you!" Captain Coridon shouted at the top of his voice. "Get him out of here.""I know something!" Nikitin suddenly blurted out. "The suitcase nukes! The number is four. It's al Qaeda who's behind it. Al Qaeda made the plan! They call the shots. The prisoners of war-everything."I turned to the French policemen and shook my head. "The Wolf gave him up to us. And he's not going to be pleased with his 'performance.' He'll kill him for us. I don't believe a word he just said."Nikitin looked at the three of us, then he spit, " Al Qaeda! f.u.c.k you if you don't like it, or believe it."I stared back at him. "Prove what you're saying. Make us believe you. Make me believe you, because I don't.""All right," Nikitin said then. "I can do that. I'll make all of you believers."

Chapter 86.

As soon as I arrived back at the Prefecture, Martin Lodge caught up with me. "Let's go!" He started to pull me along."What? Go where?" I looked at my watch-something I seemed to be doing every couple of minutes now. It was 10:25."A raid is going down in a few minutes. The hideout that the Russian gave you-it's real."Martin and I hurried upstairs to the crisis room at police headquarters. My old pal Etienne Marteau met us and guided us to a row of monitors set up to view the raid. Everything was happening incredibly fast for a change. Too fast maybe, but what choice did we have?Marteau said, "They're confident, Alex. They coordinated with the power authority, EDF-GDF. The power grid in the area goes down and then they go in."I nodded at what he was saying and watched the screens in front of us. It was strange to be once removed from the action. Then it was happening! French soldiers appeared out of nowhere, dozens of them. They wore RAID jackets: Recherche, a.s.sistance, intervention et dissuasion. They carried a.s.sault rifles.The soldiers rushed toward a small town house that looked harmless enough. They broke down the front door. It happened in seconds.A UBL, a French version of the Hummer, appeared and crashed through a wooden gate in the rear. Soldiers jumped from the UBL."We'll see soon enough," I said to Martin. "RAID is good at what they do?""Yes, they are skillful at destruction and death."A couple of the French police were miked and carried cameras, so we got to see and hear much of the raid as it happened. A door was thrown open, a gun fired from inside, then a blaze of return fire.Someone's shrill scream, the sound of a body thumping against the floorboards.Two gunmen ran out into a narrow hallway. Both in their underwear. Shot down before they knew what hit them.A half-naked female with a handgun-shot in the throat."Don't kill them all," I muttered at the monitor.A Cougar helicopter swooped down and more commandos appeared. Inside the house, soldiers swarmed into a bedroom, then fell on a man lying on a cot. They took him alive, thank G.o.d.Other terrorists were surrendering, their hands held high.Then more rapid gunshots, off camera this time.A suspect was marched down the hall with a gun held to his head. An older man. The Wolf? Was it possible they had captured him? The policeman with the gun was smiling as if he had scored something big. The raid was certainly fast and efficient. At least four of the terrorists had been captured alive.Then we waited impatiently for news. The cameras at the raid site were shut down. We waited some more.Finally, about three in the afternoon, an army colonel stood at the front of the room in the crisis center. Every seat was taken; there was no more standing room; the tension was almost unbearable.The colonel began, "We have identified the prisoners, those who are alive. One from Iran, a Saudi, a Moroccan, two Egyptians. A cell. Al Qaeda. We know who they are. It is doubtful that we caught the Wolf. It is also doubtful that these terrorists were involved in the threat to Paris. I am sorry to give you bad news at this late hour. We did our best. But he remains a step ahead of us. I'm sorry."

Chapter 87.

The terrible, "final" deadline was so close now, and no one had any more information on what would happen next. We seemed to have run out of options to stop the Wolf.At 5:45, I was one of several nervous men and women climbing out of dark Renaults and then hurrying toward the tall ironwork gates of the Ministere de l'Interieur building for a meeting with the DGSE, which is the French equivalent of our CIA. The front gates were immense. Like supplicants entering a cathedral, we seemed small and insignificant as we pa.s.sed through them. I felt small and insignificant, as well as at the mercy of higher powers, and not just G.o.d.The gates opened onto a grand courtyard, a vast expanse of cobblestones, and I was reminded of the horse-drawn carriages that had once rolled through these very gates. Had there been progress in the world since then? It didn't seem like it on that particular day.I walked with other police officers, government ministers, and directors into a magnificent entry hall with a marbled pink and white tile floor. Armed guards lined the staircase. Hardly anyone spoke on the way up. There was only the dull sound of our plodding footsteps, the occasional nervous cough. It was possible that within the hour, Paris, London, Washington, and Tel Aviv would be bombed and thousands would die. There could be a much higher number of casualties. A hundred thousand or more was a possibility.A Russian gangster is doing this? One with mysterious ties to al Qaeda? We are at his mercy now, aren't we? How incredibly strange.The meeting was in the Salle des Fetes, and once again I couldn't help wondering what I was doing there. I was the American representative in Paris because the FBI wanted me there, because there was a chance that I could make a difference with my experience as a psychologist and homicide detective, because something tragic might have happened to the Wolf in Paris a long time ago. We still hadn't figured out what.Inside the main hall, tables had been arranged in a U shape and covered with plain white fabric. Propped on easels were laminated maps of Europe, the Middle East, and the United States. The target areas were circled in thick red crayon. Crude, but effective.A dozen or more TV monitors were up and running. So was a state-of-the-art teleconferencing system. There were more gray and blue suits than usual, more important people, more obvious power on display. For some reason, I noticed several pairs of rimless t.i.tanium eyegla.s.ses-the ever-fashionable French.Live scenes from London, Washington, Paris, and Tel Aviv played on the TV monitors mounted on the walls. The cities were quiet. Most of the army and police were inside as well. Etienne Marteau came and sat beside me. Martin Lodge had already returned to London."What do you think our chances are, realistically, here in Paris, Alex?" Etienne asked."Etienne, I don't know what's happening. No one does. Maybe we stopped the main cell of terrorists earlier. My guess is that everything has been leading up to today's deadline. I think the Wolf knew how difficult it would be to pull this together. Something happened to him here in Paris. We still don't know what it is. What can I say? We're out of time. We're f.u.c.ked."Suddenly, Etienne sat up straight in his chair. "My G.o.d, it's President Debauney."

Chapter 88.

Aramis Debauney, the French president, looked to be in his mid-fifties and was very well dressed for the occasion, very formal. He was a compact man with slicked-back silver-gray hair and a pencil-thin mustache, and he wore wire-rimmed eyegla.s.ses. He looked somewhat calm and in control of his emotions as he strode quickly to the front of the room, and began to talk. You could hear a pin drop."As you know, I have worked in the trenches and on the front lines of law enforcement for many years myself. So I wanted you to hear from me now. I also wanted to be with you for these final minutes before the deadline runs out."I have news. The money has been raised. In Paris. In London. Washington. And in Tel Aviv, with help from many friends of Israel around the world. The entire sum will be transferred in three and a half minutes, approximately five minutes before the deadline expires."I want to thank everyone in this room, and all of those you represent, for countless hours of hard work, for personal sacrifices that no one should ask, for the most heroic effort, incredible bravery by so many. We did the best that we could, and most important, we will survive this crisis. Eventually we will get these inhuman b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, all of them! We will get this Wolf, the most inhuman of them all."There was a gold Empire clock on the wall behind the president. Everyone watched it intently. How could we not?At 5:55 Paris time, President Debauney said, "The money is being transferred now. It will happen in a matter of seconds. . . . All right. It's done. This should be over now. We will be all right. Congratulations to all of you. Thank you."There was an audible sigh of relief in the cavernous room, smiles and handshakes, some hugs.Then we waited, almost a reflex action.For any kind of communication from the Wolf.For breaking news from the other targeted cities: Washington, London, Tel Aviv.The final sixty seconds before the deadline were incredibly tense and dramatic, even though the ransom had been delivered. I could do nothing but watch the second hand on the clock. Finally, I said a prayer for my family, for the people in all four cities, for the world we live in.Then it was six in Paris and London; twelve in Washington; seven in Tel Aviv.The deadline had pa.s.sed. But what did it mean? Were we truly safe?There were no significant changes on any of the monitors, no disruptions, no explosions on the live video feeds. Nothing.And there was no call from the Wolf.Two more minutes pa.s.sed.Ten minutes.And then, a terrible explosion rocked the room-and the world.Part FiveDELIVER US FROM EVIL

Chapter 89.

The bomb, or bombs, not nuclear, but powerful enough to cause ma.s.sive damage, went off in the first arrondiss.e.m.e.nt, near the Louvre. The entire area, a maze of lanes and dead-end streets, was nearly flattened. Close to a thousand people died immediately, or at least within a few seconds. The terrible multiple explosions were heard, and felt, all over Paris.The Louvre suffered only minor damage from the blasts, but the three-block area covering rue de Marengo, rue de l'Oratoire and rue Bailleul was almost completely destroyed. As was a nearby bridge-a small one-crossing the Seine.A bridge. Another bridge. In Paris this time.Not a word of explanation was heard from the Wolf. He didn't take credit for the wanton and despicable act, nor did he deny it.He didn't need to explain his actions, did he? He thought he was G.o.d.There are other supremely arrogant people who labor inside our government in Washington, and also some who work in the national media, who believe that they can accurately predict what will happen in the future because they know, or think they know, what happened in the past. I suspect it's the same in Paris, London, Tel Aviv, and everywhere else in the world: all these basically intelligent, maybe even well-intentioned people who proclaim, "That couldn't happen," or "Here's how it would happen in the real world." As if they really know. But they don't know. n.o.body knows.All bets are off nowadays. Anything can happen, and sooner or later, it probably will. We don't seem to be getting any smarter as a species, just crazier and crazier. Or at the very least, a whole lot more dangerous. Unbelievably, unbearably more dangerous.Or maybe that was just my mood as I flew back from Paris. A terrible, terrible tragedy had occurred there after all. The Wolf had won, if what he did could be called winning, and it hadn't even been a close contest.A power-mad Russian gangster had adopted the tactics of terrorism, or so it seemed. He was better than we were-more organized, more cunning, and far more brutal when he needed results. I couldn't even remember the last time we'd had a victory in our battle with the Wolf and his forces. He was smarter. I just prayed that it was over now. Could it be? Or was it another calm before another storm? I couldn't bear to think about that possibility.I arrived home a little before three on a Thursday afternoon. The kids were back; Nana had never left Fifth Street. When I got there I insisted on cooking dinner, wouldn't take no for an answer. It was what I needed: cook a good meal, talk to Nana and the kids about anything we wanted to talk about, get lots of hugs. Not have a single thought about what had happened in Paris, or the Wolf, or any kind of police work.So I made my interpretation of a French-style dinner and I even spoke French with Damon and Jannie while the meal was being prepared. Jannie set the dining table with Nana's silver, cloth napkins, a lace tablecloth that we used only for special occasions. The meal? Langoustines roties brunoises de papaye poivrons et oignons doux -prawns with papaya, peppers, and onions. For a main course, chicken stew in a sweet red wine sauce. We drank small gla.s.ses of wine with the meal, a delightful Minervois, and ate with enthusiasm.But for dessert-brownies and ice cream. I was back in America, after all.I was home, thank G.o.d.

Chapter 90.

Home again , home again.The next day I didn't go to work and the kids stayed out of school. It seemed to satisfy everybody's needs, even Nana Mama's, who encouraged us all to play hooky. I called Jamilla a couple of times, and talking to her helped, as it always did, but something seemed off between us.For our day of hooky-playing I took the kids on a day trip to St. Michaels, Maryland, which is situated on Chesapeake Bay. The village turned out to be a lively snapshot of quaint, coastal charm: a thriving marina, a couple of small inns with rockers set out on the porches, even a lighthouse. And the Chesapeake Bay Maritime Museum, where we got to watch real shipwrights working on a skipjack restoration. It felt as though we were back in the nineteenth century, which didn't seem like such a bad idea.After lunch at the Crab Claw Restaurant we embarked on an actual skipjack charter. Nana Mama had taken her school cla.s.ses there many times over the years, but she stayed home this trip, protesting that she had too much work to do around the house. I only hoped she was really feeling okay. I still remembered the way she used to teach her students on the field trips, so I took over as the guest lecturer."Jannie and Damon, this is the last fleet of working sailing vessels in North America. Can you imagine? These ships have no winches, just manpower and blocks and tackles. The fishermen are called watermen," I told them, just as Nana had told her cla.s.ses years before.Then off we went on the Mary Merchant for a two-and-a-half-hour cruise into the past.The captain and his mate showed us how to hoist a sail with a block and tackle, and soon we had caught a breeze with a loud whoosh and the rhythmic smack of waves against the hull. What an afternoon it was. Gazing up at a sixty-foot mast made from a single log shipped all the way from Oregon. The smells of salt air, linseed oil, residual oystersh.e.l.ls. The closeness of my two eldest children, the look of trust and love in their eyes. Most of the time, anyway.We pa.s.sed stands of pine woods, open fields where tenant farmers raised corn and soybean, and great white-columned estates that had once been plantations. I almost felt as if I were back in another century and it was a good break, much needed R & R. Only a couple of times did I drift into thoughts of police work, but I quickly pulled myself back.I half listened as the captain explained that "only boats under sail" can dredge for oysters-except twice a week, when engine-powered yawls were allowed on the bay. I suspected that it was a clever conservation ploy to make the watermen work hard for their oysters; otherwise, the supply might run out.What a fine day-as the boat heeled to starboard, the boom swung out, the mainsail and jib filled the air with a loud smack, and Jannie, Damon, and I squinted into the setting sun. And we understood, for a little while anyway, that this had something to do with the way life was supposed to be lived, and maybe even why such moments needed to be cherished and remembered."Best day of my life," Jannie told me. "I'm not even exaggerating too much.""Same here," I said. "And I'm not exaggerating at all."

Chapter 91.

When we got home early that evening I saw a scuffed-up white van parked in front of the house. I recognized the bright green logo on the door: HOMECARE HEALTH PROJECT. What was this? Why was Dr. Coles there?Suddenly I was nervous that something had happened to Nana while I was out with the kids. The fragile state of her health had been on my mind more and more lately; the reality that she was in her mid-eighties now, though she wouldn't tell exactly how old she was, or rather, she lied about it. I hurried out of the car and up the front steps ahead of the kids by a couple of strides."I'm in here with Kayla," Nana called as I opened the front door and Damon and Jannie slid by me on either side. "We're just kicking back, Alex. No need for alarm. Take your time.""So who's alarmed?" I asked as I slowed and walked into the living room, saw the two of them "kicking back" on the sofa."You were, Mr. Worrywart. You saw the Health truck outside, and what did you think? Sickness," said Nana.She and Kayla both laughed merrily, and I had to smile, too-at myself. I made a very weak protest. "Never happened.""Then why did you rush up the front steps like your trousers were on fire? Oh, forget it, Alex," Nana said, and laughed some more.Then she waved her hand as if to chase away any unwanted negativity in the room. "Come. Sit down with us for a minute or two. Can you spare it? Tell me everything. How was St. Michaels? Has it changed very much?""Oh, I suspect that St. Michaels is pretty much the same as it was a hundred years ago.""Which is a good thing," Nana said. "Thank G.o.d for small favors."I went over and gave Kayla a kiss on the cheek. She had helped Nana when she was sick a while back, and now she stopped in regularly. Actually, I'd known Kayla since we were both growing up in the neighborhood. She was one of us who got out, received an education, and then came back, to give back. The Homecare Health Project brought doctors to the homes of the sick in Southeast. Kayla had started it, and she kept it going with incredibly hard work, including fund-raising, which she mostly did herself."You look good," I told her. The words just came out."Yes, I lost some weight, Alex," she said, and c.o.c.ked an eyebrow at me. "It's all this running around that I do. I try my best to keep the weight on, but it just comes off, d.a.m.n it."I had noticed. Kayla is close to six feet, but I had never seen her looking so trim and fit, not even when she was a kid. She's always had a sweet, pretty face and a disposition to match."It also sets a better example for folks," she said. "Too many people in the neighborhood are overweight. Too many are obese, even a lot of the kids. They think it's in their genes."Then Kayla laughed. "Plus, I must admit, it has helped my social life, my outlook on things, whatever. Whatever.""Well, you always look good to me," I said, putting my foot in it again.Kayla rolled her eyes at Nana. "He lies so easily. He's really good at it." They both laughed again."Anyway, thank you for the compliment, Alex," said Kayla. "I'll take it for what it's worth. I don't even consider it too condescending. Oh, you know what I mean."I decided I'd better change the topic. "So Nana is fine, and going to live to a hundred?""I would expect so," Kayla said.But Nana frowned. "Why do you want to get rid of me so soon?" she asked. "What did I do to deserve that?"I laughed. "Maybe it's because you're a constant pain in my b.u.t.t. You know that, don't you?""Of course I know it," Nana said. "That's my job in life. My reason for being is to torment you. Don't you know that yet?"And as she said those words, I finally felt that I was home again, really home, back from the wars. I took Kayla and Nana out to the sunporch and played "An American in Paris" for them. That's what I had been not too long ago, but no more.About eleven, I walked Kayla outside to her Health van. We stopped and talked for a moment on the front porch."Thanks for coming by to see her," I said."You don't have to thank me," Kayla said. "I do it because I want to. It just so happens that I love your grandmother. I love her tremendously. She's one of my guiding lights, my mentor. Has been for years."Then Kayla leaned in very quickly, and she kissed me. She held the kiss for a few seconds. When she pulled away she was laughing. "I've wanted to do that for the longest time.""And?" I asked, more than slightly surprised at what had just happened."Now I've done it, Alex. Interesting.""Interesting?""I have to go. I have to run."Laughing to herself, Kayla ran out to her van.Interesting.

Chapter 92.

After some much-needed R & R I went back to work and found that I was still a.s.signed to the extortion/terrorism case, which apparently now involved chasing down whoever was responsible, whoever had the money. I was told that I was picked because I'm relentless.In a way, I was glad it wasn't over. I was still in touch with several of my contacts on the case: Martin Lodge in England, Sandy Greenberg with Interpol, Etienne Marteau in Paris, but also police and intelligence in Tel Aviv and Frankfurt. Everybody I talked to had possible leads, but no one had anything hot, or even what I would consider lukewarm.The Wolf, or maybe al Qaeda, or some other clever, homicidal b.a.s.t.a.r.ds were out there with close to two billion dollars in their coffers. Among other things, three city blocks in Paris had been destroyed. Political prisoners had been released. There had to be some slipup, some way to find them, or at least some way to discover who they were.My second day back, the a.n.a.lyst Monnie Donnelley and I made a paper connection that interested me enough to drive all the way out to Lexington, Virginia. I arrived at a two-story contemporary on a back road called Red Hawk Lane. A Dodge Durango was parked in the driveway. A couple of horses grazed in a nearby paddock.Joe Cahill met me at the door of the house. The former CIA agent was all smiles, just as I remembered him from past meetings about the Wolf. Joe had told me over the phone that he was eager to help the investigation in any way he could. He invited me inside and had coffee and a store-bought crumb cake waiting in his den. The room had views of an outlying pasture, a pond, and the Blue Ridge Mountains off in the distance."I guess you can tell I miss the job," Joe said. "Some days, anyway. You can do only so much hunting and fishing. You fish, Alex? You hunt?""I've taken the kids fishing a couple of times," I said. "I hunt some, yeah. Right now, I'm hoping to bag the Wolf. I need your help, though, Joe. I want to go over some old ground. Something has come up."

Chapter 93.

"All right, you want to talk about him again. How we got the Wolf out of Russia? What happened once he arrived in America? How he disappeared after that? It's a sad but well-known and doc.u.mented story, Alex. You've seen the files. I know you have. Almost ended my career.""Joe, I don't understand why n.o.body seems to know who he is. What he looks like. His real name. That's the story I've been getting for over a year now, but how can it be? How could we work with England to extricate an important KGB guy, and not know who he is. Something bad happened in Paris-but n.o.body knows what. How is it possible? What am I missing? What has everybody missed so far?"Joe Cahill spread his large workingman hands, palms up. "Look, I obviously don't have all the pieces, either. It's my understanding that he was undercover when he was inside Russia. Supposedly, he was a young, very cagey agent, which would mean he's still only in his early forties. But I've also read reports that he's in his late fifties or sixties now. That he was actually pretty high up in the KGB when he defected. I've also heard that the Wolf is female. I think he spreads the rumors himself. I'm almost certain that's what he does.""Joe, you and your old partner were his controls once he got here.""Our boss was Tom Weir, who wasn't the director yet. Actually, the team included three other guys-Maddock, Boykin, and Graebner. Maybe you should talk to them."Cahill rose from his easy chair. He went and opened French doors leading out to a stone patio. A cooling breeze swept into the room."I never met him, Alex. Neither did my partner, Corky Hanc.o.c.k. Or the rest of the team-Jay, Sam, Clark. That's the way it was set up from the beginning. It was the deal he brokered when he came out of Russia. He'd help us bring down the old KGB, name names there, and here in the U.S. But n.o.body got to see him. Believe me, he delivered names and information that helped bring down the evil empire."I nodded. "Right, he keeps his promises. But now he's on the loose, and he's established his own crime network-and a whole lot more."Cahill took a bite of his coffee cake, then talked with his mouth full. "Apparently, that's exactly what he did. Of course, we had no idea that he would go bad. Neither did the Brits. Maybe Tom Weir did. I don't know."I needed some air. I got up and walked to the open doors. A couple of horses were hugging a white wooden fence under the shade of oak trees. I turned to face Joe Cahill."Okay, so you can't help me with the Wolf. What can you help me with, Joe?"Cahill frowned and looked confused. "I'm sorry, Alex, not much. I'm an old plow horse, not good for much of anything anymore. Coffee cake's good, right?"I shook my head. "Not really, Joe. Trust me, store-bought's never the same."Cahill's face sagged, then he grinned but his eyes weren't smiling. "So now we're gonna be honest, I guess. Why the h.e.l.l are you here? What's this about? Talk to Uncle Joe. What's going on? I'm kind of lost. You're playing way over my head."I stepped back into the room. "Oh, it's all about the Wolf, Joe. See, I think you and your old partner can help us a lot-even if you never met him in person, and I'm not so sure that you didn't."Cahill finally threw up his hands in frustration. "Alex, this is a little crazy, you know. I feel like we're running around in circles. I'm too old and ornery for this s.h.i.t.""Yeah, well, it's been a tough couple of weeks for everybody. A lot of craziness going around. You don't know the half of it." But I'd had enough of "Uncle" Joe Cahill's c.r.a.p. I showed him a photograph."Take a good look. This is the woman who murdered CIA Director Weir at the Hoover Building."Cahill shook his head. "Okay. So?""Her name is Nikki Williams and she's former army. She operated as a mercenary for a while. A sniper, a good one. Lots of private contracts on her resume. I know what you're going to say, Joe- so?""Yeah. So?""Once upon a time, she worked for you and your partner, Hanc.o.c.k. Your agency shared your files with us, Joe. New era of cooperation. Here's the real twist- I think you hired her to kill Weir."Maybe you did it through Geoffrey Shafer, but you were involved. I think you work for the Wolf. Maybe you always have-maybe that was part of his deal, too.""You're crazy, and you're dead wrong!" Joe Cahill stood up and brushed crumbs from his trousers. "You know what else, I think you'd better leave now. I'm sorry as h.e.l.l I invited you into my house. This little talk of ours is over.""No, Joe," I said, "actually, it's just getting started."

Chapter 94.

I made a call on my cell phone. Minutes later, agents from Langley and Quantico swarmed onto the property and arrested Joe Cahill. They cuffed him and dragged him out of his nice, peaceful house in the country.We had a lead now, maybe a good one.Joe Cahill was transported to a CIA safe house somewhere in the Alleghenies. The grounds and the home looked ordinary enough: a two-story fieldstone farmhouse surrounded by grapevines and fruit trees, the entryway thick with wisteria. But this wasn't going to be a safe house for Uncle Joe.The former agent was bound and gagged, then left alone in a small room for several hours.To think about his future-and his past.A CIA doctor arrived: a tall, paunchy man who looked to be in his late thirties, horsey, WASPish. His name was Jay O'Connell. He told us that an experimental truth serum had been approved for use on Cahill. O'Connell explained that variations of the drug were currently being used on terrorist prisoners at various prisons."It's a barbiturate, like sodium amytal and brevital," he said. "All of a sudden the subject will feel slightly drunk, diminished senses. After that, he won't be able to defend himself very well against prodding questions. At least, we hope not. Subjects can react differently. We'll see with this guy. He's older, so I'm fairly confident we'll nail him.""What's the worst we can expect?" I asked O'Connell."That'd be cardiac arrest. Oh h.e.l.l, it's a joke. Well, actually, I guess it isn't."It was early in the morning when Joe Cahill was moved out of the small holding room and brought into a larger one in the cellar with no windows. His blindfold and gag were removed, but not the binds around his wrists. We sat him in a straight-backed chair.Cahill blinked his eyes repeatedly before he could tell where he was and who else was in the room with him."Disorientation techniques. Won't work worth a c.r.a.p on me," he said. "This is really dumb. Nonsense. It's horses.h.i.t.""Yes, we think so, too," said Dr. O'Connell. He turned to one of the agents, Larry Ladove. "Roll up his sleeve for me anyway. There we go. This will pinch. Then it'll sting. Then you'll spill out your guts to us."

Chapter 95.

For the next three and a half hours, Cahill continued to slur his words badly and to act like a man who had half a dozen drinks or more in him, and was ready for more."I know what you guys are doing," Uncle Joe said, and shook a finger at the three of us in the room with him."We know what you're doing, too," said the CIA guy, Ladove. "And what you've done.""Haven't done anything. Innocent until proven guilty. Besides, if you know so much, why are we talking?""Joe, where is the Wolf?" I asked him. "What country? Give us something.""Don't know," Cahill said, then laughed as if something he'd said was funny. "All these years, I don't know. I don't. ""But you've met him?" I said."Never seen him. Not once, not even in the beginning. Very smart, clever. Paranoid, maybe. Doesn't miss a trick, though. Interpol might have seen him during the transport. Tom Weir? The Brits, maybe. Had him for a while before we got him." We'd already checked with London, but they had nothing substantial about the defection. And there was nothing about a mistake in Paris."How long have you been working with him?" I asked Cahill.He looked for an answer on the ceiling. "Working for him, you mean?""Yes. How long?""Long time. Sold out early in the game. Jesus, long time ago." Cahill started to laugh again. "Lot of us did-CIA, FBI, DEA. So he claims. I believe him."I said, "He gave you orders to have Thomas Weir killed. You already told us that." Which he hadn't."Okay," he said. "If I did, I did. Whatever the h.e.l.l you say.""Why did he want Thomas Weir killed?" I continued. "Why Weir? What happened between them?""Doesn't work that way. You just get your job. You never see the whole plan. But there was something between him and Weir-bad blood."Anyway, he sure as h.e.l.l never contacted me. Always my partner. Always Hanc.o.c.k. He's the one who got the Wolf out of Russia. Corky, the Germans, the Brits. I told you that, right?" Cahill said, then winked at us. "This stuff is good. Truth serum. Drink the grape juice, boys." He looked over at O'Connell. "You, too, Dr. Mengele. Drink the f.u.c.king grape and the truth will set you free."

Chapter 96.

Had we gotten the truth out of Joe Cahill? Was there anything to his drug-induced ramblings?Corky Hanc.o.c.k? The Germans, the Brits? Thomas Weir?Somebody had to know something about the Wolf. Where he was. Who he was. What he might be up to next.So I was on the road again, tracking down the Wolf. Joe Cahill's partner had moved out to the central Idaho Rockies after he had taken early retirement. He lived on the outskirts of Hailey in the Wood River Valley, about a dozen miles south of Sun Valley. Not a bad life for a former spook.As we drove from the airport to Hailey we pa.s.sed through what the Bureau driver described as "high desert." Hanc.o.c.k, like Joe Cahill, was a hunter and fisherman, it seemed. Silver Creek Preserve, a world-famous catch-and-release fishing area, was nearby."We're not going to bust in on Hanc.o.c.k. We'll keep him under surveillance. Try to see what he's up to. He's off in the mountains, hunting, right now. We'll run by his place. Let you have a look," said the local senior agent, a young Turk named Ned Rust. "Hanc.o.c.k is an expert shot with a rifle, by the way. Thought I'd mention that."We drove up into the hills, where several of the larger houses seemed to be on five-to-ten-acre lots. Some homes had well-manicured lawns, which looked unnaturally green in contrast to the ashen hills, which, of course, were natural."There have been avalanches in the area recently," Rust said as we drove. He was just chock full of information. "Might see some wild horses. Or Bruce Willis. Demi and Ashton and the kids. Anyway, there's Hanc.o.c.k's house up ahead. Exterior's river rock. Popular around here. Lot of house for a retired agent with no family.""He's probably got some money to spend on himself," I said.The house was large all right, and handsome, with spectacular views in three directions. There was a detached barn that was bigger than my house, and a couple of horses grazing nearby. No Corky Hanc.o.c.k, though; he was off hunting.Well, so was I.Nothing much happened in Hailey for the next few days. I was briefed by the senior agent in charge, a man named William Koch. The CIA had also sent a heavy from Washington, Bridget Rooney. Hanc.o.c.k returned from his hunting outing, and we watched his every move. Static surveillance was set up by an operations group that had been flown in from Quantico. There was a mobile team whenever Hanc.o.c.k left the house. We were taking him very seriously. After all, the Wolf was out there somewhere, with close to two billion dollars. In winnings.But maybe we finally had a way to track him: the CIA agent who brought him out of Russia. And maybe it was all connected to whatever had happened between the Wolf and Thomas Weir.The mistake in Paris.

Chapter 97.

It just wasn't going to happen overnight. Or the next night. Or the one after that.On Friday I got permission to take a trip out to Seattle to visit my boy. I called Christine, who said that it would be fine and that Alex would be happy to see me-and so would she. I'd noticed the edge was gone from Christine's voice when we talked these days; sometimes I could even remember how it had been between us. I wasn't sure that was a good thing, though.I arrived at her house in the late morning and was struck again by what a warm and charming place it was. The house and the yard were very Christine: cozy and light, with the familiar white picket fence and matching handrails hugging the stone steps leading to the front door; rosemary, thyme, and mint filled the herb garden. Everything just so.Christine answered the bell herself, with Alex in her arms. As much as I tried not to, I couldn't help thinking about the way things might have been if I hadn't been a homicide cop and my life as a detective hadn't violently derailed the two of us.I was surprised that she was home, and she must have recognized the look in my eyes."I won't bite you, Alex, I promise. I brought Alex back from preschool to be with you," she said. Then she handed over the Boy, and he was all I wanted to think about right then."h.e.l.lo, Dada," he said, and laughed shyly, which is his way at first. I smiled back. A woman I know in the D.C. area calls me "a saint," and she doesn't mean it as a compliment. I'm not, not even close, but I have learned to make the best of things. My guess is that she hasn't."You're such a big boy," I said, expressing my surprise, and I suppose, my pride and delight in my son. "How old are you now? Six? Eight? Twelve years old?" I asked."I'm two, almost three," he said, and laughed at my joke. He always gets me, at least he seems to."He's been talking about seeing you all morning, Alex. He kept saying, 'Today's Daddy day,'" Christine said. "You two have fun together." Then she did something that surprised me: she leaned in and kissed my cheek. That kind of threw me. I may be cautious, even a little paranoid, but I'm not immune. First Kayla Coles-and now Christine. Maybe I looked as though I needed a little TLC. That was probably it.Well, Alex and I did have some good times together. I acted as if Seattle were our hometown, and I went with it. First we rode over to the Fremont area, where I had visited a retired detective friend a few years back. Fremont was full of older buildings, lots of vintage clothing and furniture shops, character, if such a worthy trait can actually be traced to architecture and style. A lot of people seem to think it can, but I'm not so sure.When we got there, Little Alex and I shared a scone with b.u.t.ter and blackberry jam from the Touchstone Bakery. We continued on our walking tour, and closely examined the fifty-five-foot-tall Fremont Rocket attached to one of the local stores. Then I bought Alex a tie-dyed kite, and we took it for a test flight at Gas Works Park, which had a view of Lake Union and downtown Seattle. Seattle has parks galore. It's one of the things I like so much about the city. I wondered if I could ever live out here and imagined that I could, and then I wondered why I was entertaining that line of thought at all. Because Christine had given me a quick little peck on the cheek? Was I that starved for affection? Pitiful.We did some more exploring, and checked out the sculpture garden and the Fremont Troll, a large sculpture that reminded me of the singer Joe c.o.c.ker clutching a Volkswagen Bug in one hand. Finally we had a late lunch-organic, of course-a roasted vegetable salad, plus peanut b.u.t.ter and jelly on Ezekiel bread. When in Rome, and all that."Life is pretty good out here, huh, buddy?" I said as we munched our food together. "This is the best, little guy."Alex Junior nodded that it was good, but then he stared up at me all wide-eyed and innocent, and asked, "When are you coming home, Daddy?"Oh man, oh man. When am I coming home?

Chapter 98.

Christine had asked that I have Alex home before six, and I did as I'd promised. I am so responsible, so Alex, it drives me a little crazy sometimes. She was waiting for us on the porch, in a bright blue dress and heels, and handled everything as well as I could have expected her to. She smiled warmly when she saw us, and hugged Alex against her long legs when he ran up to her squealing, "Mommy!""You two look like you had some fun," she said as she stroked the top of the Big Boy's head. "That's nice. I knew you would. Alex, Daddy has to go to his house now. Back to Washington, D.C. You and I have to go to Theo's for dinner."Tears filled his eyes. "I don't want Daddy to go," he protested."I know, but he has to, sweetheart. Daddy has to go to work. Give him a hug. He'll come visit again.""I will. Of course I will," I said, wondering who Theo was. "I'll always come see you."Alex ran into my arms, and I loved having him close and didn't want to let him go. I loved the smell of him, his touch, the feeling of his little heart beating. But I also didn't want him to feel the separation that was already making my heart ache."I'll be back real soon," I said. "Soon as I can. Don't get too big when I'm not looking."And Alex whispered, "Please don't go away, Daddy. Please don't go."He kept repeating it over and over until I was inside my rental car and driving away, waving back to my son, who kept getting smaller and smaller, until he disappeared as I turned the corner of his street. I could still feel Alex's little body pressing against mine. I can still feel it now.

Chapter 99.

A little before eight that night I sat alone at the dimly lit bar inside the Kingfish Cafe on Nineteenth and Mercer in Seattle. I was lost in thoughts about my youngest son-all of my children, really-when Jamilla rolled into the restaurant.She had on a long black leather car coat, with a dark blouse and black skirt, and she smiled brilliantly when she saw me sitting there at the bar, maybe looking as good to her as she did to me. Maybe. The thing about Jamilla is that she's pretty but doesn't seem to know it, at least to believe it. I had mentioned I was coming to Seattle, and Jam said she'd fly up to have dinner with me.At first I hadn't been sure it was a good idea, but that was wrong, all wrong. I was incredibly happy to see her, especially after leaving Alex."You look good, Sugar," she whispered against my cheek. "But you do seem a little beat-up, darling. You're working too hard. Burning the candle down.""I feel a lot better right now," I told her. "You look good enough for both of us.""I do? Well, thank you for saying that. Believe me, I needed to hear it."The Kingfish, as it turned out, was a totally democratic restaurant: no reservations, but we were seated quickly at a nice table along the wall. We ordered drinks and food, but mostly we were there to hold hands and talk about everything that was going on in our lives."This thing with Little Alex," I told Jamilla about midway through dinner, "it's the worst torture for me. Goes against who I am, everything I learned from Nana. I can't stand to leave him here."Jamilla frowned and seemed angry. "Doesn't she treat him well?""Oh no, no, Christine is a good mother. It's the separation that kills me. I love that little boy, and I miss him so much every day I'm away from him. I miss the way he talks, walks, thinks, tells bad jokes, listens to mine. We're pals, Jam.""And so," Jamilla said, holding my eyes with hers, "you escape into your work.""And so"-I nodded-"I do. But that's a whole 'nother story. Hey, let's get out of here.""What do you have in mind, Agent Cross?""Nothing illegal, Inspector Hughes.""Hmmm. Really? Well, that's a shame."