London Bridges

Chapter 57

The Wolf slowed his powerful black Lotus to just over a hundred miles an hour while he talked on his mobile phone, one of six he had with him in the car. He was headed toward Montauk on the tip of Long Island, but he had important business to attend to on the way, even at one in the morning. He had the American president, the German chancellor, and the British prime minister on the line. Top to top. What could beat that?

"This call can't be traced, so don't waste your time trying. My tech people are better than your people," he informed them. "Now, what's on everybody's mind? We're eight hours past the deadline. And?"

"We need more time," the English prime minister spoke up for the group. Good for him. Was he the real leader of the three? That would be a surprise. The Wolf had thought of him more as a follower.

"You have no idea -" the American president started to say, but he was cut off by the Wolf, smiling to himself, relishing the show of disrespect toward the powerful world leader.

"Stop. I don't want to hear any more lies!" he yelled into the phone.

"You have to listen to what we have to say," the German chancellor interjected. "Give us the opportunity -"

The Wolf ended the conversation then and there. He lit up a victory cigar, took a couple of satisfied puffs, then set the smoke down in the ashtray. He reconnected the call, using a second cell phone.

They were still there, waiting for him to call back. He didn't actually underestimate any of these powerful men, not really, but what choice did they have but to wait on his call?

"Do you want me to attack all four cities? Is that what I have to do to prove how serious I am? I'll do it in a flash. I'll do it now, give the order right now. But don't tell me you need more time. You don't! The countries holding the prisoners are your puppets, for Christ's sake.

"The real problem is that you can't be seen for what you really are. You can't be viewed around the world as weak and powerless. But you are! How did it happen? How did you allow it to happen? Who put people like you into these positions of great power? Who elected you? The money and the political prisoners. Good-bye."

The prime minister spoke before the Wolf could disconnect again. "You have it all wrong! It is you who have a choice to make, not us. We take your point about the strength of your position versus ours. It's a given. But we cannot put this package together quickly. It can't physically be done, and I think you know that. Of course we don't want to make a deal with you, but we will. We have to. We just need more time to get it done. We will get it done. You have our promise on it."

The Wolf shrugged. The English prime minister definitely surprised him: he was succinct, and he at least had some balls.

"I'll think about it," said the Wolf, then disconnected. He picked up his cigar and savored this idea: he was the most powerful person in the world right now. And unlike any of them, he was the right man for the job.

Chapter 58

A business-class passenger who called himself Randolph Wohler de-planed the British Airways flight from New York at 6:05 in the morning. His passport and other pieces of ID backed up his identity. It is good to be home again, thought Wohler, who was actually Geoffrey Shafer. And it's going to be even better if I get to blow London off the map.

The seventyish-looking gentleman passed through Customs without a problem. He was already thinking about his next move: a visit to his children. That was his piece. Curious and strange. But he was past questioning orders from the Wolf. Besides, he wanted to see his progeny. Daddy had been away for far too long.

He had a part to play, another mission, another piece of the puzzle. The brat pack lived with his deceased wife's sister in a small house near Hyde Park. He remembered the house as he pulled up in a rented Jaguar S type. He had a most unpleasant memory of his wife now, Lucy Rhys-Cousins, a brittle, small-minded woman. He'd murdered her in a Safeway in Chelsea, right in front of the twins. That truly merciful act had orphaned his twin daughters, Tricia and Erica, who were six or seven now, and Robert, who must be fifteen. Shafer believed they were far better off without their whining, sniveling mother.

He knocked on the front door of the house and found that it was unlocked, so he barged in unannounced.

He discovered his wife's younger sister, Judi, playing with the twins on the living-room floor, bent over a game of Monopoly, which he believed they were all capable of losing -not a winner in the group.

"Daddy's home!" he exclaimed, and beamed a smile that was perfectly horrible. He then pointed a Beretta at dear Aunt Judi's chest.

"Don't make a sound, Judi, not a one. Don't give me the slightest excuse to pull this trigger. It would be so easy, and such a great pleasure. And yes, I sincerely hate you, too. You remind me of a fat version of your beloved sister.

"Hello, children! Say hello to your dear old dad. I've come a long ways to see you. All the way from America."

His twin girls, his sweet daughters, started to cry, so Shafer did the only thing he could think of to restore order: he pointed his gun straight at Judi's tear-stained face and walked closer to her. "Make them stop whining and screeching. Now! Show me you deserve to be their keeper."

The aunt bent low and pressed the girls to her chest, and while they didn't actually stop crying, the sound was at least muffled and subdued.

"Judi, now listen to me," Shafer said as he moved behind her and pressed the barrel of the Beretta to the back of her head. "As much as I would like to, I'm not here to fuck and murder you. Actually, I have a message for you to be passed on to the home secretary. In a strange, ironic twist, your absurd, pitiful life actually matters for now. Can you believe it? I can't."

Aunt Judi seemed confused, her natural state as far as Shafer could tell. "How would I do that?" she blubbered.

"Just call the sodding police! Now shut up and listen. You're to tell the police that I came to visit, and I told you that no one is safe anymore. Not the police, not their families. We can go to their houses, just like I came to your house today."

Just to make sure she got it, Shafer repeated the message twice more. Then he turned his attention back to Tricia and Erica, who interested him about as much as the ridiculous porcelain dolls covering the mantel in the room. He hated those silly, frilly porcelain doodads that had once belonged to his wife and that she had doted on as if they were real.

"How is Robert?" he asked the twins, and received no reaction.

What is this? The girls had already mastered the hopelessly lost and confused look of their mother and their blubbering auntie. They said not a word.

"Robert is your brother!" Shafer yelled, and the girls started to sob loudly again. "How is he? How is my son? Tell me something about your brother! Has he grown two heads? Anything!"

"He's all right," Tricia finally simpered.

"Yes, he's all right," Erica repeated, following her sister's lead.

"He's all right, is he? Well, that's all right, then," Shafer said with utter disdain for these two clones of their mother.

He found that he was actually missing Robert, though. He rather enjoyed the mildly twisted lad at times. "All right, give your father a kiss," he finally demanded. "I am your father, you pitiful twits," he added for good measure. "In case you've forgotten."

The girls wouldn't kiss him, and he wasn't permitted to kill them, so Shafer finally had to leave the dreadful house. On the way out, he swept the porcelain dolls off the mantel, sending them crashing to the floor.

"In memory of your mother!" he called back over his shoulder.

Chapter 59

The most common complaint from soldiers serving in Iraq is that they feel that everything around them is absurd and makes no sense. More and more, this is the way of modern-day warfare. I felt it now myself.

We were past the deadline and living on borrowed time. That's how it seemed to me. Feeling as if I hadn't been able to catch my breath in days, I was on my way to London with two agents from our International Terrorism Section.

Geoffrey Shafer was in England. Even more insane, he wanted us to know he was there. Someone did.

The flight into Heathrow Airport arrived at a little before six in the morning and I went straight to a hotel just off Victoria Street and slept until ten. After that short rest, I made my way to New Scotland Yard, just around the corner, on Broadway. It was great to be so near Buckingham Palace, Westminster Abbey, and the Houses of Parliament.

Upon arrival, I was taken to the office of Detective Superintendent Martin Lodge of the Met. Lodge told me, modestly enough, that he kept the Anti Terrorist Branch, called SO13, running smoothly. On our way to the morning's briefing he gave me a thumbnail sketch of himself.

"Like you, I came up through the police ranks. Eleven years with the Met after a stint with SIS in Europe. Before that I trained at Hendon, then a constable on the beat. Chose the detective track and was moved into SO13 because I have a few languages."

He paused, and I spoke at the first break. "I know about your AT squad-the best in Europe, I've heard. Years of practice with the IRA."

Lodge gave me a thin smile, a veteran trouper's smile. "Sometimes the best way to learn is through mistakes. We've made plenty in Ireland. Anyway, here we are, Alex. They're all waiting inside. They want to meet you very much. Get ready for some incredible bullshit, though. MI5 and MI6 will both be here. They fight over everything. Don't let it get to you. We manage to sort it all out in the end. Most of the time, anyway."

I nodded. "Like the Bureau and the CIA back home. I'm sure I've seen it before."

As it turned out, Detective Superintendent Lodge was right on about the turf wars, and I figured that the feud was probably hurting progress in London, even under the present crisis circumstances. Also in the room were a few Special Branch men and women. The prime minister's chief of staff. Plus the usual crowd from London 's emergency services.

As I took a seat I groaned inside-another goddamn meeting. Just what I didn't need. We're past the deadline-they're blowing up things! I wanted to yell.

Chapter 60

The large beach house outside Montauk on Long Island didn't belong to the Wolf. It was a rental, forty thousand a week, even in the off-season. A complete rip-off, the Wolf knew, but he didn't mind so much. Not today, anyway.

It was quite an impressive place, though-Georgian style, three stories rising above the beach, immense swimming pool shielded from the wind by the house itself, pebbled driveway lined with cars-mostly limousines, muscular drivers in dark suits congregating around them.

Everything here, he thought with some bitterness, paid for with my money, my sweat, my ideas!

They were waiting for him, several of his associates in the Red Mafiya. They were gathered inside a library/sitting room with panoramic views of the deserted beach and the Atlantic.

They pretended to be his dearest, closest friends as he entered the room, shaking his hand, patting his broad back and shoulders, muttering easy lies about how good it was to see him. The very few who know what I look like. The inner circle, the ones I trust more than anyone else.

Lunch had been served before he arrived, and then the entire household staff had been removed from the house. He had parked in back, then come in through the kitchen. No one had seen him except the men in this room, nine of them.

He stood before them and lit up a cigar. To victory.

"They have asked for an extension of the deadline. Can you believe it?" the Wolf said between satisfying puffs.

The Russian men around the table began to laugh. They shared the Wolf's disdain for the current governments and leaders around the world. Politicians were weak by nature and the few strong ones who snuck into office somehow were soon weakened by the process of government. It had always been that way.

"Drop the hammer!" one of the men shouted.

The Wolf smiled. "You know, I should. But they have a point-if we act now, we lose, too. Let me get them on the line. They're expecting an answer. This is interesting, no? We negotiate with the United States, Britain, and Germany. As if we were a world power."

The Wolf raised his index finger as the call went through. "They're expecting to hear from me…"

"You're all on the line?" he spoke into the phone.

They were.

"No small talk, the time for that has passed. Here is my decision. You have another two days, till seven o'clock, eastern standard time, but…

"The price has just doubled!"

He disconnected. Then he looked around at his people.

"What? You approve, or what? Do you know how much money I just made for you?"

They all began to clap, then cheer.

The Wolf stayed with them for the remainder of the afternoon. He endured their false compliments, their requests thinly disguised as suggestions. But then he had other business in New York City, so he left them to enjoy the house by the sea, and whatever.

"The ladies will arrive soon," he promised. "Models and beauty queens from New York. They say the most beautiful pussy in the world. Have fun." On my money, my sweat, my brilliance.

He was back in the Lotus then, heading toward the Long Island Expressway. He was squeezing the black rubber ball, but finally he set it down. He took out his cell phone again. Pressed a few numbers. A code was transmitted. A circuit closed. A primer fired.

Even from that far away, he heard the beach house explode. He didn't need them anymore; he didn't need anyone.

Zamochit! The bombs had broken every bone in all of their worthless, useless bodies.

Payback, revenge.

It was a beautiful thing.

Chapter 61

We received word in London that the deadline had been extended forty-eight hours, and the relief, though temporary, was still extraordinary for all of us. Within the hour, we got word of a bombing on Long Island -several Red Mafiya bosses reported dead. What did it mean? Had the Wolf struck again? At his own people?

There was nothing useful for me to do after the long round of meetings at Scotland Yard. About ten at night, I met with a friend from Interpol at a London restaurant, the Cinnamon Club, which was on the site of what had once been the Old Westminster Library on Great Smith Street.

I was past being exhausted and, in fact, had gotten my second wind. Besides, I always looked forward to spending time with Sandy Greenberg, who was probably the smartest police officer I had ever worked with. Maybe she had a new idea about the Wolf. Or the Weasel. At any rate, no one knew the European underworld better than she did.

Sandy is Sondra to all but her closest friends, and I am fortunate enough to be one of them. She's tall, attractive, chic, a little gawky, witty, and very funny. She gave me a big hug and kisses on both cheeks.

"Is this the only way I get to see you, Alex? Some kind of terrifying international emergency? Where's the love?"

"You could always come to Washington to see me," I said as we pulled apart. "You look absolutely great, by the way."

"I do, don't I?" said Sandy. "Come, we have a table in the back. I've missed you terribly. God, it's good to see you. You look wonderful yourself, even with all of this going on. How do you do it?"

The dinner was a fusion of Indian and European that couldn't be found in the States, at least not anywhere around Washington. Sandy and I talked for well over an hour about the case. But over coffee we lightened up and let things get a little more personal. I noticed a gold signet ring and a trinity band she wore on her pinkie finger.

"Beautiful," I told her.

"From Katherine," she said, and smiled. Sandy and Katherine Grant had been living together for about ten years and were one of the happiest couples I had ever met. Lessons to be learned, but who can ever figure it all out? Not me. I couldn't even master my own life.

"I see you're still not married," she said.

"You noticed."

Sandy smirked. "Detective, you know. Investigator par excellence. So tell me everything, Alex."

"Not a lot to tell," I said, and found my choice of words interesting. "I'm seeing someone I like a lot -"

Sandy interrupted. "Oh, hell, you like everyone a lot. That's the way you are, Alex. You even liked Kyle Craig. Found some good in the creepy, psychopathic bastard."

"You could be right, generally speaking. But I'm over Kyle. And I don't like anything about Colonel Geoffrey Shafer. Or the Russian who calls himself the Wolf."

"I am right, dear boy. So who is this incredible woman you like a lot and whose heart you'll break, or she'll break yours-one or the other, I'm certain of it already. Why do you keep torturing yourself?"

I grinned, couldn't help it. "Another detective-well, actually, her title is inspector. She lives in San Francisco."

"How convenient. That's brilliant, Alex. What is it, two thousand miles from Washington? So you have a date, what, every other month?"

I laughed again. "I see your tongue is as sharp as ever."

"Practice, practice. So you still haven't found the right woman. Pity. A real shame. I have a couple of friends. Well, hell, let's not even go there. Let me ask you a personal question, though. Do you think you're truly over Maria?"

The thing about Sandy, as an investigator, is that she has thoughts that others don't; she explores areas that are often ignored. My wife, Maria, had been murdered over ten years ago in a drive-by shooting. I'd never been able to solve it-and maybe I wasn't over Maria. Maybe, just maybe, I couldn't find closure until I solved her murder. The case was still open. That thought had been tugging at me for years and still caused some pain whenever it entered my head.

"I am totally smitten with Jamilla Hughes," I said. "That's all I know for now. We enjoy each other. Why is that a bad thing?"

Sandy smiled. "I heard you the first time, Alex. You like her a lot. But you haven't told me that you're madly in love, and you're not the kind of person who settles for smitten. Right? Of course I'm right. I'm always right."

"I love you," I said.

Sandy laughed. "Well, then, it's settled. You're staying at my place tonight."

"All right. Fine," I agreed.

We both laughed, but half an hour later Sandy dropped me at my hotel off Victoria Street.

"You think of anything?" I said as I climbed out of the taxi.

"I'm on it," said Sandy, and I knew she was as good as her word, and I needed all the help I could possibly get in Europe.

Chapter 62

Henry Seymour lived not too far from the Weasel's hideout on Edgware Road in the area between Marble Arch and Paddington that is sometimes known as Little Lebanon. Colonel Shafer walked to the former SAS member's flat that morning, and as he trudged along, he wondered what had happened to the city, his city, and to his bloody country as well. What a dismal scene.

The streets were filled with Middle Eastern coffee shops and restaurants and grocers. The aromas of ethnic cuisines were thick in the air that morning by eight-tabbouleh, lentil soup, b'steeya. In front of a paper store two elderly men smoked tobacco through a water-filtered hookah. Bloody hell! What the fuck has happened to my country?

Henry Seymour's apartment was located above a men's clothing shop, and the Weasel went straightaway to the third floor. He knocked once and Seymour opened up for him.

As soon as he saw Henry, though, Shafer was concerned. The man had lost thirty or forty pounds since he'd seen him last, and that was only a few months ago. His full head of curly black hair was almost gone, replaced by a few scraggly tufts of gray and white frizz.

Indeed, it was a struggle for Shafer to connect this man with his former army mate, one of the best demolition experts he'd ever seen. The two had fought side by side in Desert Storm and then again as mercenaries in Sierra Leone. In Desert Storm, Shafer and Seymour had been part of the Twenty-second SAS Regiment mobility troop. Mobility's primary mission was to go behind enemy lines and cause havoc. Nobody was better at it than Shafer and Henry.

Poor Henry didn't look capable of causing too much havoc now, but looks could be deceiving. Hopefully, anyway.

"So, are you ready for a job, an important mission?" Shafer asked.

Henry Seymour smiled, and he was missing a couple of front teeth. "Suicide, I hope," he said.

"As a matter of fact," said the Weasel, "that's rather a nice idea."

He sat down across from Henry and gave him his piece, and his old friend actually applauded once he'd heard the plan.

"I've always wanted to blow up London," he said. "I'm just the man for the job."

"I know," said the Weasel.

Chapter 63

Dr. Stanley S. Bergen of Scotland Yard addressed several hundred of us in a conference room that was filled to the rafters with police and other government officials. Dr. Bergen was a little over five feet and had to be close to two hundred pounds, and at least sixty years of age. But he was still a commanding presence.

He spoke without notes, and not once during his talk did any of us look away. We were definitely operating on borrowed time, and everyone in the room knew it all too well.

"We are at a critical point where we have to implement our contingency plans for London," Dr. Bergen said. "Responsibility is under the London Resilience Forum. I have every confidence in them. You should, too.

"All right, this is how we will respond in London. If we have any warning that a disaster is coming, it will be required that all broadcasters turn over their airtime to us. Text-messaging alerts to mobile phones and pagers will also be available. Other less-effective methods include loud-hailers, mobile public address, et cetera.

"Suffice it to say that the people will know if we know ahead of time that an attack is coming. The Met's police commissioner or the home secretary will go on TV with the message.

"If there is a bomb or a chemical attack, the police and fire services will set up immediately in the area. Once it is clear exactly what has happened, the affected area will be isolated as best we can. The fire brigade and police will then define three zones at the scene- hot, warm, and cold.

"Those in the hot zone-if they are alive-will be kept there until they are decontaminated, if that is possible.

"Fire and ambulance services will be set up in the warm zone. So will decontamination shower units.

"The cold zone will be used for investigation, command-and-control vehicles, and also for loading ambulances."

Dr. Bergen stopped talking and looked out at us. His face was set in a worried look but also revealed the compassion he was feeling for his city and its people. "Some of you may have noticed that I have not actually made mention of the word 'evacuation.' This is because the evacuation of London is not a possibility, not unless we begin now, and the repugnant and villainous Wolf has promised to strike immediately, should we do so."

Maps and other emergency materials were then distributed around the room. It seemed to me that the mood was as low as it could possibly go.

As I sat there looking at the paperwork, Martin Lodge came up to me. "We got a call from the Wolf," he said in a whisper. "You'll appreciate this. He says he likes our plan very much. And he agrees, it's hopeless to try and evacuate London -"

Suddenly there was a terrible explosion in the building.

Chapter 64

When I finally made it downstairs to the site of the bombing, I was stunned by the unbelievable scene of chaos and confusion. The world-famous Scotland Yard sign in front had been completely blown away. There was rubble and a smoking hole where the Broadway road entrance had been. The remains of a black van were embedded in the sidewalk outside.

A decision had already been made not to abandon the building, to hold our ground. I thought that was smart, or at least courageous. A couple of dozen men and women were already viewing a videotape in semidarkness when I arrived at the crisis center. One of them was Martin Lodge.

I took a seat in back and began to watch. I looked down, and my hands were trembling.

The film segment showed Broadway that morning, the usual armed policemen on duty outside the huge, imposing building. A black van appeared, driven at reckless speed the wrong way down Caxton Street opposite the main entrance to Scotland Yard. It roared straight across Broadway and crashed into the barrier erected at the entrance. Almost instantly there was a fiery explosion. It was silent on the film. The whole building was illuminated.

I heard someone speak from near the front of the room. Martin Lodge had taken the floor. "Our enemy is truly a terrorist, and obviously single-minded. He wants us to know that we are vulnerable. I think we've got the message by now, don't you? It's interesting that no one was killed this morning, other than the driver of the vehicle. Maybe the Wolf has a heart after all."

A voice came from the back of the room. "He doesn't have a heart. He just has a plan." The voice, which I almost didn't recognize, was my own.

Chapter 65

I worked at Scotland Yard for the rest of the day and slept on a cot there that night.

I awoke at three in the morning and went right back to work. The second deadline would run out at midnight. No one could begin to imagine what would happen then.

At seven that morning I was in cramped quarters, inside an unmarked police van headed to an estate in Feltham, out near Heathrow Airport. I rode with Martin Lodge and three of his detectives from the Met. We had recently been granted special permission to carry guns on this assignment. That was better.

Lodge explained the situation during the ride. "Our men, along with Special Branch, are all over Heathrow and the surrounding areas. We're working with the airport police, too. One of our people spotted a suspect with a missile launcher on the rooftop of a private home. We have surveillance there now. We don't want to go in, for obvious reasons, made only too clear yesterday. He's bound to be watching the neighborhood. I wouldn't doubt it for a minute."

One of the other detectives asked, "Do we have an idea who it is inside the house, sir? Have we sussed out anything at all?"

"The house is rented. It belongs to a property developer. Pakistani, if that means anything. We don't know who the tenants are yet. The house is a few hundred yards from the runways at Heathrow. Need I say more?"

I looked over at Lodge, who had his arms wrapped tightly around his chest. "Very nasty stuff," he said. "Understatement of the year, right, Alex?"

"I've had that feeling for a while. Ever since I first encountered the Wolf. He enjoys hurting people."

"You have no idea who he is, Alex? What makes him this way?"

"He seems to change his identity on a regular basis. He… or she? We got close a couple of times. Maybe we'll get lucky now."

"It better happen soon."

We arrived at our destination in Feltham a few minutes later. Lodge and I met up with SO19, British Specialist Operations, who would execute the raid. Police surveillance had video monitors set up inside several nearby buildings. Tape was being shot from half a dozen different cameras.

"Like watching a movie. Nothing we can do to influence the action," Lodge said after we'd studied the videos for a few minutes. What an impossible mess. We weren't supposed to be there. We'd been warned against it. But how could we go away?

Lodge had a list of all the flights scheduled into Heathrow that morning. In the next hour or so, more than thirty flights would be arriving. The next few were from Eindhoven, three from Edinburgh, two from Aberdeen, then a British Airways flight from New York. Serious discussions were being held about halting all flights into both Heathrow and Gatwick, but no decision had yet been made. The jet from New York was due in nineteen minutes.

One of the police pointed.

"There's someone on the roof! There! There he is!"

Two monitors showed the rooftop from opposite angles. A man in dark clothing had appeared. Then a second man, this one carrying a small surface-to-air missile launcher, came out of a hatchway.

"Fucking hell," somebody hissed. Tempers were running very high now. Mine, too.

"Reroute all the flights now! We have no choice," Lodge barked. "Do our snipers have these two bastards covered?"

Word came back that SO19 had the rooftop covered. Meanwhile, we watched the two men get into position. There could be little doubt now that they were there to bring down a plane. And we were watching the frightening scene, without being able to stop it.

"Arseholes!" Lodge swore at the monitors. "Not going to be anything for you bastards to shoot at. How do you like that?"

"They look Middle Eastern to me," said one of the other detectives. "They certainly don't look Russian!"

"We don't have the go-ahead to shoot," a man wearing headphones announced. "We're still on hold."

"What the bloody hell is going on?" Lodge complained in a high-pitched voice. "We have to take them out. Come on!"

Suddenly there were gunshots! We could hear them on the video. The man with the launcher on his shoulder went down. He didn't get up, didn't move at all. Then the second suspect was hit. Two clean head shots.

"What the hell?" someone shouted in the van where we were watching. Then everyone was cursing and yelling.

"Who gave the order to shoot? What's going on here?" screamed Lodge.

Word finally came back, but nobody could believe it. Our snipers hadn't made the hit. Somebody else had shot the two men on the roof.

Madness.

It was total madness.

Chapter 66

Everything was a wild ride like nothing anyone could imagine, like nothing anyone ever had imagined. The latest deadline was hours away and nobody in the rank and file knew what was happening. Maybe the prime minister knew something? The president? The chancellor of Germany?

Every passing hour just rubbed it in for us. Then it was the passing minutes that hurt. There was nothing we could do, except pray that the ransom would be paid. Soldiers in Iraq, I kept thinking to myself. That's what we are like. Observers of absurdity.

Back in London, at one point in the late afternoon I took a brief walk down near Westminster Abbey. There was so much powerful history on display in this part of the city. The streets weren't deserted, but traffic was very light around Parliament Square, with few tourists and pedestrians. The people of London didn't know what was happening, but whatever it was, it wasn't good.

I called my house in Washington several times. Nobody answered. Had Nana moved? Then I talked to the kids at their aunt Tia's in Maryland. No one knew where Nana Mama was. Another thing to worry about-just what I needed.

There really was nothing to do but wait; the waiting was frustrating and nerve-racking. Still, no one had a clue what was going on. And not just in London -in New York, Washington, and Frankfurt. No announcement had been made, but the rumor was that none of the ransoms would be paid. In the end, the governments weren't willing to negotiate, were they? They couldn't give in to terrorists, not without a fight. Was that what came next? The fight?

Once again the deadline passed, and I felt as if we were playing Russian roulette.

There were no attacks in London, New York, Washington, or Frankfurt that night. The Wolf didn't retaliate right away. He just let us stew.

I talked to the kids at my aunt's house and then, finally, to Nana. Nothing had happened in D.C. so far. Nana had gone for a walk in the neighborhood with Kayla, she told me. Everything was fine there. Walk in the park, right, Nana?

Finally, at 5:00A.M. in London most of us went home to get some needed rest, if we could sleep.

I dozed for a few hours, then the phone rang. Martin Lodge was on the line.

"What's happened?" I asked as I sat upright in my hotel bed. "What has he done?"

Chapter 67

"Nothing's happened, Alex. Calm down. I'm downstairs in the hotel lobby. Nothing's happened. Maybe he was bluffing. Let's hope so. Get dressed and come for breakfast at my house. I want you to meet my family. My wife wants to meet you. You need a break, Alex. We all do."

How could I say no? After all that we'd been through in the past few days? Half an hour later, I was in Martin's Volvo headed out to Battersea, just over the river from Westminster. Along the way, Martin tried to prepare me for breakfast, and for his family. We both wore our beepers, but neither of us wanted to talk about the Wolf or his threats. Not for an hour or so, anyway.

"The wife is Czech-Klára Cernohosska, born in Prague, but she's a real Brit now. Listens to Virgin and XFM, and all the talk shows on BBC Radio. She insisted on a Czech breakfast this morning, though. She's showing off for you. You'll love it. I hope so. No, I think you will, Alex."

I thought so, too. Martin was actually smiling as he drove and talked about his family. "The eldest of my brood is Hana. Guess who chooses the names in our family? Hint: the kids are Hana, Daniela, and Jozef. What's in a name, though? Hana is obsessed with Trinny and Susannah on the TV show What Not to Wear. She's fourteen, Alex. The middle child, Dany, plays hockey at Battersea Park -and she's also crazy about ballet. Joe is mad about football, skateboarding and PlayStation. That just about covers it, don't you think? Did I mention that we're eating Czech for breakfast?"

A few minutes later we arrived in Battersea. The Lodge house was a Victorian redbrick with a slate roof and largish garden. Very neat and nice, proper, appropriate for the neighborhood. The garden was colorful and well tended and showed that somebody had his priorities in order.

The whole family was waiting in the dining room, where the food was just being laid out. I was formally introduced to everyone, including a cat named Tigger, and I immediately felt pretty much at home, as well as missing my own family, feeling a sharp pang that stayed with me for a while.

Martin's wife, Klára, identified the food as it was laid out on the sideboard. "Alex, these are koláce, pastries with a cream cheese center. Rohlíky -rolls. Turka, which is Turkish-style coffee. Párek, two kinds of sausage, very good, a specialty of the house."

She looked at the eldest daughter, Hana, who was a neat blend of her mother and dad. Tall, slim, a pretty face but with Martin's hooked nose. "Hana?"

Hana grinned at me. "What kind of eggs would you like, sir? You can have vejce na mekko. Or míchaná vejce. Smazená vejce, if you like. Omeleta?"

I shrugged, then said, " Míchaná vejce."

"Excellent choice," said Klára. "Perfect pronunciation. Our guest is a born linguist."

"Good. Now what is it?" I asked. "The food I ordered?"

Hana giggled. "Just scrambled eggs. Perfect with the rohlíky and párek."

"Yes, the rolls and sausage," I said, and the girls clapped for my show-off performance.

It went that way for the next hour or so, most pleasantly, with Klára asking a lot of informal questions about my life in America while telling me about the American mystery novels she enjoyed, as well as the latest Booker Prize winner Vernon God Little, which she said "is very funny, and captures the craziness of your country much like Günter Grass did with Germany in The Tin Drum. You should read it, Alex."

"I live it," I told Klára.

It was only at the end of the meal that the kids admitted that the names for the breakfast foods were just about the only Czech words they knew. Then they began to clear away the food and started in on the dishes.

"Oh, and there's ty vejce jsou hnusný," said Jozef, or Joe, the eight-year-old.

"I'm almost afraid to ask-what does that mean?"

"Oh, that the eggs were gross," said Joe, who laughed with little-boy delight at his joke.

Chapter 68

There was nothing to do once I left Martin and Klára's, except obsess and worry about the Wolf and where he might strike, if he was going to retaliate. Back at the hotel, I caught a few more hours of sleep, then I decided to walk and I felt that this might be a long walk. I needed it.

Something strange, though. I was strolling along Broadway and I had the feeling that somebody was following me. I didn't think I was being paranoid. I tried to see who it was, but either he was very good or I wasn't that skilled at spy games. Maybe if this had been Washington instead of London. But it was difficult for me to spot who or what was out of place here-except me, of course.

I stopped in at Scotland Yard and there was still no word from the Wolf. And so far, no reprisals. Not in any of the targeted cities. The calm before the storm?

An hour or so later, having walked up Whitehall, past No. 10 Downing Street to Trafalgar Square and back, and feeling much better for the exercise, I made my way to the hotel and had that same creepy feeling again-as if someone was watching me, following. Who? I didn't actually see anyone.

Back in my room, I called the kids at Aunt Tia's. Then I talked to Nana, who was on Fifth Street by herself. "Oddly peaceful," she joked. "But I wouldn't mind a full house again. I miss everybody."

"So do I, Nana."

I fell off to sleep again, in my clothes, and didn't wake until the phone rang. I hadn't bothered to pull the drapes and it was dark outside. I looked at the clock-Jesus-four in the morning. I guess I was finally catching up on some of the sleep I'd lost.

"Alex Cross," I said into the phone.

"It's Martin, Alex. I'm on my way from home. He wants us to go to the Houses of Parliament, to meet him on the sidewalk outside the Strangers' Entrance. Shall I pick you up?"

"No. It's faster if I walk. I'll meet you there." Parliament at this time of the morning? It didn't sound good.

Maybe five minutes later I was back outside again, hurrying along Victoria Street, heading toward Westminster Abbey. I was certain that the Wolf was going to pull something and that it would hurt like hell. Did that mean all four cities were about to be hit? That wouldn't surprise me. Nothing would at this point.

"Hello, Alex. Fancy meeting you here."

A man stepped out of the shadows. I hadn't even noticed him standing there. Preoccupied, maybe only half awake, a little careless.

He stepped all the way out of the shadows and I saw his gun. It was pointed at my heart.

"I'm supposed to be out of the country by now. But I had this one thing I had to do. Kill you. I wanted you to see it coming, too. Just like this. I've had dreams about this moment. Maybe you have, too."

The speaker was Geoffrey Shafer. He was so cocky and confident, and he clearly had the upper hand. Maybe that's why I didn't even think about what I should do, and I didn't hesitate. I barreled into Shafer, waited for the thundering gunshot to follow.

It came, too. Only he didn't hit me, at least I didn't think so. I suspected the shot was deflected to the side. Didn't matter. I blocked Shafer hard into the building behind him. I saw surprise and pain in his eyes, and that was the motivation I needed. Also his gun had gone flying in the scuffle.

I hit him hard with a roundhouse into his midsection, probably below the belt, maybe a nut cruncher. I hoped so. He grunted and I knew I'd hurt him. But I wanted to hurt Shafer more, for all kinds of reasons. I wanted to kill him right there in the street. I crunched another shot to his stomach and I could feel it go weak under my fist. Then I went for the bastard's head. I slammed a hard right hand into his temple. Then a left to his jaw. He was hurt badly, but he wouldn't go down.

"That all you got, Cross? Here's something for you," he snarled.

He had a switchblade and I started to step away-but then I realized that he was hurt and that this was my best chance. I hit Shafer again, on his nose. Broke it! He still wouldn't go down and he swiped out viciously with the knife. He sliced my arm, and I realized how crazy I was, how lucky not to be hurt, or killed.

I had a chance to reach for my own gun and I pulled it out of the holster on the back of my belt.

Shafer charged at me, and I'm not sure if he saw the gun. Maybe he thought I wouldn't be armed in London.

"No!" I yelled. It was all I had time to say.

I fired point-blank into his chest. He fell back against the wall and slowly slid to the ground.

His face was nothing but shock, as maybe he realized that he was mortal after all. "Fucker, Cross," he muttered. "Bastard."

I bent down over him. "Who is the Wolf? Where is he?"

"Go to hell," he said, and then he died, and went there instead.

Chapter 69

London Bridge is falling down,

Falling down, falling down.

Minutes after the Weasel died on the streets of London, his old army mate, Henry Seymour, drove an eleven-year-old white van through the night-and he was thinking that he had no fear of death. None at all. He welcomed it, actually.

At a little past 4:30, traffic was already heavy on the Westminster Bridge. Seymour parked as close to it as he could, then walked back and rested his arms on the parapet, looking west. He loved the sight of Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament from the grand old bridge, always had, ever since he was a small boy visiting London on day trips from Manchester, where he'd been raised.

He was noticing everything this morning. On the opposite bank of the Thames he saw the London Eye, which he thoroughly despised. The Thames was as dark as the early-morning sky. The smell in the air was slightly salty and fishy. Rows of plum-colored tourist buses sat idle near the bridge, waiting for the day's first passengers to arrive in just an hour or so.

Isn't going to happen, though. Not on this day of days. Not if old Henry has his way this morning.

Wordsworth had written of the view from Westminster Bridge (he thought it was Wordsworth): "Earth has not anything to show more fair." Henry Seymour always remembered that one, though he wasn't much for poets, or what they had to say.

Write a poem about this shit. Somebody write a poem about me. The bridge and poor Henry Seymour and all these other poor bastards out here with me this morning.

He went to fetch the van.

At 5:34 the bridge seemed to ignite at its center. Actually, Henry Seymour's van was what blew up. The strip of roadway beneath it rose up and then split apart; the bridge's supports toppled; triple-globed lampposts flew into the air like uprooted flowers blowing in the fiercest wind anyone could imagine. For a moment everything was quiet, deathly quiet, as Seymour 's spirit floated away. Then police sirens began to scream all over London.

And the Wolf called Scotland Yard to take credit for his handiwork. "Unlike you people, I keep my promises," he said. "I tried to build bridges between us, but you keep tearing them down. Do you understand? Do you finally understand what I'm saying? "The London bridge is gone… and it's only the beginning. This is too good to end-I want it to go on and on."

Payback.