London Bridges

Chapter 25

All large cities were becoming the same boring and antiseptic place to the Wolf now, as capitalism and multinational businesses spread everywhere and major crime followed and spread as well. The Wolf spent part of the night walking in one of the world's most important cities; it doesn't matter which one, since the Russian was equally uncomfortable in nearly all of them.

But tonight, he happened to be in Washington, D.C. Plotting the next steps.

No one understood the Wolf, not a single person in the world. Of course, no one was ever understood by anyone else, was he? Any rational person knew that. But no one could possibly comprehend the Wolf's extraordinary level of paranoia, something burned into his heart long ago-in Paris, of all places. Something almost physical, a poison in the system. His Achilles' heel, he suspected. And this paranoia, the certainty of an untimely death, led to a passion-not exactly a love of life, but a need to play fiercely at it, to win at all costs, or at least never to lose.

So the Wolf walked the streets of downtown Washington, and he planned even more murders.

Alone. Always alone. Frequently squeezing his black rubber handball. A good-luck charm? Hardly. But ironically, a key to everything about him. The little black ball.

Time to think, to plan, to execute, he reminded himself. He was sure that the governments wouldn't listen to his demands; they couldn't give in. Not yet, not so easily.

They needed another lesson. Possibly more than one lesson.

And so a late-night drive out to FBI Director Burns's home in the Washington suburbs.

What a desirable life the man seemed to live with his family. The Wolf genuinely felt that way.

An attractive, well-kept ranch house-modest enough, consistent with an American Dream of a sort. A blue Mercury sedan in the driveway. Bike rack with three two-wheelers. Basketball hoop with a glass backboard and a bright white square above the rim.

Should this family die? A simple enough task to execute. Pleasurable in a way. Richly deserved.

But was it the most effective lesson?

The Wolf wasn't sure. So the answer was probably no.

Besides, there was another target to consider.

A grudge to settle.

What could be better than that?

Revenge, a dish best served cold, thought the Wolf, squeezing his rubber ball again and again.

Chapter 26

Welcome to the process-obsessed federal government and its completely bizarre way of doing things. That was my mantra lately, something I told myself nearly every time I entered the Hoover Building. And never truer than during these past few days.

What happened next followed the prescribed protocol under a couple of recent presidential decision directives that affected the Bureau. The response to the Wolf would fall into two distinct categories: "investigation" and "consequence management." The FBI would oversee the investigation; the Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA) would be in charge of consequence management.

Very neat and orderly, and unworkable. In my opinion, anyway.

Because the threat was to a major U.S. metropolitan area-two, actually, New York City and Washington-the Domestic Emergency Support Team was deployed, and we met with them on the fifth floor of the Hoover Building. I was starting to feel that I worked out of the crisis center; still, it was anything but dull.

The morning's first subject was threat assessment. On account of the three bombed towns, we were taking the "terrorists" seriously, of course. The discussion was led by the new deputy director of the Bureau, a man named Robert Campbell McIllvaine Jr. The director had recently talked him out of retirement in California because he was so good at what he did. Some of the talk was about false alarms, since there had been many of them in the past couple of years. It was agreed that this wasn't a false alarm. Bob McIllvaine was certain of it, which was enough for most of us.

The second topic was consequence management, so FEMA ran the session. The ability of health-care providers to deal with a big blast in Washington, New York, or both cities simultaneously was called into question. The dangers of sudden evacuation were now a major issue because the sheer panic to get out of either city, but especially New York, could kill thousands.

The theoretical but very frank talk that morning was the scariest I'd ever been a part of, and it got only worse. After a thirty-minute lunch-for those with an appetite-and a break for phone calls, we launched into suspect assessment.

Who is responsible? Is it the Wolf? The Russian mob? Could it be some other group? And what do they want?

The initial list of alternatives was long, but it was quickly whittled down to al Qaeda, Hezbollah, the Egyptian Islamic Jihad, or possibly a freelance group operating for profit and maybe working with one of the organized terrorist units.

Finally, the talk turned to "action steps" to be spearheaded by the Bureau. Mobile and fixed, or static, surveillance was being set up on several suspects around the United States, but also in Europe and the Middle East. We had begun a huge investigation already, one of the largest in history.

All of it against the explicit and threatening orders given by the Wolf.

Late that evening I was still going over some of the most recent data that had been collected on Geoffrey Shafer here and in Europe. Europe? I wondered. Is that where this plot is coming from? Maybe England, where Shafer lived for so many years? Maybe even Russia? Or one of the Russian settlements inside the United States?

I read a few reports about Shafer's years working as a procurer of mercenaries in Africa.

Then something hit me.

When he had traveled back to England recently, he'd used a disguise: he'd gone into the country in a wheelchair. He'd apparently traveled around London using the wheelchair disguise. It was also doubtful he knew that we knew.

It was a clue, and I put it into the system immediately. I flagged it as something important.

Maybe the Weasel was using a wheelchair in Washington.

And maybe we were suddenly one step ahead of him, instead of two steps behind.

On that note, I finally called it a night. At least, I hoped the day was finally over.

Chapter 27

Very early the following morning, the Weasel made his way through crowded and noisy Union Station in a black, collapsible wheelchair, and he was thinking mostly happy thoughts. He liked to win, and he was winning at every twist and turn.

Geoffrey Shafer had very good military contacts in Washington, D.C., which made him extremely valuable to the operation. He had contacts in London, too, one of the other target cities, but that wasn't as important to the Wolf. Still, he was a player again and he liked the feeling of being somebody.

Besides, he wanted to hurt a lot of people in America. He despised Americans. The Wolf had given him an opportunity to do some real damage here. Zamochit. The breaking of bones. Mass murder.

Lately Shafer had been wearing his hair cut short, and he'd also dyed it black. He couldn't exactly disguise the fact that he was six foot two, but he had done something better-actually, he'd gotten this idea from an old associate. During daylight at least, he traveled around Washington in the wheelchair, a state-of-the-art model he could easily throw in the back of the Saab station wagon he was driving. If he was noticed occasionally-and he was-it was for all the wrong reasons.

At 6:20 that morning, Shafer met with a contact inside Union Station. They both got on queue-the contact standing behind Shafer-at a Starbucks. They struck up what appeared to be a casual conversation.

"They're on the move," said the contact, who worked as an assistant to a higher-up in the FBI. "Nobody listened to the warnings not to investigate. They've already moved surveillance into the targeted cities. They're looking for you here, of course. Agent Cross is assigned to you."

"I wouldn't have it any other way," Shafer said, and smiled crookedly, as he always did. He wasn't surprised about the surveillance. The Wolf had predicted it. So had he. He stayed in line and bought a latte. Then he pressed a button and the wheelchair rolled to a row of pay phones near the railway station's ticket booths. He sipped his hot drink as he placed a local call.

"I have some scut work for you. Pays very well," he said to the woman who answered. "Fifty thousand dollars for just an hour or so of your time."

"Well, then, I'm your scut," said the woman, who happened to be one of the world's very best snipers.

Chapter 28

The meeting with the "subcontractor" took place just before noon in the food court at the Tysons Corner mall. Colonel Shafer met Captain Nicole Williams at a small table directly across from a Burger King.

They had burgers and sodas laid out in front of them, but neither ate what Shafer referred to as "godawful Yankee artery cloggers."

"Nice wheels," Captain Williams said with a smirk when she saw him arrive in the wheelchair. "You have no shame, do you?"

"Whatever works, Nikki." He returned her smile. "You know me well enough by now. Whatever the job takes, I get it done."

"Yeah, I know you, Colonel. Anyway, thanks for thinking of me for this."

"Wait until you hear about the job before you thank me," he said.

"That's why I'm here. To listen."

Actually, Shafer was already a little concerned; he was surprised that Nikki Williams had let herself go so much since the last time they'd worked together. He doubted that she was five foot six, but she must have weighed close to two hundred pounds now.

Still, Nikki Williams exuded the confidence of the highly skilled professional Shafer knew she had always been. They'd worked together for six months in Angola, and Captain Williams was very good at her specialty. She'd always delivered what was asked of her before.

He told Nikki Williams only her part of the job and repeated the fee, which was fifty thousand dollars for less than an hour's work. The thing he liked best about Nikki was that she never complained about the difficulty of any job, or even its risks.

"What's the next step for me? When do we go?" were her only two questions after he had detailed the basics, though not the actual target.

"Tomorrow at one you'll to be at Manassas Regional Airport in Virginia. An MD-530 helicopter will set down there at five past the hour. We'll have an HK PSG-1 on board for you."

Williams frowned and shook her head. "Unh-uh. If you don't mind, I'll bring my own. I prefer the Winchester M70, with 300 Win Magnum hollow-point boattails. I've field-tested them, know they're best for this kind of job. You said that glass has to be penetrated, right?"

"Yes, that's right, Captain. You have to shoot into an office building."

Shafer didn't object to the change in weapons. He had worked with plenty of snipers and knew they were always idiosyncratic, had their own peculiar way of doing things. He'd expected modifications from her and was surprised there weren't more, actually.

"So who's going to die tomorrow?" Nikki Williams finally asked. "I need to know that, of course."

Shafer told Captain Williams the target, and to her credit, she never raised an eyebrow. Her only reaction was "My price just went up. It just doubled."

Shafer nodded slowly. "Agreed. That will be just fine, Captain."

Then Nikki Williams smiled. "Did I settle too low?"

Shafer nodded again. "Yes, you did. But I'm going to give you one-fifty anyway. Just don't miss him."

Chapter 29

We might have gotten a decent break in the case-finally, something, and it had started with a tip from me. The wheelchair! We had a lead.

At ten in the morning, I raced across Washington to the Farragut apartment building on Cathedral Avenue. Three years before, a partner of mine named Patsy Hampton had been murdered in the underground garage of the Farragut. Geoffrey Shafer had killed her. The Farragut was where his old therapist lived.

We'd had Dr. Elizabeth Cassady under surveillance for the past thirty-six hours, and it seemed to have paid off. The Weasel had shown up. He parked in the underground garage near where Patsy had been brutally killed. Then he went upstairs to the penthouse apartment, 10D, where Dr. Cassady still lived.

He'd come in a wheelchair.

I boarded an elevator with four other agents. We had our guns drawn and ready. "He's extremely dangerous. Please take what I'm saying seriously," I reminded them as we stepped from the elevator on the therapist's floor.

It had been painted since the last time I was there. So much of this was familiar, hauntingly so. I was getting angry all over again about Patsy Hampton's death, about the Weasel.

I pressed the bell at 10D.

Then I called out, "FBI, open the door. FBI, Dr. Cassady."

The door opened, and I was staring at a tall, attractive blond woman whom I recognized.

Elizabeth Cassady recognized me, too. "Dr. Cross," she said. "What a surprise. Well, no, it isn't really."

As she spoke I heard a wheelchair rolling up behind her. I raised my gun, pushing Dr. Cassady out of the way.

I aimed my weapon.

"Stop right there! Stop!" I shouted.

The wheelchair, and the man seated in it, came into full view. I shook my head and slowly lowered the gun. I held back a curse. I smelled a rat, or should I say a Weasel.

The man in the wheelchair spoke. "I'm obviously not Colonel Geoffrey Shafer. Nor have I met him. I'm a stage actor named Francis Nicolo, and I am physically impaired, so no rough treatment, please.

"I was told to come here and I am being paid handsomely to do so. I was instructed to tell you that the colonel says hello and that you should have listened to the explicit instructions you were given. Since you are here, you didn't listen."

The man in the wheelchair then bowed from the waist. "That's my part, my piece. It's all I know. How was my performance? Acceptable? You may applaud if you wish."

"You're under arrest," I told him.

Then I turned to Elizabeth Cassady. "So are you. Where is he? Where's Shafer?"

She shook her head and looked incredibly sad. "I haven't seen Geoffrey in years. I'm being used, and so are you. Of course, for me it's harder-I loved him. I strongly suggest that you get used to it. This is how his mind works, and I should know."

So should I, I was thinking. So should I.

Chapter 30

This is impressive, thought Captain Nikki Williams. And not the airfield meeting itself. The whole plan was dazzling. Audacious.

Manassas Regional was a small, nondescript airport spread over eight hundred acres, with two parallel runways. There was a main terminal building and an FAA control tower, but it was a very good spot for the mission.

Somebody is really thinking things through. This is going to work.

A couple of minutes after Captain Williams arrived at the airfield, she saw her helicopter setting down. She had two instant notions: where the hell had these people gotten an MD-530? And it was just right for the job she'd been given.

This was definitely going to work. It might not even be that hairy.

Nikki Williams hurried to the helicopter, carrying the Winchester in a cloth sling bag. The pilot had the other critical puzzle pieces for her. He was apparently the man with the final plan.

"I'm all fueled. We're headed northeast, over Route 28. I'm gonna set down for half a minute or so in Rock Creek Park," he told her.

" Rock Creek Park? I don't follow," Captain Williams said. "Why would you put down again once we're airborne?"

"The park stop is just to get you up on the skid. That's your position for the hit. All right with you?"

"Perfect," Williams said. "I get it now."

The scheme was daring, but it made sense to her. Everything about it did. They had even picked an overcast day with very slight winds. The MD-530 was fast and highly maneuverable. It was also stable enough to shoot from. In her army days, she'd fired thousands of rounds from them in all kinds of weather, and practice made perfect.

"You ready?" the pilot called back once she was on board. "We're going to be in and out of D.C. in less than nine minutes."

Williams gave it a thumbs-up, and the MD-530 corkscrewed up fast, flew northeast, and was soon crossing the Potomac. It never got higher than thirty or forty feet off the ground and was traveling at about eighty knots.

The helicopter set down for less than forty seconds in Rock Creek Park.

Captain Williams took a position on the right skid, behind and just below the pilot. Then she signaled for him to lift off. "Let's go. Let's do it."

Not only is this smart, it is cool as hell, she couldn't help thinking as the helicopter took off again and closed on her target. In and out of harm's way in less than nine minutes. He'll never know what hit him.

Chapter 31

I was back at my desk before noon, feeling edgy and ragged, tapping into the National Crime Information Center computer database, drinking about a gallon of black coffee-which was the worst thing to do. The goddamn Weasel: he knew we had found out about the wheelchair. But how? They have somebody inside, don't they? Somebody warned Shafer.

At about one, I was still at my desk when a shrill, ear-splitting alarm sounded in the building.

At the same time my pager signaled a terrorist alert.

I heard loud voices up and down the hall. "Look out your window! Go to your window, quick!"

"Oh, good God! What the hell are they doing down there?" somebody else yelled.

I took a look outside and was stunned to see two men in fatigues running across the pink granite cobblestone of the inner courtyard. They were just passing the bronze sculpture "Fidelity, Bravery, Integrity."

My first wild thought was that the men might be human bombs. How else could just two of them hope to damage the building or anybody inside?

An agent named Charlie Kilvert from next door peeked his head inside. "You catching this, Alex? You believe it?"

"I see it. I don't believe it."

I couldn't take my eyes off the action down in the courtyard, though. Within seconds, heavily armed agents had appeared on the scene.

At first there were only three, then at least a dozen. The guards from the sidewalk booth suddenly came tearing up the driveway, too.

All the agents below had their guns pointed at the two men in fatigues. Both of them had stopped running now. They appeared to be surrendering.

The agents weren't coming any closer, though. Maybe they shared my idea about "human bombs," but more likely they were following procedure.

The suspects were holding their arms high over their head. Then, slowly and deliberately, they lay flat on their stomach. What the hell?

Then I spotted a helicopter drift around the south side of the Hoover Building. Just about all I could see was the nose and rotor.

The ominous hovering of the copter caused the agents in the courtyard to aim their weapons into the sky. This was a no-fly zone, after all. The agents on the ground were yelling and threatening with their guns.

Then the helicopter banked sharply away from the Hoover Building. It disappeared from sight.

Seconds later Charlie Kilvert was in the doorway again. "Somebody's been shot upstairs!"

I almost knocked Charlie over getting out the door.

Chapter 32

The MD-530 was really moving as it got to Washington; the pilot was using office and apartment buildings for cover now, sliding between them like somebody playing the craziest game of hide-and-seek.

The flying tactics would avoid radar detectors and also confuse the hell out of casual observers, Nikki Williams figured. Besides, this was all happening incredibly fast. No one would be able to react, and an air force jet wouldn't fly in this close to these office buildings, anyway.

She could see the target now. Hot damn! The disturbance on the ground had been planned and lots of people were at their windows at the target building, which she knew was FBI headquarters. This is really something! She loved it! She had seen some major-league action in the army, but not enough of it, and there were always a thousand rules you were supposed to follow.

Only one rule now, baby: shoot this guy dead and get the hell out of Dodge before anybody can do a goddamn thing about it.

The pilot had the coordinates of the targeted window and, sure enough, two men in dark suits were standing there, looking down on the street action-the diversion built into the plan. Captain Williams knew what her target looked like, and by the time he saw her rifle-only a hundred feet away-he'd be dead and she'd be on her way out of there.

One of the men behind the window appeared to shout a warning and tried to push the other one away. Quite the hero.

No matter-Williams pulled the trigger. Easy does it.

Then, escape!

The helicopter pilot used the same flying technique for exfil and headed directly to the drop zone in Virginia. It took just three and a half minutes from the FBI building all the way out to the drop area. Nikki Williams was still buzzing from the shot and kill, not to mention the big fee she'd be getting. Double-fee money, and God knows, she was worth every penny.

The helicopter set down easily, and she jumped down off the skid. She flipped a salute to the pilot, and he reached out his right arm toward her-and shot her twice, once in the throat, once in the forehead. The pilot didn't like it, but he did it. Those were his orders, and he knew enough to obey them. The female sniper had apparently told someone else about her mission. The pilot knew nothing more than that.

Just his piece of the big picture.

Chapter 33

This much we knew.

The two men captured down in the courtyard had been hustled inside the FBI building and were now being held on the second floor. But who the hell were they?

The serious rumor circulating was that Ron Burns had been shot, that my boss and friend was dead.

Sources had it that a successful sniper attack had been made and that Burns's office was the target. I couldn't help thinking of the assassination of Stacy Pollack earlier that year. The Wolf had never actually taken responsibility for the murder of the head of the SIOC, but we knew he was the one who ordered it. Burns vowed revenge, though none had been taken. Not to my knowledge, anyway.

About half an hour after the sniper attack, I got a call to go down to the second floor. That was good: I needed to do something, or go crazy in my office.

"Anything on the shooting upstairs?" I asked the ACAS who called me.

"Nothing I know of. We've heard the rumors, too. No one will deny or confirm anything. I spoke to Tony Woods in the director's office, and he won't say anything. Nobody's talking, Alex. Sorry, man."

"Something happened, though? Somebody got shot?"

"Yeah. Somebody got shot up there."

Feeling sick about everything that had happened in the past few days, I hurried down to the second floor and was led by a guard to a row of holding cells I hadn't known even existed. The agent who met me explained that he wanted me to conduct the interview without a briefing, to get my take on the prisoners.

I walked into one of the small interview rooms and found two scared-looking black men dressed in cammies. Terrorists? Doubtful. They looked to be in their mid-thirties, maybe early forties, but it was hard to tell. They needed haircuts and shaves, their clothes were soiled and wrinkled, and the room already stank with perspiration and worse.

"We already tol' our story," one of the men complained bitterly, screwing up his wrinkled face, as I entered the room. "How many times we got to tell y'all?"

I sat down across from the two of them. "This is a homicide investigation," I said. I didn't know whether they'd been told that, but it was where I wanted to start. "Somebody is dead upstairs."

The man who hadn't spoken yet covered his face with his hands and started to moan and sway from side to side. "Oh no, oh no, oh, God no," he groaned.

"Take your hands away from your face and listen to me!" I yelled at him.

Both men looked at me and shut up. Now they were listening, at least.

"I want to hear your story. Everything you know, every single detail. And I don't care that you told it before. You hear me? You understand? I don't care how many times you think you told it.

"Right now, you two are murder suspects. So I want to hear your side of things. Talk to me. I am your lifeline, your only lifeline. Now talk."

They did. Both of them. They rambled, incoherently at times, but they talked. A little more than two hours later I left the interview room feeling that I'd heard the whole truth, at least their sketchy version of it.

Ron Frazier and Leonard Pickett were drifters who lived near Union Station. Both were army veterans. They'd been hired off the street to run around the FBI building like the crazies that they probably were in real life. The camouflage outfits were theirs, the same clothes they said they wore every day in the park and panhandling on the streets of D.C.

Next I went into another interview room to brief two very senior agents from upstairs. They looked about as tense as I felt. I wondered what they knew about Ron Burns.

"I don't think those two know much of anything," I told them. "They may have been approached by Geoffrey Shafer. Whoever hired them had an English accent. The physical description fits Shafer. Whoever it was paid them all of two hundred bucks. Two hundred dollars to do what they did."

I looked across at the senior agents. "Your turn. Tell me what happened upstairs. Who was shot? Is it Ron Burns?"

One of the two agents, Millard, took a deep breath, then spoke. "This doesn't leave the room, Alex. Not until we say so. Understood?"

I nodded solemnly. "Is the director dead?"

"Thomas Weir is dead. Weir is the one who was shot," said Agent Millard.

Suddenly I felt weak-kneed and woozy. Somebody had killed the director of the CIA.

Chapter 34

Chaos.

Once word got out about the murder of Thomas Weir, it was on every TV channel and the press corps began to circle the Hoover Building. Of course, nobody could tell them what we thought had really happened, and every reporter knew in his gut that we were holding back information.

Later that afternoon we'd learned that the body of a woman had been found in the woods of northern Virginia. We believed that she might have been the sniper who killed Tom Weir. A Winchester rifle was found with the body, and it was almost definitely the murder weapon.

At five o'clock the Wolf made contact again.

The phone in the crisis room rang. Ron Burns himself picked up.

I had never seen the director look graver, and more vulnerable. Thomas Weir had been a friend of his; the Weir and Burns families went on vacation to Nantucket together in the summertime.

The Wolf began, "You're an extraordinarily lucky man, Director. Those bullets were meant for you. I don't make many mistakes, but I also know they're inevitable in a military operation this complex. I accept that mistakes happen in any war. It's simply a fact of life."

Burns said nothing. His face was expressionless, a pale mask, impossible to read, even by any of us.

The Wolf continued, "I understand how you're feeling, how all of you are feeling. Mr. Weir was a family man, yes? Basically a decent human being? So now you're angry at me. You want to put me down like a mad dog. But think about it from my perspective. You were told the rules, and you still chose to go your own way.

"As you can see now, your way led to disaster and death. It always will lead to disaster and death. It's inevitable. And the stakes are much higher than just a single life. So let's move on. The clock is ticking.

"You know, it's difficult to find people today who will listen. Everyone is so self-absorbed these days. Take Captain Williams, for example, our assassin. She was instructed not to tell anyone about the job she was hired to do. But she told her husband. Now she's dead. I understand that you found the body. News flash: the husband is dead, too. You might want to retrieve the body at their home. It's in Denton, Maryland. Do you need an address? I can help with that."

Burns spoke. "We already found her husband's body. What's the point of your call? What do you want from us?"

"I would think it would be obvious, Mr. Director. I want you to know that I mean exactly what I say. I expect compliance, and I will get it. One way or the other, I will get my way. I always do.

"So, that having been said, let me give you the gory details-the numbers. Our price to go away. I hope someone has a pencil and paper."

"Go ahead," said Burns.

"All right, here we go, then.

" New York, six hundred fifty million U.S. dollars. London, six hundred million. Dollars. Washington, four hundred fifty million. Frankfurt, four hundred fifty million. A grand total of two billion one hundred and fifty million in U.S. dollars. Plus, there are fifty-seven political prisoners I want released. You will be provided with the names in the next hour. For what it's worth, all the prisoners are from the Middle East. You figure it out. Interesting puzzle, don't you think?

"You have four days to deliver the money and the prisoners. That's plenty of time, no? More than fair? You'll be told how and where. You have four days from… right… now.

"And, yes, I'm perfectly serious. I also realize that I'm asking for a great deal of money and that it will be deemed 'impossible' to raise. I expect to hear as much. But don't bother with the excuses or the whining."

There was a short pause.

"That's the fucking point of the call, Mr. Burns. Deliver the money. Deliver the prisoners. Don't mess up again. Oh, and I suppose there is one other thing. I don't forgive and forget. You are going to die before this is over, Director Burns. So keep looking over your shoulder. One of these days, I'll be there. And boom! But for right now, four days!"

Then the Wolf hung up.

Ron Burns stared straight ahead and spoke through clenched teeth, "You've got that right, boom! One of these days, I'll be there for you."

Then Burns's eyes slowly went around the room, and stopped at me. "We're on the clock, Alex."

Chapter 35

Burns continued: "I'd like Dr. Cross to give us his impressions of the Russian maniac. He knows all about him. For those of you who don't know Alex Cross, he came to us from the Washington PD. Their loss, believe me. He's the man who put Kyle Craig away."

"And who let Geoffrey Shafer escape once or twice," I spoke up from my seat. "My impressions so far? Well, I won't belabor the obvious too much. There's his need for complete control and power. I can tell you this: he wants to do things on a large scale, work a big stage. He's a creative, obsessive planner. He's an 'executive type,' meaning that he organizes, delegates well, doesn't have problems making difficult decisions.

"But most of all, he's vicious. He likes to hurt people. He likes to watch people get hurt. He's giving us plenty of time to think about what could happen. That's partly because he knows we won't, can't, pay him easily. But also because he's preying on our minds. He knows how hard it will be to catch him. Bin Laden is still free, isn't he?

"I'll tell you what doesn't track for me-the assassination attempt on the director. I don't see how it fits his pattern. Not this early in the game, anyway. And I especially don't like it that he missed, that he failed."

The words came out wrong and I looked at Burns, but he waved me off. "Do you think he missed? Or was Tom Weir the real target?" he asked.

"My guess… Weir was the target. I don't think the Wolf made a mistake. Not one this big. I do think he lied about what happened."

"Any idea why? Anybody?" Burns glanced around the room.

No one spoke up, so I continued. "If Thomas Weir was the target, it's the best clue we have. Why would he be a significant threat to the Wolf? What could he have known? I wouldn't be surprised if Weir and the Wolf knew each other from somewhere, even if Weir wasn't aware of it. Weir is important. But where would Thomas Weir have come across the Russian? That's a question we need to ask."

"And then answer in a hurry," said Burns. "Let's get on it. Everybody-and I mean everybody-in the Bureau!"

Chapter 36

The man who had made the most recent phone calls for the Wolf had his instructions and he knew enough to follow them precisely. He was to be seen in Washington. That was his piece.

The Wolf was to be seen, which would definitely cause a stir. Wouldn't it?

The phone calls he'd made to FBI headquarters and elsewhere would soon be traced to the Four Seasons Hotel on Pennsylvania Avenue. It was part of the current plan, and the plan had been nearly flawless thus far.

So he calmly walked down to the hotel lobby and made certain he was noticed at the concierge desk and also by the couple of doormen out front. It helped that he was tall, blond, bearded, and wore a long cashmere coat. All according to the plan he'd been given.

Then he took a leisurely stroll along M Street, checking out restaurant menus in the windows and the latest fashions of Georgetown.

He found it somewhat comical that he could actually see police cruisers and the FBI as they sped toward the Four Seasons from several directions.

Finally the man stepped into a white Chevy van that was waiting for him at the corner of M and Thomas Jefferson.

The van sped away in the direction of the airport. In addition to the driver, there was a second man. He sat in back beside the one who'd made the phone calls from the Four Seasons.

"It went well?" the driver asked once they were a few miles from M Street and the commotion going on there.

The bearded man shrugged. "Of course it did. They have an accurate description. Something to go on, a little hope, whatever they want to call it. It went perfectly. I did what was asked of me."

"Excellent," said the second man. He then pulled out a Beretta and shot the blond man in the right temple. He was brain-dead before he even heard the explosion.

Now the police and FBI had a physical description of the Wolf-but no one alive matched it.

Chapter 37

There was more intrigue, or at least confusion, that afternoon. According to our telecommunications people, the Wolf had called us from the Four Seasons Hotel in D.C., and he had been spotted there. The description we had of him was already being sent around the world. It was possible that he'd slipped up, but I didn't know if I could believe it. He'd always called on cell phones before, but this time he used a hotel phone. Why?

I got a surprise when I arrived home a little before 9:30 that night. Dr. Kayla Coles was in the living room with Nana. The two of them were huddled together on the sofa, conspiring about God only knew what. I was a little concerned that Nana's doctor was there so late in the evening.

"Everything okay?" I asked. "What's going on?"

"Kayla was in the neighborhood. She just stopped by," Nana answered. "Isn't that right, Dr. Coles? No problems that I know of. Except you missed supper."

"Well, actually," Kayla spoke up, "Nana was feeling a little faint again. So I stopped by as a precaution."

"Now, Kayla, don't exaggerate, please. Let's not get carried away," Nana scolded in her usual way. "I'm just fine. Fainting's just a part of my life now."

Kayla nodded and smiled pleasantly. Then she sighed out loud and leaned back on the couch. "I'm sorry. You tell it, Nana."

"I felt a little faint a few days last week. As you know, Alex. No big thing. If we still had Alex Junior around to take care of, then maybe I would be more concerned."

"Well, I'm concerned," I said.

Kayla smiled and shook her head. "Right. Like Nana said, I was in the neighborhood and I just stopped by, Alex. Strictly social. I did take her blood pressure. Everything seems to be in working order. I would like her to go for a few blood tests."

"Fine, I'll go for tests," said Nana. "Let's talk about the weather now."

I shook my head. At both of them. " You still working too hard?" I asked Kayla.

"Look who's talking," she said, then smiled brightly. Kayla had tremendous spirit and could always light up a room. "Unfortunately, there's too much work to do around here. Don't get me started about the number of people in the capital of this wealthy nation of ours who can't begin to afford to see a good doctor, or wait for hours and hours at St. Anthony's and several other hospitals I could name around this town."

I had always liked Kayla, and maybe, to be honest, I was even a little intimidated by her. Why is that? I wondered as we talked. I noticed that she'd lost some weight, what with all her running around and do-gooding in the neighborhood and elsewhere. The truth was, she looked better than ever. I almost felt embarrassed to have noticed.

"What are you standing there gawking at?" Nana asked. "Sit down and join us."

"I have to go," Kayla said, and stood up from the couch. "It is late, even for me."

"Don't let me break up the party," I protested. Suddenly I didn't want Kayla to leave. I wanted to talk about something other than the Wolf and the terror attacks that had been threatened.

"You're not breaking up the party, Alex. Wouldn't happen. But I still have two more house calls to make."

I looked at my watch. "Two more calls at this hour? You're something else. Wow. You're crazy, you know that?" I grinned.

"Maybe I am," Kayla said, and shrugged. "Probably true." Then she kissed Nana with obvious affection. "You take care. Blood tests. Don't forget."

"My memory is fine."

When she was gone, Nana said to me, "Kayla Coles is something else, Alex. And you know what? I think that one reason she comes around here is to see you. That's my cockeyed theory, anyway, and I'm sticking with it."

The thought had occurred to me, too. "Then why does she leave so fast when I get here?"

Nana frowned and raised an eyebrow at me. "Maybe it's because you never ask her to stay. Maybe it's because you gawk at her when she's here. Why is that? You know, she just could be the one for you. Don't argue with me. She scares you, and that might be a good thing."

I thought about it, and I didn't have a response. It had been a long day and my brain wasn't firing on all cylinders. "So you're okay?" I asked Nana. "You're sure you're feeling all right?"

"Alex, I'm eighty-three years old. More or less. How okay can I be?" she asked. Then Nana kissed me on the cheek and headed off to bed.

"You're not getting any younger yourself," she turned and chirped over her shoulder.

Good one, Nana.

Chapter 38

Not everyone was headed off to bed yet that night. The night was still young in some quarters.

The Weasel had never been any good at controlling his so-called baser desires and physical needs. This fact scared him sometimes, because it was an obvious weakness and vulnerability, but it also turned him on. The danger, the adrenaline rush. Actually, it made him feel more alive than anything else in his life. When he went for the kill, he felt so good, so powerful, that it took over everything and he lost himself completely in the moment.

Shafer knew Washington, D.C., very well from his earlier posting at the British embassy, and he knew the poorer sections, because it was where he had hunted most often in the past.

The Weasel was hunting tonight. And he was feeling alive again, that his life had a purpose.

He drove a black Mercury Cougar along South Capitol. A cool drizzle was falling, and there were only a couple of skanks walking the streets. But one of the girls had already caught his eye.

He cruised around the block a couple of times, checking her out in the most obvious ways, playing at being a john.

He finally slowed the Cougar beside a petite black girl showing off her wares near the hot Nation nightclub. She wore a silver bustier, matching short skirt, and platform heels.

The very best part: he had been instructed to go hunting in Washington tonight. He was following orders from the Wolf. Just doing his job.

The young black girl thrust her chest forward provocatively as he leaned across the front seat to talk to her. She probably thought that her pert young nipples put her in control of the situation. This encounter will be interesting, he was thinking. Shafer had on a wig, and he had colored his face and hands black. A dumb old rock tune was playing inside his head: "The name of the song is I like it like that."

"Those real?" he asked as the girl leaned in close.

"Last time I checked they were. Maybe you should find out for yourself? You interested in a feel? It could be arranged, you know. A private tour, just for you, darlin'."

Shafer smiled pleasantly, playing the game, too, the street hustle. If the girl noticed he was wearing blackface, she wasn't letting on. Nothing bothers this one, does it? Well, we'll see about that.

"Hop in," he said. "I'd like to check you out. Breast to toe, as it were."

"It's a hundred," she said, and suddenly stood back from the car. "Y'okay with that? 'Cause if you're not -"

Shafer continued to smile. "If they're real, a hundred is fine. It won't be a problem."

The girl opened the door and hopped into the car. She was wearing way too much perfume. "See for yourself, sweetheart. They're kind of small-like, but they're soooo nice. And they're all yours."

Shafer laughed again. "You know, I like you a great deal. Remember what you said, though. I'll hold you to it." They're all mine.

Chapter 39

I was on duty again at midnight, and I felt as though I was back in Homicide. I arrived in a familiar neighborhood that was mostly white clapboard row houses, many of them deserted, on New Jersey Avenue in Southeast. A crowd had already gathered at the murder scene, including some local gangbangers and little kids on bikes still up at that late hour.

A man in a Rastafarian hat full of dreadlocks was shouting at the police from behind the yellow crime-scene tape. "Hey, ya hear dat music?" he called in a loopy, wheezy voice. "Ya like dat music? Dat mah people music."

Sampson met me outside one of the dilapidated row houses, and we went in together.

"Just like bad old times," John said, shaking his head. "That why you're here, Dragonslayer? Are you nostalgic for the old days? Want to come back to the Washington PD?"

I nodded and gestured around. "Yeah. I missed this. Bad homicide scenes in the middle of the night."

"Bet you do, too. I would."

The building where the body had been found was boarded up in front, but it was easy enough for us to get inside. There was no front door.

"This is Alex Cross," Sampson said to the patrolmen standing just outside the open doorway. "You heard of him? This is the Alex Cross, brother."

"Dr. Cross," said the man as he stepped aside to let us enter.

"Gone," said John Sampson, "but not forgotten."

Once we were in, the scene was sadly familiar and reprehensible. Garbage was strewn in the hallways, and the smell of decaying food and urine was overpowering. Maybe it was because I hadn't been inside one of these vacated rattraps in a while, over a year now.

We were told that the body was on the top floor, the third, so Sampson and I began to climb.

"Dumping grounds," he muttered.

"Yeah, I know. I remember the drill pretty well."

"At least we don't have to visit the goddamn basement," Sampson grumped. "So, why did you say you're here? I didn't catch that part."

"I just missed hanging with you. Nobody calls me Sugar anymore."

"Uh-huh. You Feebies aren't into nicknames? So why are you here, Sugar?"

Sampson and I had made our way to the third floor. There were Washington PD uniforms everywhere up there. This really was déjà vu all over again. I put on plastic gloves, and so did Sampson. I did miss working with him, and sadly, this brought it all home, the good and the bad.

We stopped outside the second door on the right just as a young black patrolman was leaving. He had his hand over his mouth, a white handkerchief wrapped over the fist. I think he was going to be sick any second. That part doesn't change, either.

"Hope he didn't barf all over our crime scene," Sampson said. "Goddamn rookies."

Then we went inside. "Oh man," I muttered. You see things like this over and over in Homicide, but you never get used to it, and you don't forget the details, the sensations, the smells, the taste it leaves in your mouth.

"He called it in to us first," I told Sampson. "That's why I'm here."

"Who's he?" he asked.

"You tell me," I said.

We walked over closer to the body that lay on the bare wooden floor. Young woman, probably still in her teens. Petite, pretty enough. Naked except for one platform hanging off the toes on her left foot. Golden ankle charm on her right foot. Her hands were tied behind her back with what looked like plastic cable. A black plastic bag had been stuffed inside her mouth.

I'd seen this kind of murder before, exactly this kind. So had Sampson.

"Prostitute." Sampson sighed. "Patrolmen seen her around on South Capitol. Eighteen, nineteen years old, maybe even younger. So who is he?"

It looked to me as if the girl's breasts had been sliced right off her chest. Her face had been attacked, too. A checklist of deviant behavior ran through my head, the kind of things I hadn't thought about for a while: expressive aggression (check), sadism (check), sexualization (check), offense planning (check). Check, check, check.

"It's Shafer, John. It's the Weasel. He's back in Washington. But that's not the worst of it. I wish to hell it were."

Chapter 40

We knew a bar that was open, so Sampson and I went for a beer after we left the slaughter scene on New Jersey Avenue. We were officially off duty, but I had my beeper clipped on. So did John. There were only two other guys drinking in the gin mill, so we pretty much had the place to ourselves.

Didn't matter one way or the other. It was good just to be with John. I needed to talk to him. I really needed to talk to Sampson about something.

"You sure it's Shafer?" he asked me once we had our beers and some nuts in front of us. I told him about the disturbing tape I'd seen from Sunrise Valley. But not about the other threats, or the ransom. I couldn't, and that bothered me a lot. I'd never lied to Sampson, and this felt like a lie.

"It's him. No doubt about it."

"That's messed up," John said. "The Weasel. Why would he come back to Washington? He almost got caught here the last time."

"Maybe that's why. The thrill of it, the challenge."

"Yeah, and maybe he misses us. I won't miss him this time. Put one right between his eyes."

I sipped my beer. "Shouldn't you be home with Billie?" I asked.

"It's a work night. Billie is cool with it, with my job. Her sister's staying with us for a while, anyway. They're both asleep by now."

"How's that working out? Married life? Billie's sister at the house?"

"I like Trina, so it's okay. Funny, things I couldn't imagine getting used to aren't a problem. I'm happy. First time, maybe. Floatin' on a cloud, man."

I grinned at Sampson. "Ain't love grand?"

"Yes, it is. You ought to try it again sometime."

"I'm ready," I said, and smiled.

"You think so? I wonder about that. Are you really ready?"

"Listen, John, there's something I need to talk to you about."

"Figured that out already. Something about that bombing. Then the murder of Thomas Weir. Shafer back in town." Sampson looked into my eyes. "So what is it?"

"This is confidential, John. They've made a threat against Washington. It's pretty serious. We've been warned about an attack. They demanded a huge ransom to stop it."

"Which can't be paid?" Sampson asked. "The United States doesn't negotiate with terrorists."

"I don't know about that. I'm not sure if anybody does, except maybe the president. I'm on the inside, but not that far inside. Anyway, now you know as much as I do."

"And I should act accordingly."

"Yeah, you should. But you can't talk about this with anybody. Not anyone, not even Billie."

Sampson took my hand. "I got it. Thank you."

Chapter 41

On the way home late that night I was guilt-tripping and a little shaky about what I'd told Sampson, but I felt I'd had no choice. John was my family, simple as that. Also, maybe I was on burnout because we were working eighteen-to-twenty-hour days. Maybe the stress was getting to me. There was a lot of disaster planning going on behind the scenes, but nobody I talked to knew where we were on the ransom demands. Everybody's nerves were frayed, including mine. About twelve hours were gone on our deadline.

Other questions burned in my mind. Was Shafer the one who had murdered and maimed the woman we'd found on New Jersey Avenue? I was almost sure he was, and Sampson agreed. But why commit that type of grisly murder now? Why risk it? I sure as hell doubted it was a coincidence that the young woman's body had been dumped less than two miles from my house.

It was late and I wanted to think about something else, anything else, but I couldn't get my head off the case. I drove the old Porsche faster than I needed to on the mostly empty streets, knowing I had to focus on the driving. It didn't really work too well, though.

I pulled into my driveway and sat in the car for a few minutes. I tried to clear my head before I went inside. Things to do. I needed to give Jamilla a call-it was only eleven on the coast. I felt as though my head would explode. And I knew when I'd felt this way before: the last time the Weasel went on a killing spree in Washington. Only this was so much worse.

I finally trudged inside the house, past the old piano on the sunporch. I thought about sitting down and playing. A little blues? Broadway? At two in the morning? Sure, why not. I couldn't sleep, anyway.

The phone began to ring and I ran to get it. Awhh, Jesus, who the hell?

I snatched up the phone on the kitchen wall near the fridge.

"Hello. Cross."

Nothing.

And then a hang-up.

Seconds later, the phone rang again. I picked up after one ring.

Another hang-up.

And another after that.

I took the phone off the hook. Set it on the counter inside Nana's oven mitt to muffle the sound.

I heard a noise behind me.

I turned around quickly.

Nana was standing there in the doorway, all five feet, ninety-five pounds of her. Her brown eyes were fired up.

"What's wrong, Alex? What are you doing up?" she asked. "This isn't right. Who's calling the house this late at night?"

I sat down at the kitchen table, and over some tea I told Nana everything that I could.

Chapter 42

The next day I was paired up with Monnie Donnelley, which was good news for both of us. Our assignment was to gather information on Colonel Shafer and the mercenaries being used in the attacks; our timetable- fast, incredibly fast.

Monnie, as usual, already knew a lot about the subject, and she talked nonstop while she retrieved even more data for the case. Once Monnie gets going, it's difficult to get her to stop, almost impossible. The woman is relentless about facts being the way to truth.

"Mercenaries, the 'dogs of war,' so-called. Mostly former soldiers from Special Forces-Delta Force, Army Rangers, SEALs, SAS if they're Brits. Many are totally legit, Alex, though they operate in a kind of legal netherworld. What I mean is that they aren't subject to the U.S. military's code of conduct or even our laws. Technically, they're subject to the laws of the countries where they serve, but some of those hot spots have piss-poor judicial systems, if they have any system at all."

"So they're pretty much on their own. That would appeal to Shafer. Most mercenaries work for private companies now?"

Monnie nodded. "Yes, they do, Grasshopper. Private military companies, PMCs. Earn as much as twenty thousand a month. Average probably closer to three or four. Some of the larger PMCs have their own artillery, tanks. Even fighter jets, if you can believe it."

"I can. These days I can believe anything. Hell, I even believe in the big bad Wolf."

Monnie turned away from her computer screen and looked at me. I sensed that one of her famous "stats" was on the way. "Alex, the Defense Department currently has over three thousand contracts with U.S.-based PMCs. Contracts are valued at over three hundred billion dollars. You believe that?"

I whistled. "Well, that sort of puts the Wolf's demands in perspective, doesn't it?"

"Pay the man," said Monnie. " Then we'll go catch him."

"It's not my call. But I don't entirely disagree. At least that could be a plan."

Monnie went back to her computer. "Here's a tidbit on the Weasel. Worked with an outfit called Mainforce International. Listen to this-offices in London, Washington, and Frankfurt."

That got my attention. "Three of the targeted cities. What else do you have on Mainforce?"

"Let me see. Clients include financial institutions; oil, of course; precious stones."

"Diamonds?"

"Are a mercenary's best friend. Shafer was going under the name Timothy Heath. Worked in Guinea to 'free' some mines taken over by 'the populace.' Heath/Shafer was arrested in Guinea, charged with trying to bribe local officials. He had a million pounds on him, cash, when he was arrested."

"How did he get out of that one?"

"Says he escaped. Hmmm. No detail. No follow-up, either. Odd."

"That's one thing the Weasel's always been good at. Wiggling out of tight spots. Getting away with it. Maybe that's why the Wolf wanted him for this job."

"No," said Monnie, and she turned and stared into my eyes, "the Wolf wanted him because Geoffrey Shafer has gotten under your skin. And because you're close to the director of the FBI."

Chapter 43

At two that same afternoon, I was on my way to Cuba, Guantánamo Bay. Gitmo, as it's called. I was on a mission from the director, and also the president of the United States. Lately, our base at Guantánamo Bay had been much in the news on account of more than seven hundred "detainees" being held there in connection with the war on terror. An interesting place, to say the least. A historical one, for better or worse.

Once I landed, I was escorted to Camp Delta, the site of most of the cellblocks. All around the prison area were several guard towers and razor wire. According to a rumor I'd heard on the ride down, one U.S. corporation was receiving in excess of a hundred million dollars a year for services provided at Guantánamo Bay.

The man I was there for was originally from Saudi Arabia. He was being kept in the small psych ward on the grounds, which was in a separate building from the cellblocks. I wasn't given his name. Nor was I told very much about him, except that he had important information about the Wolf.

I met with the prisoner inside a "quiet room," an isolation cell with mattresses on the walls and no windows. Two small chairs had been brought into the room for the purpose of the interview.

"I've told the others everything I know," he said to me in very good English. "I thought that we made a deal for my release. I was promised as much two days ago. Everybody here lies. So who are you?"

"I was sent down here from Washington to listen to your story. Just tell me everything again. This can only help you. It can't hurt."

The prisoner nodded wearily. "No, nothing can hurt me anymore. It's true. You know, I have been here two hundred and twenty-seven days. I did not do anything wrong. Not a single thing. I was teaching high school in Newark, New Jersey. I have never been charged with anything. What do you think of that?"

"I think you have a way out of here now. Just tell me what you know about the Russian who goes by the name Wolf."

"And why do I talk to you? I think I may have missed that part. Who are you, again?"

I shrugged. I'd been told not to reveal who I was to the prisoner. "You have everything to gain, nothing to lose. You want to get out of here, and I can help you achieve your goal."

"But will you, sir?"

"I will help you if I can."

So the man talked to me. In fact, he went on for over an hour and a half. His life had been interesting. He had worked in security for the royal family in Saudi Arabia, sometimes traveling with them in the United States. He liked what he saw here and decided to stay, but he still had friends back home who worked in security.

"They spoke to me about a Russian who had talks with dissident royal family members, of whom there are many. This Russian was looking for capital to finance a big operation that would seriously hurt the United States as well as certain countries in Western Europe. A doomsday scenario was discussed, though I don't have specifics."

"Do you have a name for the Russian? Where was the man from? What country, what city?"

"This is the most interesting thing," said the prisoner. "The Russian-it is my impression it was a woman, not a man. I am confident about my information. The code name or whatever was definitely Wolf.

"Now what?" the prisoner asked when he was finished talking. "Will you help me?"

"No, now you repeat your story," I said. "From the top."

"It will be the same," he said. "Because it is the truth."

Late that night I left Gitmo for Washington. Although it was very late, I had to report on my interview with the prisoner. I met with Director Burns and Tony Woods in the director's small conference room. Burns wanted to know my bottom line on the Saudi's credibility. Had we learned something useful about the Wolf? Was he negotiating in the Middle East?

"I think we should let the prisoner go," I told Burns.

"So you believe him?"

I shook my head. "I think he was given information, for whatever reason. I don't know if the information is accurate. Neither does he. I think that either we charge him or we set him free."

"Alex, was the Wolf in Saudi Arabia? Is it possible the Wolf is a woman?"

I repeated myself. "I think he told us what he was told. Let the schoolteacher go home to Newark."

And Burns snapped at me, "I heard you the first time."

He let out a long sigh. "I was with the president today, his advisers. They don't see how we can make a deal with these bastards. It's their position that we won't." Burns stared at me. "Somehow, we have to find the Wolf. In the next two days."

Chapter 44

It's extraordinarily bad to be waiting for something devastating to happen and not be able to do a damn thing to prevent it. I was up at five the next morning and I had breakfast with Nana. "We have to talk about you and the kids," I said as I sat at the kitchen table with coffee and a slice of unbuttered cinnamon toast. "You awake for this?"

"I'm fully awake, Alex. How about you?" she said. "You ready to match wits with me?"

I nodded, and bit my tongue. Nana had something to say to me, and I was supposed to listen. I've learned that no matter how old you get, to some extent you always remain a child in the eyes of your parents and grandparents. That was certainly true with Nana Mama.

"Go ahead, I'm listening," I said.

"You better be. The reason that I'm not going to move out of Washington," Nana began, "is twofold. Are you with me so far? Good.

"First of all, this has been my home for eighty-three years. This is where Regina Hope was born, and where I plan to die. That may be a little foolish, I know, but it is what it is. I love the city of Washington, love our neighborhood, and I especially love this old house where so much has happened to me. It goes, I go with it. It's sad, really sad, but the situation here in Washington is a part of life now. This is the way of the world now, Alex."

I had to smile a little at my grandmother. "You know, you just jumped right back into your old schoolteacher tone of voice. You realize that?"

"Maybe I did, and if so, then so what? It's a serious subject," Nana said. "I didn't sleep most of the night. I was lying there in the dark, thinking about what I wanted to say to you. Now, what do you have to say on the subject? You want us to move, don't you?"

"Nana, if the kids got hurt, I'd never be able to forgive myself."

"Neither would I," she said. "Goes without saying." Her eyes remained steely. God, she is tough.

Nana stared deeply into my eyes, but she was thinking, reconsidering, I hoped. "This is where I live, Alex. I have to stay. If you think it's the right thing to do, the kids should go with Aunt Tia for a while. Now… is that all you're going to eat? A measly slice of toast? Let me make you a decent breakfast. I'm sure you have a long day in front of you, a terrible day."

Chapter 45

The Wolf was in the Middle East, so at least some of the rumors about him appeared to be true.

The meeting, which the Wolf called "a little fund-raiser," took place in a city of tents in the desert about seventy miles southwest of Riyadh in Saudi Arabia. Those present were split between the Arab world and Asia. And then there was the Wolf, who called himself "a world traveler, a citizen of no particular country."

But was this person really the Wolf? Or merely a representative? A stand-in? No one knew for certain. Wasn't the Wolf supposed to be female? That was one of the current rumors.

But this man was tall, with long dark brown hair and a full beard, and the other participants couldn't help thinking he would be hard to disguise, and presumably easy to find, but that didn't seem to be the case; it only enhanced his reputation as a person of mystery, and possibly a true mastermind.

So did his behavior during the half hour or so before the meeting began. While some sipped whiskey and others mint tea and chatted amicably, the Wolf stood off to the side, talking to no one and impatiently waving off the few who approached him. He seemed so above it all.

The weather was balmy, so it was decided to hold the meeting outside in the open air. The participants left the tent and were seated according to country of origin.

The business meeting was then called to order and the Wolf took center stage. He addressed the gathering in English. He knew all of them spoke the language, or at least understood it well enough.

"I am here to report that everything is going very well so far, very much according to plan. We should all rejoice, give thanks."

"How do we know this other than your word?" asked one of the principals at the meeting. The Wolf knew the man was a mujahid, a fighter, a warrior for Islam.

The Wolf smiled genially. "As you said, you have my word. And perhaps not in this country, but most of the world has televisions, newspapers, and radios to verify that we've created problems for the Americans, the English, the Germans. Actually, CNN is available here-inside the tent-if you'd like some validation other than my word."

The Wolf's dark eyes shifted away from the mujahid, who was now red-faced, embarrassed, but also clearly angry.

"The plan is working, but now it's time for another donation to keep all our important pieces in motion. I'll go around the table and you can signal if you are in agreement with me. You have to spend money to make money. A Western idea, perhaps, but a true one."

The Wolf went from face to face, receiving nods or raised hands as he proceeded-except from the one Arab troublemaker, who sat with his arms folded defiantly and said, "I need to hear more. Your word is not enough."

"Understood," said the Wolf. "I have gotten your message, and now I have one for you, warrior."

In a split second the Wolf raised his hand-and a pistol shot rang out. The bearded Saudi fell from his chair, dead on the spot, lifeless eyes staring up at the heavens.

"Does anyone else need to hear more? Or is my word good enough?" the Wolf asked. "Do we move on to the next important phase of our war against the West?"

No one said a word.

"Good. Then we move on to the next phase," said the Wolf. "This is exciting, no? Trust me, we are winning. Allah Akbar." God is great. And so am I.

Chapter 46

I was feeling relatively peaceful at 6:15 in the morning, driving to work along Independence Avenue, coffee cup in hand, Jill Scott singing on the radio. Suddenly my cell phone went off and I knew that all was lost.

Kurt Crawford was on the line and he sounded excited, wouldn't give me a chance to get in a word. "Alex, Geoffrey Shafer was just spotted on a surveillance tape in New York City. He visited an apartment that we were watching before this mess even began. We think we've found the cell that might be ready to strike in Manhattan.

"They're al Qaeda, Alex. What the hell does that mean? We want you in New York this morning. We're holding a seat for you, so get on your horse out to Andrews."

I grabbed the "bubble" off the passenger seat and slapped it on the roof of the car. It felt a little like my old D.C. PD days.

I headed out to Andrews Air Force Base, and less than half an hour later I was on board a jet-black Bell helicopter bound for the Downtown Manhattan Heliport on the East River. As we flew over the city, I imagined New York in full panic. We had to face one real problem: it was physically impossible to evacuate everyone in the target cities. They were just too large. Plus, we had been warned. If we attempted an evacuation, the Wolf had promised to strike immediately. So far, word of the Wolf's threat had not leaked to the media, but the strikes in Nevada, England, and Germany had the whole world on edge.

As soon as I arrived at the heliport on the East River I was rushed to the FBI offices in lower Manhattan. Tense high-level meetings had been going on there since early that morning, when someone looking at surveillance tapes recognized Shafer. What was he doing in New York now? And visiting with al Qaeda? Suddenly the rumors about the Wolf's travels in the Middle East made some sense. But what was going on?

Inside Federal Plaza I got a quick, thorough briefing about a terrorist cell that was staying in a small brick building near the Holland Tunnel. It wasn't clear whether Shafer was still inside. He had entered at nine the night before and no one had seen him leave.

"The others are clearly members of al-Jihad," I was told by Angela Bell, the information analyst assigned to the counterterrorism squad in New York. She said that the decrepit, three-story structure where the cell was holed up was shared by a Korean import-export business and a Spanish-translation business. The terrorist cell was posing as a relief charity called Afghan Children Assistance.

Based on the surveillance reports we had in hand, there were several indicators of terrorist planning and activity around New York. Chemicals and mixing apparatuses had turned up in a self-storage space in Long Island City. The place had been rented by an occupant of the property near the Holland Tunnel; a pickup truck owned by a cell member had been modified with heavy-duty springs to handle a very heavy load. A possible bomb? What kind of bomb?

That morning plans were being coordinated for raids on the Long Island storage facility and the walk-up near the Holland Tunnel.

Finally, about four in the afternoon, I was driven to TriBeCa to join the strike team.

Chapter 47

We had been warned not to do this. But how could we obey? What's more, how could anyone expect us to obey when so many lives were in danger? And maybe we could argue that the raid was solely a hit on al Qaeda and had nothing to do with the Wolf. Hell, maybe it didn't.

The apartment where the terrorists were staying, and where Geoffrey Shafer might still be, was a fairly easy one to monitor. The front of the redbrick building had only a single entrance. The rear fire escapes emptied onto a narrow alley where we had already put closed-circuit wireless cameras. One side of the building abutted a textbook printer; the other opened onto a small parking lot.

Was the Weasel still inside?

An HRT assault force and a SWAT team from the NYPD had taken over the top floor of a TriBeCa meatpacking plant a couple of blocks from the Holland Tunnel. We assembled there, fine-tuning the assault, waiting for word to come about whether the attack would happen or not.

HRT wanted a go, and they were pushing hard for an assault between two and three in the morning. I didn't know what I would do if it were my call. We had a cell of known terrorists, and possibly Shafer, in our sights. But we'd been warned about the consequences. It could also be a setup, some kind of test for us.

At a little before midnight word began to circulate that HRT surveillance had turned up something else. About one in the morning I was called in to a small bookkeeping room that was serving as headquarters. It was getting close to put-up-or-shut-up time.

Michael Ainslie from our New York office was the senior agent in charge. He was a tall, reed-thin, good-looking man with loads of experience in the field, but I had the distinct impression he would have been more comfortable on a tennis court than in the middle of a dangerous mess like this one.

"Here's what we have so far from surveillance," Ainslie told the group. "One of HRT's snipers picked up a couple of images and then we shot some more. We think it's all pretty good news. Take a look for yourselves."

The visual images had been downloaded to a laptop, and Ainslie played them for us. The video stream was a series of wide and tight shots showing half a dozen windows on the east side of the building.

"We were concerned that these windows haven't been covered up," Ainslie pointed out. "These little shits are supposed to be smart and careful, right? Anyway, we've identified five males and two females inside the building. I'm sorry to say that Colonel Shafer hasn't shown up on any of the surveillance tapes. Not so far, anyway.

"We don't have anything on him leaving the building, either, just going inside. We're using thermal imaging to see if we might have missed him or any others." The Washington PD hadn't been able to afford thermal, but I'd seen it work since coming to the Bureau. It picked up heat variances, hot spots, which allowed surveillance to see right through walls.

Ainslie pointed to the close-up shot that was on the laptop screen now. "Here's where it gets interesting," he said, and froze a shot showing two men seated at a small table in the kitchen.

"On the left is Karim al-Lilyas. He's number fourteen on Homeland Security's hit list; he's definitely al Qaeda. Suspected of involvement in the 'ninety-eight bombings of our embassies in Dar es Salaam and Nairobi. We don't know when he arrived, or why, but he sure as hell is here now.

"The man beside al-Lilyas, Ahmed el-Masry, is big number eight on the list. He's hot. He's also an engineer. Neither of these bastards was on earlier surveillance tapes.

"Both must have just snuck into town. For what reason? Under ordinary circumstances we'd be in that kitchen with them right now, making mint tea for everybody, getting ready for a nice long chat.

"They have these same pictures downtown and in Washington right now. We ought to hear something soon, one way or the other."

Ainslie looked around the room and finally cracked a smile. "For the record, I recommended that we go in, make some tea, have that chat."

The small room broke into loud applause. For a brief moment there, it was almost fun.

Chapter 48

Some of the more devil-may-care, gung-ho guys from the Hostage Rescue Team, which is just about all of them, call this kind of dangerous operation "five minutes of panic and thrill. Their panic, our thrill." The very personal thrill for me would be bringing down Geoffrey Shafer.

HRT and SWAT desperately wanted to go into the building and were at the ready. Two dozen heavily armed, state-of-the-art warriors were strutting around the wooden floor of the meatpacking plant; they were pumped up and supremely confident in their ability to do the job right and very quickly. Watching them, it was hard not to be, and even harder not to ask to be included in the raid.

The real problem was that if they succeeded, we all might lose. We had been warned and been given dramatic lessons about what would happen if we disregarded the orders handed down by the Wolf. And yet, the men under our surveillance might be his attack team in New York. So what did we do?

I knew every detail about the job. Taking down the building would involve full-team deployment of the group, including both HRT and NYPD SWAT. There were six assault teams and six sniper teams, which HRT believed was two too many. They didn't want help from SWAT. The HRT sniper teams were called X-Ray, Whiskey, Yankee, and Zulu; each included seven members. One FBI team was assigned to each side of the building; SWAT would assist on the front and rear only.

The interesting thing for me was the certainty that HRT was the superior assault team, the opposite of what I'd felt when I was with the D.C. police. The HRT snipers were disguised in "urban hide" kits, individualized bunches of black muslin, rope, dark PVC tubing, and the like. Each sniper had a specific target, and every window and door in the building was covered.

The question remained: were we going in?

And was Shafer still there? Was the Weasel in that building right now?

At 2:30 in the morning I joined a two-man sniper team in the brownstone directly across the street from the targeted one. This was starting to get very intense and very hairy.

The snipers were holed up inside a ten-by-ten room. They had made a tent out of black muslin set back about three feet from the window. The window itself was kept closed, and I was given an explanation by one of them. "If we get the signal to go, we'll use a lead pipe to knock out the windowpane. Seems kind of crude, but nobody's come up with a better option."

There wasn't too much small talk in the cramped, hot room, but for the next half hour I got to watch the targeted building through a sniper scope from a backup rifle. My heart was starting to race pretty good now. I was searching for Shafer in the scope. What if I saw him? How could I stay up there?

The seconds were ticking away and I could just about measure them with my own heartbeats. The assault team was the "eyes and ears" for Command, and all we could do was wait for our official orders to come down.

Go.

No go.

I finally broke the silence in the small room. "I'm going down on the street. I need to be down there for this."

Chapter 49

This was more like it.

I set up with an HRT assault team just around the corner from the terrorist hideout. Technically I wasn't supposed to be there-so officially I wasn't-but I'd called Ned Mahoney and he smoothed the way for me.

Three o'clock in theA.M. The minutes passed very slowly, without more news or clarification from Command in New York or FBI headquarters in the Hoover Building in Washington. What were they thinking? How could anybody make an impossible decision like this one?

Go?

No go?

Obey the Wolf?

Disobey and take the consequences?

Three-thirty came and went. Then four o'clock. Still no word from the higher-ups back at headquarters.

I got strapped up in a black flight suit with full armor and was given an MP-5. The HRT guys all knew about Shafer and my personal stake in this.

The senior agent in charge sat down beside me on the ground. "You okay? Everything all right?"

"I was D.C. Homicide. I've gone into a lot of places, lot of hot spots."

"I know you have. If Shafer's in there, we'll get him. Maybe you'll get him." Yeah, maybe I'll blow that creep away after all.

And then, amazingly, we got the order to go. Green light! Five minutes of panic and thrill.

First thing, I heard the snipers breaking windows across the street.

Then we were running toward the hideout building. Everybody was strapped up for war, all in black flight suits and armed to the teeth.

Two eight-passenger Bell helicopters suddenly appeared and veered in toward the roof of the brick building. They hovered and assault specialists began to "fast-rope" down.

One team of four was climbing up the side of the building, an amazing sight in itself.

Another of HRT's "go to war" slogans flashed through my head- speed, suspense, and violence of action. It was happening just like that.

I heard explosive entry charges blasting out doors, three or four different blasts within seconds. There would be no negotiating as part of this assault.

We were in. This was good-I was in.

Gunshots echoed through the dark halls of the building. Then machine-gun bursts came from somewhere above me.

I made it up to the second floor. A male with wild, bushy hair came out of a doorway. He had a rifle.

"Hands in the air!" I yelled at him. "In the air. High."

He understood English-he put his hands up and let the rifle drop.

"Where's Colonel Shafer? Where's Shafer?" I screamed at him.

The man just shook his head back and forth, back and forth, looking dazed and confused.

I left the prisoner with a couple of HRT guys, then hurried upstairs to the third floor. I wanted the Weasel so badly now. Was he in there somewhere?

A waif of a woman in black suddenly ran across a large living-room area at the head of the stairs.

"Stop!" I bellowed at her. "You-stop!"

But she didn't-she went right out an open window in the living room. I heard her scream, then nothing after that. Sickening to watch.

And finally I heard "Secure. The building is secure! All floors secure!"

But nothing about Geoffrey Shafer, nothing about the Weasel.

Chapter 50

The HRT and NYPD SWAT teams were swarming around the building. All the doors had been blown off their hinges, and several windows were shattered. So much for "knock and announce" protocol, but the plan seemed to have worked well from what I could see so far. Except for finding Shafer. Where was that son of a bitch? I'd missed him like this a couple of times before.

The woman who'd gone out the top-floor window was dead, which is what happens when you plunge headfirst three stories down onto a sidewalk. I congratulated a few HRT guys as I made my way through the top floor; they did the same for me.

I met Michael Ainslie on the stairs. " Washington wants you involved with the interrogations," he told me, not seeming too pleased. "There are six of them. How do you want to handle it?"

"Shafer?" I asked Ainslie. "Anything on him?"

"They say he isn't here. We don't know for sure. We're still looking for him."

I couldn't help feeling a letdown about the Weasel, but I sucked it up. I walked inside a workspace that had been turned into a quasi-apartment. Sleeping bags and a few stained mattresses were strewn across the bare wooden floor. Five males and a woman sat together handcuffed like prisoners of war, which I suppose they were.

I stared at them without saying a word at first.

Then I pointed to the youngest-looking male: small, thin, wire-rimmed glasses, scruffy beard, of course. "Him," I said, and started to walk out of the room. "I want that one. Bring him now!"

After the young male was taken from the main living area to a smaller adjoining bedroom, I looked around the main room again.

I pointed to another youngish male with long curly black hair and a full beard. "That one," I said, and he was also escorted out. No explanation.

Next I was introduced to an FBI interpreter, a man named Wasid who spoke Arabic, Farsi, Pashto. We entered the bedroom next door together.

"He's probably Saudi, possibly all of them are," the interpreter told me on the way in. Wherever he was from, the small, thin young man seemed extremely nervous. Sometimes Islamic terrorists are more comfortable with the idea of dying than with being captured and questioned by the Devil. That was my leverage here: I was the Devil.

I encouraged the translator to engage the terrorist suspect in small talk about his hometown and then his difficult transition to life in New York, the Devil's den. I asked that he slip in that I was a fairly good man and one of the few FBI agents who wasn't inherently evil. "Tell him I read the Koran. Beautiful book."

In the meantime, I sat and tried to model the terrorist's behavior, to mimic it, without being too obvious. He sat forward in his chair. So did I. If I could become the first American he would learn to trust, even a little, he might let something slip.

It didn't work too well at first, but he did answer a few questions about his city of origin; he maintained that he came to America on a student visa, but I knew he didn't have a passport. He also didn't know the location of any universities in New York, not even NYU.

Finally, I got up and stomped angrily out of the room. I went to see the second suspect and repeated the same process with him.

Then I returned to the skinny youth. I carried in a stack of reports and threw them on the floor. There was a loud whack, and he actually jumped.

"Tell him he lied to me!" I yelled at the translator. "Tell him I trusted him. Tell him the FBI and CIA aren't filled with fools, whatever he's been told in his country. Just keep talking to him. Yelling is even better. Don't let him talk until he has something to tell us. Then yell over whatever he has to say. Tell him he's going to die and then we'll track down his entire family in Saudi Arabia!"

For the next couple of hours, I kept going back and forth between the two rooms. My years as a therapist made me fairly good at reading people, especially in a disturbed state. I picked out a third terrorist, the remaining woman, and added her to the mix. CIA officers were questioning the subjects every time I left a room. No torture, but it was a constant barrage.

In the FBI training sessions at Quantico, they talk about their principles of interrogation as the RPMs: rationalization, projection, and minimization. I rationalized like crazy: "You're a good person, Ahmed. Your beliefs are true ones. I wish I had your strong faith." I projected blame: "It isn't your fault. You're just a young guy. The United States government can be evil at times. Sometimes I think we need to be punished myself." I minimized consequences: "So far, you've committed no actual crimes here in America. Our weak laws and judicial system can protect you." And I got down to business: "Tell me about the Englishman. We know that his name is Geoffrey Shafer. He's called the Weasel. He was here yesterday. We have videotapes, photographs, audiotapes. We know he was here. Where is he now? He's the one we really want."

I kept at it, repeating my pitch again and again. "What did the Englishman want you to do? He's the guilty one, not you or your friends. We already know this. Just fill in a few blanks for us. You'll be able to go home."

Then I repeated the same questions about the Wolf.

Nothing worked with any of the terrorists, though, not even the young ones. They were tough; more disciplined and more experienced than they looked; smart and clearly very motivated.

Why not? They believed in something. Maybe there's something to be learned from that, too.

Chapter 51

The next terrorist I chose was older, ruddily good-looking, with a thick mustache and white, nearly perfect teeth. He spoke English and told me, with some pride, that he had studied at Berkeley and Oxford.

"Biochemistry and electrical engineering. Does that surprise you?" His name was Ahmed el-Masry, and he was number eight on Homeland Security's hit list.

He was very willing to talk about Geoffrey Shafer.

"Yes, the Englishman came here. You are right about this, of course. Video- and audiotapes don't usually lie. He claimed to have something important he wanted to talk to us about."

"And did he?"

El-Masry frowned deeply. "No, not really. We thought he might be one of your agents."

"So why did he come here?" I asked. "Why did you consent to see him?"

El-Masry shrugged off my question. "Curiosity. He said that he had access to tactical nuclear explosive devices."

I winced, and my heart started to beat a whole lot faster. Nuclear devices in the metropolitan New York area? "Did he have the weapons?"

"We agreed to talk with him. We believed he meant suitcase nuclear bombs. Suitcase nukes. Difficult to obtain, but not impossible. As you may know, the Soviet Union built them during the Cold War. No one knows how many, or what happened to them. The Russian Mafiya has tried to sell them in recent years, or so it's rumored. I wouldn't actually know. I came here to be a professor, you see. To look for employment."

A shudder passed through me. Unlike conventional warheads, suitcase nukes were designed to go off at ground level. They were about the size of a large valise and could easily be operated by an infantryman.

They could also be concealed just about anywhere, even carried on foot around New York, Washington, London, Frankfurt.

"So, did he have access to suitcase nukes?" I asked el-Masry.

He shrugged. "We are just students and teachers. In truth, why should we care about nuclear weapons?"

I thought that I understood what he was doing now-bargaining for himself and his people.

"Why did one of your students kill herself diving from a window?" I asked.

El-Masry's eyes narrowed in pain. "She was afraid all the time she was in New York. She was an orphan, her parents killed in an unjust war by Americans."

I nodded slowly as if I understood and sympathized with what he was telling me. "All right, you haven't committed any crimes here. We've been watching you for weeks. But did Colonel Shafer have access to nuclear weapons?" I asked again. "That's the question I need answered. It's important for you, and for your people. Are you following me?"

"I believe so. Are you suggesting that we would be deported if we cooperate? Sent home? Since we've committed no actual crimes?" el-Masry asked. He was trying to pin down the deal.

I came right back at him. "Some of you have committed serious crimes in the past. Murders. The others will be questioned, and then they will be sent home."

He nodded. "All right, then. I did not get the impression that Mr. Shafer had tactical nuclear weapons in his possession. You say that you've been watching us. Maybe he knew that also? Does that make sense to you? That you were set up? I don't pretend to understand this myself. But these are thoughts that pass through my mind as I sit and talk to you."

Unfortunately, what he was telling me made sense. I was afraid that might be what had happened. A trap, a test. It was the Wolf's pattern so far.

"How did Shafer get out of here without our seeing him leave?" I asked.

"The basement in the building connects to a building to the south. Colonel Shafer knew that. He seemed to know a lot about us."

It was nine in the morning by the time I left the building. I felt exhausted, as though I could lie down and sleep in an alleyway. The suspects would be transported soon, and the whole area was still shut down, even the Holland Tunnel because of our fear that it might be a primary target, that it might suddenly be blown up.

Had everything been a test, a trap?

Chapter 52

The day's weirdness wasn't over.

A crowd had gathered outside the building, and as I pushed a way out toward my ride, someone called to me. "Dr. Cross!"

Dr. Cross? Who was calling me?

A kid in a tan and crimson windbreaker waved so that I'd see him.

"Dr. Cross, over here! Dr. Alex Cross! I need to talk to you, man."

I walked over to the young man, who was probably in his late teens. I stopped and leaned in close to him. "How do you know my name?" I asked.

He shook his head and backed up a step. "You were warned, man," he said. "You were warned by the Wolf!"

As soon as the words were out of his mouth I was all over him, grabbing at his hair, his jacket. I took him down on the ground in a headlock. I fell on top of him with all my weight.

Red-faced, his lean body torquing powerfully, he started screaming at me. " Hey! hey! I was paid to give you a message. Get the fuck off me. Guy gave me a hundred bucks. I'm just a messenger, man. English guy told me you were Dr. Alex Cross."

The youth, the messenger, looked into my eyes. "You don't seem like no doctor to me."

Chapter 53

The Wolf was in New York. He couldn't miss the big deadline, not for all the money in the world. This was going to be too good, too delicious not to savor.

The negotiations were really heating up now. The U.S. president, the British prime minister, the German chancellor-of course, none of them wanted to make a deal, to be exposed for the incredible weaklings they were. One couldn't deal with terrorists, could one? What kind of precedent would it set? They needed even more pressure, more stress, more convincing before they collapsed.

Hell, he could do that. He would be only too happy to oblige, to torture these fools. The whole thing was so predictable-to him, anyway.

He went for a long walk on the East Side of Manhattan. A constitutional. He was feeling at the top of his game. How could the governments of the world compete with him? He had every advantage. No politics, no media pundits, bureaucracies, laws or ethics to get in his way. Who could beat that?

He returned to one of several apartments he owned around the world, this one a stunning penthouse overlooking the East River, and made a phone call. Lightly squeezing his black rubber ball, he spoke to a senior agent from the New York FBI office, one of their top people, a woman.

The agent told him everything the Bureau knew so far and what they were doing to find him, which was basically nothing of consequence. They had a far better chance of suddenly finding bin Laden than of finding him.

The Wolf yelled into the telephone receiver. "I'm supposed to pay you for this shit? For telling me what I already know? I should kill you instead."

But then the Russian laughed. "Just a nasty joke, my friend. You bring me good news. And I have news for you: there is going to be an incident in New York very soon. Stay away from the bridges. Bridges are very dangerous places. I know this from past experience."

Chapter 54

Bill Capistran was the man with the plan, and also a very bad and dangerous attitude-serious anger-management problems, to put it mildly. But soon he'd also be the man with 250 large in his bank account in the Caymans. All he had to do was his particular job, and what he had to do wasn't going to be that hard. I can do this, no problemo.

Capistran was twenty-nine years old, slim and sinewy, originally from Raleigh, North Carolina. He had played lacrosse for a year at North Carolina State, then left for the Marines. After a three-year stint he'd been recruited to do merc work for a company out of Washington. Then two weeks ago he'd been approached by a guy he knew from D.C., Geoffrey Shafer, and he'd agreed to do the biggest job of his career. Two hundred fifty thousand's worth.

He was on the job now.

At seven in the morning, he drove a black Ford van east across Fifty-seventh Street in Manhattan, then turned north at First Avenue. Finally, he parked near the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge, also called the Queensboro.

He and two men in white painters' overalls climbed out of the van, then gathered up equipment from the back. Not paint and drop cloths and aluminum ladders. Explosives. A combination of C4 and nitrate to be packed into the bridge's lowest trusses at a strategic point near the Manhattan side of the East River.

Capistran knew the Queensboro inside and out by now. He stared up at the sturdy, ninety-five-year-old bridge, and what he saw was an open, flexible structure, a cantilever-truss design, the only one of the four East River bridges that wasn't a suspension bridge. Which meant that it required a special kind of bomb, one that he just happened to have in the back of the van.

This is something else, Capistran couldn't help thinking as he and his compadres hauled their gear toward the bridge. New York City. The East Side. All these fancy-assed big-business dicks, these blond princesses, walking around as though the world was theirs for the taking. Nerves aside, he was almost enjoying himself now, and he found himself whistling a song that struck him as pretty funny. "The 59th Street Bridge Song (Feelin' Groovy)" by Simon and Garfunkel-whom he considered to be typical New York City assholes, too. Both of them-Curly and the Midget.

For the past couple of days, Capistran had been working into the wee hours with a couple of sympathetic engineering students at Stony Brook University out on Long Island. One whiz kid was from Iran, the other from Afghanistan. They got a kick and a half out of the irony, too: New York-trained college students helping to blow up New York. Land of the fucking free, right? They called their team the Manhattan Project. Another insider joke.

At first they had considered an ANFO, a type of bomb that would blow a crater in a road for sure but was unlikely to topple a large bridge like the Queensboro. The college whizzes told Capistran he could see what an ANFO would accomplish just by setting off a firecracker on a city street. Or imagining it. The explosion would be characterized by "coward forces which always seek the path of least resistance." In other words, the bomb would make a nasty little burn on the road, but the real destructive power would escape up and sideways into the air.

Not good enough for today. Too benign. Not even close to what was needed.

Then the clever-as-hell college students came upon a much better way to blow up the bridge. They instructed Capistran on how and where to attach several small charges at different points in the foundation. This was similar to the way demolition companies toppled old buildings, and it would work like a charm.

Since he had absolutely no interest in being caught, Capistran had considered sending divers into the East River to set the charges on the supports. He had approached the bridge several times himself. And to his surprise, he found security to be virtually nonexistent.

That's exactly the way it was early that morning. He and his two associates walked out on the lower supports of the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge and nobody said boo to them.

From a distance, the ornate silver-painted ironwork and finials had made the old bridge look rather delicate. Up close, the real power of the structure was revealed: the massive trusses; rivets as large as a man's kneecaps.

This sounded crazy, but it would work-his piece would work.

Sometimes he wondered how he'd gotten so sour on everything, so bitter and full of rage. Hell, years ago in the Marines he'd been part of the rescue team that had extracted downed pilots like Scott O'Grady in Bosnia. Well, he wasn't a war hero anymore. He was just another capitalist working in the system, right? And that was a lot truer statement than most people could let themselves believe.

As he continued to walk out on the support structure, Capistran couldn't help humming, then singing the words, "Groovy. Feeling very groovy."

Chapter 55

The strangest, most puzzling thing happened next.

The deadline passed-and nothing happened.

There was no message from the Wolf, no immediate attacks. Nothing. Silence. It was eerie, but also incredibly scary.

The Wolf was the only one who knew what was going on now-or maybe, the Wolf, the president, and a few other world leaders. Rumor had it that the president, vice president, and the cabinet had already been moved out of Washington.

This thing wouldn't stop, would it? The news stories certainly wouldn't. The Post, the New York Times, USA Today, CNN, the networks-they had all gotten hold of some version of the threats against major cities. No one knew which cities, or who was doing the threatening. But after years of yellow and orange alerts from Homeland Security, no one seemed to take the threats and rumors too seriously.

The uncertainty, the war of nerves had to be part of the Wolf's plan, too. I was in Washington for the Memorial Day weekend, and was asleep when I got a call to get over to the Hoover Building right away.

I looked at the alarm clock, squinting to focus, saw that it was three in the morning. Now what? Have there been reprisals? If so, they weren't telling me over the phone.

"I'll be right there," I said, pushing myself out of bed, cursing under my breath. I showered under hot, then cold water for a minute or two, toweled off, threw on clothes, and got in the car and drove through Washington in a horrible daze. All I knew was that the Wolf was going to call in thirty minutes.

Three-thirty in the morning, after a long weekend, with the expired deadline hanging over our head. He wasn't just controlling, he was sadistic.

When I arrived at the crisis room on five, there were at least a dozen others already there. We greeted one another like old friends at somebody's wake. For the next couple of minutes, bleary-eyed agents kept filing into the conference room, nobody seeming completely awake. A ragged line formed at the coffee table as a couple of pots finally arrived. Everybody looked nervous and on edge.

"No Danish?" said one of the other agents. "Where's the love?" But nobody even smiled at his joke.

Director Burns came in a few minutes past 3:30. He was wearing a dark suit and tie, formal for him, but especially at this time of the morning. I had the sense that he didn't have any idea what was happening, either. The Wolf was in charge, not any of us.

"And you thought I was a tough boss," Director Burns cracked after a couple of minutes of silence in the room. Finally, there was a sprinkling of laughter. "Thank you for coming," Burns added.

The Wolf came on the line at 3:43. The filtered voice. The characteristic smugness and disdain.

"You're probably wondering why I scheduled a meeting in the middle of the night," he began. "Because I can. How do you like that? Because I can.

"In case you haven't been able to tell, I don't like you people very much. Not at all, actually. I have my reasons, good ones. I hate everything America stands for. So maybe this is partly about revenge? Maybe you've wronged me somewhere, sometime in the past? Maybe you wronged my family. That's a part of the puzzle. Revenge is a sweet bonus for me.

"But let me get to the present. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I think I instructed you not to conduct any more investigations into my whereabouts.

"So what do you do? You bust six poor bastards in downtown Manhattan because you suspect they're working with me. Why, one poor girl was so distraught that she went out a third-floor window. I saw her fall! I suppose that your thinking-such as it is-was that if you took out my operatives there, then New York City would be safe.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I almost forgot. There's also a little matter of a deadline you missed.

"Did you think I had forgotten about that? Well, I didn't forget about the deadline. Or the insult in your missing it. Now, watch what I can do."

Chapter 56

At 3:40 in the morning, following instructions, the Weasel took up a position on a bench in the riverfront park on Sutton Place and Fifty-seventh Street. There was a great deal that bothered him about this job, but the problems were balanced by two large positives: he was being paid a lot of money, and he was in the middle of the action again. Jesus, am I ever in the middle of the shit.

He stared down on the East River 's dark, swift-moving currents. A red tugboat marked MCALLISTER BROTHERS was assisting a containership on its way. The city that never sleeps, right? Hell, the bars on First and Second Avenues were just getting down to their last call. A little earlier he'd passed an animal medical center that was still open for late-night pet emergencies. Pet emergencies? Jesus, what a city, what a messed-up country America had become.

A lot of New Yorkers would be wide-awake soon, and they would find it exceedingly difficult to get back to sleep. There would be weeping and the gnashing of teeth. The Wolf was going to make certain of that in a minute or so.

Shafer watched the seconds on his watch tick down to 3:43, but he was also keeping an eye on the river and the Queensboro Bridge.

Cars and cabs and quite a few trucks were whizzing along up there, even at this hour. Easily a hundred vehicles were crossing the bridge right now, probably more than that. The poor wankers!

At 3:43 Shafer pressed a button on his cell phone.

This transmitted a simple coded squirt to a small antenna on the Manhattan side of the bridge. A circuit began to close…

A primer fired…

Microseconds later, a message straight from hell was delivered to the people of New York City, and the rest of the world.

A symbolic message.

Another wake-up call.

A massive explosion ripped through the girders and trusses of the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge. Joints were severed instantly, shockingly, terminally. The old steel structures snapped like peanut brittle. Huge rivets popped out and plummeted toward the East River. Tarmac crumbled. Reinforced concrete fractured like paper being shredded.

The upper roadbed cracked in two, then enormous sections dropped like bombs onto the lower deck, which was breaking up as well, peeling away, twisting and twirling toward the water below.

Cars were falling into the water. A delivery truck carrying a full load of newspapers from a plant in Queens rolled backward down the inverted roadway and then pirouetted into the East River. It was followed by more cars and trucks, dropping like lead weights. Electric lines drooped and sparked along the entire length of the bridge. More cars, dozens of them, plummeted from the bridge, fell into the river, then disappeared beneath the surface.

Some people were exiting their cars, then jumping to their death in the river. Shafer could hear their terrifying screams all the way across the river.

And in every apartment building lights began to blink on, then TVs and computers, as the people of New York heard the first reports about a terrible disaster that was impossible to believe and that would have been unthinkable until a few years ago.

His work for the night done, Geoffrey Shafer finally rose from his park bench and went to get some sleep. If he could sleep. He understood this much: things were just getting started. He was on his way to London.

London Bridge, he thought. All the bridges of the world, falling, crashing down. Modern society coming apart at the seams. The sodding Wolf may be a madman, but he is a brilliant bugger at being bad. A bloody brilliant madman!