London Bridges

Chapter 3

On the sunny, blue-skied afternoon when one of them would die unexpectedly, needlessly, Frances and Dougie Puslowski were hanging sheets and pillowcases and the kids' play clothes out to dry in the noonday sun.

Suddenly U.S. Army soldiers began to arrive at their mobile-home park, Azure Views, in Sunrise Valley, Nevada. Lots of soldiers. A full convoy of U.S. jeeps and trucks came bouncing up the dirt road they lived on, and stopped abruptly. Troops poured out of the vehicles. The soldiers were heavily armed. They definitely meant business.

"What in the name of sweet Jesus is going on?" asked Dougie, who was currently on disability from the Cortey Mine outside Wells and was still trying to get used to the domestic scene. But Dougie knew that he was failing pretty badly. He was almost always depressed, always grumpy and mean-spirited, and always short with poor Frances and the kids.

Dougie noticed that the soldier boys and girls climbing out of their trucks were outfitted in battle dress uniform: leather boots, camouflage pants, olive T-shirts-the whole kit and caboodle, as if this were Iraq and not the ass end of Nevada. They carried M-16 rifles and ran toward the closest trailers with muzzles raised. Some of the soldiers even looked scared themselves.

The desert wind was blowing pretty good, and their voices carried all the way to the Puslowskis' clothesline. Frances and Dougie clearly heard "We're evacuating the town! This is an emergency situation. Everyone has to leave their houses now! Now, people!"

Frances Puslowski had the presence of mind to notice that all the soldiers were pretty much saying the same thing, as if they had rehearsed it, and that their tight, solemn faces sure showed that they wouldn't take no for an answer. The Puslowskis' three-hundred-odd neighbors-some of them very odd-were already leaving their mobile homes, complaining about it but definitely doing as they were told.

The next-door neighbor, Delta Shore, ran over to Frances. "What's happening, hon? Why are all these soldiers here? My good God Almighty! Can you believe it? They must be from Nellis or Fallon or someplace. I'm a little scared, Frances. You scared, hon?"

The clothespin in Frances 's mouth finally dropped to the ground as she spoke to Delta. "They say that they're evacuating us. I've got to get the girls."

Then Frances ran inside the mobile home, and at 240-some pounds, she had believed her sprinting, or even jogging, days were far behind her.

"Madison, Brett, c'mere, you two. Nothin' to be scared of. We just have to leave for a while! It'll be fun. Like a movie. Get a move on, you two!"

The girls, ages two and four, appeared from the small bedroom where they'd been watching Rolie Polie Olie on the Disney Channel. Madison, the oldest, offered her usual "Why? Why do we have to? I don't want to. I won't. We're too busy, Momma."

Frances grabbed her cell phone off the kitchen counter-and then the next really strange thing happened. She tried to get a line to the police, but there was nothing except loud static. Now that had never happened before, not that kind of annoying, buzzy noise she was hearing. Was some kind of invasion going down? Something nuclear, maybe?

"Damn it!" she snapped at the buzzing cell phone, and almost started to cry. "What is going on here?"

"You said a bad word!" Brett squeaked, but she also laughed at her mother. She kind of liked bad words. It was as if her mother had made a mistake, and she loved it when adults made mistakes.

"Get Mrs. Summerkin and Oink," Frances told the girls, who would not leave the house without their two favorite lovies, not even if the infernal plague of Egypt had come to town. Frances prayed that it hadn't-but what had? Why was the U.S. Army swarming all over the place, waving scary guns in people's faces?

She could hear her frightened neighbors outside, verbalizing the very thoughts racing around in her head: "What's happened?" "Who says we have to leave?" "Tell us why!" "Over my dead body, soldier! You hear me, now?"

That last voice was Dougie's! Now what was he up to?

"Dougie, come back in the house!" Frances yelled. "Help me with these girls! Dougie, I need you in here."

There was a gunshot outside! A loud, lightning-bolt crack exploded from one of the rifles.

Frances ran to the screen door-here she was, running again-and saw two U.S. Army soldiers standing over Dougie's body.

Oh my God, Dougie isn't moving. Oh my God, oh my God! The soldiers had shot him down like a rabid dog. For nothing! Frances started to shiver and shake, then threw up lunch.

Her girls screeched, "Yuk, Mommy! Mommy, yuk! You threw up all over the kitchen!"

Then suddenly a soldier with a couple of days' facial growth on his chin kicked open the screen door and he was right in her face and he was screaming, "Get out of this trailer! Now! Unless you want to die, too."

The soldier had the business end of a gun pointed right at Frances. "I'm not kidding, lady," he said. "Tell the truth, I'd just as soon shoot you as talk to you."

Chapter 4

The job-the operation, the mission-was to wipe out an entire American town. In broad daylight.

It was some eerie, psycho gig. Dawn of the Dead, either version, would be mild compared to this. Sunrise Valley, Nevada; population, 315 brave souls. Soon to be population, 0. Who was going to believe it? Well, hell, everybody would in less than about three minutes.

None of the men on board the small plane knew why the town was being targeted for extinction, or anything else about the strange mission, except that it paid extremely well, and all the money had been delivered to them up front. Hell, they didn't even know one another's names. All they had been told was their individual tasks for the mission. Just their little piece of the puzzle. That's what it was called-their piece.

Michael Costa from Los Angeles was the munitions expert on board and he'd been instructed to make a "bootleg fuel-air bomb with some real firepower."

Okay, he could do that easily enough.

His working model was the BLU-96, often called a Daisy Cutter, which graphically described the end result. Costa knew that the bomb had originally been designed to clear away mine fields, as well as jungles and forests for military landing zones. Then some really crazy, sick dude had figured out that the Daisy Cutter could wipe out people as easily as it could trees and boulders.

So now here he was inside an old, beat-to-hell cargo plane flying over the Tuscarora Mountain range toward Sunrise Valley, Nevada, and they were very close to T, for target.

He and his new best friends were assembling the bomb right there on the plane. They even had a diagram showing how to do it, as if they were idiots. Assembling Fuel-Air Bombs for Dummies.

The actual BLU-96 was a tightly controlled military weapon and relatively hard to obtain, Costa knew. Unfortunately for everybody who lived, loved, ate, slept, and shit in Sunrise Valley, Daisy Cutters could also be assembled at home out of readily obtainable ingredients. Costa had purchased a thousand-gallon supplemental fuel bladder, then filled it with high-octane gas, fitted a dispersing device, and inserted dynamite sticks as an initiator. Next, he made a motion brake and trigger assembly using a parachutist's altitude-deployment device for parts. Simple stuff like that.

Then, as he'd told the others on board the cargo plane, "You fly over the target. You push the bomb out the payload door. You run like your pants are on fire and there's an ocean up ahead. Trust me, the Daisy Cutter will leave nothing but scorched earth below. Sunrise Valley will be a burn mark in the desert. A memory. Just you watch."

Chapter 5

"Easy does it, gentlemen. No one is to be hurt. Not this time."

Nearly eight hundred miles away, the Wolf was watching in live time what was happening in the desert. What a flick! There were four cameras on the ground at Sunrise Valley that were pumping video footage to four monitors in the house in the Bel Air section of Los Angeles, where he was staying. For the moment, anyway.

He watched closely as the inhabitants of the mobile-home park were escorted by army personnel into waiting transport trucks. The clarity of the footage was very good. He could see the patches on the soldiers' arms:NEVADA ARMY GUARD UNIT 72ND.

Suddenly he spoke out loud, "Shit! Don't do that!" He started to squeeze the black handball rapidly in his fist, a habit when he was anxious or angry, or both.

One of the male civilians had pulled a gun and had it pointed at a soldier. Incredibly dumb mistake!

"You imbecile!" the Wolf shouted at the screen.

An instant later the man with the handgun was dead, facedown in the desert dust, which actually made it easier to get the other retards from Sunrise Valley into the transport trucks. Should have been part of the plan in the first place, the Wolf thought. But it hadn't been, so now it was a small problem.

Then one of the handheld cameras focused on a small cargo plane as it approached the town and circled overhead. This was just gorgeous to behold. The handheld was obviously on board one of the army trucks, which were, he hoped, speeding out of range.

It was amazing footage-black and white, which somehow made it even more powerful. Black and white was more realistic, no? Yes-absolutely.

The handheld was steady on the plane as it glided in over the town.

"Angels of death," he whispered. "Beautiful image. I'm such an artist."

It took two of them to push the bladder of gas out the payload door. Then the pilot banked a hard left, fire walled the engines, and climbed out of there as fast as he could. That was his job, his piece of the puzzle, and he'd done it very well. "You get to live," the Wolf spoke to the video again.

The camera was on a wide angle now and captured the bomb as it slowly plummeted toward the town. Stunning footage. Scary as hell, too, even for him to see. At approximately a hundred feet from the ground, the bomb detonated. "Ka-fucking-boom!" said the Wolf. It just came out of his mouth. Usually he wasn't this emotional about anything.

As he watched-couldn't take his eyes away-the Daisy Cutter leveled everything within five hundred yards of the drop site. It also had the capacity to kill everything within an area that large, which it did. This was utter devastation. Up to ten miles away windows blew out of buildings. The ground and buildings shook in Elko, Nevada, about thirty-five miles away. The explosion was heard in the next state.

And actually, much farther away than that. Right there in Los Angeles, for instance. Because tiny Sunrise Valley, Nevada, was just a test run.

"This is just a warm-up," said the Wolf. "Just the beginning of something great. My masterpiece. My payback."

Chapter 6

When everything started, I was blessedly out of the loop, on a four-day vacation to the West Coast, my first in over a year. First stop: Seattle, Washington.

Seattle is a beautiful, lively city that-in my opinion, anyway-nicely balances the funky old and the cyber new, with possibly a tip of a Microsoft cap to the future side of things. Under ordinary circumstances I would have looked forward to a visit there.

These were kind of shaky times, though, and I had only to look down at the small boy tightly holding on to my hand as we crossed Wallingford Avenue North to remember why.

I had only to listen to my heart.

The boy was my son Alex, and I was seeing him for the first time in four months. He and his mother lived in Seattle now. I lived in Washington, D.C., where I was an FBI agent. Alex's mom and I were involved in a "friendly" custody struggle over our son, at least it was evolving that way after a very stormy couple of encounters.

"You having fun?" I asked little Alex, who still carried around Moo, a spotted black-and-white cow that had been his favorite toy when he lived with me in Washington. He was almost three, but already a smooth talker and even smoother operator. God, I loved this little guy. His mother believed that he was a gifted child-high intelligence, high creativity-and since Christine was an elementary-school teacher, and an excellent one, she would probably know.

Christine's place was in the Wallingford area of Seattle, and because it's a pleasant walking neighborhood, Alex and I had decided to stay close to home. We started out playing in the backyard, which was bordered with Douglas firs and had plenty of room, not to mention a view of the Cascade Mountains.

I took several pictures of the Boy, per my instructions from Nana Mama. Alex wanted me to see his mother's vegetable garden, and as I expected, it was very well done, full of tomatoes, lettuce, and squash. The grass was neatly mown. Pots of rosemary and mint covered the kitchen windowsills. I took more pictures of Alex.

After our tour of the yard, we walked over to the Wallingford Playfield and had a catch-and-batting session, then it was the zoo, and then another hand-holding walk along nearby Green Lake. Alex was pumped up about the upcoming Seafair Kiddies Parade and didn't understand why I couldn't stay for it. I knew what was coming next and I tried to brace myself for it.

"Why do you always have to go away?" he asked, and I didn't have a good answer. Just a sudden, terrible ache in my chest that was all too familiar. I want to be with you every minute of every day, buddy, I wanted to say.

"I just do, buddy," I said. "But I'll be back soon. I promise. You know I keep my promises."

"Is it because you're a policeman?" he asked. "Why you have to go away?"

"Yes. Partly. That's my job. I have to make money to buy VCRs and Pop-Tarts."

"Why don't you get another job?" asked Alex.

"I'll think about it," I told him. Not a lie. I would. I had been thinking about my police career a lot lately. I'd even talked to my doctor about it, my head doctor.

Finally, about 2:30, we made our way back to his house, which is a restored Victorian, painted deep blue with white trim, in excellent condition. It's cozy and light and, I must admit, a nice place to grow up in-as is Seattle.

Little Alex even has a view of the Cascades from his room. What more could a boy ask for?

Maybe a father who is around more than once every few months? How about that?

Christine was waiting on the porch, and she welcomed us back warmly. This was such a switch from our last face-to-face in Washington. Could I trust Christine? I guess I had to.

Alex and I had a final couple of hugs on the sidewalk. I took a few more snapshots for Nana and the kids.

Then he and Christine disappeared inside, and I was on the outside, alone, walking back to my rental car with my hands stuffed deep in my pockets, wondering what it was all about, missing my small son already, missing him badly, wondering if it would always be as heartbreaking as this, knowing that it would be.

Chapter 7

After the visit with Alex in Seattle I took a flight down to San Francisco to spend some time with Homicide Inspector Jamilla Hughes. She and I had been seeing each other for about a year. I missed Jam and needed to be with her. She was good at making things all right.

Most of the way I listened to the fine vocals of Erykah Badu, then Calvin Richardson. They were good at making things right, too. Better, anyway.

As the plane got close to San Francisco we were treated to a surprisingly clear view of the Golden Gate Bridge and the city's skyline. I spotted the Embarcadero and the Transamerica Building, and then I just let the scene wash over me. I couldn't wait to see Jam. We'd been close ever since we worked a murder investigation together. The only problem: the two of us lived on different coasts. We liked our respective cities, and our jobs, and hadn't figured out where to go with that yet.

On the other hand, we definitely enjoyed being together, and I could see the joy on Jamilla's face as I spotted her near an exit at busy San Francisco International Airport. She was in front of a North Beach Deli, grinning, clapping her hands over her head, then jumping up and down. She has that kind of spirit and can get away with it.

I smiled and felt better as soon as I saw her. She always has that effect on me. She was wearing a buttery soft leather car coat, light blue T, and black jeans and looked as though she'd come straight from work. But she looked good, really good.

She'd put on lipstick-and perfume, I discovered as I took her into my arms. "Oh yes," I said. "I missed you."

"Then hold me, hug me, kiss me," she said. "How was your boy? How was Alex?"

"He's getting big, smarter, funnier. He's pretty great. I love that little guy. I miss him already, Jamilla."

"I know you do. I know you do, baby. Give me that hug."

I picked Jam up off her feet and spun her around. She's five-nine and solid, and I love holding her in my arms. I noticed a few people watching us, and most were smiling. How could they not?

Then two of the spectators, a man and a woman in dark suits, walked up to us. Now what is this?

The woman held up her badge for me to see: FBI.

Oh no. No. Don't do this to me.

Chapter 8

I groaned and gently set down Jamilla, as if we had been doing something wrong instead of something very right. All the good feelings inside me evaporated in a hurry. Just like that. Wham, bam! I needed a break-and this wasn't going to be it.

"I'm Agent Jean Matthews; this is Agent John Thompson," the woman said, gesturing to a thirty-something blond guy munching a Ghirardelli chocolate bar. "We hate to interrupt, to intrude, but we were sent out here to meet your plane. You're Alex Cross, sir?" she said, finally thinking to check.

"I'm Alex Cross. This is Inspector Hughes from the SFPD. You can talk in front of her," I said.

Agent Matthews shook her head. "No, sir, I'm afraid I can't."

Jamilla patted my arm. "It's okay." She walked away, leaving me with the two agents, which was the opposite of what I wanted to happen. I wanted them to walk away-far, far away.

"What's this about?" I asked Agent Matthews. I already knew it was something bad, which was an ongoing problem with my current job. FBI Director Burns had my schedule and itinerary at all times, even when I was off duty, which effectively meant that I was never off duty.

"As I said, sir, we were told to meet you. Then to put you right on a plane to Nevada. There's an emergency out there. A small town was bombed. Well, the town was blown off the map. The director wants you on the scene, like, an hour ago. It's a terrible disaster."

I was shaking my head, feeling incredible disappointment and frustration as I walked over to where Jamilla stood. I felt as if there was a hole in the center of my chest. "There's been a bombing in Nevada. They say it's on the news. I have to go out there," I told her. "I'll try to get back as soon as I can. I'm sorry. You have no idea how sorry I am."

The look on her face said it all. "I understand," she said. "Of course I understand. You have to go. Come back if you can."

I tried to hug her, but Jamilla backed away, finally giving me a small, sad wave. Then she turned and left without saying another word, and I think I knew that I had just lost her, too.

Chapter 9

I was on the move, but the whole scene felt more than frustrating-it was actually surreal. I flew by private jet from San Francisco to a small town in Nevada, and from there caught a ride in an FBI helicopter to what had once been Sunrise Valley.

I was trying not to think about little Alex, trying not to think about Jamilla, but so far it wasn't working. Maybe once I got to the bomb site? Once I was there in the action, in the middle of the shit.

I could tell by the way the local agents deferred to, and fussed around, me that my reputation, or the fact that I worked out of Washington, was making them nervous and edgy. Director Burns had made it clear that I was one of the Bureau's troubleshooters, that I was his troubleshooter. I wouldn't carry tales back to Washington, but the agents in the field offices didn't know that. How could they?

The helicopter ride to the bombing site took only about ten minutes. From the air, I could see emergency lights all around Sunrise Valley, or what had been Sunrise Valley. The town was gone now. There was still smoke, but no fire was visible from the air, possibly because there was nothing left to burn.

It was a little past eight o'clock. What the hell had happened out here? And why would somebody go to the trouble of destroying a hole-in-the-wall town like Sunrise Valley?

I had been briefed as soon as I stepped inside the FBI helicopter. Unfortunately, there wasn't too much information available. At four that afternoon, the residents-except for one male who'd been shot-had been "evacuated" by what appeared to be U.S. Army national guardsmen. The townspeople were then driven forty miles away to a point halfway to the nearest large town, Elko. Their location was called in to the Nevada State Police. By the time the troopers arrived to assist the badly frightened townies, the army trucks and jeeps were gone. And so was the town of Sunrise Valley. Blown off the map.

I mean, there was nothing down there but sand, sage, and scrub.

I could see fire trucks, vans, off-road vehicles, maybe half a dozen helicopters. As our copter began to settle down I spotted techies in chemical protective overgarments.

Jesus, what happened here?

Chemical warfare?

War?

Is that a possibility? In this day and age? Of course it is.

Chapter 10

It was probably the scariest thing I'd ever seen in my years as a police officer-total desolation, without apparent rhyme or reason.

As soon as we touched down and I climbed out of the helicopter, I was outfitted in chemical protective overgarments, CPOGs, including a gas mask and other gear. The rubber mask was state-of-the-art, with dual eyepieces and an internal drinking tube for replenishing fluids. I felt like a character in a scary Philip K. Dick story. But it didn't last too long. I took the unwieldy mask off as soon as I saw a couple of army officers roaming around without theirs.

We got a possible break soon after I arrived. A couple of rock climbers had spotted a man using a video camera to film the explosion. He looked suspicious, and one of the climbers had photographed the man with his digital camera. The climbers also had shots of the town's evacuation.

Two of our agents were interviewing the climbers, and I also wanted to talk to them as soon as the agents had finished. Unfortunately, the local police had gotten to the camera first and were holding it until their chief arrived at the scene. He was late, because he'd been away on a hunting trip.

When the chief finally got there, in an old black Dodge Polaris, I was all over him. I started talking before he had even climbed out of his car.

"Chief, your men are holding important evidence. We need to see it," I said, not raising my voice at the sixtyish, potbellied man but making sure he got the point. "This is a federal investigation now. I'm here representing both the FBI and Homeland Security. We've lost valuable time because of your men."

To his credit, the police chief himself was exasperated. He began yelling at his officers. "Bring the evidence over here, you morons. What the hell are you two trying to pull? What were you thinking? Do you think? Bring the evidence."

His men came running, and the taller of the two, who I later learned was the chief's son-in-law, handed over the camera. It was a Canon PowerShot and I knew how to get at the pictures.

So what do we have here? The first shots were well-composed nature photos. No people in any of them. Close-ups and wide-angle shots.

Then came pictures of the actual evacuation. Unbelievable.

Then I finally got my first look at the man who had filmed the explosion.

His back was to the camera. At first he was standing, but in the next few shots he was down on one knee. Probably to get a better angle.

I don't know what had prompted the rock climber to take the initial few shots, but his instincts were pretty good. The mystery man was videotaping the deserted town-then suddenly it went up in flames that rose several hundred feet high. It seemed pretty clear that he had known about the attack before it happened.

The next photograph showed the man turning in the direction of the climbers. He actually began to walk toward them, or so it appeared on film. I wondered if he'd spotted one of them taking his picture. He seemed to be looking their way.

That was when I saw his face, and I couldn't believe what I was looking at. I recognized him. And why not? I'd been chasing him for years. He was wanted for more than a dozen murders here and in Europe. He was a vicious psychopath, one of the worst of his kind still on the loose anywhere in the world.

His name was Geoffrey Shafer, but I knew him better as the Weasel.

What was he doing here?

Chapter 11

There were a couple more crystal-clear shots as the hateful Weasel got closer to the photographer.

Just the sight of him sent my brain reeling, and I felt a little sick. My mouth was dry, and I kept licking my lips. What is Shafer doing here? What connection does he have to the bomb that leveled this small town? It was crazy, felt like a dream, completely unreal.

I'd first come across Colonel Geoffrey Shafer in Washington three years ago. He'd murdered more than a dozen people there, though we could never prove it. He would pose as a cabdriver, usually in Southeast, where I lived. The prey was easy to grab, and he knew D.C. police investigations weren't as thorough when the victims were poor and black. Shafer also had a day job-he was an army colonel working inside the British embassy. On the face of it, he couldn't have been more respectable. And yet he was a horrible murderer, one of the worst pattern killers I'd ever come across.

A local agent named Fred Wade joined me near the helicopter I'd come in on. I was still studying the climber's photos. Wade told me he wanted to know what was going on, and I couldn't blame him. So did I.

"The man who videotaped the explosion is named Geoffrey Shafer," I told Wade. "I know him. He committed several murders in D.C. when I was a homicide detective there. The last we heard of him, he'd fled to London. He murdered his wife in front of their children in a London market. Then he disappeared. Well, I guess he's back. I have no idea why, but it makes my head hurt just to think about it."

I took out my cell phone and put in a call to Washington. As I described what I'd discovered, I was reviewing the last few photographs taken of Colonel Shafer. In one of the photos he was climbing into a red Ford Bronco.

The next was a rear shot of the Bronco as it rode away. Jesus. The license plate was visible.

And that was the strangest thing of all so far: the Weasel had made a mistake.

The Weasel I'd known didn't make them.

So maybe it wasn't a mistake after all.

Maybe it was part of a plan.

Chapter 12

The Wolf was still in Los Angeles, but reports were coming in from the Nevada desert on a regular basis. Police arriving near Sunrise Valley… then helicopters… the U.S. Army… finally the FBI.

His old friend Alex Cross was out there now, too. Good for Alex Cross. What a good soldier.

Nobody understanding a goddamn thing, of course.

No coherent theory about what had happened in the desert.

How could there be?

It was chaos, and that was the beauty of it. Nothing scared people more than what they didn't understand.

Case in point, a local L.A. hot shit named Fedya Abramtsov and his wife, Liza. Fedya wanted to be a big Mafiya gangster, but also lead the life of a movie-star type in Beverly Hills. This was Fedya and Liza's house that he was staying in now, but really, the Wolf thought of it as his house; after all, their money was his money. Without him, they were nothing but small-time punks with big ambitions.

Fedya and Liza hadn't even known he was at their house. The couple had been at their place in Aspen and finally got back to L.A. at just past ten that evening.

Imagine their surprise.

A powerful-looking man sitting by himself in the living room. Just sitting there. So peaceful. Rhythmically squeezing a rubber ball in his right hand.

They had never seen him before.

"Who the hell are you?" demanded Liza. "What are you doing here?"

The Wolf spread his arms. "I am the one who gave you all of this wonderful stuff. And what do you give me in return? Disrespect like this? I am the Wolf."

Fedya had heard enough already. He knew that if the Wolf was there, letting himself be seen, then he and Liza were as good as dead. Best to run and hope to God the Wolf is here alone, unlikely as that may be.

He took a single step, and the Wolf raised a handgun from out of the seat cushion. He was good with a gun. He shot Fedya Abramtsov once in the back, once in the back of his neck.

"He's very dead," he calmly said to Liza, which he knew to be a nickname of hers. "I prefer Yelizaveta," he said. "Not so common, so Americanized. Come and sit. Come. Please."

The Wolf patted his lap. "Come. I don't like to repeat myself."

The girl was a pretty one-smart, too-and apparently ruthless as a snake. She walked across the room and sat in the Wolf's lap. She did as she was told, anyway. Good girl.

"I like you, Yelizaveta. But what choice do I have-you've disobeyed me. You and Fedya stole my money. Don't argue. I know it's true." He looked into her beautiful brown eyes. "Do you know zamochit?" he asked. "The breaking of bones?"

Apparently Yelizaveta did, because she screamed at the top of her lungs.

"This is good," said the Wolf as he grabbed the woman's slender left wrist. "Everything is going so well today."

He started with Yelizaveta's little finger, just the pinkie.

Chapter 13

Had a war started? If it had, who was the enemy?

It was pitch-black, and it was freezing cold in the desert. Scary and disorienting, to put it mildly. No moon out. Was that part of the plan? What was supposed to happen next? Where? To whom? Why?

I tried to collect my thoughts and make a rough plan to take us through the next few hours in at least a semiorganized manner. Difficult to do, maybe impossible. We were looking for a small convoy of army trucks and jeeps that seemed to have disappeared, to have been gobbled up by the desert. But also a Ford Bronco with the Nevada license tags 322JBP and a sunset design.

And we were looking for Geoffrey Shafer. Why would the Weasel be here?

While we waited for something to break, maybe a message or a warning, I walked around what had been Sunrise Valley. Where the bomb had actually detonated, buildings and vehicles hadn't just been flattened, they'd been practically vaporized. Little bits of death and destruction, sparks and ash, were still floating in the air. The night sky was masked by a dark and oily cloud of smoke, and I was struck by the unsettling idea that only man could create something like this, and only man would want to.

As I wandered through the mounds of debris, I also talked to agents and techs involved in the investigation and I began to make a few crime-scene notes of my own:

Bits and pieces of the mobile-home camp are scattered everywhere.

Witnesses describe canisters dropped from a prop plane.

One falling can seemed about to strike a trailer home, then exploded in midair above the town.

At first, the explosion was like a "white, undulating jellyfish cloud," then the cloud ignited.

High winds from the heat of the fire, convection whirls, apparently blew at gale force for several minutes.

So far we had discovered only one body in the rubble. Everyone was wondering the same thing: why only one? Why spare the others? Why blow up this trailer-park town at all?

It just didn't make sense. Nothing did so far. But especially Shafer's presence.

One of the local FBI agents, Ginny Moriarity, called out my name and I turned. She waved excitedly for me to come over. Now what?

I jogged back to where Agent Moriarity was standing with a couple of local cops. They all seemed exercized about something.

"We found the Bronco," she told me. "No army trucks, but we located the Bronco in Wells."

"What's in Wells?" I asked Moriarity.

"An airport."

Chapter 14

"Let's go!"

I was back in the FBI helicopter and headed to Wells in a hurry, hoping to catch up with the Weasel. It seemed like a long shot, but we didn't have anything else. Agents Wade and Moriarity traveled with me. They didn't want to miss this-whatever was waiting in Wells.

As we pulled up and away from what remained of Sunrise Valley, I was aware of the high desert; the former town was at an elevation over 4,000 feet.

Then I tuned out the surroundings and started thinking about Shafer, trying once again to figure what could possibly tie him to this mess, this disaster, this murder scene. Three years before, Shafer had kidnapped Christine Johnson. It had happened during a family vacation in Bermuda; at the time, Christine and I were engaged to be married. Neither of us knew it, but she was pregnant with Alex when Shafer abducted her. We were never the same after her rescue. John Sampson, my best friend, and I found her in Jamaica. Christine was emotionally scarred, and, of course, I couldn't blame her. Then she moved out to Seattle, where she lived with Alex. And I blamed Shafer for the custody struggle.

Who was he working with? One thing was obvious, and probably useful to the investigation: the firebombing at Sunrise Valley had involved a lot of people. So far we didn't know who the men and women posing as U.S. Army were, but we did know that they weren't real army national guardsmen. Sources at the Pentagon had helped confirm that much. Then there was the matter of the bomb that had leveled the town. Who made it? Probably somebody with military experience. Shafer had been a colonel in the British army, but he'd also served as a mercenary.

Lots of interesting connections, but nothing very clear yet.

The helicopter pilot turned to me. "We should be in visual contact with Wells as soon as we clear these mountains up ahead. We'll see lights, anyway. But so will they. I don't think we can sneak up on anybody out here in the desert."

I nodded to him. "Just try to land as close as you can to the airport. We'll coordinate with the state troopers. We might draw fire," I added.

"Understood," the pilot said.

I started to discuss our options with Wade and Moriarity. Should we try to land at the airport itself, or nearby in the desert? Had either of them fired their weapons before, or been fired on? I found out that they hadn't. Neither of them. Terrific.

The pilot turned to us again. "Here we go. Airport should be coming up on our right. There."

Suddenly I could see a small airfield with a two-story building and what looked like two airstrips. I spotted cars, maybe half a dozen, but I didn't see a red Bronco yet.

Then I saw a small private plane taxiing and getting ready for takeoff.

Shafer? It didn't seem likely to me, but neither did anything else so far.

"I thought we shut down Wells?" I called to the pilot.

"So did I. Maybe this is our boy. If it is, he's gone. That's a Learjet 55 and it moves pretty damn good."

From that moment on, there was very little we could do but watch. The Learjet shot down one of the runways, then it was airborne, winging away from us and making it look ridiculously easy. I could imagine Geoffrey Shafer on board, looking back at the FBI helicopter, maybe giving us the finger. Or was he giving me the finger? Could he know that I was there?

A few minutes later we were on the ground at Wells. Almost immediately I got the jolting news that the Learjet was off radar.

"What do you mean 'off radar'?" I asked the two techies inside the tiny Wells control room.

The older of the two answered. "What I mean is that the jet seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth. It's like it was never here."

But the Weasel had been there- I'd seen him. And I had photographs to prove it.

Chapter 15

Geoffrey Shafer drove a dark blue Oldsmobile Cutlass full-bore through the desert. He wasn't on board the jet that had flown out of Wells, Nevada. That would have been too easy. Weasels always have several escape routes planned.

As he drove, Shafer was thinking that the oddly brilliant plan in the desert had worked well, and there had certainly been backup contingencies just in case something didn't work right. He had also learned that Dr. Cross, now with the FBI, had shown up in Nevada.

Is that part of the big picture, too? Somehow, he expected that it was. But why Cross? What does the Wolf have in mind for him?

The Weasel eventually made a stop in Fallon, Nevada, where he was scheduled to make his next contact. He didn't know exactly who he was contacting, or why, or where this whole operation was leading. He just knew his piece-and his explicit orders were to call in from Fallon and get the next set of instructions.

So he followed his orders, registered at the Best Inn Fallon, and went straight to his room. He used a cell phone, which he'd been told to destroy after he made the call. There were no pleasantries exchanged, no unnecessary words. Just the business at hand.

"This is the Wolf," he heard as contact was made, and Shafer wondered if that was so. According to rumor, the real Wolf had impersonators, maybe even body doubles. All of them with their piece, right?

Next he heard disturbing news. "You were seen, Colonel Shafer. You were spotted and photographed near Sunrise Valley. Did you know that?"

At first, Shafer tried to deny it, but he was cut off.

"We're looking at copies of the pictures right now. That's how the Bronco was followed to Wells. Which is why we told you to exchange vehicles outside town and drive to Fallon. Just in case something went wrong."

Shafer didn't know what to say. How could he have been spotted out in the middle of nowhere? Why was Cross there?

The Wolf finally laughed. "Oh, don't worry your pretty head, Colonel. You were supposed to be spotted. The photographer works for us.

"Now proceed to your next contact point in the morning. And have some fun tonight in Fallon. Paint the town, Colonel. I want you to go and kill somebody out in the desert. You choose a victim. Do your stuff. That's an order."

Chapter 16

The level of frustration and tension I was feeling was increasing by the hour, and so was the general confusion about the case. I'd never seen so much chaos, so fast, in my entire life.

Almost a full day after the bombing, there was nothing but a hole in the ground in the Nevada desert, and a couple of questionable leads. We had talked to the three hundred or so residents of Sunrise Valley, but none of the survivors had a clue, either. Nothing unusual had happened in the days before the bombing; no stranger had visited. We hadn't found the army vehicles or discovered where they had come from. What had happened in Sunrise Valley still didn't make sense. Neither did Colonel Geoffrey Shafer's being there. But it sure shook us up.

No one had even taken credit for the bombing yet.

After two days, there wasn't too much more I could do out in the desert, so I caught a ride home to Washington. I found Nana, the kids, even Rosie the cat out on the front porch, waiting for me.

Home, sweet home again. Why didn't I just learn a lesson and stay there?

"This is real nice," I said, beaming as I bounded up the steps. "A welcoming committee. I guess everybody missed me, right? How long you been out here waiting for your pops?"

Nana and the kids shook their heads pretty much in unison, and I smelled conspiracy.

Nana said, "Of course we're glad to see you, Alex," and finally cracked a smile. They all did. Conspiracy, for sure.

"Gotcha!" said Jannie, who was ten. She had on a crocheted sun hat with her braids hanging out. "Of course we're your welcoming committee. Of course we missed you, Daddy. Who wouldn't?"

"Got you bad!" Damon taunted from his perch on the rail. He was twelve and looked the part. Sean John T-shirt, straight-leg jeans, Hiptowns.

I pointed a finger at him. "I'll get you, you break my porch rail." Then I smiled. "Gotcha!" I said to Damon.

After that, I had to answer all sorts of questions about little Alex and show around my digital camera with dozens of pictures of our beloved little man.

Everybody was pretty much laughing now, which was better, and it was definitely good to be home again, even if I was still waiting for more news about the bombing in Nevada and about Shafer's involvement.

Nana had held dinner for me, and after a delicious meal of roast chicken with garlic and lemon, squash, mushrooms, and onions, the family congregated in the kitchen over cleanup and bowls of ice cream. Jannie showed off a pen-and-ink of her heroes Venus and Serena Williams, which was sensational; eventually, we watched the Washington Wizards on TV. Finally, everybody started to wander off to bed, but there were hugs and kisses first. Nice, very nice. Much, much better than yesterday and, I was willing to bet, not as good as tomorrow.

Chapter 17

About eleven, I finally climbed the steep stairs to my office in the attic. I reviewed my case file on Sunrise Valley for twenty minutes or so in preparation for the next day, then I called Jamilla in San Francisco. I'd talked to her a couple of times over the past two days, but I'd mostly been too busy. I figured she might be home from work by now.

All I got was a voice message, though.

I don't like to leave messages myself, especially since I'd already left a couple from Nevada, but I finally said, "Hi, it's Alex. I'm still trying to sell you on the idea of forgiving me for what happened at the airport in San Francisco. If you want to come East sometime soon, I'm buying the plane ticket. Talk to you soon. I miss you, Jam. Bye."

I hung up the phone, then let out the sigh I'd been holding in. I was blowing it again, wasn't I? Hell, yes, I was. Why would I do such a thing?

I went downstairs and ate a double-size piece of corn bread that Nana had made for the next day. It didn't help, just made me feel even worse, guilty about my eating habits. I sat on a kitchen chair with Rosie the cat in my lap, stroking her.

"You like me, right? Don't you, Rosie? I'm kind of a nice guy?"

The phone calls weren't over for the night. Just past midnight I received a call from one of the agents I'd worked with out in Nevada. Fred Wade had something he thought I might find interesting. "We just got this from Fallon," he told me. "Receptionist in a Best Inn there was raped and murdered two nights ago. Her body was left in the brush near the motel parking lot. Like we were supposed to find it. We got a description of a guest who could be your Colonel Shafer. Needless to say, he's long gone from Fallon."

Your Colonel Shafer. That said it all, didn't it? He's long gone from Fallon. Of course he was.

Chapter 18

I didn't sleep much that night. I think I had awful nightmares about the Weasel. And about the holocaust in Sunrise Valley, Nevada.

Early the next morning I had to sign permission slips so the kids could go on a field trip to the National Aquarium in Baltimore. I signed the slips at four-thirty before they were up and while the house was still dark, then I had to sneak off to work. I didn't get to say good-bye, and I don't like that, but I left love notes for Jannie and Damon. Such a nice pops, right?

I drove to work with Alicia Keys and Calvin Richardson on the CD, good company for the trip and whatever lay ahead.

These days, Major Threats was being run out of FBI headquarters in D.C. Since 9/11, the Bureau had shifted dramatically-from what some people felt was a reactive, investigative organization to a much more proactive and effective one. A recent addition, a $6 million software package at the Hoover Building, included a 40-million-page terrorism database dating back to the '93 bombing of the World Trade Center.

We had a blizzard of information; now it was time to see if any of it was worth a damn.

About a dozen of us met on the subject of Sunrise Valley that morning in the Strategic Information and Operations Center command on the fifth floor. The obliteration of the small town had been listed as a "major threat," even though we had no way to tell whether it was. So far, we didn't have a single clue as to what Sunrise Valley was really about.

There still hadn't been any contact with the bombers, not a word from them.

Surreal. And probably scarier than if we had heard from them.

This particular conference room was one of the jazzier and more comfortable ones: lots of blue leather armchairs, a dark wooden table, wine-colored rug. Two flags-an American and a DOJ-lots of crisp white shirts and striped ties around the table.

I had on jeans and a navy windbreaker that read,FBI TERRORISM TASK FORCE. And I felt that I was the only one dressed correctly for the day. This case sure wasn't going to be business as usual.

The room was loaded with heavy hitters, though. The highest-ranking person was Burt Manning, one of the five executive assistant directors at the Bureau. Also present were senior agents from the National Joint Terrorism Task Force, as well as the top analyst from the new Office of Intelligence, which combined experts from the Bureau and the CIA.

My partner for the morning was Monnie Donnelley, a superior analyst and a good friend from my time at Quantico.

"I see you got your personal invitation," I said as I sat down beside Monnie. "Welcome to the party."

"Oh, I wouldn't miss this. It's like sci-fi, or something. It's so weird, Alex."

"Yeah, it's all of that."

On the screen at the front of the room was the special agent in charge from the Las Vegas field office. The SAC was reporting in about the mobile crime lab that had been set up inside the town limits of what had been Sunrise Valley. She didn't have much new, though, and the meeting quickly moved on to threat assessment.

This was where everything got a lot more interesting.

First, there was a discussion of domestic terrorist groups such as the National Alliance and the Aryan Nations. But nobody really believed those simpletons could be responsible for something as well planned as this. Next up was the latest on al Qaeda and Hezbollah, the radical jihad movement. These groups received a solid couple of hours of heated discussion. They were definitely suspects. Then formal assignments were given out by Manning.

I didn't get an assignment, which made me wonder if I would be hearing from Director Burns soon. I didn't particularly want to hear from him on this one. I didn't want to travel out of Washington again, especially back to Nevada.

And then it got really wild.

Every pager in the conference room went off simultaneously!

Within seconds, everybody had checked his pager, myself included. For the past several months all terror threats got flashed to senior agents, whether it was a suspicious package on a New York subway or an anthrax threat in L.A.

The message on my pager read:

TWO SURFACE-TO-AIR MISSILES MISSING AT KIRTLAND AIR FORCE BASE IN ALBUQUERQUE.

CONNECTION TO SUNRISE VALLEY SITUATION BEING INVESTIGATED.

WILL KEEP INFORMED.

Chapter 19

No rest for the righteous, read a placard on the wall near the canteen and soda machines. At 5:50 that night, we were called back to the conference room on the fifth floor. The same august group as before. Some of us were guessing that the Bureau had finally been contacted by whoever was responsible for the bombing of Sunrise Valley. Others thought this might have to do with the missile thefts from Kirtland.

A few minutes later, half a dozen agents from the CIA arrived. All in suits with briefcases. Uh-oh. Then came half a dozen hitters from Homeland Security. Things were definitely getting more serious now.

"This is getting hinky," Monnie Donnelley whispered to me. "It's one thing to talk the talk about interagency cooperation. But the CIA is really here."

I smiled over at Monnie. "You're sure in a good mood."

She shrugged. "As General Patton used to say about the battlefield, 'God help me, I do love it so!'"

Director Burns entered the room precisely at six. He walked in with Thomas Weir, the head of the CIA, and Stephen Bowen from Homeland Security. The three heavies looked extremely uneasy. Maybe just being there together did it-which succeeded in making all of us nervous, too.

Monnie and I exchanged another look. A few agents continued to talk, even as the directors took their places in front. It was the veterans' way of showing that they'd been here before. Had they? Had anyone? I didn't think so.

"Can I have your attention," Director Burns said, and the room immediately went quiet. All eyes were glued to the front.

Burns let the quiet settle in, and then he continued.

"I want to bring you up to speed. The first contact that we received on this situation was two days before the bombing in Sunrise Valley, Nevada. The initial message concluded with the words 'it is our hope that no one will be injured during the violence.' The nature of 'the violence' wasn't revealed or even hinted at. We were also instructed not to mention the initial contact to anyone. We were warned that if we did, there would be serious consequences, though these consequences were never spelled out for us."

Burns paused and looked around the room. He made eye contact with me, nodded, then moved on. I wondered how much he knew that the rest of us didn't. And who else was involved? The White House? I would think so.

"We have been contacted every day since then. One message went to Mr. Bowen, one to Director Weir, and one to me. Until today, nothing of consequence had been revealed. But this morning each of us received a film of the bombing in Nevada. The film had been edited. I'll share it with you now."

Burns made a rapid, circular hand signal and a video began to play on the half a dozen monitors around the room. The film was in black and white; it was grainy and looked handheld, like news footage. Like war footage, actually. The room was very quiet as we watched the video.

From a distance of a mile or more, one camera angle revealed the army trucks and jeeps arriving in Sunrise Valley. Moments later the mystified residents were escorted from their mobile homes into the trucks.

A man pulled a handgun and was shot dead in the street. Douglas Puslowski, I knew.

The convoy then drove off quickly, raising great clouds of dust.

In the next shot, a large, dark object tumbled into view from the sky. While it was still in the air, there was an incredible explosion.

The film of the actual bombing had also been edited but showed footage from only a single camera. The editing was mostly a series of jump cuts. Jarring, but effective.

This was followed by a long shot of the explosion. The plane that delivered the bomb was never in the shot.

"They filmed the whole damn thing," Burns said. "They wanted us to know that they were there, that they are the ones who bombed the town out of existence. In a few minutes they're going to tell us why. They'll call on the phone.

"The person making the calls has been using phone cards from public phones. Crude but effective. So far, the calls have originated from grocery stores, movie theaters, bowling alleys. Pretty much untraceable, as you know."

We sat mostly in silence for a minute or two. There were only a few private conversations going on.

Then the quiet was broken-the phone at the front of the room began to ring.

Chapter 20

"This will be on speaker for everyone to hear," Burns told us. "They said it was permissible, even advisable for all of you to be here. In other words, they expected an audience. They're very big on rules, as you'll see."

"Who the hell is they?" Monnie whispered up close to my ear. "See, it is sci-fi. Aliens, maybe? That's my bet going in."

"We'll know in a minute, won't we? I'm not betting against you."

Director Burns pushed a button on his console, and a male voice came over the speakers. The voice was heavily filtered.

"Good evening. This is the Wolf," we heard.

The hair on the back of my neck rose immediately. I knew the Wolf; I'd chased him for nearly a year. In fact, I'd never known a more ruthless killer.

"I'm the one responsible for the destruction of Sunrise Valley. I'd like to explain myself-at least, as much as you deserve to know. Or should I say, as much as I want you to know at this time."

Monnie looked over at me and shook her head. She knew the Wolf, too. The news couldn't have been worse if the call had come straight from hell.

"It's good to be able to talk to all of you, so many self-important people gathered together just to listen to my ramblings. The FBI, CIA, Homeland Security," the Wolf continued. "I'm so very impressed. Humbled, actually."

"Do you want us to talk, or listen?" Burns asked.

"Who am I speaking to? Who was that just now? Would you mind identifying yourself?"

"It's Director Burns, FBI. I'm with Director Weir of the CIA and Stephen Bowen of Homeland Security."

There was a crackling sound over the speakers that might have been a laugh. "Well, I'm just so very honored again, Mr. Burns. I'd have thought you would assign a lackey to speak to me. At first, anyway. Someone like Dr. Cross. But, you know, it's better that we talk top-to-top. That's always best, don't you think?"

Weir from the CIA said, "You specifically requested 'the first team' in your earlier contact. Believe me, this is the first team. We're taking the bombing incident in Nevada seriously."

"You actually listened. I'm impressed. I've heard that about you, Mr. Weir. Although I foresee some possible problems between us in the future."

"Why is that?" Weir asked.

"You're the CIA. Not to be trusted. Not for a minute… Don't you read your Graham Greene? Who else is on your first team?" the Wolf asked. "Stand up and be counted."

Burns went around the room, listing who was present. He omitted a couple of agents, and I wondered why.

"Excellent choices, for the most part," the Wolf said once Burns had finished the roll call. "I'm sure you know who to trust, and who not to, who you can depend on-with your very lives. Personally, I'm not keen on the CIA, but that's just me. I find them to be liars and unnecessarily dangerous. Does anyone there disagree?"

No one spoke, and the speakers crackled with the Wolf's laughter. "That's interesting, don't you think? Even the CIA doesn't disagree with my scathing indictment."

Suddenly the Wolf's tone changed. "Now listen closely to what I have to tell you, you morons. That's the important thing now, you have to listen to me. Many lives can be saved if you do. And you must obey.

"Does everyone get that? Listen and obey? I want to hear you. Please, speak up. Do all of you fucking understand?"

Everyone spoke at once, and although it seemed absurd and childish, we understood that the Wolf was showing us he was in control, total control.

Burns suddenly spoke in a loud voice, "He's gone! He hung up! He's off the line, the son of a bitch!"

Chapter 21

We waited like his puppets in the conference room, but the Russian mobster didn't make contact again. I knew the bastard well, and I didn't expect him to call us back. He was playing with us now.

Eventually I went back to my office, and Monnie Donnelley headed to Virginia. I still hadn't been assigned to the case-not officially, anyway. But the Wolf had known I would be there in the crisis room. He'd singled me out for a gratuitous insult. Just his style.

What was he up to? A mobster using terror tactics? Starting a war? If a small group of madmen in the desert could do it, why not the Russian Mafiya? All it seemed to take was a ruthless enough leader, and money.

I waited and wondered if the terrible uncertainty I felt was part of the Russian's plan to increase the pressure and stress. To control us? Test our patience?

And, of course, I thought about Geoffrey Shafer and how he might be connected. What was that all about? I'd already pulled up most of the recent data on Shafer. We had put an old girlfriend of Shafer's-his therapist-under surveillance. Her name was Elizabeth Cassady and I was trying to get a look at the notes from her therapy sessions with Shafer.

Later, I checked in at home and talked to Nana. She accused me of eating her corn bread and I blamed it on Damon, which got a cackle out of her. "You have to take responsibility for your actions," she scolded.

"Oh, I take full responsibility," I told her. "I ate the corn bread, and I'm glad. It was delicious."

Shortly after I got off the phone I was called down to a meeting in the crisis room. Tony Woods from the director's office addressed a roomful of agents. "There have been new developments," he began in a solemn tone. "All hell has broken loose in Europe."

Tony Woods paused, then went on: "There were two more terrible firebombings about an hour ago. Both were in Western Europe.

"One bombing took place in the northern part of England, in Northumberland, near the border with Scotland. The village of Middleton Hall-population, four hundred plus-is no more." Woods paused. "This time the townspeople weren't evacuated. We don't know why. There were close to a hundred casualties. It was a horrible bloodbath. Whole families died-men, women, and some children.

"We have already received a filmed segment from Scotland Yard. A local policeman took it from the Cheviots, which are a range of nearby hills. I'll put it on for you to see."

We sat and watched the short film in total, stunned silence. At the end, the local policeman himself spoke to the camera. "My name is Robert Wilson, and I grew up here in Middleton Hall, which is gone. There was a single main street, a couple of pubs and shops, houses of people I knew. There used to be an old Royal Engineers bridge into town, but that was blown up. Our local pub-gone. As I stand here, looking over this wasteland, I am reminded of why I am a Christian. What I feel most is hopelessness about our world."

Following the moving tape, Tony Woods told us about the bombing that had taken place in Germany. He said he had no accompanying videotape as yet.

"The damage in Lübeck was not quite as horrifying, but it's bad. A group of college students apparently resisted. Eleven of them were killed. Lübeck is in the Schleswig-Holstein region of Germany, near the border with Denmark. It's a farming area. Secluded. The Wolf has made no contact about the bombings. Nor were we warned ahead of time. All we know is, it's escalating."

Chapter 22

What next? And how soon would it happen?

The tension during the next waiting period was excruciating. A madman was out there blowing up small towns and wouldn't tell us why, or if the attacks would continue and get worse.

For the time being, I concentrated my attention on a close study of the psychopathic Weasel-reading and re-reading everything in his thick file. More than I wanted to, I could see his face, hear his voice. I wanted to bring him down. I went through notes from the psychiatrist who'd treated Shafer when he'd lived in Washington. Not only had Dr. Elizabeth Cassady been Shafer's shrink, she'd been his lover.

The notes were mind-boggling, to say the least, especially given the nature of their relationship and how it had developed-and also how wrong she'd been about Shafer. As I read, I made notes on Dr. Cassady's notes.

FIRST ENCOUNTER

XX-year-old-male, self-referred with stated chief complaint-"I'm having trouble at work focusing on my projects." Stated that what he does is "classified." Also described people at work telling him that he has been behaving "strangely." Client said that he is married, father of three: twin girls and a boy; stated that he is "happy" at home and with his wife.

IMPRESSION

Well-dressed, very attractive, articulate male, somewhat restless, and with considerable presence. Somewhat grandiose in describing his past accomplishments.

RULE OUT

Schizoaffective disorder

Delusional disorder

Substance-induced mood disorder (primarily alcohol or recreational drugs)

Attention deficit hyperactivity disorder

Borderline personality disorder

Unipolar depression

INTERVIEW #3

10 minutes late for appointment today. Irritable when questioned about this. Stated that he felt "spectacular," and yet seemed ill at ease and anxious in session.

INTERVIEW #6

When questioned about home life and earlier discussion of problems with sexual functioning, became somewhat inappropriate: chuckling, pacing, making sexually explicit jokes, and asking about my personal life. Stated that when he and his wife are together, he engages in fantasies about me and that this causes him to ejaculate prematurely.

INTERVIEW #9

Quiet today, almost with flattened affect, but denied any depression. Felt that people around him "don't understand me." Continued to describe sexual problems with wife. Stated that he had an episode of impotence last week with her, despite fantasizing about me. The sexual fantasies were very detailed and he refused to curtail them when asked. Admitted to being "obsessed" with me.

INTERVIEW #11

Marked change in affect today. Very energetic, euphoric, and almost overwhelmingly charismatic (possibility of sociopathic disorder). Questioned the need for further sessions, and stated, "I feel terrific." When questioned about issues with his wife, stated: "Things couldn't be better. She adores me, you know."

Discussed an episode of risky behavior this past week involving driving his car very fast, and intentionally leading police on a high-speed chase. Alluded to participating in sexual behavior with another partner, possibly a prostitute, and spoke of "rough sex." Manner of relating today was flirtatious, almost openly seductive. He is convinced that I "want" him.

INTERVIEW #14

Missed last appointment: no call. Apologetic today, but later became angry and restless. Stated that he felt the need to "reward himself." Discussed increase in libido again, mentioned calling several high-priced escort services to engage in sexual activity, and discussed desire to engage in sadomasochistic behavior.

Said that he is probably "in love" with me. No affect when he revealed this to me. None whatsoever. I must say, I am a little speechless. Colonel Shafer seems to be attending these sessions almost solely for the purpose of seducing me. And unfortunately, it's working.

Chapter 23

After reading Dr. Cassady's notes, I have to admit, I was a little speechless, too. More than a little, actually. The strange case notes began to side with Shafer after the sixteenth visit; they no longer contained any of his personal feelings that must have led to the affair.

Then Dr. Cassady stopped making notes on the sessions altogether. How incredibly odd, not to mention unprofessional. I assumed that their affair had begun by then. If I needed any more proof of what a clever and highly disturbed psychopath Shafer was, I had it in Dr. Cassady's notes.

Late that night I got a call to head down to the crisis room again. I was told that the Wolf would be calling momentarily. This had to be something. The countdown had to start.

When the call came through, he began in a low-key manner. "Thank you for getting together again on my behalf. I'll try not to disappoint you, or waste anyone's valuable time. Directors Burns, Bowen, Weir, do you have anything you'd like to say before I begin?"

"You told us to listen," said Burns. "We're listening."

There was a burst of laughter from the Wolf. "I like you, Burns. I suspect you'll be a worthy adversary. By the way, is a Mr. Mahoney there in the room?"

The head of the Hostage Rescue Team and a friend of mine glanced at Ron Burns, who nodded to him to speak.

Ned Mahoney sat hunched forward in his chair, and he was giving the Wolf the finger. "Yes, I'm right here. I'm listening." He still had his middle finger extended. "What can I do for you?"

"You can leave now, Mr. Mahoney. I'm afraid that you won't be needed. You're too unstable for my tastes. Too dangerous. And, yes, I'm quite serious."

Burns motioned for Mahoney to go.

"There will be no need for the FBI's Hostage Rescue Team," said the Wolf. "If it comes to that, all is lost, I assure you. I hope you're beginning to understand how my mind works. I don't want HRT mobilized, and I don't want any further investigation. Call off the dogs.

"Are you all listening? No one is to try to find out who I am-or who we are. Do you really understand? Please respond if you do."

Everyone in the room called out, "Yes." They understood. Once again, it seemed that the Wolf was trying to make us feel like children, or maybe he just enjoyed humiliating the FBI, CIA, and Homeland Security.

"Anyone who didn't respond just then, please leave the room," said the Wolf. "No, no, sit back down. I'm just having fun at your expense. I'm what you might call a 'creative type.' But I am serious about Mr. Mahoney, and about there being no formal investigation. I'm deadly serious about it, in fact.

"Now, then, let's get down to today's business, shall we? This is an interesting juncture, actually. I hope someone is taking notes."

There was a pause of approximately fifteen seconds. Then the Wolf resumed. "I want you to know the targeted cities. It's time for that.

"There are four-and I would advise that these cities prepare for a worst-possible-case scenario. The cities should prepare for total destruction."

Another pause, then:

"The targeted cities are… New York… London… Washington… Frankfurt. These cities should prepare for the worst disasters in history. And not a word of this goes public. Or I attack immediately."

Then he was gone again. And he still hadn't given us any deadline.

Chapter 24

The President of the United States was up at 5:30 that morning. Unfortunately, he had already been in meetings for almost two hours. He was on his fourth cup of black coffee.

The National Security Council had been in his office since a little past 3:30. Those present included the heads of the FBI and CIA, plus several intelligence experts. Everyone was taking the Wolf seriously.

The president felt he was sufficiently briefed for his next challenging meeting, but he could never tell about these things, not for sure, especially when politics came into play in a real emergency situation.

"Let's get this unfortunate circus started. Let's do it." He finally turned to his chief of staff.

A couple of minutes later he was talking with the German chancellor and the British prime minister. They were all on-screen, all slightly out of sync in the strange land of videoconferencing.

The president found it a little hard to fathom, but none of the countries' intelligence services had anything concrete on who the Wolf was or where he might be living. He said as much to the others.

"Finally, we agree on something," the German chancellor said.

"Everyone is aware that he exists, but no one has a clue where he is," the prime minister agreed. "We think he's former KGB. We think he's in his late forties. But all we know is that he's very clever. It's maddening."

They all agreed on that single fact, and finally they agreed on one other thing.

There could be no negotiations with the terrorist.

Somehow, the Wolf had to be hunted down-and terminated with extreme prejudice.