The Big Bad Wolf Part 4

Part Four

INSIDE THE DEN

Chapter 78.

STACY POLLACK WAS a solemn and commanding presence in front of the roomful of agents gathered on the fifth floor of the Hoover Building. It was standing room only for her meeting. I was one of those standing in the back, but just about everybody knew who I was after our New Hampshire success bringing in Potter. We had rescued another captive _ Francis Deegan was going to be fine. We'd also found the bodies of Benjamin Coffey and two other males, unidentified so far."Unaccustomed as I am to having things go our way," Pollack began, and got a laugh, "I'll take this latest development and offer humble thanks to the powers that be. This is a very good break for us. As many of you know, the Wolf has been a key target on our Red Mafia list, probably the key target. He's rumored to be into everything _ weapon sales, extortion, sports fixing, prost.i.tution, the white slave market. His name seems to be Pasha Sorokin and he seems to have learned his trade on the outskirts of Moscow. I say seems because nothing is a sure thing when it comes to this guy. Somehow he maneuvered his way into the KGB, where he lasted three years. He then became a pakhan, a boss, in the Russian underworld but decided to emigrate to America. Where he completely disappeared."We actually believed that he was dead for a while. Apparently not, at least if we can believe Mr. Potter. Can we believe him?" Pollack gestured in my direction. "This is Agent Alex Cross, by the way. He helped with the takedown in New Hampshire.""I think we can believe Potter," I said. "He knows that we need him; he definitely understands what he has to offer us _ a possible lead to Sorokin. He also warned me that the Wolf will come after us. His mission is to be the top gangster in the world. According to Potter, that's what the Wolf is.""So why the white slave market?" one of the ASAC's asked. "There's not that much money in it. It's risky. What's the point? Sounds like bulls.h.i.t to me. Maybe we've been had.""We don't know why he acts the way he does. It's troubling, I agree. Maybe it's his roots, his patterns," an agent from the New York offices Russia group said. "He's always had his fingers in whatever he could. It goes back to his days on the streets of Moscow. Also, the Wolf likes women himself. He's kinky.""I don't think he likes them," said a woman agent fromD.C. "Honestly, Jeff."The New York agent continued: "There's a rumor that he walked into a club in Brighton Beach a couple weeks ago and wasted one of his ex-wives. That's his style. He once sold two of his female cousins from the home country on the slave market. The thing to remember about Pasha Sorokin is that he has no fears. He expected to die young in Russia. He's surprised that he's still alive. He likes it on the edge."Stacy Pollack took the floor again. "Let me tell you a couple of other stories to give you a sense of who we're dealing with. It seems that Pasha manipulated the CIA to get him out of Russia originally. That's right, the CIA transported him here. He was supposed to give them all sorts of information, but he never delivered. When he first got to New York, he sold babies out of an apartment in Brooklyn. According to the stories, in one day alone he sold six babies to suburban couples for ten thousand dollars apiece. More recently he swindled a Miami bank out of two hundred million. He likes what he does and he's obviously good at it. And now we know an Internet site he visits. We may even be able to get on the site. We're working on it. We're as close to the Wolf as we've ever been. Or so we like to believe."

Chapter 79.

THE WOLF WAS in Philadelphia that night, birthplace of a nation, though not his nation. He never showed it, but he was anxious, and he liked the emotional charge it gave him.It made him feel more alive. He also liked it that he was invisible, that no one knew who he was, that he could go anywhere, do anything he wanted to do. Tonight, he was watching the Flyers play Montreal at the First Union Center in Philly. The hockey game was one he had arranged to have fixed, but nothing had happened so far, which was why he was anxious, and also very angry.As the second period was winding down, the score was 2-1. Flyers! He was seated at center ice, four rows back behind the penalty boxes, close to the action. To distract himself he watched the crowd _ a mix of yuppies in business suits and loosened ties and blue-collar types in oversized Flyers jerseys. Everybody seemed to have plastic tubs of nachos and twenty-ounce cups of beer.His eyes shifted back to the game. Players rushed around the rink at dazzling speeds, making a slashing sound as the blades of their skates tore into the ice. C'mon, c'mon. Do something! he urged.Then suddenly he saw Ilia Teptev out of position. There was the shotgun crash of a slapshot as it left the stick. Goal _ Canadians! The crowd erupted with insults: "You suck, Ilia! You throwing this game?"Then the announcer came over the PA. enadien goal by number eighteen, Stevie Bowen. Time of goal, nineteen minutes and thirty-two seconds."The period ended like that, 2-2. The Zamboni chugged out, resurfacing the ice between periods. More beer and more nachos were consumed. And the ice became a slick gla.s.s sheet once again.For the next sixteen minutes, the game was knotted at 2-2. The Wolf wanted to garrote Teptev and Dobushkin. Then the Canadian center, Bowen, plowed through a halfhearted check and burst into the Flyer zone. He dropped a pa.s.s along the right boards. A shot! Wide! Recovered by Alexei Dobushkin _ who settled behind his own net with the puck.He skated to his right, then snapped a pa.s.s across the ice _ across the goal mouth _ and it was picked off by Bowen. Bowen slapped the puck into the corner of the net.Goal _ Canadians!The Wolf smiled for the first time that night. Then he turned to his companion, his seven- year-old son, Dimitri, whose existence would have surprised everyone who supposedly knew the Wolf."Let's go, Dimmie, the game's over. The Canadians will win. Just like I told you they would. Didn't I tell you?"Dimitri wasn't convinced about the outcome, but he knew better than to argue with his father. "You were right, Daddy," said the boy. "You're always right."

Chapter 80.

THAT NIGHT AT eleven-thirty I planned to enter the Wolf's Den for the first time. I needed the help of Mr. Potter, though. Homer Taylor had been moved to Washington for the purpose. I needed his eyes.The two of us sat close together, Taylor in cuffs, in an operation room on the fifth floor of the Hoover. The professor was nervous, and I guessed that he was having second thoughts about our arrangement with respect to the Wolf. "Don't think that he won't get to you. He's relentless. He's crazy," he warned me again."I've avoided crazy men before," I said. "We still have a deal?""We do. What choice do I have? But you'll regret it. So will I, I'm afraid.""We're going to protect you."His eyes narrowed. "So you say."The night had been a busy one already. The top computer experts at the Bureau had tried pa.s.sword-cracking software to get into the Wolf's Den. So far, everything had failed. So had a "brute force" attack that could often decode encrypted data by feeding in combinations of letters and numbers. Nothing had worked. We needed Mr. Potter to get inside. We needed his eyes. The blood vessel patterns of the retina and the pattern of specks on the iris provided unique methods of identification. Scanning involved a low-intensity light source and an optical coupler.Potter put one eye up to the device and then focused on a red dot. An impression was taken and then sent on. Seconds later, we had access.This is Potter, I typed as Taylor was led out of the operations room. He would be transferred to Lorton Federal Prison for the night, then taken back to New England. I put him out of my mind, but I wouldn't be able to forget his warning about the Wolf.We were just talking about you, said someone with the user name Master Trekr.I wondered why my ears were buzzing, I typed, and wondered if I was communicating with the Wolf for the first time. Was he on-line? If so, where was he? What city?I was center stage in the operation room used by SIOC. More than a dozen agents and technicians were gathered around me. Most were on computers too. The scene looked like a very high-tech cla.s.sroom.Master Trekr: Weren't really talking about you, Potter. UR paranoid. Same as it ever was.I looked at the other user names:Sphinx 3000ToscaBellaLouis XVSterling 66No Wolf. Did that mean he wasn't on-line in the Den? Or was he Master Trekr? Was he observing me now? Was I pa.s.sing his test?I need a replacement for "Worcester," I typed. Potter had told me that Francis Deegan's code name was Worcester.Sphinx 3000: Take a number. We were talking about my package. My delivery. It's my turn. You know that, you fruitcake.I didn't respond at first. This was my first test. Would Potter apologize to Sphinx 3000? I didn't think he would. More likely, he'd come back with a caustic reply. Or would he? I chose to say nothing for now.Sphinx 3000: f.u.c.k U, too.I know what UR thinking. U kinky b.a.s.t.a.r.d.Sphinx 3000: As I was saying before I was interrupted. I want a southern belle, the more hung up on herself, the more self-absorbed she is, the better. I want a nice G.o.ddess, who I plan to shatter. Totally into herself. She wears Chanel and Miu Miu and Bulgari jewelry, even to the shopping mall. Heels, of course. I don't care if she's tall or short. Beautiful face. Pert t.i.ts.ToscaBella: How original.Sphinx 3000: f.u.c.k original, and, sorry to repeat myself, but f.u.c.k U. Give me that old-time rock-and-roll music. I want what I want, and I've earned it.Sterling 66: Anything else? This southern belle of yours? In her twenties? Thirties? Sphinx 3000: That'd be good. All or any of theabove. Louis XV: Teens? Sterling 66: How long do you plan to keep heraround? Sphinx 3000: One glorious night of ecstasy andwild abandon...just one night. Sterling 66: And then? Sphinx3000:I_mgoingtodisposeofher.Now,doI get my G.o.ddess?There was a pause.No answer came from anyone.What was going on? I wondered.Of course U do, answered Wolf. Just be careful,Sphinx. Be very careful. We're being watched.

Chapter 81.

I WASN_T SURE how to react to the Wolf, or his message to Sphinx. Should I speak now? Did he know we were on to him? How could he?Sterling 66: Now what's your problem, Mr. Potter?This was my chance. I wanted to try and draw out Wolf if I could. But could I pull it off? I was aware that everyone was watching me in the operation room.I don't have a problem, I typed. I'm just ready for another boy. U know I'm good for it. Haven't I always been?Sterling 66: UR ready for another boy? U just recently received "Worcester." About a week ago?I typed: Yes, but he's left us.Sphinx 3000: That's very funny. U R so cute, Potter. Such a cute psycho killer.Sphinx didn't like Potter, did he? I had to a.s.sume the feeling was mutual. I typed, I love U too. We should get together and bond in person.Sterling 66: When U say "He's left us," I a.s.sume U mean that he's dead?Mr.Potter: Yes, the dear boy pa.s.sed. I'm over my grieving, though. Ready to move on.Sphinx 3000: Hilarious.This bickering was starting to get on my nerves. Who the h.e.l.l were these sick b.a.s.t.a.r.ds? Where were they? Besides cybers.p.a.ce?I have someone in mind. I've been watching him for awhile, I typed.Sphinx 3000: I'll bet he's gorgeous.I typed: Oh, he is. One of a kind. The love of my life.Sterling 66: U said that about Worcester. What city?I typed: Boston. Cambridge, actually. He's a student at Harvard. Working for his doctorate. Argentinean, I believe. Rides polo ponies in the summer.Sterling 66: Where did U b.u.mp into this one, Potter?The next tidbit I'd gotten from Homer Taylor himself. Actually, I did b.u.mp into him. He's so firm.Sphinx 3000: Where did you meet him? Tell, tell.I typed: I was at Harvard for a symposium.Sterling 66: On?I typed: Milton. Of course.Sterling 66: He was attending?I typed: No, I literally b.u.mped into him. In the men's room. I watched him for the rest of the day. Found out where he lived. Been studying him for three months.Sterling 66: So why did U purchase Worcester?I knew the question was coming. Impulse, I typed. Then, But this boy in Cambridge, that_struelove. Notacasual thing.Sterling 66: So U have a name? An address?I typed: I do. And I have my checkbook.Sterling 66: Worcester won't be found? U R certain?I could hear Potter's voice in my head as I typed.Good Lord, no. Not unless someone goes swimming in my septic tank.Sphinx 3000: Gross, Potter. I love it.Sterling 66: Well, if U have checkbook in hand.Wolf: No. We'll wait on this. It's too soon,Potter. We'll get back to you. As always, I've enjoyed our talk, but I have other matters to attend to.Wolf signed off. He was gone. s.h.i.t. He'd come and gone just like that. The mystery man, as always. Who was this b.a.s.t.a.r.d?I stayed on-line, chatting with the others for a few minutes _ expressing my disappointment at the decision, my eagerness to make a purchase. Then I left the site too.I looked around the operation room at my colleagues. A few began to clap, partly mocking me, but mostly it was genuinely congratulatory. Cop-to-cop stuff. Almost like old times. I felt marginally accepted by the others in the room. For the first time, actually.

Chapter 82.

WE WAITED TO HEAR from the Wolf's Den. Everyone in the overcrowded room wanted to take the Wolf down in the worst way. He was a complicated and twisted criminal, but besides that, the FBI needed a win; a lot of people working their a.s.ses off needed it. Snaring the Wolf would be a tremendous victory. If we could just find him. And what if we could get all of the other sick b.a.s.t.a.r.ds too? Sphinx. ToscaBella. Louis XV. Sterling.Still, something was bothering me a lot. If the Wolf was as powerful and successful as he seemed to be, why was he involved in this at all? Because he'd always been into lots of kinds of crimes? Or because he was a s.e.x freak himself? Was that it, the Wolf was a freak? Where could I go with that line of thinking?He's a freak, and therefore...?Except for a couple of hours when I went home to see the kids, I remained inside the Hoover Building for the next day and a half. So did a lot of other agents on the case, even Monnie Donnelley, who was as emotionally invested in this as anybody. We continued to collect information, especially about Russian mobsters in the States, but mostly we waited for a message from the Wolf's Den to Mr. Potter. A yes or a no, a go or a no go. What was the b.a.s.t.a.r.d waiting for?I talked to Jamilla several times _ good talks _ also to Sampson, the kids, Nana Mama. I even talked to Christine. I had to find out where her head was at about Little Alex. After our talk, I wasn't sure if she knew, which was the most disturbing thing of all. I began to detect an ambivalent tone in her voice when she spoke about raising Alex, even though she said she was prepared to sue for custody. Considering all she'd been through, it was hard for me to stay angry at her.I would rather have given up my right arm than my little boy, though. Just thinking about it gave me a headache that throbbed continuously and made the long wait for a resolution even worse.The phone on my desk rang around ten on the second evening, and I picked up right away. "Waiting for my call? How's it going?" It was Jamilla, and though she sounded close, she was all the way across the country in California."Sucks," I said. "I'm stuck in a small windowless room with eight smelly FBI hackers.""That good, huh? So I take it the Wolfman hasn't gotten back with an answer.""No. And it's not just that." I told Jamilla about my phone call with Christine.She wasn't nearly as sympathetic to Christine as I was. "Who the h.e.l.l does she think she is? She walked out on her little boy.""It's more complicated than that," I said."No, it isn't, Alex. You always like to give people the benfit of the doubt. You think people are basically good.""I guess I do. That_s the reason I can do my job. Because most people are basically good and they don't deserve the s.h.i.t that gets heaped on them."Jamilla laughed. "Well, neither do you. Think about that. Neither do Little A., Damon, Jannie, Nana Mama. Not that you asked for my opinion. I'll shut up now. So what is going on with the case? Change the subject to something more pleasant.""We're waiting on this Russian hood and his creeped-out friends. I still don't understand why he's involved in a kidnapping ring.""You're at FBI headquarters, the Hoover cube? That's where you're calling from?""Yes, but it's not exactly a cube. It's only seven stories on Pennsylvania Avenue because of the D.C. building codes. And eleven stories in back.""Thanks for sharing that. You're starting to sound like a Feebie. I'll bet it feels weird to be in there.""No, I just figure I'm on the fifth floor. Could be in either part of the building.""Ha ha. No, working the other side, the dark side. Being in the J. Edgar Hoover Building. Being a Feebie. Just thinking about it makes me shiver.""The waiting is the same, Jam. The wailing's always the same.":t least you have good friends to talk to some of the time. At least you have some nice phone pals.""I do, don't I. And you're right, it's easier waiting here with you.""I'm glad you feel that way. We need to see each other, Alex. We need to touch each other. There are things we have to talk about.""I know that. As soon as this case is over. I promise. I'll be on the first plane."Jamilla laughed again. "Well, get cracking, boy. Catch the big bad Wolf psycho b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Otherwise I'll be on my own plane east.""Promise?""Promise."

Chapter 83.

A DOZEN OR SO AGENTS were sitting around eating thick roast beef sandwiches and German potato salad and drinking iced tea when contact with the Wolf's Den was made again. "Roast beef" had a special meaning inside the FBI, but that was another story. The Wolf was calling.Potter. We've made a decision on your request, the e-mail said. Get back to us.The group continued to eat. We agreed there was no need to get back to the Wolf instantly. It would raise his suspicions if Potter was there waiting for the call. An agent was already playing the part of Dr. Homer Taylor in Hanover. We had spread a lie that the professor had the flu and wouldn't be conducting any cla.s.ses for a while. Occasionally, "sightings" of Professor Taylor were arranged at his house _ sometimes looking out windows or sitting out on the front porch. To our knowledge, no one had inquired about Taylor at Dartmouth or at his house in Webster. Both locations were being watched closely by agents.I hoped that the agents in the field knew what the h.e.l.l they were doing. At this point we had no idea how careful the Wolf was or whether his suspicions had already been aroused. We didn't know enough about the Russian. Not even if he had someone in the Bureau feeding him information.It was agreed that I would wait an hour and a half, since I hadn't been on-line when he established contact and the Wolf would know that. During the past day we'd been unsuccessful in trying to connect the Wolf's Den to an owner or even to one of the other users. This probably meant that a high-level hacker had protected the site well. The Bureau's experts were confident they would break through, but it hadn't happened yet.Homer Taylor had been transported to D.C. again, and we used his eyes for the retina scan. Then I sat down at a computer and began to type. I was following the model of communication to the Wolf's Den provided by Taylor as part of our deal.This is Mr. Potter, I began. Can I have my lover?

Chapter 84.

I WAITED FOR the Wolf to answer Potter's insane question. We all did.No response came. s.h.i.t. What had I done wrong? I'd gone too far, hadn't I? He was clever. Somehow, he knew what we were up to. But how?"I'll stay on for a while," I said, as I looked around the room. "I want what he has to offer. He knows it. I'm supposed to be h.o.r.n.y."This is Potter, I typed again a few minutes later.Suddenly words began to appear on my screen.I read, Wolf: That's redundant, Potter.I know who you are.I typed some more words in Taylor's strident "voice." U R rude to make me wait like this. U know how I feel, what I'm going through.Wolf: How could I? You're the scary freak, Potter, not me.I typed: Not so.U R the real freak. The cruelest of all.Wolf: Why do you say that? You think I take hostages like you?My heart raced. What did he mean by that? Did the Wolf have a hostage? Maybe more than one? Could Elizabeth Connolly still be alive after all this time? Or some other hostage? Maybe one we didn't even know about?Wolf: So tell me something, f.a.ggot. Prove yourself to me.Prove myself? How? I waited for more instruction to come. But it didn't.I typed: What do U want to know? I'm h.o.r.n.y. No, not really. I'm in love.Wolf: What happened to Worcester? You were in love with him too.The chat was heading into uncharted waters. I was guessing, hoping I could maintain continuity with things Homer Taylor might have shared before. The other question made me edgy: Was this really the Wolf I was speaking to?I typed: Francis was incapable of love. He made me very angry. He's gone now, never to be heard from again.Wolf: And there will be no repercussions?Mr. Potter: I'm careful. Like U. I like my life; I don't want to be caught. And I won't be!!!Wolf: Does that mean Worcester rests in pieces?I wasn't sure how to answer. With a cruel joke of my own? Something like that, I typed. UR funny.Wolf: Be more specific. Give me the b.l.o.o.d.y details, Potter. Give!Mr. Potter: Is this a test? I don't need this s.h.i.t.Wolf: You know it is.I typed: The septic tank. I told you that.No response came from the Wolf. He was rubbing my nerves raw.So when do I get my new boy? I typed.A pause of several seconds.Wolf: You have the money?Mr. Potter: Of course I do.Wolf: How much do you have?I thought I knew the correct answer to that, but I couldn't be sure. Two weeks earlier, Taylor had taken one hundred twenty-five thousand dollars from his account with a money manager at Lehman in New York.Mr. Potter: One hundred twenty-five thousand. The money isn't a problem. It's burning a hole in my pocket.No response from Wolf.I typed: U told me not to be redundant.Wolf: All right then, maybe we'll get you the boy. Be careful! There might not be another!I typed: Then there won't be another hundred twenty-five thousand!!!Wolf: I'm not worried. There are lots of freaks like you. You'd be amazed.Mr. Potter: So. How is your hostage?Wolf: I have to go back to work....One more question, Potter. Just to be safe. Where did you get your name?I looked around the room. Oh, Christ. It was something I hadn't thought to ask Taylor.A voice whispered close to my ear. Monnie's. "The kid's books? They call Harry Mr. Potter at the Hogwarts school. Maybe? I don't know."Was that it? I needed to type something; it had to be the right answer. Was the name from the Harry Potter books? Because he liked boys? Then something from Taylor's office in the farmhouse pushed in my brain.My fingers went to the keys. Paused for a second. Then I typed my answer: This is absurd. The name is from the Jamaica Kincaid novel, Mr. Potter. f.u.c.k U!I waited for a response. So did everyone else in the room. Finally it came.Wolf: I'll get you the boy, Mr. Potter.

Chapter 85.

WE WERE IN BUSINESS again, and I was back working the streets, the way I liked it, the way it used to be.I had been in Boston several times before, loved the city enough to consider moving there, and was comfortable. For the next two days we shadowed a student named Paul Xavier, from his apartment on Beacon Hill, to his cla.s.ses at Harvard, to the Ritz-Carlton, where he was a waiter, to popular clubs like No Borders and Rebuke.Xavier was the it" we had set out for the Wolf and his kidnapping crew.Actually, Xavier was being impersonated by a thirty-year-old agent from our field office in Springfield, Ma.s.sachusetts. The agent's name was Paul Gautier. Boyishly handsome, tall and slender, with fluffy light brown hair, he looked like someone in his early twenties. He was armed, but also being closely watched by a minimum of six agents at all times of the day and night. We had no idea how or when the Wolf's team might try to grab him, only that they would.For twelve hours each day, I was one of the agents watching and protecting Gautier. I had spoken about the dangers of using it" to try and catch the kidnappers, but n.o.body had paid attention.On the second night of surveillance, and according to plan, Paul Gautier went to "the Fens," along the Muddy River near Park Drive and Boylston Street. Actually called the Back Bay Fens, it had been imagined by Frederick Law Olmsted, who'd also designed the Boston Common and Central Park in New York. In the evening hours after the clubs closed, the real Paul Xavier often cruised the Fens looking for s.e.xual encounters, which was why we had sent our agent there.It was dangerous work for all of us, but especially for Agent Gautier. The area was dark, and there were no streetlights. The tall reeds along the river were thick and provided cover for pickups and liaisons _ and kidnappings.Agent Peggy Katz and I were on the edge of the reeds, which resembled elephant gra.s.s. During the past half hour, she had admitted that she wasn't really interested in sports but had learned about basketball and football because she wanted to be able to talk with her male counterparts about something."Men talk about other things," I said as I scouted the Fens through night gla.s.ses."I know that. I can talk about money and cars too. But I refuse to talk to you h.o.r.n.y b.a.s.t.a.r.ds about s.e.x."I coughed out a laugh. Katz could deliver her lines. She was often wry, with a twinkle, and she seemed to be laughing with you, even if you happened to be the b.u.t.t of her jokes. But I also knew that she was very tough, a real hard-liner."Why did you join the Bureau?" she asked as we continued to wait for Agent Gautier to appear. "You were doing well with the Washington PD, right?""I was doing just fine."I lowered my voice and pointed toward a clearing up ahead. "Here comes Gautier now."Agent Gautier had just left Boylston Street. He was walking slowly across the Fens toward the Muddy River. I knew the area pretty well from an earlier scouting trip. During the day this same section of the park was called the victory gardens. Area residents raised flowers and vegetables, and there were signs pleading with night visitors not to trample them.The team leader, Roger Nielsen, spoke in a whisper that seeped into my earphones. "Male in the watch cap, Alex. Stout guy. You see him?""I've got him." Watch cap was talking into a microphone on the collar of his sport shirt. He wasn't one of ours, so he must have been one of theirs _ the Wolf's.I began to scour the area for a partner or two. The kidnapping crew? Probably. Who the h.e.l.l else could they be?Nielsen said, "I think he has a mike on. You see it?""He's definitely miked. I see another suspicious male. Near the gardens to the left of us," I said. "Talking into his collar too. They're moving on Gautier."

Chapter 86.

THERE WERE THREE of them, bulky males, and they began to converge on Paul Gautier. At the same time, we moved on them. I had my Glock out, but was I really ready for what might happen in this small dark park?The kidnappers were keeping close to Park Drive, and I figured they had a van or truck out on the street. They looked confident and unafraid. They'd done this before: grabbed purchased men and women. They were professional kidnappers."Take them now," I told Senior Agent Nielsen. "Gautier is at risk.""Wait until they grab him," the response came back. "We want to do this right. Wait."I didn't agree with Nielsen and I didn't like what was happening. Why wait? Gautier was hanging out there too much, and the park was dark."Gautier is at risk," I repeated.One of the men, blond, wearing a Boston Bruins windbreaker, waved to him.Gautier watched the man approach, nodded his head, smiled. The blond had some kind of small flashlight in his hand. He lit up Paul Gautier's face.I could hear them talking. "Nice night for a walk," Gautier said, then laughed. He sounded nervous."The things we do for love," the blond said. He spoke with a Russian accent.The two of them were only a few feet apart. The other abductors held back, but not far.Then the blond whipped a gun out of his jacket pocket. He pushed it against Gautier's face. "You're coming with me. No one will hurt you. Just walk with me. Make it easy on yourself."The two others joined them."You're making a mistake," said Gautier."Oh, and why is that?" asked the blond. "I've got the gun, not you.""Take them. Now," came the order from Senior Agent Nielsen."FBI! Hands up. Back away from him!" Nielsen shouted as we ran forward."FBI!" came a second shout. "Everybody, hands up!"Then everything went crazy. The other two abductors pulled out guns. The blond still held his to Agent Gautier's skull.Back off!" he screamed. "I'll shoot him dead! Drop your guns. I'll shoot him, I promise you! I don't bluff."Our agents continued to move forward _ slowly.Then the worst thing happened _ the heavyset blond shot Agent Paul Gautier in the face.

Chapter 87.

BEFORE THE SHOCK of the gun blast had faded, the three men took off running very fast. Two of them galloped toward Park Drive, but the blond who'd shot Paul Gautier sprinted out onto Boylston Street.He was a big man, but he was motoring. I remembered hearing from Monnie Donnelley that great Russian athletes, even former Olympians, were sometimes recruited into the Mafia. Was blondie a former jock? He moved like it. The confrontation, the shooting and everything else, reminded me of how little we knew about the Russian mobsters. How did they work? How did they think?I took off after him, an overload of adrenaline rocketing through my body. I still couldn't believe what had happened. It could have been avoided. Now Gautier was possibly dead, probably dead.I ran as I shouted, "Take them alive!" It should have been obvious, but the other agents had just seen Paul Gautier gunned down. I didn't know how much street action, or combat, any of them had seen before. And we desperately needed to question the kidnappers once we caught them.I was getting winded. Maybe I needed more time in the physical-training cla.s.ses at Quantico, or maybe it was because I'd spent too much time sitting around inside the Hoover Building these past few weeks.I chased the blond killer through a tree-lined residential area. A moment later, the trees cleared and the glittering towers of the Prudential Center and the Hanc.o.c.k loomed ahead. I glanced back. Three agents trailed behind, including Peggy Katz, who had her gun out.The man running ahead of me was approaching the Hynes Convention Center with four FBI agents racing behind. I was closing on him, but not enough. I wondered if maybe we'd gotten lucky: Could this be the Wolf up ahead? He was hands-on, right? If it was, then we had him for murder. Whoever he was, he was still moving well. A long-distance sprinter."Stop! We'll shoot!" one of the agents yelled behind me. The blond Russian didn't stop. He made a sharp, sliding turn down a side street. It was narrow and darker than Boylston. One way. I wondered if he'd thought about his escape route before this. Probably not.The extraordinary thing was that he hadn't hesitated when he shot Agent Gautier. I don't bluff, he'd said. Who would murder so casually? With so many FBI watching?The Wolf? He was supposed to be fearless and ruthless, maybe even crazy. One of his lieutenants? ...How did the Russians think?I could hear his shoes slapping hard on the pavement up ahead. I was gaining on the Russian a little, getting a second wind.Suddenly he whirled around _ and ?red at me!I threw myself down on the ground fast. But then I was up just as quickly, chasing after him again. I'd seen his face clearly _ broad, flat features, dark eyes, late thirties to early forties.He turned again, planted, ?red.I ducked behind a parked car. Then I heard a scream. I whirled around and saw an agent down. One of the men. Doyle Rogers. The blond turned and started to run again. But I had my second wind and I thought I could catch him. Then what? He was ready to die.A shot rang out behind me! I couldn't believe what I saw. The blond dropped, falling flat on his chest and face.He never moved once he hit the ground. One of the agents behind me had shot him. I turned and saw Peggy Katz. She was still in a shooting crouch.I checked on Agent Rogers and found he'd only been hit in the shoulder. He'd be okay. Then I walked back alone toward the Fens. When I got there, I discovered that Paul Gautier was still alive. But the two other kidnappers had gotten away. They'd commandeered a car on Park Drive, and our agents had lost them. Bad news, the worst.The whole operation had blown up in our faces.

Chapter 88.

I DON'T THINK that I'd felt this bad about an operation in all my years with the Washington PD, maybe in all my years combined. If I hadn't been sure before, I was now. I'd made a mistake in coming over to the FBI. They did things very differently from anything I was used to. They were by-the-book, by-the-numbers, and then suddenly they weren't. They had tremendous resources and staggering amounts of information, but they were often amateurs on the street. There was some great personnel and some incredible losers.After the shootout in Boston I drove over to the FBI offices. The agents gathered there all looked sh.e.l.l-shocked. I couldn't blame them. What a mess. One of the worst I'd seen. I couldn't help feeling that Senior Agent Nielsen was the one responsible, but what did it matter, what good to cast around blame? Two well-intentioned agents had been wounded; one had almost died. Maybe I shouldn't have, but I felt partly responsible. I'd told the senior agent to move in on Paul Gautier faster, but he hadn't listened.The blond man I'd chased down Boylston Street had unfortunately died. Katz's bullet had hit him in the back of the neck and taken out most of his throat. He'd probably died instantly. He carried no identification. His wallet held a little more than six hundred bucks, but not much else. He had tattoos of a snake, a dragon, and a black bear on his back and shoulders. Cyrillic lettering that no one had deciphered yet. Prison tats. We a.s.sumed he was Russian. But we had no name, no identification, no real proof.Photographs of the dead man and fingerprints had been taken, then sent to Washington. They were checking, so we had little to do in Boston until they called back. A few hours later, the Ford Explorer commandeered by the two other abductors was found in the parking lot of a convenience store in Arlington, Ma.s.sachusetts. They had stolen a second vehicle out of the lot. By now they'd probably switched it for yet another stolen car.A total screw-up in every way. Couldn't have gone worse.I was sitting in a conference room by myself, my face in my hands, when one of the Boston agents walked in. He pointed an accusatory finger my way. Director Burns's office on the line."Burns wanted me back in Washington _ as simple and direct as that. There were no explanations or even recriminations about what had happened in Boston. I guess I was to be kept in the dark a while longer about what he really thought, what the Bureau thought, and I just couldn't respect that way of operating.I got to the SIOC offices in the Hoover Building at six in the morning. I hadn't slept. The place was humming with activity, and I was glad no one had time to talk about the shooting of the two agents in Boston.Stacy Pollack came up to me a few minutes after I arrived. She looked as tired as I felt, but she put a hand on my shoulder. "Everybody here knows that you felt Gautier was in danger and tried to move in on the shooter earlier. I talked to Nielsen. He said it was his decision."I nodded, but then I said, "Maybe you should have talked to me first."Pollack's eyes narrowed. But she said nothing more about Boston. She finally spoke again: "There's something else. We've had some luck."Most of us have been here all night. The money transfer we made to the Wolf's Den?" she said. "We used a contact of ours in the financial world, a banker from Morgan Chase's International Correspondent Unit. We were able to trace the money out of the Caymans. Then we monitored virtually every transaction to U.S. banks with correspondent relationships. Had them screen all inbound wire payment orders. That's where our consultant, Robert Hatfield, said it got tricky. The transaction zipped from bank to bank _ New York, then Boston, Detroit, Toronto, Chicago, a couple of others. But we know where the money finally wound up.""Where?" I asked."Dallas. The money went to Dallas. And we have a name , a recipient for the funds. We're hoping that he's the Wolf. At any rate, we know where he lives, Alex. You're going to Dallas."

Chapter 89.

THE EARLIEST ABDUCTION CASES we tracked had occurred in Texas, and dozens of agents and a.n.a.lysts went to work investigating them in depth. Everything about the case was larger in scale now. The surveillance details on the suspect's house and place of business were the most impressive I had ever seen. I doubted that any police force in the country, with the possible exceptions of New York and Los Angeles, could afford this kind of effort.As usual, the Bureau had done a thorough job of finding out everything possible about the man who had received money from us through the Caymans bank. Lawrence Lipton lived in Old Highland Park, a moneyed neighborhood north of Dallas proper. The streets there meandered alongside creeks under a canopy of magnolias, oaks, and native pecans. The grounds of nearly every house were expensively landscaped, and most of the traffic during the day consisted of tradesmen, nannies, cleaning services, and gardeners.So far the evidence we'd gathered on Lipton was contradictory, though. He had attended St. Mark's, a prestigious Dallas prep school, and then the University of Texas at Austin. His family and his wife's were old Dallas oil money, but Lawrence had diversified and now owned a Texas winery, a venture capital group, and a successful computer software company. The computer connection caught Monnie Donnelley's eye, and mine as well.Lipton seemed to be a straight arrow, however. He sat on the boards of the Dallas Museum of Art and the Friends of the Library. He was a trustee for the Baylor Hospital and a deacon at First United Methodist.Could he be the Wolf? It didn't seem possible to me.The second morning I was in Dallas, a meeting was held at the field office there. Senior Agent Nielsen remained in charge of the case, but it was clear to everyone that Ron Burns was calling the shots on this from Washington. I don't think any of us would have been too surprised if Burns had shown up for the briefing himself.At eight in the morning, Roger Nielsen stood before a roomful of agents and read from a clipboard. "They've been real busy through the night back in Washington," he said, and seemed neither impressed nor surprised by the effort. Apparently this had become SOP on cases that got big in the media."I want to acquaint all of you with the latest on Lawrence Lipton. The most important development is that he doesn't seem to have any known connections to the KGB or any Russian mobs. He isn't Russian. Maybe something will turn up later or maybe he's just that good at hiding his past. In the forties, his father moved to Texas from Kentucky to seek his fortune on _the prairie._ He apparently found it under the prairie, in West Texas oil fields."Nielsen stopped and looked around the meeting room, going from face to face. "There is one interesting recent development," he went on. "Among its holdings, Lipton's Micro- Management owns a company called Safe Environs in Dallas. Safe Environs is a private security ?rm. Lawrence Lipton has recently put himself under armed guard. I wonder why?"Is he worried about us or is he scared of somebody else? Maybe like the big bad Wolf?"

Chapter 90.

IF IT WASN_T so incredibly terrifying, it would be mind-boggling. Lizzie Connolly was still among the living. She was keeping herself positive by being somewhere else _ anywhere but here in the horrid closet. With this complete madman bursting in two, three, sometimes five times a day.Mostly she got lost in her memories. Once upon a time, and it seemed so long ago, she had called her girls Merry Berry, Bobbie Doll, names like that. They used to sing "High Hopes" all the time, and songs from Mary Poppins.They had endless positive-energy thoughts _ which Lizzie called "happy thoughts" _ and always shared them with one another, and with Brendan, of course.What else could she remember? What? Anything?They had so many animals over the years that eventually they gave each one a number.Chester, a black Lab with a curly tail like a chow, was number 16. The Lab would bark constantly, all day and all night, until Lizzie merely showed him a bottle of Tabasco sauce _ his kryptonite. Then he would finally shut up.Dukie, number 15, was a short-haired orange calico who Lizzie believed had probably been an old Jewish lady in another life and who was always complaining, "Oh no, no, no, no."Maximus Kiltimus was number 11; Stubbles was number 31; Kitten Little was number 35.Memories were all that Lizzie Connolly had _ because there could be no present for her. None.She couldn't be here in this horror house.She had to be somewhere else, anywhere else.Had to be!Had to be!Had to be!Because he was inside her now.The Wolf was inside her, in the real world, grunting and thrusting like an animal, violating, raping for minutes that seemed like hours.But Lizzie had the last laugh, didn't she?She wasn't there.She was somewhere in her memories.

Chapter 91.

THEN HE WAS FINALLY GONE, the terrible, inhuman Wolf. Monster! Beast! He'd given her a bathroom break, and food, but now he was gone. G.o.d, his arrogance in keeping her here in his house! When is he going to kill me? I'm going mad. Going, going, gone!She peered through teary eyes into the pitch-blackness. She'd been bound and gagged again. In a strange way, that was good news. It meant he still wanted her, right?Good G.o.d, I'm alive because I'm desirable to a horrid beast! Please help me, dear G.o.d. Please, please, help me.She thought about her good girls and then she turned her mind toward escape. A fantasy, she understood, and therefore escape in itself.By now, she knew this closet by heart, even in total darkness. It was as if she could see everything, as if she had night sight. More than anything, she was aware of her own body _ trapped in here _ and her mind _ trapped as well.Lizzie let her hands wander as much as they could. There were clothes in the closet _ a male's _ his. The closest to her was some kind of sport coat with round, smooth b.u.t.tons. Possibly a blazer? Lightweight, which reinforced her belief that this was a warm-weather city.Next was a vest. A smallish ball was in one pocket, hard, maybe a golf ball.What could she do with a golf ball? Could it be a weapon?A zipper on the pocket. What could she do with a zipper? She'd like to catch his tattooed d.i.c.k in it!Then a windbreaker. Flimsy. Strong, sickening smell of tobacco on it. And then, her favorite thing to touch, a soft overcoat, possibly cashmere.There were more "treasures" in the overcoat's pockets.A loose b.u.t.ton. Sc.r.a.ps of paper. From a notepad?A ballpoint pen, possibly a Bic. Coins _ four quarters, two dimes, a nickel. Unless the coins were foreign? She wondered endlessly.There was also a book of matches with a shiny cover and embossed letters.What did the embossed letters say? Could they tell her the city where she was being kept?Also, a lighter.A half pack of mints, which she knew to be cinnamon because she smelled it on her hands.And at the bottom of the pocket, lint, so insignificant, yet important to her now.Behind the overcoat were two bundles of his clothing still covered in plastic from the cleaners. A receipt of some kind on the first packet. Attached by a staple.She imagined the name of the cleaners, an identification number in red, writing by some dry- cleaning store clerk.All of it seemed strangely precious to Lizzie because she had nothing else.Except a powerful will to live.And get her revenge on the Wolf.

Chapter 92.

IWAS A PART of the large surveillance detail near the house in Highland Park, and I thought we were going to take Lawrence Lipton down soon, maybe within hours. We'd been told that Washington was working with the Dallas police.I stared absently at the house, a large two-story Tudor on about two and a half acres of very expensive real estate. It looked pristine. A redbrick sidewalk went from the street to an arched doorway, which led to a sixteen-room house. The big news that day in Dallas was about a ?re in Kessler Park that had incinerated a 64,000-square-foot mega mansion. The Lipton spread was less than a third that size, but it was still impressive, or depressing, or both.It was around nine in the evening. A supervisory agent from the Dallas office, Joseph Denyeau, came on my earphones. "We just got word from the director's office. We have to back off immediately. I don't understand it either. The order couldn't be any clearer, though. Pull back! Everybody head to the office. We need to reconnoiter and talk about this."I looked at my partner in the car that night, an agent named Bob Shaw. It was pretty obvious that he didn't understand what the h.e.l.l had just happened either."What was that?" I asked him.Shaw shook his head and rolled his eyes. "What do I know? We go back to the field office, drink some bad coffee, maybe somebody higher up explains it to us, but don't count on it."It took us only fifteen minutes to get to the field office at that time of night. We filed into a conference room at the field office, and I saw a lot of weary, confused, and p.i.s.sed-off agents. n.o.body was saying much yet. We'd gotten close to a possible break on this case, and now we'd been ordered to pull back. n.o.body seemed to understand why.The ASAC finally came out of his office and joined the rest of us. Joseph Denyeau looked thoroughly disgusted as he threw his dusty cowboy boots up on a conference table. "I have no idea," he announced. "Not a clue, folks. Consider yourselves debriefed."So about forty agents waited for an explanation of the night's action, but one didn't come, or wasn't "forthcoming," as they say. The agent in charge, Roger Nielsen, finally calledD.C. and was told they would get back to us. In the mean-time, we were to stand down. We might even be sent home in the morning.Around eleven o'clock Denyeau got another update from Nielsen and pa.s.sed it on to us. "They're working on it," he said, and smiled wryly."Working on what?" somebody called from the back."Oh, h.e.l.l, I don't know, Donnie. Working on their pedicures. Working on getting all of us to quit the Bureau. Then there'll be no more agents and, I guess, no more embarra.s.sing screw- ups for the media to report. I'm going to get some sleep. I'd advise all of you to do the same."That's what we did.

Chapter 93.

WE WERE BACK at the field office by eight the next morning. Several of the agents looked a little messed up after the night off. First thing, Director Burns was on the line from Washington. I was pretty sure the director rarely, if ever, spoke to the troops like this. So why do it now? What was up?Agents around the room were looking at one another. Brows crinkled, eyebrows arched. No one could fathom why Burns was so involved. Maybe I could. I'd seen the restlessness in him, the dissatisfaction with the ways of the past, even if he couldn't effectively change them all at once. Burns had started as a street cop in Philadelphia and worked his way up to police commissioner. Maybe he could change things at the Bureau."I wanted to explain what happened yesterday," he said over the speakerphone. Every agent in the room listened intently, myself included. "And I also wanted to apologize to all of you. Everything got territorial for a while. The Dallas police, the mayor, even the governor of Texas was involved. The Dallas police asked that we pull back because they didn't have full confidence in us. I agreed to the action because I wanted to talk it through with them rather than force our presence there."They didn't want mistakes, and they weren't sure that we have the right man. The Lipton family has a good reputation in the city. He's very well connected. Anyway, Dallas was surprised that we listened to their concerns and now they've backed off again. They respect the team we've a.s.sembled."We will continue our action against Lawrence Lipton, and believe me, we're going to take that b.a.s.t.a.r.d down. Then we're going to take Pasha Sorokin down, the Wolf. I don't want you to worry about past mistakes. Don't worry about mistakes at all. Just do your job in Dallas. I have the utmost confidence in you."Burns went off the line, and just about every agent's face in the room wore a smile. It was quite magical, actually. The director had said things that some of them had been waiting years to hear; especially welcome was the news that he believed in their ability and wasn't worried about mistakes. We were back in the game; we were expected to bring down Lawrence Lipton.Minutes after the phone call ended, my cell went off. I answered, and it was Burns himself. "So how'd I do?" he asked. I could hear the smile in his voice. I could also almost see the c.o.c.ky upturn of his lip when he grinned. He knew how he'd done.I walked away from the group into a far corner of the room and told him what he wanted to hear. "You did good. They're pumped to do the job."Burns exhaled. "Alex, I want you to turn up the heat on this punk. I sold you hard to Dallas as a key member of the team. They bought you, and your reputation. They know how good we think you are. I want you to make Lawrence Lipton very uncomfortable. Do it your own way."I found myself smiling. "I'll see what I can do.""And Alex, contrary to what I said to the others, don't make any mistakes."

Chapter 94.

DON_T MAKE ANY MISTAKES. It was a h.e.l.l of an exit line, I had to give him that. Kind of funny, in a s.a.d.i.s.tic, hard-a.s.s way. I was starting to like Ron Burns again. Couldn't help myself. But did I trust him?Somehow, I got the feeling that Burns wasn't that worried about the mistakes, though. He wanted to catch the kidnappers, especially Pasha Sorokin _ even if we didn't know yet who he really was or where he lived. According to Burns's orders, all I had to do was figure out a way to break Lawrence Lipton down, do it in a hurry, and not embarra.s.s the Bureau in any way.I met with Roger Nielsen on possible strategies _ we had already resumed surveillance on Lipton. It was decided that it was time to put real pressure on him, to let him know we were in Dallas and that we knew about him. After Burns's phone call, I wasn't surprised that I had been chosen to confront Lipton.We decided that I would go and see Lipton at his office in the Lakeside Square Building at the intersection of the LBJ Freeway and the North Central Expressway. The building was twenty stories high, with lots of reflective gla.s.s. It was practically blinding as I looked skyward in the Texas sunshine. I walked inside at a little past ten in the morning. Lipton's office suite was on the nineteenth floor. When I got off the elevator, a recorded voice said, "Howdy."I stepped into a large reception area with half an acre of wine-colored carpeting, beige walls, and dark brown leather sofas and chairs everywhere. There were framed, signed photos of Roger Staubach, Nolan Ryan, and Tom Landry on the walls.I was told to wait in reception by a very proper-looking young woman in a dark blue pantsuit. She sat self-importantly behind a sleek walnut desk under recessed lighting. She looked all of twenty-two or twenty-three years old, fresh out of charm school. She acted and spoke as properly as she looked."I'll wait, but let Mr. Lipton know it's the FBI. It's important that I see him," I told her.The receptionist smiled sweetly, as if she'd heard all this before, then she went back to answering the phone calls coming in on her headset. I sat down and waited patiently; I waited for fifteen minutes. Then I got back up again. I strolled over to the reception desk."You told Mr. Lipton that I'm here?" I asked politely. "That I'm with the FBI?""I did, sir," she said in a syrupy voice that was starting to rub me the wrong way."I need to see him right now," I told the girl, and waited until she made another call to Lipton's a.s.sistant.They talked briefly, then she looked back at me. "Do you have identification, sir?" she asked. She was frowning now."I do. They're called creds.""May I see it, please? Your creds." I showed off my new FBI badge, and she looked it over like a fast-food counter-person inspecting a fifty-dollar bill."Could you please wait over at the seating area?" she asked again, only now she seemed a little nervous, and I wondered what Lawrence Lipton's a.s.sistant had told her, what her marching orders were."You don't seem to understand, or I'm not making myself clear," I finally said. "I'm not here to fool around with you, and I'm not here to wait."The receptionist nodded. "Mr. Lipton is in a meeting. That's all I know, sir."I nodded back. "Tell his a.s.sistant to pull him out of his meeting right now. Have her tell Mr. Lipton that I'm not here to arrest him yet."I wandered back to the seating area, but I didn't bother to sit. I stood there and looked out on magnificent Technicolor green lawns that stretched to the concrete edge of the LBJ Freeway. I was burning inside.I'd just acted like a D.C. street cop. I wondered if Burns would have approved, but it didn't matter. He'd given me some rope, but I also had made a decision that I wasn't going to change because I was an FBI agent now. I was in Dallas to bring down a kidnapper; I was here to find out if Mrs. Elizabeth Connolly and others were alive and maybe being held somewhere as slaves. I was back on the Job. I heard a door open behind me and I turned. A heavyset man with graying hair was standing there and he looked angry."I'm Lawrence Lipton," he said. "What the h.e.l.l is this about?"

Chapter 95.

"WHAT THE h.e.l.l is this about?" Lipton repeated from the doorway in a loud-mouth, big- shot way. He was speaking to me as if I were a door-to-door brush salesman. "I think you were told that I'm in an important meeting. What does the FBI want with me? And why can't it wait? Why don't you have the courtesy to make an appointment?"There was something about his att.i.tude that didn't completely track for me. He was trying to be a tough guy, but I didn't think he was. He was just used to beating up on other businessmen. He wore a rumpled blue dress shirt and a rep tie, pinstriped trousers, and ta.s.seled loafers, and he was at least fifty pounds overweight. What could this man have in common with the Wolf?I looked at him and said, "It's about kidnapping; it's about murder. Do you want to talk about this out here in reception? Sterling."Lawrence Lipton paled and lost most of his bravado. "Come inside," he said, and took a step back.I followed him into an area of cubicles separated by low part.i.tions. Clerical personnel, lots of them. So far this was going about as I'd expected. But now it would get more interesting. Lipton might be "softer" than I had expected, but he had powerful connections in Dallas. This office building was in one of the most upscale residential /commercial parts of the city."I'm Mr. Potter," I said, as we walked down a corridor with fabric-covered walls. At least I played Mr. Potter the last time we talked in the Wolf's Den."Lipton didn't turn, didn't respond in any way. We entered a wood-paneled office and he shut the door. The large room had half a dozen windows and a panoramic view. A hat rack near the door held a collection of autographed Dallas Cowboy's and Texas Ranger caps."I still don't know what this is about, but I'll give you exactly five minutes to explain yourself," he snapped. "I don't think you know who you're talking to.""Actually, I do. You're Henry Lipton's oldest son. You're married with three children and a nice house in Highland Park. You're also involved with a kidnapping and murder scheme that we've been tracking closely for several weeks. You're Sterling, and I want you to understand something _ all your connections, all your father's connections in Dallas, will not help you now. On the other hand, I would like to protect your family as much as possible. That's up to you. I'm not bluffing. I don't ever bluff. This is a federal crime, not a local one.""I'm going to call my lawyer," Lawrence Lipton said, and went for the phone."You have that right. But I wouldn't if I were you. It won't do any good."My tone of voice, something, stopped Lipton from making the call. His "y hand moved away from the phone on his desk. "Why?" he asked.I said, "I don't care about you. You're involved in murder. But I've seen your kids, your wife. We've been watching you at the house. We've already spoken to your neighbors and friends. When you're arrested, your family will be in danger. We can protect them from the Wolf."Lipton's face and neck reddened, and he erupted with "What the h.e.l.l is wrong with you? Are you crazy? I'm a respected businessman. I never kidnapped or harmed another human being in my life. This is crazy.""You gave the orders. The money came to you. Mr. Potter sent you a hundred and twenty- five thousand dollars. Or rather, the FBI did.""I'm calling my lawyer," Lipton screamed. "This is ridiculous and insulting. I don't have to take this from anybody."I shrugged. "Then you're going down in the worst possible way. These offices will be searched immediately. And then your home in Highland Park. Your parents_ home in Kessler Park will be searched. Your father's office will be searched. Your wife's offices at the museum of art will be searched."He picked up his phone. I could see that his hand was shaking, though. Then he whispered, "Go f.u.c.k yourself."I pulled out a two-way and spoke into it. "Hit the offices and the houses," I said. I turned back to Lipton. "You'reunder arrest. You can call your lawyer now. Tell him you've been taken to the FBI offices." Minutes later, a dozen agents stormed into the office, with its gorgeous city views and stylish and expensive furnishings. We arrested Sterling.

Chapter 96.

PASHA SOROKIN WAS CLOSE by, and he was watching everyone and everything with great interest. Maybe it was time to show the FBI how these things were done in Moscow, to show them that this wasn't a child's game to be played with rules made up by the police.He had been there outside Sterling's office building in Dallas when the FBI team rushed inside. More than a dozen of them came calling. A strange a.s.semblage, to be sure: some dressed in dark business suits, others in dark blue windbreakers with FBI boldly imprinted on the back. Who did they really expect to find here? The Wolf? Others from the Wolf's Den?They had no concept of what they were getting themselves into. Their dark sedans and vans were parked in plain view on the street. Less than fifteen minutes after they had entered the office building, they came out with Lawrence Lipton in handcuffs, pathetically trying to shield his face.What a scene. They wanted to make a show of this, didn't they? Why do that? He wondered. To prove how tough they were? How smart? But they weren't smart. I will show you how tough and smart you need to be. I will show you how lacking you are in every way.He instructed his driver to start the car. The wheelman did not look around at his boss in the backseat. He said nothing. He knew not to question orders. The Wolf's ways were strange and unorthodox, but they worked.=rive past them," he ordered. "I want to say h.e.l.lo."The FBI agents were casting nervous looks around the street as they led Lawrence Lipton toward a waiting van. A black man walked beside Sterling. Tall and strangely confident. Pasha Sorokin knew from his informant in the Bureau that this was Alex Cross, and that he was held in high regard.How was it possible that a black man was given command of the raid? he wondered. In Russia, the American Negro was looked down upon. Sorokin had never gotten past his own prejudice; there was no reason to in the U.S."Get me close!" he told the driver. He lowered the rear pa.s.senger-side window. The second Cross and Lipton had pa.s.sed his car, Sorokin thrust out an automatic weapon and aimed it at the back of Sterling's head. Then an amazing thing, something he hadn't antic.i.p.ated, happened.Alex Cross threw Lipton down onto the pavement, and they both rolled behind a parked car. How had Cross known? What had he seen to alert him?Sorokin fired anyway, but he didn't really have a clear shot. Still, the gunshot rang out loudly. He had delivered a message. Sterling wasn't safe. Sterling was a dead man.