London Bridges

Chapter 70

The test track was a familiar one, located sixty kilometers south of Paris. The Wolf was there to drive a prototype race car, and he had some company for the ride.

Walking beside him was a former KGB man who had handled his business in France and Spain for many years. His name was Ilya Frolov, and Ilya knew the Wolf by sight. He was one of the few men still alive who did, which filled him with some dread that day, though he thought of himself as one of the Wolf's few friends.

"What a beauty!" the Wolf said as the men walked up beside a red Porsche-powered prototype Fabcar. This very model had run in the Rolex Sports Car Series.

"You love your cars," Ilya said. "Always have."

"Growing up outside Moscow, I never thought I would own a car, any car. Now I own so many that I lose count sometimes. I want you to take a ride with me. Get in, my friend."

Ilya Frolov shook his head and raised both his hands in protest. "Not me. I don't like the noise, the speed, anything about it."

"I insist," said the Wolf. He raised the gull wing on the passenger side first. "Go ahead, it won't bite you. You'll never forget the ride, Ilya."

Ilya forced a laugh, then started to cough. "That's what I'm afraid of."

"After we finish, I want to talk to you about the next steps. We're very close to getting our money. They're weakening day by day, and I have a plan. You're going to be a rich man, Ilya."

The Wolf climbed into the driver's seat, which was on the right side. He flipped a switch, the dashboard lit up, and the car roared and shook. The Wolf watched Ilya's face go pale and laughed merrily. In his own strange way he loved Ilya Frolov.

"We're sitting right on the engine. It's going to get very hot in here now. Maybe a hundred and thirty degrees. That's why we wear a 'cool suit.' It's going to get noisy, too. Put on your helmet, Ilya. Last warning."

And then they were off!

The Wolf lived for this-the exhilaration, the raw power of the world's finest race cars. At this speed he had to concentrate on the driving-nothing else mattered, there was nothing else while he spun around the test track. Everything about the ride was about power: the noise, since there was no sound-dampening material inside; the vibration-the stiffer the suspension, the faster the car could change direction; the g-force, resulting in as much as six hundred pounds of pressure on some turns.

God, what a glorious machine-so perfect-whoever made it was a genius.

There are still some of us in the world, he thought to himself. I should know.

Finally he slowed and steered the highly temperamental car off the track. He climbed out, pulled off his helmet, shook out his hair, and shouted to the skies.

"That was so great! My God, what an experience. Better than sex! I've ridden women and cars-I prefer the race car!"

He looked over at Ilya Frolov and saw that the man was still pale and shaking a bit. Poor Ilya.

"I'm sorry, my friend," the Wolf spoke softly. "I'm afraid you don't have the balls for the next ride. Besides, you know what happened in Paris."

He shot his friend dead on the test track. Then the Wolf just walked away, never looking back. He had no interest in the dead.

Chapter 71

That same afternoon the Wolf visited a farmhouse about fifty kilometers southeast of the test track. He was the first to arrive and settled in the kitchen, which he kept as dark as a crypt. Artur Nikitin had been ordered to come alone, and he did as he was told. Nikitin was former KGB and had always been a loyal soldier. He worked for Ilya Frolov, mostly as an arms dealer.

The Wolf heard Artur approaching on the back steps. "No lights," he called. "Just come inside."

Artur Nikitin opened the door and stepped inside. He was tall, with a thick white beard, a big Russian bear of a man, physically not unlike the Wolf himself.

"There's a chair. Sit. Please. You are my guest," said the Wolf.

Nikitin obeyed. He showed no fear. Actually, he had no fear of death.

"You have always done good work for me in the past. This will be our last job together. You'll make enough to walk away from the life, to do as you wish. Does that sound all right?"

"It sounds very good. Whatever you wish, I do. It's the secret of my success."

" Paris is very special to me," the Wolf continued. "In another life, I lived there for two years. And now, here I am again. It's no coincidence, Artur. I need your help here. More than that, I need your loyalty. Can I depend on you?"

"Of course. Without a doubt. I'm here, aren't I?"

"I plan to blow a big hole in Paris, cause lots more trouble, then get filthy rich. I can still depend on you?"

Nikitin found himself smiling. "Absolutely. I don't like the French anyway. Who does? It will be a pleasure. I especially like the 'filthy rich' part."

The Wolf had found his man for the job. Now he gave him his piece of the puzzle.

Chapter 72

Two days after the bombing of Westminster Bridge, I traveled back to Washington. During the long flight, I forced myself to make extensive notes about what the Wolf might do next. What could he do? Would he strike again, keep on bombing cities until he got his money? And what was the significance of bridges to him?

Only one thing seemed obvious to me: the Wolf wasn't going to disappear and leave things as they had been before. He wasn't going away.

Even before my plane landed I got a message from Ron Burns's office. I was to go to headquarters as soon as I arrived in Washington.

But I didn't go to the Hoover Building; I went home instead. Like Bartleby the Scrivener, I respectfully declined my employer's request. I didn't think twice about it. The Wolf would still be there in the morning.

The kids had come into the city with their aunt Tia. Nana was there on Fifth Street, too. We spent the night together at our house, the one Nana had been born in. In the morning the kids would return to Maryland with Tia. Nana would stay on Fifth Street, and so would I. Maybe the two of us were more alike than I wanted to admit.

About eleven that night, someone was at the front door. I had been playing the piano on the sunporch, and it was only a few steps to the door. I opened up and saw Ron Burns standing there with a couple of his agents. He ordered his men to go wait by the car. Then he invited himself in.

"I need to talk to you. Everything has changed," the director said as he walked past me at the door.

And so I sat out on our small sunporch with the director of the FBI. I didn't play the piano for Burns; I just listened to what he had to say.

The first thing had to do with Thomas Weir. "We have no doubt that Tom had some connection with the Wolf back when he came out of Russia. He may have known who the Russian was. We're on it, Alex, and so is the CIA. But, of course, this puzzle refuses to unravel easily."

"Everybody's cooperating with everybody else, though," I said, frowning. "How nice."

Burns stared at me. "I know that this has been tough for you. I know the job isn't the perfect fit so far. You want to be in the middle of the action. And you want to be with your family."

I couldn't deny it, not any of what Burns had said. "Go ahead, Director. I'm still listening."

"Something happened in France, Alex. It involved Tom Weir and the Wolf. It happened a long time ago. A mistake was made, a big one."

"What mistake?" I asked. Were we finally getting close to some answers? "You have to stop playing games with me. Do you wonder why I'm having second thoughts about my job?"

"Believe me, we don't know what happened back then. We're getting closer to an answer. A lot has happened in the last few hours. The Wolf made contact again, Alex."

I sighed heavily, but I listened, because I promised that I would.

"You said it before, that he wants to hurt us, to break our back if he can. He says that he can. He said that the rules are changing and that he's the one changing them. He's the only one with the answers to this puzzle. You're the only one with a clue about him."

I had to stop Burns. "Ron, what are you trying to say? Just tell me. I'm either in this thing-all the way-or I'm all the way out."

"He gave us ninety-six hours. Then he promised a doomsday scenario.

"He changed some of the target cities. It's still Washington and London, but also Tel Aviv and Paris. He won't explain the change. He wants four billion dollars, and he wants the political prisoners released. He won't explain a goddamn thing to us."

"That's all?" I said. "Four doomed cities? A few billion in ransom? Free some murderers?"

Burns shook his head. "No, that's not all. He's given everything to the press this time. There's going to be panic around the world. But especially in the four cities: London, Paris, Tel Aviv, and here in Washington. He's gone public."

Chapter 73

On Sunday morning, after breakfast with Nana, I left for Paris. Ron Burns wanted me in France. End of discussion.

Exhausted and probably depressed, I slept for a good part of the flight. Then I read a lot of CIA files about a KGB agent who had lived in Paris eleven years ago and might have worked with Thomas Weir. That agent supposedly was the Wolf. And something had happened. A "mistake." A big one, apparently.

I'm not sure what kind of reception I was expecting from the French, especially given the recent history between our countries, but things went fairly smoothly once I arrived. In fact, it seemed to me that the command center in Paris worked better than the similar command centers I'd seen in London and Washington. The reason for this was clear immediately.

The infrastructure in Paris was simpler, the organization much smaller. One official told me, "It's easy to share here, because the file you need is next door or right down the hall."

I received a quick briefing, then was thrown into a high-level meeting. A general in the army looked at me and addressed me in English. "Dr. Cross, to be honest with you, we haven't ruled out the possibility that this violence is part of the jihad, that is to say, Islamic terrorist attacks. Please believe me, they are clever enough to dream up something bizarre like this. They are duplicitous enough to have even dreamed up the Wolf. This would explain the demand to release the hostages, would it not?"

I didn't say a word. How could I? Al Qaeda? Behind everything so far? Behind the Wolf? That was what the French believed? That was why I was there?

"As you know, our two countries don't share the same perspective on the connection between the Islamic terror networks and the current situation in the Middle East. We believe that the jihad isn't actually a war against Western values. It is a complex reaction against the leaders of Muslim nations who haven't adopted radical Islam."

"And yet the four main targets of radical Islam are the United States, Israel, France, England," I spoke from my seat. "And the current targets of the so-called Wolf? Washington, Tel Aviv, Paris, London."

"Please keep an open mind on the matter. In addition, you should know that former KGB officers were involved and very influential with Saddam Hussein in Iraq. As I say, keep an open mind."

I nodded. "I have an open mind. But I have to tell you, I've seen no evidence that Islamic terrorists are behind this threat. I've dealt with the Wolf before. Believe me, he doesn't embrace the values of Islam. He isn't a religious man."

Chapter 74

That night I had dinner by myself in Paris. Actually, I walked around just to see the situation in the city firsthand. There were heavily armed French soldiers everywhere. Tanks and jeeps in the streets. Not too many people out walking. Worried looks on the faces of those who ventured out for whatever reason.

I ate at one of the few places open for business, Les Olivades on avenue de Ségur. The restaurant and clientele were extremely laid-back, which was what I needed, given the jet lag and confusion, not to mention the state of the siege in Paris.

After the meal I walked some more, thinking about the Wolf and also Thomas Weir. The Wolf murdered Weir on purpose, didn't he? He's targeted Paris for a reason, too. Why? What is his thing with bridges? A possible clue for us? Are bridges symbolic for him? What is the symbolism?

It was sad and strange to walk around Paris, knowing that a deadly attack could come at any time. I was there to find some way to stop it-but honestly, no one knew where to start; no one had turned up one clue as to the identity of the Wolf or where he might be staying, not even a country. The Wolf had lived there, eleven years ago. Something bad had happened. What was it?

That section of Paris was gorgeous, broad avenues and wide sidewalks cutting a swath between the well-kept stone buildings. Wavering trails of a few car lights streamed up and down the avenues. People leaving Paris? And then-when we would least expect it- boom! Kiss your ass good-bye.

The scary thing was that a really bad end seemed almost inevitable. And not just another bridge this time.

That's how well he had us set up. He was in full control-but we had to turn that around somehow.

When I got back to my hotel, I called the kids. It was six at night in Maryland; their aunt Tia would just be getting dinner ready, the kids complaining they were too busy to help. Jannie answered the phone, "Bonsoir, Monsieur Cross." Was she psychic?

Then Jannie launched into half a dozen questions she'd been saving up for me. In the meantime, Damon had picked up the extension. Both of them began to rattle off questions. I think they wanted to lessen the tension all of us were feeling.

Had I visited Notre Dame Cathedral? Did I meet the Hunchback (ha, ha)? Did I see the famous gargoyles, like the one they remembered who was eating another one?

"I didn't have time to climb the towers to the Gallery of Fabulous Beasts today. I'm working here." I got in a couple of sentences.

"We know that, Dad," Jannie said. "We're just trying to keep everything light. We miss you," she whispered.

"Miss you, Dad," Damon said.

"Je t'aime," said Jannie.

Minutes later I was alone in a faraway hotel room, in a city under a death threat.

Je t'aime aussi.

Chapter 75

The clock was ticking… loudly. Or was that just my heart getting ready to explode?

Early the next morning it was arranged for me to have a partner. His name was Etienne Marteau, a detective with the French National Police. Marteau was a small and wiry man, cooperative and competent on the face of it. But I had the sense that he'd been assigned to watch me more than to work with me. That was so messed up, so counterproductive, it started to drive me crazy.

In the late afternoon I spoke to Ron Burns's office about going home. My request was denied. By Tony Woods! Tony never even bothered to take it to the director. He reminded me that Thomas Weir and the Wolf had probably met in Paris.

"I didn't forget, Tony," I told him, and hung up.

So I began to wade through the records and data that had been collected by the National Police. I looked for connections to Thomas Weir, or even the CIA. I was even trying to keep an open mind about Islamic terrorists, for God's sake!

Detective Marteau was slightly helpful, but the process was slow and the Frenchman needed frequent breaks for cigarettes and coffee. This wasn't going anywhere, and again I had the feeling that whatever help I could bring to the situation was being wasted there. I was getting a really bad headache, too.

About six o'clock we gathered in the crisis center. The goddamn clock was ticking! The Wolf would call again, I finally learned. The mood in the room was charged but clearly negative: we all knew we were being manipulated and insulted. I was sure the atmosphere was the same in Washington, London, Tel Aviv.

Suddenly we heard his voice on the speakerphone. Heavily filtered. Familiar. Obscene.

"Sorry to keep everybody waiting," he said, and although he didn't laugh, there was nothing but derision in his tone. I wanted to scream at the bastard.

"But then, of course, I have been kept waiting, haven't I? I know, I know, it's because the precedent is unacceptable to all the governments, the loss of face. I understand. I get it.

"And now, I need you to understand something, too. This deadline is the final one. I will even make a concession. If it makes you feel better, go ahead and try to find me. Bring your investigations out into the open. Catch me if you can.

"But know this, and know it well, you bastards. This time, the money must be paid on time. All of it. The prisoners of war must be released. All of them. The deadline will not be extended, and believe me, it is a dead line. If you miss it, even by minutes, there will be tens of thousands of murders in each of the four cities. You heard me right-I said murders. Believe me, I will push the button. I will kill in a way the world has rarely seen. Especially in Paris. Au revoir, mes amis."

Chapter 76

Later that night Etienne Marteau and I thought we might have stumbled onto something useful and maybe even important. At that point every clue was being looked at as vital.

The French National Police had intercepted several messages dialed on the phone of a known arms dealer working out of Marseilles. The dealer specialized in hardware from the Red Army, contraband that was floating all over Europe, especially in Germany, France, and Italy. In the past, he'd sold contraband to radical Islamic groups.

Marteau and I read and re-read the transcript of a phone conversation between the arms dealer and a suspected terrorist with ties to al Qaeda. The conversation was coded, but the French police had broken most of it down:

ARMS DEALER:Cousin, how is your business these days? [Are you ready to do the job?] Are you coming to see me soon? [Can you travel?]

TERRORIST:Oh, you know, I have a wife and too many children. These things are sometimes complicated. [He has a large team.]

ARMS DEALER:For God's sake, I have told you before-bring your woman and the children with you. You should come right now. [Bring your whole team now.]

TERRORIST:We are all very tired. [We are being watched.]

ARMS DEALER:Everyone is tired. But you will love it here. [It's safe for you.] I guarantee it.

TERRORIST:All right, then. I will start loading up my family.

ARMS DEALER:I have my stamp collection ready for you. [Probably special tactical weapons.]

"What does he mean, 'my stamp collection'?" I asked. "That's a key phrase, isn't it?"

"They're not sure, Alex. They believe it's weapons. What kind-who knows for certain? Something serious."

"Will they stop the terrorist team now? Or let them into France and watch them?"

"I think the plan is to let them come in and hope they lead us to others. Higher-ups. Everything is moving quickly and very loosey-goosey now."

"Maybe a little too loosey-goosey," I said.

"We do things differently. Please try to respect that, to understand it if you can."

I nodded. "Etienne, I don't think there will be any contact with higher-ups on the ground here. That isn't how the Wolf works. Every player has a part to play, but no clue about the larger plan."

The detective looked me in the eye. "I'll pass that on," he said.

But I doubted very much that he would. An idea struck me, and it was hard to handle. I am all alone over here, aren't I? I am the Ugly American.

Chapter 77

I finally went back to the Relais at two in the morning. I was up again at 6:30. No rest for the righteous, or the ridiculous. But the Wolf didn't want us rested, did he? He wanted us stressed and afraid and capable of making mistakes.

I walked to the Préfecture de Police, obsessing about the twisted mind behind all of this. Why was he twisted? The Wolf had supposedly been a KGB agent before he came to America, where he became a powerful force in the Red Mafiya. He'd spent time in England and here in France. He was clever enough that we still didn't know his identity, not even a name, and we definitely didn't have a complete history for him.

He thought big. But why would he align himself with Islamic terrorist groups? Unless he'd been involved with al Qaeda from the start? Was that really a possibility? If so, it scared the hell out of me. Because it was so incredibly unthinkable, so preposterous in a way. But so much that was happening in the world seemed preposterous these days.

Out of the corner of my eye-a flash!

Suddenly I was aware of a silver and black motorcycle coming at me on the sidewalk! My heart clutched and I jumped out into the street. I spread my arms and balanced myself to move quickly, left or right, depending on the motorcycle's path.

But then I noticed that none of the other pedestrians around me seemed concerned. A smile finally crossed my lips. I remembered Etienne mentioning that oversize motorcycles were popular in Paris and that their riders acted as if they were on much smaller mopeds or scooters, sometimes circumnavigating traffic by going up onto sidewalks.

The bike rider, decked out in his blue blazer and tan slacks, was a Paris businessman, not an assassin. He passed by without so much as a nod. I'm losing it, aren't I? But that was understandable. Who wouldn't begin to lose it under this pressure?

At 8:45 that morning, I walked to the front of a room full of important French police and army officials. We were inside the Ministère de l'Intérieur which was located in L'Hôtel Beauvau.

We had just over thirty-three hours left to doomsday. The room was a strange mix of expensive-looking eighteenth-century-style furniture and genuinely expensive modern technology. In sharp contrast, scenes from London, Paris, Washington, and Tel Aviv played on TV monitors on the walls. Mostly empty streets. Heavily armed soldiers and police everywhere.

We are at war, I thought to myself, with a madman.

I'd been told that I could speak in English to the group, but it would be best if I went slowly and enunciated my words clearly. I figured they were afraid I was going to deliver my talk in street slang that no one in the room would understand.

"My name is Dr. Alex Cross. I'm a forensic psychologist," I began. "I was a homicide detective in Washington, D.C., before I became an agent with the FBI. Less than a year ago, I worked on a case that put me in touch with the Red Mafiya. In particular, I was involved with a former KGB man known only as the Wolf. The Wolf is my subject this morning."

I could have done the rest in my sleep. For the next twenty minutes I talked about the Russian. But even as I was finishing up and the question-and-answer period began, it was clear to me that although the French were willing to listen to what I had to say, they were steadfast in their belief that Islamic terrorists were the real source of the threat to the four targeted cities. Either the Wolf was part of al Qaeda or he was working with them.

I was trying to keep my mind open, but if their theory was correct, my mind would be completely blown. I just didn't buy it. The Wolf was Red Mafiya.

About eleven o'clock, I went back to my cubicle office and found that I had a new partner.

Chapter 78

A new partner? Now?

Everything was going so fast; it was all a blur to me, often incomprehensible. I had to assume that the FBI had contacted someone and pulled some strings. Someone had. The new partner was an agent de police, a woman named Maud Boulard, who immediately informed me that we would be working in the "French police way," whatever the hell that was supposed to mean.

Physically, she was very much like Etienne Marteau: thin, with an aquiline nose and sharp features-but shiny red hair. She went out of her way to tell me she had visited New York and Los Angeles and didn't care for either city at all.

"Our deadline is close," I told her.

"I know the deadline, Dr. Cross. Everyone does. To work fast does not mean to work intelligently."

What she called "our surveillance of the Red Mafiya" began along the Parc Monceau in the eighth arrondissement. Unlike in the United States, where the Russians seemed to hang out in such working-class neighborhoods as Brighton Beach in New York, the Mafiya was apparently situated in pricier digs here.

"Maybe because they know Paris better and have operated here longer," Maud suggested. "I think so. I have known the Russian thugs for many years. They don't believe in your Wolf, by the way. Believe me, I've asked around."

And that's what we did for the next hour or so. Talked about the Wolf to Russian thugs Boulard knew. If nothing else, the morning was beautiful, with bright blue skies, which made it excruciating for me. What was I doing there?

At 1:30, Maud said cheerfully, "Let's have lunch. With the Russians, of course. I know just the place."

She took me into what she called "one of the oldest Russian restaurants in Paris," Le Daru. The front room was paneled with warm pine as if we were inside the dacha of a wealthy Muscovite.

I was angry, but trying not to show it. We simply didn't have time for a sit-down lunch.

Nevertheless, Maud and I ate. I wanted to strangle her, the obsequious waiter, anybody I could get my hands on. I'm certain she had no idea how angry I was. Some detective!

As we finished, I noticed that two men at a nearby table were watching us, or maybe they were eyeing Maud, with her lustrous red hair.

I told her about the men, and she shrugged it off as "the way men are in Paris. Pigs."

"Let's see if they follow," she said as we got up and left the restaurant. "I doubt that they will. I don't know them. I know everybody here. Not your Wolf, though."

"They're leaving right behind us," I told her.

"Good for them. It is the exit after all."

The short rue Daru ended at rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, which Maud told me was a window-shopping experience that continued all the way to the place Vendôme. We had walked only a block when a white Lincoln limousine pulled up alongside us.

A dark-bearded man opened the rear door and looked out. "Please get in the car. Don't make a scene," he said in English with a Russian accent. "Get in, now. I'm not fooling around."

"No," said Maud. "We don't get in your car. You come out here and talk to us. Who the hell are you? Who do you think you are?"

The bearded man pulled a gun and fired twice. I couldn't believe what had just happened right in the middle of a Paris street.

Maud Boulard was down on the sidewalk, and I was certain she was dead. Blood seeped from a horrible, jagged wound near the center of her forehead. Her red hair was splayed in a hundred directions. Her eyes were open wide, staring up into the blue sky. In the fall, one of her shoes had been thrown off and lay out in the middle of the street.

"Get in the car, Dr. Cross. I won't ask you again. I'm tired of being polite," said the Russian, whose gun was pointed at my face. "Get in, or I'll shoot you in the head, too. With pleasure."

Chapter 79

"Now comes show-and-tell time," the black-bearded Russian man said once I was inside the limousine with him. "Isn't that how they say it in American schools? You have two children in school, don't you? So, I'm showing you things that are important, and I'm telling you what they mean. I told the detective to get in the car and she didn't do it. Maud Boulard was her name, no? Maud Boulard wanted to act like the tough cop. Now she's the dead cop, not so tough after all."

The car sped away from the murder scene, leaving the French detective dead in the street. We changed cars a few blocks from the shooting, getting into a much less obtrusive gray Peugeot. For what it was worth, I memorized both license plates.

"Now we go for a little ride in the country," said the Russian man, who seemed to be having a good time so far.

"Who are you? What do you want from me?" I asked him. He was tall, maybe six-five, and muscular. Very much the way I had heard the Wolf described. He was holding a Beretta pointed at the side of my head. His hand was rock steady, and he was no stranger to guns and how to use them.

"It doesn't matter who I am, not in the least. You're looking for the Wolf, aren't you? I'm taking you to meet him now."

He threw me a dark look, then handed me a cloth sack. "Put this over your head. And do exactly as I say from now on. Remember, show-and-tell."

"I remember." I put on the hood. I would never forget the cold-blooded murder of Detective Boulard. The Wolf and his people killed easily, didn't they? What did that mean for the four cities under threat? Would they kill thousands and thousands so easily? Was that their plan to demonstrate power and control? To get revenge for some mysterious crime in the past?

I don't know how long we rode around in the Peugeot, but it was well over an hour: slow city driving at first, then an hour or so on the open highway.

Then we were slowing again, possibly traveling on a dirt road. Hard bounces and bumps shocked and twisted my spine.

"You can take off the hood now," Black Beard spoke to me again. "We're almost there, Dr. Cross. Nothing much to see out here, anyway."

I took off the hood and saw that we were in the French countryside somewhere, riding down an unpaved road with tall grass waving on either side. No markers or signs anywhere that I could see.

"He's staying out here?" I asked. I wondered if I was really being taken to the Wolf. For what possible reason?

"For the moment, Dr. Cross. But then he'll be gone again. As you know, he moves around a lot. He is like a ghost, an apparition. You'll see what I mean in a moment."

The Peugeot pulled up in front of a small stone farmhouse. Two armed men immediately came out the front door to meet us. Both held automatic weapons aimed at my upper body and face.

"Inside," said one of them. He had a white beard but was nearly as large and muscular as the man who had accompanied me thus far.

It was obvious that he had seniority over Black Beard, who had seemed in control until now. "Inside!" he repeated to me. "Hurry up! Can't you hear, Dr. Cross?"

"He is an animal," White Beard then said to me. "He shouldn't have killed the woman. I am the Wolf, Dr. Cross. It's good to meet you at last."

Chapter 80

"Don't try to do anything heroic, by the way. Because then I'll have to kill you and find a new messenger," he said as we walked inside the farmhouse.

"I'm a messenger now? For what?" I asked.

The Russian waved off my question as if it were a pesky fly buzzing around his hairy face.

"Time is flying. Weren't you thinking that with the French detective? They were just keeping you out of the way, the French. Didn't you think as much?"

"The thought crossed my mind," I said. Meanwhile, I couldn't believe that this was the Wolf. I didn't believe it. But who was he? Why had I been brought there?

"Of course it did. You're not a stupid man," he said.

We had entered a small, dark room with a fieldstone fireplace, but no fire. The room was cluttered with heavy wooden furniture, old magazines, yellowing newspapers. The windows were tightly shuttered. The place was airless. The only light came from a single standing lamp.

"Why am I here? Why show yourself to me now?" I finally asked him.

"Sit down," said the Russian.

"All right. I'm a messenger," I said, and lowered myself into a chair.

He nodded. "Yes. A messenger. It's important that everyone fully understand the seriousness of the situation. This is your last chance."

"We understand," I said.

Almost before I had finished speaking, he lunged forward and hit me in the jaw.

My chair went over backward, I was in free fall, then my head struck the stone floor. I might have gone out for a couple of seconds.

But then I was being dragged back up by a couple of the other men in the room. My head was spinning and there was blood in my mouth.

"I want to be clear about this," the Russian continued. It was as if hitting me had been a necessary pause in his speech. "You are a messenger. And none of you fools understand the seriousness now. Just as no one seems to understand, really understand, that they are going to die, and what that means, until the moment it happens… The stupid woman in Paris today? Do you think she understood before a speeding bullet blew open her brain? The money must be paid this time, Dr. Cross. In full. In all four cities. The prisoners must be released."

"Why the prisoners?" I asked.

He hit me again, but this time I didn't go down. Then he turned and left the room. "Because I say so!"

He came back a moment later, with a heavy black valise. He set it on the floor right in front of me.

"This is the dark side of the moon," he said. Then he opened it for me to see inside.

"It's called a tactical nuclear explosive device. More simply, a 'suitcase nuke.' Produces a horrific explosion. Unlike conventional warheads, it operates at ground level. Easy to conceal, easy to transport. No mess, no fuss. You've seen pictures of Hiroshima, of course. Everyone has."

"What about Hiroshima?"

"This suitcase has approximately the same yield. Devastating. We, the old Soviet Union, used to manufacture these bombs by the truckload.

"Want to know where some of the others are right now? Well, there is one or more in Washington, D.C., Tel Aviv, Paris, London. So, as you see, we have a new member in the exclusive 'nuclear community.' We are the new members."

I was starting to feel cold all over. Was there really a nuclear bomb in the suitcase?

"That's the message you want me to deliver?"

"The other reactors are in place. And to show my good faith, you can take this reactor back with you. Let the boys in the shop look it over. But tell them to look very quickly.

"Now, maybe, maybe, you understand. Get out of here. To me, you are a gnat, but at least you are a gnat. Take the nuclear weapon with you. Consider it a gift. Don't say I didn't warn you about what was going to happen. Now, go. Hurry, Dr. Cross."

Chapter 81

Everything was a blur from there on that afternoon. The dark cloth hood had just been for show, I figured, since I wore nothing over my eyes on the ride back to Paris, which seemed a lot shorter than the ride out.

I kept asking my captors where I was being taken with the suitcase bomb, but neither man in the car would give me an answer. Not a word. They spoke nothing but Russian on the ride.

To me, you are a gnat… Take the nuclear weapon with you…

Soon after we entered Paris, the Peugeot stopped in the crowded parking lot of a shopping center. A gun was held in my face, and then I was handcuffed to the suitcase. "What's this about?" I asked my captors but received no answer.

Moments later the Peugeot stopped again, at place Igor Stravinsky, one of the more populated areas of Paris, though mostly deserted now.

"Get out!" I was told-the first English words I'd heard in close to an hour.

Slowly, carefully, I emerged from the sedan with the bomb. I felt a little dizzy. The Peugeot roared off.

I was aware of a certain liquidity in the air, particles, a real sense of atoms. I stood motionless near the huge plaza of the Centre National d'Art et de Culture Georges Pompidou, handcuffed to a black valise that weighed at least fifty pounds, probably more.

Supposedly it carried a nuclear bomb, the full equivalent of the ones Harry Truman had ordered dropped on Japan. My body was already covered with cold sweat, and I felt as if I were watching myself in a dream. Could it all end like this? Of course it could. All bets were off, but especially any bets on my life. Was I about to be blown up? Would I suffer radiation sickness if I wasn't?

I spotted two policemen near a Virgin record store and made my way up to them. I explained who I was, and then told them to please call the directeur de la sécurité publique.

I didn't tell the cops what was in the black valise, but I quickly revealed the contents to the director when he came on the line. "Is the threat real, Dr. Cross?" he wanted to know. "Is the bomb live?"

"I don't know. How could I? Please respond as if it is. That's what I'm doing." Get your bomb squad over here. Now! Get off the phone!

Within a few minutes, the whole of the Beaubourg district had been evacuated, except for a dozen or so patrolmen, the military police, and several bomb-squad experts. At least I hoped they were experts, the best France had to offer.

I was told to sit on the ground, which I did. Right alongside the black valise, of course. I did everything I was told to do, because I had no choice in the matter. I was feeling sick to my stomach, and sitting made it a little better, though not much. At least the initial dizziness I'd felt was starting to pass.

First, a bomb-sniffing dog was brought in to smell me and the suitcase. A handsome, young German shepherd, the chien explo, approached very cautiously, eyeing the suitcase as if it were a rival dog, an enemy.

When the shepherd got within five yards, she completely froze. A low growl rumbled up from her chest. The hair on her neck rose. Oh shit. Oh God, I thought.

The dog continued to growl until she was certain of radioactive contents, then she quickly retreated to her handlers. Very wise of the shepherd. I was left alone again. I'd never been more frightened in my life, nothing had come even close. The thought of being blown apart, possibly vaporized, isn't pleasant. It's a tough one to wrap your mind around.

After what seemed like an eternity, though it was only a few minutes, two bomb-squad technicians in moon suits cautiously headed my way. I saw that one of them was clutching bolt cutters. God bless him! This was such an incredibly surreal moment.

The man with the cutters knelt down beside me. "It's okay, you're okay," he whispered. Then he carefully sliced through the handcuffs.

"You can leave. Get up slowly," he said. I rose cautiously, rubbing my wrist, but already backing away from the suitcase.

My alien-looking escorts and I hurried out of the designated "hot zone" to where two black bomb-squad vans were parked. Of course, the van was still in the "hot zone" as well. If a nuclear bomb went off, at least a square mile of Paris would be vaporized instantly.

From inside one of the vans I watched the team of technicians work to deactivate the bomb. If they could. I never considered leaving the scene, and the next few minutes were the longest of my life. No one in the van spoke, and we were all holding our breath. The idea of dying like this, so suddenly, was almost impossible to conceive.

Word came back from the French bomb technicians: "The suitcase is open."

Then, less than a minute later, "The fissile material is there. It's real. It seems to be in working order, unfortunately."

The bomb was real. It wasn't a fake threat. The Wolf was still keeping his promises, wasn't he? The sadistic bastard was everything he said he was.

Then I saw one of the technicians pump his arm in the air. A cheer went up around the console in the van. I didn't understand exactly what had happened at first, but it seemed like good news. No one explained anything to me.

"What just happened?" I finally asked in French.

One of the techs turned to me. "There's no trigger! It couldn't blow up. They didn't want it to explode, thank God. They only wanted to scare the shit out of us."

"It worked," I told him. "I shit you not."

Chapter 82

Over the next couple of hours it was revealed that the suitcase bomb had everything necessary for a nuclear explosion except a single part, a pulsed neutron emitter, a trigger. All the difficult elements were there. I couldn't eat that night, couldn't keep anything down, couldn't concentrate at all. I'd been tested, but I couldn't get the idea of radiation poisoning to leave my brain.

I also couldn't get Maud Boulard out of my mind: her face, the tenor of her voice, our absurd lunch together, the detective's stubbornness and naïveté, her red hair splayed out on the sidewalk. The casual brutality of the Wolf and his people.

I kept flashing back to the Russian who had struck me in the farmhouse. Had it been the Wolf? Why would he let me see him? And then, why not?

I went back to the Relais and suddenly wished that I hadn't asked for a room facing the street. My body felt numb all over, exhausted, but my mind wouldn't stop racing at warp speed. The noise rising from the street was a disturbance that I couldn't handle right now. They have nuclear weapons. This isn't a bluff. It's going to happen. A holocaust.

I decided to call the kids at about six o'clock, their time. I talked to them about all the things in Paris that I didn't see that day-everything except what had really happened to me. So far, the media had none of it, but that wouldn't last.

Then I called Nana. I told her the truth about how it had felt sitting on the pavement with a bomb attached to my wrist. She was the one I always told about my worst days, and this was probably the worst of them all.

Chapter 83

When I arrived at my small office at the Préfecture I got another surprise. Martin Lodge was waiting there for me. It was 7:15: ten hours and forty-five minutes to doomsday.

I shook Martin's hand, and told him how glad I was that he was there. "Not much time left. Why are you here?"

"Last words, I suppose. I have to give the final update on the situation in London. As well as Tel Aviv. From our vantage point, anyway."

"And?"

Martin shook his head. "You don't want to hear the same rotten story twice."

"Yeah. I do."

"Not this story, you don't. Oh hell, it's all cocked up, Alex. I think he might have to blow up a city to get them to act. That's how bad it is. The worst is Tel Aviv. I think it's basically hopeless there. They don't make deals with terrorists. You asked."

The morning briefing started at eight sharp and included a quick summary on the briefcase bomb from the technicians who had taken it apart. They reported that the bomb was authentic in design, but there was no neutron emitter, no trigger, and possibly not enough radioactive material inside.

An army general spoke about the current situation in Paris: the people were frightened and staying off the streets, but only a small percentage had actually fled the city. The army was prepared to move in and declare martial law about the time of the deadline, which was sixP.M.

Then it was time for Martin. He strode to the front of the room and spoke in French. "Good morning. Isn't it incredible what can happen once we adapt ourselves to a new reality? The people of London have been splendid, for the most part. Some rioting. Not too much in terms of what could have happened. I suspect that those who might have given us the most trouble got out of London early. As for Tel Aviv, they're so accustomed to crisis and living under threatening scenarios-let's just say that they're handling this very well.

"Anyway, that's the good news. The bad is that we've raised most of the money, but not all of it. That's in London. And Tel Aviv? As best we can tell, they're not going to make a deal. The Israelis hold their cards very close to the vest, so we're not sure what's transpired there.

"We're putting on pressure, of course. And so is Washington. I know that private individuals have been approached to put up the entire ransom. That could still happen. But it isn't clear if the government will take the money. They simply don't want to meet terrorist demands.

"Less than ten hours," Martin Lodge said. "To be blunt, we don't have time for a lot of bullshit. Somebody has to drop the hammer on anyone who's resisting paying the ransom."

A policeman had come up to me and was whispering against my ear. "Sorry. You're needed, Dr. Cross."

"What is it?" I whispered back. I wanted to hear everything that was being said in this meeting.

"Just come. It's an emergency. Right now, please."

Chapter 84

I knew that, ironically, an "emergency" had to be considered good news at this point in the countdown. At 8:30 that morning I was inside a speeding police cruiser, the blare of its siren disturbing the peace all along our route across Paris.

My God, the streets were bleak and deserted. Except for soldiers and the police, anyway. My part in an ongoing interrogation was explained to me during the ride. "We have an arms dealer in custody, Dr. Cross. We have reason to believe that he helped supply the bombs. Maybe he's one of the men who you saw out in the country. He's a Russian-with a white beard."

Minutes later we arrived in front of the Brigade Criminelle, a dark, nineteenth-century building in a quiet neighborhood along the Seine. Actually, this was the infamous " La Crim " from countless French movies and police stories, including several about Inspector Maigret that Nana and I had read together when I was a kid. Life imitates art, or something like that.

Once inside La Crim I was led up a rickety staircase, all the way to the top floor, the fourth. The interrogation was being conducted up there.

I was brought down a narrow hallway to room 414. The brigadier who escorted me knocked once, and then we stepped inside.

I recognized the Russian arms dealer instantly.

They had caught White Beard, the one who'd told me he was the Wolf.

Chapter 85

The room was small and cramped, as it was situated right under the eaves. It had a low, rain-stained, sloping ceiling and a tiny Velux, a skylight. I looked at my watch-8:45. Tick, tick, tick.

I was hurriedly introduced to the interrogation team of Captain Coridon and Lieutenant Leroux-and their prisoner, a Russian arms dealer, Artur Nikitin. I already knew Nikitin, of course. He wore no shirt or shoes and was cuffed, hands behind his back. He was also sweating profusely. He was definitely the white-bearded Russian from the farmhouse.

I had been told during the ride over that the Russian hoodlum did business with al Qaeda that had made him millions. It was believed that he was involved with suitcase nukes, that he knew how many had been sold, and that he knew who had bought them.

"Cowards!" he was shouting at the French police as I entered the room. "Fucking goddamn cowards. You can't do this to me. I've done nothing wrong. You French claim to be such liberals, but you are not!"

He looked at me and pretended he had no idea who I was. His bad acting made me smile.

Captain Coridon told him, "You may have noticed that you have been brought to the Préfecture de Police rather than the offices of the DST. That's because you're not being charged as an 'illegal trafficker in arms.' The charge is murder. We are homicide detectives. Trust me, there are no liberals in this room, unless it's you."

Nikitin's brown eyes remained wide with anger, but I also detected traces of confusion, especially now that I was there. "This is bullshit! I can't believe it. I've done nothing wrong. I am a businessman! A French citizen. I want my lawyer!"

Coridon looked at me. "You try."

I stepped forward and threw a hard uppercut into the Russian's jaw. His head snapped back. "We're not even close to being even," I told him. "No one knows that you're here! You will be tried as a terrorist, and you will be executed. No one will care, not after tomorrow. Not after your bombs help destroy Paris and kill thousands."

The Russian yelled at me. "I tell you again-I've done nothing! You can't do anything to me. What weapons? What bombs? Who am I, Saddam Hussein? You can't do this."

"We can, and we will execute you," shouted Captain Coridon from off to the side. "You are a dead man as soon as you leave this room, Nikitin. We have other scum to talk to. Whoever helps us first, we help them."

"Get him out of here!" Coridon finally said. "We're wasting time with this bastard!"

The brigadier grabbed Nikitin by his hair and by the band of his pants. He threw him halfway across the room. The Russian's head smacked against the wall, but he scrambled to his bare feet. His eyes were large and fearful now. Maybe he was beginning to understand that the rules of interrogation had changed. Everything had changed now.

"Last chance to talk," I said. "Remember, you're just a gnat to us."

"I didn't sell anything to anyone here in France! I sell in Angola, for diamonds!" Nikitin said.

"I don't care, and I don't believe you!" Captain Coridon shouted at the top of his voice. "Get him out of here."

"I know something!" Nikitin suddenly blurted out. "The suitcase nukes! The number is four. It's al Qaeda who's behind it. Al Qaeda made the plan! They call the shots. The prisoners of war-everything."

I turned to the French policemen and shook my head. "The Wolf gave him up to us. And he's not going to be pleased with his 'performance.' He'll kill him for us. I don't believe a word he just said."

Nikitin looked at the three of us, then he spit, " Al Qaeda! Fuck you if you don't like it, or believe it."

I stared back at him. "Prove what you're saying. Make us believe you. Make me believe you, because I don't."

"All right," Nikitin said then. "I can do that. I'll make all of you believers."

Chapter 86

As soon as I arrived back at the Préfecture, Martin Lodge caught up with me. "Let's go!" He started to pull me along.

"What? Go where?" I looked at my watch-something I seemed to be doing every couple of minutes now. It was 10:25.

"A raid is going down in a few minutes. The hideout that the Russian gave you-it's real."

Martin and I hurried upstairs to the crisis room at police headquarters. My old pal Etienne Marteau met us and guided us to a row of monitors set up to view the raid. Everything was happening incredibly fast for a change. Too fast maybe, but what choice did we have?

Marteau said, "They're confident, Alex. They coordinated with the power authority, EDF-GDF. The power grid in the area goes down and then they go in."

I nodded at what he was saying and watched the screens in front of us. It was strange to be once removed from the action. Then it was happening! French soldiers appeared out of nowhere, dozens of them. They wore RAID jackets: Recherche, assistance, intervention et dissuasion. They carried assault rifles.

The soldiers rushed toward a small town house that looked harmless enough. They broke down the front door. It happened in seconds.

A UBL, a French version of the Hummer, appeared and crashed through a wooden gate in the rear. Soldiers jumped from the UBL.

"We'll see soon enough," I said to Martin. "RAID is good at what they do?"

"Yes, they are skillful at destruction and death."

A couple of the French police were miked and carried cameras, so we got to see and hear much of the raid as it happened. A door was thrown open, a gun fired from inside, then a blaze of return fire.

Someone's shrill scream, the sound of a body thumping against the floorboards.

Two gunmen ran out into a narrow hallway. Both in their underwear. Shot down before they knew what hit them.

A half-naked female with a handgun-shot in the throat.

"Don't kill them all," I muttered at the monitor.

A Cougar helicopter swooped down and more commandos appeared. Inside the house, soldiers swarmed into a bedroom, then fell on a man lying on a cot. They took him alive, thank God.

Other terrorists were surrendering, their hands held high.

Then more rapid gunshots, off camera this time.

A suspect was marched down the hall with a gun held to his head. An older man. The Wolf? Was it possible they had captured him? The policeman with the gun was smiling as if he had scored something big. The raid was certainly fast and efficient. At least four of the terrorists had been captured alive.

Then we waited impatiently for news. The cameras at the raid site were shut down. We waited some more.

Finally, about three in the afternoon, an army colonel stood at the front of the room in the crisis center. Every seat was taken; there was no more standing room; the tension was almost unbearable.

The colonel began, "We have identified the prisoners, those who are alive. One from Iran, a Saudi, a Moroccan, two Egyptians. A cell. Al Qaeda. We know who they are. It is doubtful that we caught the Wolf. It is also doubtful that these terrorists were involved in the threat to Paris. I am sorry to give you bad news at this late hour. We did our best. But he remains a step ahead of us. I'm sorry."

Chapter 87

The terrible, "final" deadline was so close now, and no one had any more information on what would happen next. We seemed to have run out of options to stop the Wolf.

At 5:45, I was one of several nervous men and women climbing out of dark Renaults and then hurrying toward the tall ironwork gates of the Ministère de l'Intérieur building for a meeting with the DGSE, which is the French equivalent of our CIA. The front gates were immense. Like supplicants entering a cathedral, we seemed small and insignificant as we passed through them. I felt small and insignificant, as well as at the mercy of higher powers, and not just God.

The gates opened onto a grand courtyard, a vast expanse of cobblestones, and I was reminded of the horse-drawn carriages that had once rolled through these very gates. Had there been progress in the world since then? It didn't seem like it on that particular day.

I walked with other police officers, government ministers, and directors into a magnificent entry hall with a marbled pink and white tile floor. Armed guards lined the staircase. Hardly anyone spoke on the way up. There was only the dull sound of our plodding footsteps, the occasional nervous cough. It was possible that within the hour, Paris, London, Washington, and Tel Aviv would be bombed and thousands would die. There could be a much higher number of casualties. A hundred thousand or more was a possibility.

A Russian gangster is doing this? One with mysterious ties to al Qaeda? We are at his mercy now, aren't we? How incredibly strange.

The meeting was in the Salle des Fêtes, and once again I couldn't help wondering what I was doing there. I was the American representative in Paris because the FBI wanted me there, because there was a chance that I could make a difference with my experience as a psychologist and homicide detective, because something tragic might have happened to the Wolf in Paris a long time ago. We still hadn't figured out what.

Inside the main hall, tables had been arranged in a U shape and covered with plain white fabric. Propped on easels were laminated maps of Europe, the Middle East, and the United States. The target areas were circled in thick red crayon. Crude, but effective.

A dozen or more TV monitors were up and running. So was a state-of-the-art teleconferencing system. There were more gray and blue suits than usual, more important people, more obvious power on display. For some reason, I noticed several pairs of rimless titanium eyeglasses-the ever-fashionable French.

Live scenes from London, Washington, Paris, and Tel Aviv played on the TV monitors mounted on the walls. The cities were quiet. Most of the army and police were inside as well. Etienne Marteau came and sat beside me. Martin Lodge had already returned to London.

"What do you think our chances are, realistically, here in Paris, Alex?" Etienne asked.

"Etienne, I don't know what's happening. No one does. Maybe we stopped the main cell of terrorists earlier. My guess is that everything has been leading up to today's deadline. I think the Wolf knew how difficult it would be to pull this together. Something happened to him here in Paris. We still don't know what it is. What can I say? We're out of time. We're fucked."

Suddenly, Etienne sat up straight in his chair. "My God, it's President Debauney."

Chapter 88

Aramis Debauney, the French president, looked to be in his mid-fifties and was very well dressed for the occasion, very formal. He was a compact man with slicked-back silver-gray hair and a pencil-thin mustache, and he wore wire-rimmed eyeglasses. He looked somewhat calm and in control of his emotions as he strode quickly to the front of the room, and began to talk. You could hear a pin drop.

"As you know, I have worked in the trenches and on the front lines of law enforcement for many years myself. So I wanted you to hear from me now. I also wanted to be with you for these final minutes before the deadline runs out.

"I have news. The money has been raised. In Paris. In London. Washington. And in Tel Aviv, with help from many friends of Israel around the world. The entire sum will be transferred in three and a half minutes, approximately five minutes before the deadline expires.

"I want to thank everyone in this room, and all of those you represent, for countless hours of hard work, for personal sacrifices that no one should ask, for the most heroic effort, incredible bravery by so many. We did the best that we could, and most important, we will survive this crisis. Eventually we will get these inhuman bastards, all of them! We will get this Wolf, the most inhuman of them all."

There was a gold Empire clock on the wall behind the president. Everyone watched it intently. How could we not?

At 5:55 Paris time, President Debauney said, "The money is being transferred now. It will happen in a matter of seconds… All right. It's done. This should be over now. We will be all right. Congratulations to all of you. Thank you."

There was an audible sigh of relief in the cavernous room, smiles and handshakes, some hugs.

Then we waited, almost a reflex action.

For any kind of communication from the Wolf.

For breaking news from the other targeted cities: Washington, London, Tel Aviv.

The final sixty seconds before the deadline were incredibly tense and dramatic, even though the ransom had been delivered. I could do nothing but watch the second hand on the clock. Finally, I said a prayer for my family, for the people in all four cities, for the world we live in.

Then it was six in Paris and London; twelve in Washington; seven in Tel Aviv.

The deadline had passed. But what did it mean? Were we truly safe?

There were no significant changes on any of the monitors, no disruptions, no explosions on the live video feeds. Nothing.

And there was no call from the Wolf.

Two more minutes passed.

Ten minutes.

And then, a terrible explosion rocked the room-and the world.