The Big Bad Wolf

Chapter Seventy-Nine

Stacy Pollack was a solemn and commanding presence in front of the roomful of agents gathered on the fifth floor of the Hoover Building. It was standing room only for her meeting. I was one of those gathered in the back, but just about everybody knew who I was after our New Hampshire success of bringing in Potter. We had rescued another captive – Francis Deegan was going to be fine. We’d also found the body of Benjamin Coffey, and two other males, unidentified so far.

‘Unaccustomed as I am to having things go our way,’ Pollack began and got a laugh, ‘I’ll take this latest development and offer humble thanks to the gods that be. This is a very good break for us. As many of you know, the Wolf has been a key target on our Red Mafiya list, probably the key target. He’s rumored to be into everything – weapon sales, extortion, sports fixing, prostitution, the white-slave market. His name seems to be Pasha Sorokin and he seems to have learned his trade on the outskirts of Moscow. I say seems, because nothing is a sure thing when it comes to this guy. Somehow he maneuvered his way into the KGB, where he lasted three years. He then became a pakhan in the Russian Underworld, a boss, but decided to emigrate to America. Where he completely disappeared.

‘We actually believed that he was dead for a while. Apparently not, at least if we can believe Mr Potter. Can we believe him?’ Pollack gestured in my direction.

I stayed in my seat. I knew I’d already drawn enough attention.

‘I think we can believe Potter. He knows that we need him; he definitely understands what he has to offer us – a possible lead to Sorokin. He also warned me that the Wolf will come after us. His mission is to be the top gangster in the world. According to Potter, that’s what the Wolf is.’

‘So why the white-slave market?’ one of the ASACs asked. ‘There’s not that much money in it. It’s risky. What’s the point? Sounds like bullshit to me. Maybe we’ve been had.’

‘We don’t know why he acts the way he does. It’s troubling, I agree. Maybe it’s his roots, his patterns,’ an agent from the New York office’s Russia group spoke. ‘He’s always had his fingers in whatever he could. It goes back to his days on the streets of Moscow. Also, the Wolf likes women himself. He’s kinky.’

‘I don’t think he likes them,’ said a woman agent from D.C. ‘Honestly, Jeff.’

The New York agent continued. ‘There’s a rumor that he walked into a club in Brighton Beach about a week ago and wasted one of his ex-wives. That’s his style. He once sold a couple of his female cousins from the home country on the slave market. The thing to remember about Pasha Sorokin is that he has no fears. He expected to die young in Russia. He’s surprised that he’s still alive. He likes it on the edge.’

Stacy Pollack took the floor again. ‘Let me tell you a couple of other stories to give you a sense of who we’re dealing with. It seems that Pasha manipulated the CIA to get him out of Russia originally. That’s right, the CIA transported him here. He was supposed to give them all sorts of information, but he never delivered. When he first got to New York, he sold babies out of an apartment in Brooklyn. According to the stories, in one day alone, he sold six babies to suburban couples for ten thousand dollars apiece. More recently he swindled a Miami bank out of two hundred million. He likes what he does, and he’s obviously good at it. And now we know an Internet site he visits. We may even be able to get on the site. We’re working on it. We’re as close to the Wolf as we’ve ever been. Or so we like to believe.’

Chapter Eighty

The Wolf was in Philadelphia that night, birthplace of a nation, though not his nation. He never showed it but he was anxious, and he liked the emotional charge it gave him.

It made him feel more alive. He also liked it that he was invisible, that no one knew who he was, that he could go anywhere, do anything he wanted to do. Tonight, he was watching the Flyers play Montreal at the First Union Center in Philly. The hockey game was one he had arranged to have fixed, but nothing had happened so far, which was why he was anxious, but also very angry.

As the second period was winding down the score was 2–1. Flyers! He was seated at center ice, four rows back behind the penalty boxes, close to the action. To distract himself he watched the crowd – a mix of yuppies in business suits and loosened ties and blue-collar types in oversized Flyers jerseys. Everybody seemed to have plastic tubs of nachos and twenty-ounce cups of beer.

His eyes shifted back to the game. Players flashed around the rink at dazzling speeds, making a slashing sound as the blades of their skates tore into the ice. C’mon, c’mon. Do something! he urged.

Then suddenly he saw Ilia Teptev out of position. There was the shotgun crash of ninety miles an hour slapshot as it left the stick. Goal – Canadians! The crowd erupted with insults: ‘You suck, Ilia! You throwing this game?’

Then the announcer came over the PA. ‘Canadian goal by number eighteen, Stevie Bowen. Time of goal, nineteen minutes and thirty-two seconds.’

The period ended like that, 2–2. The Zamboni chugged out resurfacing the ice between periods. More beer and more nachos were consumed. And the resurfaced ice became a slick glass sheet once again.

For the next sixteen minutes, the game was knotted at 2–2. The Wolf wanted to garrote Teptev and Dobrushkin. Then the Canadian center, Bowen, plowed through a half-hearted check and burst into the Flyer zone. He dropped a pass along the right boards. A shot! Wide! Recovered by Alexei Dobrushkin – who settled behind his own net with the puck.

He skated to his right – then snapped a pass across the ice – across the goal mouth – and it was picked off by Bowen. Bowen slapped the puck into the corner of the net.

Goal – Canadians!

The Wolf smiled for the first time that night. Then he turned to his companion, his seven-year-old son, Dimitri, which would have surprised everyone who supposedly knew him.

‘Let’s go, Dimmie, the game’s over. The Canadians will win. Just like I told you they would. Didn’t I tell you?’

Dimitri wasn’t convinced about the outcome, but he knew better than to argue with his father. ‘You were right, Daddy,’ said the boy. ‘You’re always right.’

Chapter Eighty-One

That night at eleven-thirty I planned to enter the Wolf’s Den for the first time. I needed the help of Mr Potter, though. Homer Taylor had been moved to Washington for the purpose. I needed his eyes.

The two of us sat close together, Taylor in cuffs, in an operation room on the fifth floor of the Hoover. The professor was nervous, and I guessed that he was having second thoughts about our arrangement with respect to the Wolf. ‘Don’t think that he won’t get to you. He’s relentless. He’s crazy,’ he warned me again.

‘I’ve avoided crazy men before,’ I said. ‘We still have a deal?’

‘We do. What choice do I have? But you’ll regret it. So will I, I’m afraid.’

‘We’re going to protect you.’

His eyes narrowed. ‘So you say.’

The night had been a busy one already. The top computer experts at the Bureau had tried password-cracking software to get into the Wolf’s Den. So far, everything had failed. So had a ‘brute force’ attack that can often decode encrypted data by feeding in combinations of letters and numbers. Nothing had worked. We needed Mr Potter to get inside. We needed his eyes. The blood-vessel patterns of the retina and the pattern of flecks on the iris offered unique methods of identification. Scanning involved a low-intensity light source and an optical coupler.

Potter set one eye up to the device and then focused on a red dot. An impression was taken and then sent on. Seconds later, we had access.

This is Potter, I typed as Taylor was led out of the operations room. He would be transferred to Lorton Federal Prison for the night, then taken back to New England. I put him out of my mind, but I wouldn’t be able to forget his warning about the Wolf.

We were just talking about you, said someone with the username Master Trekr.

I wondered why my ears were buzzing, I typed, and wondered if I was communicating with the Wolf for the first time. Was he on-line? If so, where was he? What city?

I was center stage in the operation room used by SIOC. More than a dozen agents and technicians were gathered around me. Most were on computers too. The scene looked like a very high-tech classroom.

Master Trekr: Weren’t really talking about you, Potter. UR paranoid. Same as it ever was.

I looked at the other user names.

Sphinx 3000.

ToscaBella.

Louis XV.

Sterling 66.

No Wolf. Did that mean he wasn’t on-line in the Den? Or was he Master Trekr? Was he observing me now? Was I passing his test?

I need a replacement for ‘Worcester’, I typed. Potter had told me that Francis Deegan’s code name was ‘Worcester’.

Sphinx 3000: Take a number. We were talking about my package, my delivery. It’s my turn. You know that, you fruitcake.

I didn’t respond at first. This was my first test. Would Potter apologize to Sphinx 3000? I didn’t think he would. More likely, he’d come back with a caustic reply. Or would he? I chose to say nothing for now.

Sphinx 3000: Fuck U too. I know what UR thinking. U kinky bastard. As I was saying before I was interrupted. I want a Southern belle, the more hung up on herself, the more self-absorbed she is, the better. I want an ice goddess, who I plan to shatter. Totally into herself. She wears Chanel and Miu Miu and Bulgari Jewelry. Even to the shopping mall. Heels of course. I don’t care if she’s tall or short. Beautiful face. Pert tits.

ToscaBella: How orignal.

Sphinx 3000: Fuck original, and sorry to repeat myself, but fuck U. Give me that old-time rock-and-roll music. I want what I want, and I’ve earned it.

Sterling 66: Anything else? This Southern belle of yours? In her twenties? Thirties?

Sphinx 3000: That’d be good. All or any of the above.

Louis XV: Teens?

Sphinx 3000: That’d be good too.

Sterling 66: How long do you plan to keep her around?

Sphinx 3000: One glorious night of ecstasy and wild abandon… Just one night.

Sterling 66: And then?

Sphinx 3000: I’m going to dispose of her. Now, do I get my goddess?

There was a pause.

No answer came from anyone.

What was going on? I wondered.

Of course U do, answered Wolf. Just be careful, Sphinx. Be very careful. We’re being watched.

Chapter Eighty-Two

I wasn’t sure how to react to the Wolf, or his message to Sphinx. Should I speak now? Did he know we were on to him? How could he?

Sterling 66: Now what’s your problem, Mr Potter?

This was my chance. I wanted to try and draw out Wolf if I could. But could I pull it off? I was aware that everyone was watching me in the operation room.

I don’t have a problem, I typed. I’m just ready for another boy. U know I’m good for it. Haven’t I always been?

Sterling 66: UR ready for another boy? U just recently received ‘Worcester’. Less than a week ago.

I typed: Yes, but he’s left us.

Sphinx 3000: That’s very funny. UR so cute, Potter. Such a cute psycho-killer.

Sphinx didn’t like Potter, did he? I had to assume the feeling was mutual. I typed, I love u too. We should get together and bond in person.

Sterling 66: When U say ‘he’s left us’, I assume U mean that he’s dead?

Potter: Yes, the dear boy passed. I’m over my grieving though. Ready to move on.

Sphinx 3000: Hilarious.

This bickering was starting to get on my nerves. Who the hell were these sick bastards? Where were they? Besides cyberspace?

I have someone in mind. I’ve been watching him for a while, I typed

Sphinx 3000: I’ll bet he’s gorgeous.

I typed: Oh, he is. One of a kind. The love of my life.

Sterling 66: U said that about Worcester. What city?

I typed: Boston. Cambridge, actually. He’s a student at Harvard. Working for his doctorate. Argentinian, I believe. Rides polo ponies in the summer.

Sterling 66: Where did U bump into this one, Potter?

The next tidbit I’d gotten from Homer Taylor himself. Actually, I did bump into him. He’s so firm.

Sphinx 3000: Where did you meet him? Tell, tell.

I typed: I was at Harvard for a symposium.

Sterling 66: On?

I typed: Milton. Of course.

Sterling 66: He was attending?

I typed: No – I literally bumped into him. In the men’s room. I watched him for the rest of the day. Found out where he lived. Been studying him for three months.

Sterling 66: So why did U purchase Worcester?

I knew the question was coming. Impulse, I typed. Then, But this boy in Cambridge, that’s true love. Not a casual thing.

Sterling 66: So U have a name? An address?

I typed: I do. And I have my checkbook.

Sterling 66: Worcester won’t be found? UR certain?

I could hear Potter’s voice in my head as I typed. Good lord, no. Not unless someone goes swimming in my septic tank.

Sphinx 3000: Gross, Potter. I love it.

Sterling 66: Well, if U have checkbook in hand.

Wolf: No. We’ll wait on this. It’s too soon, Potter. We’ll get back to you. As always, I’ve enjoyed our talk, but I have other matters to attend to.

Wolf signed off. He was gone. Shit. He’d come and gone, just like that. The mystery man as always. Who was this bastard?

I stayed on-line, chatting with the others for a few minutes – expressing my disappointment at the decision, my eagerness to make a purchase. Then I left the site too.

I looked around the operation room at my colleagues. A few began to clap, partly mocking me, but mostly it was congratulatory. Cop-to-cop stuff. Almost like old times. I felt marginally accepted by the others in the room. For the first time, actually.

Chapter Eighty-Three

We waited to hear from the Wolf again. Everyone in the overcrowded room wanted to take him down in the worst way. He was a complicated and twisted killer, but, besides that, the FBI needed a win; a lot of people working their asses off needed it. Snaring the Wolf would be a tremendous victory. If we could just find him. And what if we could get all of the other sick bastards too? Sphinx. ToscaBella. Louis XV. Sterling.

Still, something was bothering me a lot. If the Wolf was as powerful and successful as he seemed to be, why was he involved in this at all? Because he’d always been into lots of kinds of crimes? Or because he was a sex freak himself? Was that it, the Wolf was a freak? Where could I go with that line of thinking?

He’s a freak, and therefore?…

Except for a couple of hours when I went home to see the kids, I remained inside the Hoover Building for the next day and a half. So did a lot of other agents on the case, even Monnie Donnelley who was as emotionally invested in this as anybody. We continued to collect information, especially about Russian mobsters in the States, but mostly we waited for a call from the Wolf’s Den to Mr Potter. A yes or a no, a go or a no-go. What was the bastard waiting for?

I talked to Jamilla several times – good talks, also to Sampson, the kids, Nana Mama. I even talked to Christine. I had to find out where her head was at about little Alex. After our talk, I wasn’t sure if she knew, which was the most disturbing thing of all. I began to detect an ambivalent tone in her voice when she spoke about raising Alex, even though she said she was prepared to sue for custody. Considering all she’d been through, it was hard for me to stay angry at her.

I would rather have given up my right arm than my little boy, though. Just thinking about it gave me a headache that throbbed continuously and made the long wait for a solution even worse.

The phone on my desk rang around ten on the second evening and I picked up right away. ‘Waiting for my call? How’s it going?’ It was Jamilla, and though she sounded close, she was all the way across country in California.

‘Sucks,’ I said. ‘I’m stuck in a small, windowless room with eight smelly FBI hackers.’

‘That good, huh? So I take it the Wolfman hasn’t called back with an answer.’

‘No. And it’s not just that.’ I told Jamilla about my phone call with Christine.

She wasn’t nearly as sympathetic as I was. ‘Who the hell does she think she is? She walked on her little boy. She was for all that time.’

‘It’s more complicated than that,’ I said.

‘No, it isn’t, Alex. You always like to give people the benefit of the doubt. You think people are basically good.’

‘I guess I do. That’s the reason I can do my job. Because most people are basically good and they don’t deserve the shit that gets heaped on them.’

Jamilla laughed. ‘Well, neither do you. Think about that. Neither does little A, Damon, Jannie, Nana Mama. Not that you asked for my opinion. I’ll shut up now. So what is going on with the case? Change the subject to something more pleasant.’

‘We’re waiting on this Russian hood and his creeped-out friends. I still don’t understand why he’s involved in a kidnapping ring.’

‘You’re at FBI headquarters, the Hoover cube?

‘Yes, but it’s not exactly a cube. It’s only seven stories on Pennsylvania Avenue, because of the D.C. building codes. And eleven stories in the back part of the building.’

‘Thanks for sharing that. You’re starting to sound like a Feebie. I’ll bet it feels weird to be in there.’

‘No, I just figure I’m on the fifth floor. Could be in either part of the building.’

‘Ha, ha. No, working the other side, the dark side. Being in the J. Edgar Hoover Building. Being a Feebie. Just thinking about it makes me shiver.’

‘The waiting is the same, Jam. The waiting’s always the same.’

‘At least you have good friends to talk to some of the time. At least you have some nice phone pals.’

‘I do, don’t I? And you’re right, it’s easier waiting here with you.’

‘I’m glad you feel that way. We need to see each other, Alex. We need to touch each other. There are things we have to talk about.’

‘I know that. As soon as this case is over. I promise. I’ll be on the first plane.’

Jamilla laughed again. ‘Well, get cracking, boy. Catch the big bad Wolf psycho bastard. Otherwise, I’ll be on my own plane East.’

‘Promise?’

‘Promise.’

Chapter Eighty-Four

A dozen or so agents had been sitting around eating thick roast beef sandwiches, German potato salad, and drinking iced tea when contact with the Wolf’s Den was made again. ‘Roast beef’ has a special meaning inside the FBI, but that was another story. The Wolf was calling.

Potter. We’ve made a decision on your request, the e-mail said. Get back to us.

The group continued to eat. We agreed there was no need to get back to the Wolf instantly. It would raise his suspicions if Potter was there waiting for the call. An agent was already playing the part of Dr Homer Taylor in Hanover at Dartmouth. We had spread a lie that the professor had the flu and wouldn’t be conducting any classes for the next day or two. Occasionally, ‘sightings’ of Professor Taylor were arranged at his house – sometimes looking out windows, or sitting out on the front porch. To our knowledge, no one else had inquired about Taylor at Dartmouth, or at his house in Webster. Both locations were being watched closely by agents.

I hoped that the agents in the field knew what the hell they were doing. At this point we had no idea how careful the Wolf was, or whether his suspicions had already been aroused. We didn’t know enough about the Russian. Not even if he had someone in the Bureau feeding him information.

It was agreed that I would wait an hour and a half, since I hadn’t been on-line when he established contact, and the Wolf would know that. During the past day we’d been unsuccessful in trying to connect the Wolf’s Den to an owner or even to one of the other users. This probably meant that a high-level hacker had protected the site well. The Bureau’s experts were confident they would breakthrough, but it hadn’t happened yet.

Homer Taylor had been transported to D.C. again, and we used his eyes for the retina scan. Then I sat down at a computer and began to type. I was following the model of communication to the Wolf’s Den provided by Homer Taylor as part of our deal.

This is Mr Potter, I began. Can I have my lover?

Chapter Eighty-Five

I waited for the Wolf to answer Potter’s insane question. We all did.

No response came. Shit. What had I done wrong? I’d gone too far, hadn’t I? He was clever. Somehow, he knew what we were up to. But how?

‘I’ll stay on for a while,’ I said as I looked around the room. ‘I want what he has to offer. He knows it. I’m supposed to be horny.’

This is Potter, I typed again, a few minutes later.

Suddenly words began to appear on my screen.

I read: Wolf: That’s redundant, Potter. I know who you are.

I typed some more words in Taylor’s strident ‘voice’. UR rude to make me wait like this. U know how I feel, what I’m going through.

Wolf: How could I? You’re the scary freak, Potter, not me.

I typed: Not so. UR the real freak. The cruellest of all.

Wolf: Why do you say that? You think I take hostages like you?

My heart raced. What did he mean by that? Did the Wolf have a hostage? Maybe more than one? Could Elizabeth Connelly still be alive after all this time? Or some other hostage? Maybe one we didn’t even know about?

Wolf: So tell me something, faggot. Prove yourself to me.

Prove myself? How? I waited for more instruction to come. But it didn’t.

I typed: What do U want to know? UR right – I’m horny. No, not really. I’m in love.

Wolf: What happened to Worcester? You were in love with him too.

The chat was heading into uncharted waters. I was guessing – hoping I could maintain continuity with things Homer Taylor might have shared before. The other question made me edgy: was this really the Wolf I was speaking to?

I typed, Francis was incapable of love. He made me very angry. He’s gone now, never to be heard from again.

Wolf: And there will be no repercussions?

I’m careful. Like U. I like my life; I don’t want to be caught. And I won’t be!!!

Wolf: Does that mean Worcester rests in pieces?

I wasn’t sure how to answer. With a cruel joke of my own? Something like that, I typed: UR funny.

Wolf: Be more specific. Give me the bloody details, Potter. Give!

Is this a test? I don’t need this shit.

Wolf: You know it is.

I typed: The septic tank. I told you that.

No response came from the Wolf. He was rubbing my nerves raw.

So when do I get my new boy? I typed.

A pause of several seconds.

Wolf: You have the money?

Of course I do.

Wolf: How much do you have?

I felt I knew the correct answer to that, but I couldn’t be sure. A week earlier, Taylor had taken one hundred twenty-five thousand dollars from his account with a money manager at Lehman in New York.

One hundred twenty-five thousand. The money isn’t a problem. It’s burning a hole in my pocket.

No response from Wolf.

I typed: U told me not to be redundant.

Wolf: All right then, maybe we’ll get you the boy. Be careful! There might not be another!

I typed: Then there won’t be another hundred twenty-five thousand!!!

Wolf: I’m not worried. There are lots of freaks like you. You’d be amazed.

So. U didn’t answer my question before. How is your hostage?

Wolf: I have to go back to work… one more question, Potter. Just to be safe. Where did you get your name?

I looked around the room. Oh Christ. It was something I hadn’t thought to ask Taylor.

A voice whispered close to my ear. Monnie’s. ‘The young adult books? They call Harry “Mr Potter” at the Hogwarts School. Maybe? I don’t know?’

Was that it? I needed to type something; it had to be the right answer. Was the name from the Harry Potter books? Because he liked young boys? Then something from Taylor’s office in the farmhouse flashed in my brain.

My fingers went to the keys. Paused for a second. Then I typed my answer.

This is absurd. The name is from the Jamaica Kinkaid novel – Mr Potter. Fuck U!

I waited for a response. So did everyone else in the room. Finally, it came.

Wolf: I’ll get you the boy, Mr Potter.

Chapter Eighty-Six

We were in business again, and I was back working the streets, the way I liked it, the way it used to be.

I had been in Boston several times before, loved the city enough to consider moving there, and was comfortable. For the next two days we shadowed a student named Paul Xavier from his apartment on Beacon Hill, to his classes at Harvard, to the Ritz-Carlton where he was a waiter, to popular clubs like No Borders and Rebuke.

Xavier was the ‘bait’ we had set out for the Wolf and his kidnapping crew.

Actually, Xavier was being impersonated by a thirty-year-old agent from our field office in Springfield, Massachusetts. The agent’s real name was Paul Gautier. Boyishly handsome, tall and slender, with fluffy, light brown hair, he looked like someone in his early twenties. He was armed, but also being closely watched by a minimum of six agents at all times of the day and night. We had no idea how or when the Wolf’s team might try to grab him, only that they would.

For twelve hours each day, I was one of the agents watching and protecting Gautier. I had spoken about the dangers of using ‘bait’ to try and catch the kidnappers, but nobody had paid attention.

On the second night of surveillance, and according to plan, Paul Gautier went to ‘the Fens’ along the Muddy River near Park Drive and Boylston Street. Actually called the BackBay Fens it had been imagined by Frederick Law Olmsted who’d also designed the Boston Common and Central Park in New York. In the evening hours after the clubs closed the real Paul Xavier often cruised the Fens looking for sexual encounters, which was why we had sent our agent there.

It was dangerous work for all of us, but especially for Agent Gautier. The area was dark and there were no streetlights. The tall reeds along the river were thick and provided cover for pickups and liaisons and kidnappings.

Agent Peggy Katz and I were on the edge of the reeds, which resembled elephant grass. During the past half hour, she had admitted that she wasn’t really interested in sports, but had learned about basketball and football because she wanted to be able to talk with her male counterparts about something.

‘Men talk about other things,’ I said as I scouted the Fens through night-glasses.

‘I know that. I can talk about money and cars too. But I refuse to talk to you horny bastards about sex.’

I coughed out a laugh. Katz could deliver her lines. She was often wry, with a twinkle, and she seemed to be laughing with you, even if you happened to be the butt of her jokes. But I also knew that she was very tough, a real hardliner.

‘Why did you join the Bureau?’ she asked as we continued to wait for Agent Gautier to appear. ‘You were doing well with the Washington P.D., right?’

‘I was doing just fine.’

I lowered my voice and pointed toward a clearing up ahead. ‘Here comes Gautier now.’

Agent Gautier had just left Boylston Street. He was walking slowly across the Fens toward the Muddy River. I knew the area pretty well from an earlier scouting trip. During the day this same section of the park was called the ‘Victory Gardens’. Area residents raised flowers and vegetables, and there were signs pleading with night visitors not to trample them.

The team leader, Roger Nielsen, spoke in a whisper that seeped into my earphones. ‘Male in the watch cap, Alex. Stout guy. You see him?’

‘I’ve got him.’ Watch cap was talking into a microphone on the collar of his sport shirt. He wasn’t one of ours, so he must be one of theirs – the Wolf’s.

I began to scour the crowd for a partner or two. The kidnapping crew? Probably. Who the hell else could it be?

Nielsen said, ‘I think he has a mike on. You see it?’

‘He’s definitely miked. I see another suspicious male. Near the gardens to the left of us,’ I said. ‘Talking into his collar too. They’re moving on Gautier.’

Chapter Eighty-Seven

There were three of them, bulky males, and they began to converge on Paul Gautier. At the same time we moved on them. I had my Glock out, but was I really ready for what might happen in this small, dark park?

The kidnappers were keeping close to Park Drive, and I figured they had a van or truck out on the street. They looked confident and unafraid. They’d done this before: grabbed purchased men and women. They were professional kidnappers.

‘Take them now,’ I told Senior Agent Nielsen. ‘Gautier is at risk.’

‘Wait until they grab him,’ the response came back. ‘We want to do this right. Wait.’

I didn’t agree with Nielsen and I didn’t like what was happening. Why wait? Gautier was hanging out there too much and the park was dark.

‘Gautier is at risk,’ I repeated.

One of the men, blond, wearing a Boston Bruins windbreaker, waved to him.

Gautier watched the man approach, nodded his head, smiled. The blond had some kind of small flashlight in his hand. He lit up Paul Gautier’s face.

I could hear them talking. ‘Nice night for a walk,’ Gautier said, then laughed. He sounded nervous.

‘The things we do for love,’ the blond said.

The two of them were only a few feet apart. The other abductors held back, but not far.

Then the blond whipped a gun out of his jacket pocket. He pushed it against Gautier’s face. ‘You’re coming with me. No one will hurt you. Just walk with me. Make it easy on yourself.’

The two others joined them.

‘You’re making a mistake,’ said Gautier.

‘Oh, and why is that?’ asked the blond. ‘I’ve got the gun, not you.’

‘Take them. Now,’ came the order from Senior Agent Nielsen. ‘FBI! Hands up. Back away from him!’ Nielsen shouted as we ran forward.

‘FBI!’ came a second shout. ‘Everybody, hands up!’

Then everything went crazy. The other two abductors pulled out guns. The blond held his to Agent Gautier’s skull.

‘Back off!’ he screamed. ‘I’ll shoot him dead! Drop your guns. I’ll shoot him, I promise you! I don’t bluff.’

Our agents continued to move forward – slowly.

Then the worst thing happened – the heavy-set blond shot Agent Paul Gautier in the face.

Chapter Eighty-Eight

Before the shock of the gun blast faded, the three men took off running very fast. Two of them galloped toward Boylston, but the blond who’d shot Paul Gautier sprinted out on to Park Drive.

He was a big man, but he was motoring. I remembered hearing from Monnie Donnelley that great Russian athletes, even former Olympians, were sometimes recruited into the Mafia. Was blondie a former jock? He moved like it. The confrontation, the shooting and everything else, reminded me of how little we knew about the Russian mobsters. How did they work; how did they think?

I took off after him, an overload of adrenaline rocketing through my body. I still couldn’t believe what had happened. It could have been avoided. Now Gautier was possibly dead, probably dead.

I ran as I shouted, ‘Take them alive!’ It should have been obvious, but the other agents had just seen Paul Gautier gunned down. I didn’t know how much street action, or combat, any of them had seen before. And we desperately needed to question the kidnappers once we caught them.

I was getting winded. Maybe I needed more time in the physical-training classes at Quantico, or maybe it was because I’d spent too much time sitting around inside the Hoover Building these past few weeks.

I chased the blond killer through a tree-lined residential area. A moment later, the trees cleared and the towers of the glittering Prudential Center and the Hancock loomed ahead. I glanced back. Three agents trailed behind, including Peggy Katz, who had her gun out.

Then the man running ahead of me turned on to Boylston Street. He was approaching the Hynes Convention Center with four FBI agents racing behind. I was closing a little ground on him, but not enough. I wondered if maybe we’d gotten lucky: could this be the Wolf up ahead? He was hands-on, right? If it was – then we had him for murder. Whoever he was – he was still moving well. A long-distance sprinter.

‘Stop! We’ll shoot!’ one of the agents yelled behind me. The blond Russian didn’t stop. Suddenly he made a sharp, sliding turn down a side street. It was narrow and darker than Boylston. One-way. I wondered if he’d thought about his escape route before this. Probably not.

The extraordinary thing – he hadn’t hesitated when he shot Agent Gautier. I don’t bluff, he’d said. Who would murder so casually? With so many FBI watching?

The Wolf? He was supposed to be fearless and ruthless, maybe even crazy. One of his lieutenants?… How did the Russians think?

I could hear his shoes slapping down hard on the pavement up ahead. I was gaining on the Russian a little, getting a second wind.

Suddenly he whirled around – and fired at me!

I threw myself down on the ground fast. But then I was up just as quickly, chasing after him again. I’d clearly seen his face – broad, flat features, dark eyes, late thirties to early forties.

He turned again – planted – fired.

I ducked behind a parked car. Then I heard a scream. I whirled around and saw an agent down. One of the males. Doyle Rogers. The blond turned and started to run again. But I had my second wind and I thought I could catch him. Then what? He was ready to die.

Suddenly a shot rang out behind me! I couldn’t believe what I saw. The blond dropped face down, fell flat on his chest and face.

He never moved once he hit the ground. One of the agents behind me had shot him. I turned – and saw Peggy Katz. She was still in a shooting crouch.

I checked on Agent Rogers and found he’d only been hit in the shoulder. He’d be okay. Then I walked back alone toward the Fens. When I got there, I discovered that Paul Gautier was still alive. But the two other kidnappers had gotten away. They’d left their van, but commandeered a car on Park Drive. Our agents had lost them. Bad news, the worst.

The whole operation had blown up in our faces.

Chapter Eighty-Nine

I don’t think that I’d felt this bad in all my years with the Washington P.D., maybe in all my years combined. If I hadn’t been sure before, I was now. I’d made a mistake in coming over to the FBI. The Bureau did things very differently from anything I was used to. They were by-the-book, by-the-numbers, and then suddenly they weren’t. They had tremendous resources, and staggering amounts of information, but they were often amateurs on the streets. There was some great personnel; and some incredible losers.

After the shootout in Boston I had driven over to the FBI offices. The agents who gathered there all looked shell-shocked. I couldn’t blame them. What a mess. One of the worst I’d seen. I couldn’t help feeling that Senior Agent Nielsen was the one responsible, but what did it matter, what good did it do to cast around blame? Two well-intentioned agents had been wounded; one had almost died. Maybe I shouldn’t have, but I felt partly responsible. I’d told the senior agent to move in on Paul Gautier faster, but he didn’t listen.

The blond man I’d chased down Boylston Street had unfortunately died. Katz’s bullet had hit him in the back of the neck, and it had taken out most of his throat. He’d probably died instantly. He carried no identification. His wallet held a little more than six hundred bucks, but not much else. He had tattoos of a snake, a dragon, and a black bear on his back and shoulders. Cyrillic lettering, that no one had deciphered yet. Prison tats. We assumed he was Russian. But we had no name, no identification, no real proof.

Photographs of the dead man had been taken, then sent to Washington. They were checking, so we had little to do in Boston until they called back. A few hours later, a Ford Explorer commandeered by the two other abductors was found in the parking lot of a bank in Arlington, Massachusetts. They had stolen a second vehicle out of the bank lot. By now they’d probably switched it for another stolen car.

A total screw-up in every way. Couldn’t have gone worse.

I was sitting in a conference room by myself, my face in my hands, when one of the Boston agents walked in. He pointed an accusatory finger my way. ‘Director Burns’s office on the line.’

Burns wanted me back in Washington – as simple and direct as that. There were no explanations, or even recriminations about what had happened in Boston. I guess I was to be kept in the dark a while longer about what he really thought, what the Bureau thought, and I just couldn’t respect that way of operating.

I got to the SIOC offices in the Hoover Building at six in the morning. I hadn’t slept. The place was humming with activity, and I was glad no one had time to talk about the shooting of the two agents in Boston.

Stacy Pollack came up to me a few minutes after I arrived. She looked as tired as I felt, but she put a hand on my shoulder. ‘Everybody here knows that you felt Gautier was in danger and tried to move in on the shooter. I talked to Nielsen. He said it was his decision.’

I nodded, but then I said, ‘Maybe you should have talked to me first.’

Pollack’s eyes narrowed. But she said nothing more about Boston. ‘There’s something else,’ she finally spoke again. ‘We’ve had some luck. Most of us have been here all night. The money transfer we made to the Wolf’s Den… we used a contact of ours in the financial world, a banker from Morgan Chase’s International Correspondent Unit. We were able to trace the money out of the Caymans. Then we monitored virtually every transaction to US banks with correspondent relationships. Had them screen all inbound wire payment orders. That’s where our consultant, Robert Hatfield, said it got tricky. The transaction zipped from bank to bank – New York, then Boston, Detroit, Toronto, Chicago, a couple of others. But we know where the money finally wound up.’

‘Where?’ I asked.

‘Dallas. The money went to Dallas. And we have a name – a recipient for the funds. We’re hoping that he’s the Wolf. At any rate, we know where he lives, Alex. You’re going to Dallas.’

Chapter Ninety

The earliest abduction cases we tracked had occurred in Texas and dozens of agents and analysts went to work investigating them in depth. Everything about the case was larger scale now. The surveillance details on the suspect’s house and place of business were the most impressive I had ever seen. I doubted that any police force in the country, with the possible exceptions of New York and Los Angeles, could afford this kind of effort.

As usual the Bureau had done a thorough job finding out everything possible about the man who had received money from us through the Caymans bank. Lawrence Lipton lived in Old Highland Park, a moneyed neighborhood north of Dallas proper. The streets there meandered alongside creeks under a canopy of magnolias, oaks, and native pecans. The grounds of nearly every house were expensively landscaped and most of the traffic during the day belonged to tradesmen, nannies, cleaning services and gardeners.

So far the evidence we’d gathered on Lipton was contradictory though. He had attended St Marks, a prestigious Dallas prep school and then the University of Texas at Austin. His family, and his wife’s, was old Dallas oil money, but Lawrence had diversified and now owned a Texas winery, a venture capital group, and a successful computer software company. The computer connection caught Monnie Donnelley’s eye, and mine as well.

Lipton seemed to be such a straight arrow, however. He sat on the boards of the Dallas Museum of Art, and the Friends of the Library. He was a trustee for the Baylor Hospital and a deacon at First United Methodist.

Could he be the Wolf? It didn’t seem possible to me.

The second morning I was in Dallas a meeting was held at the field office there. Senior Agent Nielsen remained in charge of the case, but it was clear to everyone that Ron Burns was calling the shots on this from Washington. I don’t think any of us would have been too surprised if Burns had shown up for the briefing himself.

At eight in the morning, Roger Nielsen stood before a roomful of agents and read from a clipboard. ‘They’ve been real busy through the night back in Washington,’ he said, and seemed neither impressed nor surprised by the effort. Apparently this had become s.o.p. on cases that got big in the media.

‘I want to acquaint all of you with the latest on Lawrence Lipton. The most important development is that he doesn’t seem to have any known connections to the KGB or any Russian mobs. He isn’t Russian. Maybe something will turn up later; or maybe he’s just that good at hiding his past. In the fifties, his father moved to Texas from Kentucky to seek his fortune on “the prairie”. He apparently found it under the prairie, in West Texas oil fields.’

Nielsen stopped and looked around the meeting room, going from face to face. ‘There is one interesting recent development,’ he went on. ‘Among its holdings, Micro-Management owns a company called Safe Environs in Dallas. Safe Environs is a private security firm. Lawrence Lipton has recently put himself under armed guard. I wonder why? Is he worried about us, or is he scared of somebody else? Maybe the big bad Wolf?’

Chapter Ninety-One

If it wasn’t so incredibly terrifying, it would be mind-boggling. Lizzie Connelly was still among the living. She was keeping herself positive by being somewhere else – anywhere but here in the horrid closet. With this complete madman bursting in two, three, sometimes five times a day.

Mostly she got lost in her memories. Once upon a time, and it seemed so long ago, she had called her girls ‘Merry-Berry’, ‘Bobbie-doll’, names like that. They used to sing ‘High Hopes’ all the time, and songs from ‘Mary Poppins.’

They had endless positive-energy thoughts – which Lizzie called ‘happy thoughts’, and always shared them with one another, and with Brendan of course.

What else could she remember? What? Anything?

They had so many animals over the years that eventually they gave each one a number.

Chester, a black lab with a curly tail like a chow was number 16. The lab would bark constantly, all day and all night until Lizzie merely showed him a bottle of Tabasco sauce – his kryptonite. Then he would finally shut up.

Dukie, number 15, was a short-haired, orange calico who Lizzie believed had probably been an old Jewish lady in another life and who was always complaining, ‘Oh no, no, no, no.’

Maximus Kiltimus was number 11; Stubbles was number 31; Kitten Little was number 35.

Memories were all that Lizzie Connelly had – because there could be no present for her. None.

She couldn’t be here in this horror house.

Had to be somewhere else, anywhere else.

Had to be!

Had to be!

Had to be!

Because he was inside her now.

The Wolf was inside her, in the real world, grunting and thrusting like an animal, violating, raping, for minutes that seemed like hours.

But Lizzie had the last laugh, didn’t she?

She wasn’t there.

She was somewhere in her memories.

Chapter Ninety-Two

Then he was finally gone, the terrible, inhuman Wolf. Monster! Beast! He’d given her a bathroom break, and food, but now he was gone. God, his arrogance in keeping her here in his house! When is he going to kill me? I’m going mad. Going, going, gone!

She peered through teary eyes into the pitch-blackness. She’d been bound and gagged again. In a strange way, that was good news. It meant he still wanted her, right?

Good God, I’m alive because I’m desirable to a horrid beast! Please help me, dear God. Please, please, help me.

She thought about her good girls and then she turned her mind toward escape. A fantasy, she understood, and therefore escape in itself.

By now, she knew this closet by heart, even in total darkness. It was as if she could see everything, as if she had night sight. More than anything, she was aware of her own body – trapped in here – and her mind – trapped as well.

Lizzie let her hands wander as much as they could. There were clothes in the closet – a male’s – his. The closest to her was some kind of sport coat with round, smooth buttons. Possibly a blazer? Lightweight, which reinforced her belief that this was a warm-weather city.

Next was a vest. A smallish ball was in one pocket, hard, maybe a golf ball.

What could she do with a golf ball? Could it be a weapon?

A zipper on the pocket. What could she do with a zipper? She’d like to catch his tattooed dick in it!

Then a windbreaker. Flimsy. Strong, sickening smell of tobacco on it. And then, her favorite thing to touch, a soft overcoat, possibly cashmere.

There were more ‘treasures’ in the overcoat’s pockets.

A loose button. Scraps of paper. From a notepad?

A ballpoint pen, possibly a Bic – blue, black or red. Coins – four quarters, two dimes, a nickel. Unless the coins were foreign? She wondered endlessly.

There was also a book of matches, with a shiny cover and embossed letters.

What did the embossed letters say? Would it tell her the city where she was being kept?

Also, a lighter.

A half pack of mints which she knew to be cinnamon because she smelled it on her hands.

And at the bottom of the pocket – lint, so insignificant, yet important to her now.

Behind the overcoat were two bundles of his clothing still covered in plastic from the cleaners. A receipt of some kind on the first packet. Attached by a staple.

She imagined the name of the cleaners, an identification number in red, writing by some dry-cleaning store clerk.

All of it seemed strangely precious to Lizzie – because she had nothing else.

Except a powerful will to live.

And get her revenge on the Wolf.

Chapter Ninety-Three

I was a part of the large surveillance detail near the house in old Highland Park, and I thought we were going to take Lawrence Lipton down soon, maybe within hours. We’d been told that Washington was working with the Dallas police.

I stared absently at the house, a large two-story Tudor on about two and a half acres of very expensive real estate. It looked pristine. A redbrick sidewalk went from the street to an arched doorway, which led inside to a house which looked as if it had a dozen rooms. Interestingly, the big news that day in Dallas was about a fire in Kessler Park that had incinerated a 64,000-square-foot mega mansion. The Lipton spread was less than a third that size, but it was still impressive, or depressing, or both.

It was around nine in the evening. A supervisory agent from the Dallas office, Joseph Denyeau, came on my earphones. ‘We just got word from the Director’s office. We have to back off immediately. I don’t understand it either. The order couldn’t be any clearer, though. Pull back! Everybody head to the office. We need to reconnoiter and talk about this.’

I looked at my partner in the car that night, an agent named Bob Shaw. It was pretty obvious that he didn’t understand what the hell had just happened either.

‘What was that?’ I asked him.

Shaw shook his head and rolled his eyes. ‘What do I know? We go back to the field office, drink some bad coffee, maybe somebody higher-up explains it to us, but don’t count on it.’

It took us only fifteen minutes to get to the field office at that time of night. The Rangers were playing the Angels, and Agent Shaw turned on the game as we rode. We needed to hear something, anything, that seemed a little organized and sane, even a baseball play-by-play on the car radio.

We filed into a conference room at the field office, and I saw a lot of weary, confused and pissed-off agents. Nobody was saying much yet. We’d gotten close to a possible break on this case, and now we’d been ordered to pull back. Nobody seemed to understand why.

The ASAC finally came out of his office and joined the rest of us. Joseph Denyeau looked thoroughly disgusted as he threw his dusty cowboy boots up on a conference table. ‘I have no idea,’ he announced. ‘Not a clue, folks. Consider yourselves debriefed.’

So about forty agents waited for an explanation of the night’s action, but one didn’t come, or wasn’t ‘forthcoming’ as they say. The agent in charge, Roger Nielsen, finally called D.C. and was told they would get back to us. In the meantime, we were to stand down. We might even be sent home in the morning.

Around eleven o’clock Denyeau got another update from Nielsen, and passed it on to us. ‘They’re working on it,’ he said and smiled wryly.

‘Working on what?’ somebody called from the back.

‘Oh hell, I don’t know, Donnie. Working on their pedicures. Working on getting all of us to quit the Bureau. Then there’ll be no more agents, and, I guess, no more embarrassing screw-ups for the media to write about. I’m going to get some sleep. I’d advise all of you to do the same.’

That’s what we did.

Chapter Ninety-Four

We were back at the field office by eight the next morning. Several of the agents looked a little messed-up after the night off. First thing, Director Burns was on the line from Washington. I was pretty sure the Director rarely, if ever, spoke to the troops like this. So why do it now? What was up?

Agents around the room were looking at one another. Brows crinkled, eyebrows arched. No one could fathom why Burns was so involved. Maybe I could. I’d seen the restlessness in him, the dissatisfaction with the ways of the past, even if he couldn’t effectively change them all at once. Burns had started as a street cop in Philadelphia and worked his way up to Police Commissioner. Maybe he could change things at the Bureau.

‘I wanted to explain what happened yesterday,’ he said over the speakerphone. Every agent in the room listened intently, myself included. ‘And I also wanted to apologize to all of you. Everything got territorial for a while. The Dallas police, the mayor, even the governor of Texas, were involved. The Dallas police asked that we pull back, because they didn’t have full confidence in us. I agreed to the action because I wanted to talk it through with them rather than force our presence there.

‘They didn’t want mistakes, and they weren’t sure that we have the right man. The Lipton family has a good reputation in the city. He’s very well connected. Anyway, Dallas was surprised that we listened to their concerns – and now they’ve backed off again. They respect the team we’ve assembled.

‘We will continue our action against Lawrence Lipton and, believe me, we’re going to take that bastard down. Then we’re going to take Pasha Sorokin down, the Wolf. I don’t want you to worry about past mistakes. Don’t worry about mistakes at all. Just do your job in Dallas. I have the utmost confidence in you.’

Burns went off the line and just about every agent’s face in the room wore a smile. It was quite magical, actually. The Director had said things that some of them had been waiting years to hear; especially welcome was the news that he believed in their ability, and wasn’t worried about mistakes. We were back in the game; we were expected to bring down Lawrence Lipton.

Minutes after the phone call ended, my cell went off. I answered and it was Burns himself. ‘So how’d I do?’ he asked. I could hear the smile in his voice. I could also almost see the cocky upturn of his lip when he grinned. He, he knew how he’d done.

I walked away from the group and into a far corner of the room, and told him what he wanted to hear. ‘You did good. They’re pumped to do the job.’

Burns exhaled. ‘Alex. I want you to turn up the heat on this punk. I sold you hard to Dallas as a key member of the team. They bought you, and your reputation. They know how good we think you are. I want you to make Lawrence Lipton very uncomfortable. Do it your own way.’

I found myself smiling. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

‘And Alex, contrary to what I said to the others, don’t make any mistakes.’

Chapter Ninety-Five

Don’t make any mistakes. It was a hell of an exit line, I had to give him that. Kind of funny, in a sadistic, hard ass way. I was starting to like Ron Burns again. Couldn’t help myself. But did I trust him?

Somehow, I got the feeling that Burns wasn’t that worried about the mistakes, though. He wanted to catch the kidnappers, especially Pasha Sorokin – even if we didn’t yet know who he really was, or where he lived. According to his orders, all I had to do was figure out a way to break Lawrence Lipton down, do it in a hurry, and not embarrass the Bureau in any way.

I met with Roger Nielsen on possible next strategies – we had already resumed surveillance on Lawrence Lipton. It was decided that it was time to put real pressure on him, to let him know we were in Dallas, and that we knew about him. After Burns’s phone call, I wasn’t surprised that I had been chosen to confront Lipton.

We decided that I would go and see Lipton at his office in the Lakeside Square Building at the intersection of the LBJ Freeway and North Central Expressway. The building was twenty stories high with lots of reflective glass. It was practically blinding down on the street as I looked skyward in the Texas sunshine. I walked inside at a little past ten in the morning. Lipton’s office suite was on the nineteenth floor. When I got off the elevator, a recorded voice said, ‘Howdy.’

I stepped into a large reception area with half an acre of red-wine-colored carpeting, beige walls, dark brown leather sofas, and matching chairs everywhere. There were framed, signed photos of Roger Staubach, Nolan Ryan and Tom Landry on the walls.

I was told to wait in reception by a very proper-looking young woman in a dark blue pants suit. She sat self-importantly behind a sleek walnut desk under recessed lighting. She looked all of twenty-two or twenty-three years old, fresh from charm school. She acted and spoke as properly as she looked.

‘I’ll wait, but let Mr Lipton know it’s the FBI. It’s important that I see him,’ I told her.

The receptionist smiled sweetly, as if she’d heard all this before, then she went back to answering the phone calls coming in on her headset. I sat down and waited patiently; I waited for fifteen minutes. Then I got back up again. I strolled over to the reception desk.

‘You told Mr Lipton that I’m here?’ I asked politely. ‘That I’m with the FBI?’

‘I did, sir,’ she spoke in a syrupy voice that was starting to rub me the wrong way.

‘I need to see him right now,’ I told the girl and waited until she made another call to Lipton’s assistant.

They talked briefly, then she looked back at me. ‘Do you have identification, sir?’ she asked. She was frowning now.

‘I do. They’re called creds.’

‘May I see it, please? Your creds.’ I showed off my new FBI badge and she looked it over like a fast-food counterperson inspecting a fifty-dollar bill.

‘Could you please wait over at the seating area?’ she asked again, only now she seemed a little nervous, and I wondered what Lawrence Lipton’s assistant had told her, what her marching orders were.

‘You don’t seem to understand, or I’m not making myself clear,’ I finally said. ‘I’m not here to fool around with you, and I’m not here to wait.’

The receptionist nodded. ‘Mr Lipton is in a meeting. That’s all I know, sir.’

I nodded back. ‘Tell his assistant to pull him out of his meeting right now. Have her tell Mr Lipton that I’m not here to arrest him yet.’

I wandered back to the seating area, but I didn’t bother to sit. I stood there and looked out on magnificent, Technicolor green lawns that stretched to the concrete edge of the LBJ Freeway. I was burning inside.

I’d just acted like a D.C. street cop back there. I wondered if Burns would have approved, but it didn’t matter. He’d given me some rope, but I also had made a decision that I wasn’t going to change because I was an FBI agent now. I was in Dallas to bring down a kidnapper and killer; I was here to find out if Mrs Elizabeth Connelly and others were alive and maybe being held somewhere as slaves. I was back on The Job. I heard a door open behind me and I turned. A heavy-set man with graying hair was standing there and he looked angry.

‘I’m Lawrence Lipton,’ he said. ‘What the hell is this about?’

Chapter Ninety-Six

‘What the hell is this about?’ Lipton repeated from the doorway in a loud-mouth, big-shot way. He was speaking to me as if I was a door-to-door brush salesman calling on his company. ‘I think you were told that I’m in an important meeting. What does the FBI want with me? And why can’t it wait? Why don’t you have the courtesy to make an appointment?’

There was something about his attitude that didn’t completely track for me. He was trying to be a tough guy, but I didn’t think he was. He was just used to beating up on other businessmen. He wore a rumpled blue dress shirt and rep’s tie, pinstriped trousers, tasseled loafers, and was at least fifty pounds overweight. What connection could this man have with the Wolf?

I looked at him and said, ‘It’s about kidnapping, it’s about murder. Do you want to talk about this out here in reception? Sterling.’

Lawrence Lipton paled, and lost most of his bravado. ‘Come inside,’ he said and took a step back.

I followed him into an area of cubicles separated by low partitions. Clerical personnel, lots of them. So far this was going just about as I’d expected. But now it would get more interesting. Lipton might be ‘softer’ than I had expected, but he had powerful connections in Dallas. This office building was in one of the upscale residential/commercial parts of the city.

‘I’m Mr Potter,’ I said as we walked down a corridor with fabric-covered walls. ‘At least I played Mr Potter the last time we talked in the Wolf’s Den.’

Lipton didn’t turn, didn’t respond in any way. We entered a wood-paneled office and he shut the door. The large room had half a dozen windows and a panoramic view. A hat rack near the door held a collection of autographed Dallas Cowboy and Texas Ranger caps.

‘I still don’t know what this is about, but I’ll give you exactly five minutes to explain yourself,’ he snapped. ‘I don’t think you know who you’re talking to.’

‘Actually, I do. You’re Henry Lipton’s oldest son. You’re married with three children, and a nice house in Highland Park. You’re also involved with a kidnapping and murder scheme that we’ve been tracking closely for several weeks. You’re Sterling, and I want you to understand something– all your connections, all your father’s connections in Dallas, will not help you now. On the other hand, I would like to protect your family as much as possible. That’s up to you. I’m not bluffing. I don’t ever bluff. This is a federal crime, not a local one.’

‘I’m going to call my lawyer,’ Lawrence Lipton said and went for the phone.

‘You have that right. But I wouldn’t if I were you. It won’t do any good.’

My tone of voice, something, stopped Lipton from making the call. His flabby hand moved away from the phone on his desk. ‘Why?’ he asked.

I said, ‘I don’t care about you. You’re involved in murder. But I’ve seen your kids, your wife. We’ve been watching you at the house in Highland Park. We’ve already spoken to your neighbors and friends. When you’re arrested, your family will be in danger. We can protect them from the Wolf.’

Suddenly Lipton’s face and neck reddened and he erupted with, ‘What the hell is wrong with you? Are you crazy? I’m a respected businessman. I never kidnapped or harmed another human being in my life. This is crazy.’

‘You gave the orders. The money came to you. Mr Potter sent you a hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars. Or rather, the FBI did.’

‘I’m calling my lawyer,’ Lipton screamed. ‘This is ridiculous and insulting. I don’t have to take this from anybody.’

I shrugged. ‘Then you’re going down in the worst possible way. These offices will be searched immediately. And then your home in Highland Park. Your parents’ home in Kessler Park will be searched. Your father’s office will be searched. Your wife’s offices at the Museum of Art will be searched.’

He picked up his phone. I could see that his hand was shaking, though. Then he whispered, ‘Go fuck yourself.’

I pulled out a two-way and spoke into it. ‘Hit the offices and the houses,’ I said. I turned back to Lipton. ‘You’re under arrest. You can call your lawyer now. Tell him you’ve been taken to the FBI offices.’

Minutes later, a dozen agents stormed into the office with its gorgeous city views and stylish and expensive furnishings.

We arrested Sterling.

Chapter Ninety-Seven

Pasha Sorokin was close, and he was watching everyone and everything with great interest. Maybe it was time to show the FBI how these things were done in Moscow, to show them that this wasn’t a child’s game to be played with rules made up by the police.

He had been there at Sterling’s office building in Dallas when the FBI team rushed inside. More than a dozen of them came calling. A strange assemblage to be sure: some dressed in dark business suits, others in dark blue windbreakers with FBI boldly imprinted on the back. Who did they really expect to find here? The Wolf? Others from the Wolf’s Den?

They had no concept of what they were getting themselves into. Their dark sedans and vans were parked in plain view on the street. Less than fifteen minutes after they had entered the office building, they came out with Lawrence Lipton in handcuffs, pathetically trying to shield his face. What a scene. They wanted to make a show of this, didn’t they? Why do that? he wondered. To prove how tough they were? How smart? But they weren’t smart. I will show you how tough and smart you need to be. I will show you how lacking you are in every way.

He instructed his driver to start the car. The wheelman did not look around at his boss in the backseat. He said nothing. He knew not to question orders. The Wolf’s ways were strange and unorthodox, but they worked.

‘Drive past them,’ he ordered. ‘I want to say hello.’

The FBI agents were casting nervous looks around the street as they led Lawrence Lipton toward a waiting van. A black man walked beside Sterling. Tall and strangely confident. Pasha Sorokin knew from his informant in the Bureau that this was Alex Cross, and that he was held in high regard.

How was it possible that a black man was given command of the raid? he wondered. In Russia, the American negro was looked down upon. The Wolf had never gotten past his own prejudice; there was no reason to in the US.

‘Get me close!’ he told the driver. He lowered the rear-passenger side window. The second Cross and Lipton had passed his car Sorokin thrust out an automatic weapon, and aimed it at the back of Sterling’s head. Then, an amazing thing – something he hadn’t anticipated – happened.

Alex Cross threw Lipton down on to the pavement, and they both rolled behind a parked car. How had Cross known? What had he seen to alert him?

The Wolf fired anyway, but he didn’t really have a clear shot. Still, the gunshot rang out loudly. He had delivered a message. Sterling wasn’t safe. Sterling was a dead man.

Chapter Ninety-Eight

We transported Lawrence Lipton to the Dallas field office and were holding him there. I threatened to transfer him to Washington if there was any interference from the local police or even the press. I struck a deal with them. I promised Dallas detectives they’d have their turn with Lipton. As soon as I was done.

At eleven o’clock that night I slumped into a windowless interview room. It was sterile and claustrophobic, and I felt as if I’d been there a couple of hundred times before. I nodded to Lawrence Lipton. He didn’t respond; he looked just awful. Probably I did too.

‘We can help you, your family. We’ll keep them safe. Nobody else can help you now,’ I said. ‘That’s the truth.’

Lipton finally spoke to me. ‘I don’t want to talk to you again. I already told you, I’m not involved in any of the shit you say I am. I’m not going to talk any more. Get my lawyer.’ He waved me away.

For the past seven hours he’d been questioned by FBI agents and Dallas detectives. This was my third session, and it wasn’t getting easier. His lawyers were in the building, but they’d backed off. They had been informed that he could be formally charged with kidnapping and conspiracy to commit murder and immediately transported to Washington. His father was also in the building but had been denied access to his son. I’d interviewed Henry Lipton, and he’d wept and insisted his son’s arrest was a mistake.

I sat down across from him. ‘Your father is in the building. Would you like to see him?’ I asked.

He laughed. ‘Sure. All I have to do is admit that I’m a kidnapper and murderer. Then I can see my father and ask his forgiveness for my sins.’

I ignored the sarcasm. He wasn’t very good at it. ‘You know we can confiscate the records of your father’s company, shut it down? Also, your father is a likely target for the Wolf. We’re not here to hurt your family members,’ I added. ‘Not unless your father is involved in this too.’

He shook his head, kept his eyes lowered. ‘My father has never been in trouble.’

‘That’s what I keep hearing,’ I said. ‘I’ve read a lot about you and your family in the past day or so. Gone all the way back to your schooldays at Texas. You were involved in a couple of scrapes in Austin. Two date rapes. Neither case went to trial. Your father saved you then. It won’t happen this time.’

Lawrence Lipton didn’t respond. His eyes were dead, and he looked as if he hadn’t slept in days. His blue dress shirt was as wrinkled as a used Kleenex tissue, soaked with perspiration at the underarms. His hair was wet, dripping little rivers of moisture down to his shirt collar and sideburns. The skin under his eyes sagged and had a purplish tint in the harsh, interrogation-room light.

He finally said, ‘I don’t want my family hurt. Leave my father out of this. Get him protection.’

I nodded. ‘Okay, Lawrence. Where do we start? I’m ready to put your family in protective custody until we catch him.’

‘And afterward?’ he asked. ‘It doesn’t stop with them.’

‘We’ll protect your family.’

Lipton sighed loudly, then said, ‘All right, I’m the moneyman. I’m Sterling. I might be able to get you to the Wolf. But I need the promises in writing. Lots of promises.’

Chapter Ninety-Nine

I was heading into the deepest darkness again, attracted to it as most people are attracted to sunlight. I kept thinking about Elizabeth Connelly, still missing, and feared dead.

Lipton’s father visited a couple of times and the two men wept together. Mrs Lipton was allowed to see her husband. There was a lot of crying among the family members and most of the emotions seemed genuine.

I was in the interrogation room with Sterling until a little past three in the morning. I was prepared to stay later, as long as it took to get the information I needed. Several deals were struck with his lawyers during the night.

At around two, with most of the lawyering done, Lipton and I sat down to talk again. Two senior agents from the Dallas field office were in the room with us. They were only there to take notes and tape-record.

This was my interview to conduct.

‘How did you get involved with the Wolf?’ I asked Lawrence Lipton after a few minutes in which I emphasized my concern for his family. He seemed more clear-headed and more focused than he’d been a few hours before. I sensed that a weight had been lifted from him. Guilt, betrayal of his family – especially his father? His school records revealed he was a bright, but troubled, student. His problems always centered on an obsession with sex, but he’d never received a day of treatment. Lawrence Lipton was a freak.

‘How did I get involved?’ he said, seeming to be asking the question of himself. ‘I have a thing for young girls, you see. Teens, pre-teens. There’s lots of it available these days. The Internet opened new sources.’

‘For what? Be as concrete as you can, Lawrence.’

He shrugged. ‘For freaks like myself. Suddenly we can get what we want, when we want it. And I know how to search for the nastiest sites. At first I settled for photos and movies. I especially liked real-time films.’

‘We found some. In your office at home.’

‘One day a man came to see me. He came to the office, just like you did.’

‘To blackmail you?’ I asked.

Lipton shook his head. ‘No, not blackmail. He said he wanted to know what I really wanted. Sexually. And then he would help me get it. I threw him out. He came back the next day. He had records of everything I’d bought on the Internet. “So what do you really want?” he asked again. I wanted young girls. Pretty ones, with no strings attached, no rules. He supplied me two or three a month. Exactly what I fantasized. Color of hair, shape of breasts, shoe size, freckles, anything I desired.’

‘What happened to the girls? Did you murder them? You have to tell me.’

‘I’m not a killer. I liked to see the girls get off. Some did. We’d party, then they would be released. Always. They didn’t know who I was, or where I was from.’

‘So you were satisfied with the arrangement?’

Lipton nodded and his eyes lit up. ‘Very. I’d been dreaming of this my whole life. The reality was as good as the fantasy. Of course there was a price.’

‘A bill had to be paid?’

‘Oh yeah. I got to meet the Wolf, at least I think it was him. He had sent an emissary to my office in the early days. But then he came to see me. In person, he was very scary. Red Mafiya, he said. The KGB came up, but I don’t know what his connection to them was.’

‘What did he want from you?’

‘To go into business with him, to be a partner. He needed my company’s expertise with computers and the Internet. The sex club was secondary with him, a throw-in. He was heavily into extortion, money laundering, counterfeiting. The club was my thing. Once our deal was struck, I went looking for wealthy freaks who wanted their dreams fulfilled. Freaks who were willing to spend six figures for a slave, male, female, didn’t matter. Sometimes a specific target; sometimes a physical type.’

‘To murder?’ I asked Lipton.

‘Whatever they wanted. Let me tell you where I think he was going with the club. He wanted to involve very rich, powerful men. We already had one, a senator from West Virginia. He had big plans.’

‘Is the Wolf here in Dallas?’ I finally asked. ‘You’ve got to help me, if you want my help.’

Lipton shook his head. ‘He isn’t from around here. He’s not in Dallas. Not in Texas. He’s a mystery man.’

‘But you know where he is?’

He hesitated, but finally went on. ‘He doesn’t know that I know. He’s smart, but not about computers. I tracked him once. He was sure his messages were secure, but I had them cracked. I needed to have something on him.’

Then Sterling told me where he thought I could find the Wolf. And also, who he was. If I could believe what he was saying, Sterling knew the name Pasha Sorokin was using in the United States.

It was Ari Manning.

Chapter One Hundred

I sat high in the cockpit of a luxury cabin cruiser in the Intercoastal Waterway near Millionaires Row in Fort Lauderdale, Florida. Were we close to the Wolf now? I needed to believe that we were. Sterling swore to it, and he had no reason to lie to us, did he? He had every reason to tell the truth.

Sightseers came here on motorboat tours, so I figured we wouldn’t be noticed right away. Besides, darkness was starting to fall. We drove past mansions that were mostly Mediterranean- or Portuguese-style, but an occasional Georgian Colonial supposedly signaled ‘northern money’. We’d been warned to tread lightly, not to ruffle feathers in the wealthy neighborhood, which, frankly, wouldn’t be possible. We were going to ruffle a lot of feathers in a few minutes.

On board the cruiser with me was Ned Mahoney, and two of his seven-person assault teams. Mahoney didn’t ordinarily go on missions himself. The Director was changing all that. The FBI had to get stronger in the field.

I watched a large waterfront house through binoculars as our boat approached a dock. Several expensive yachts and speedboats bobbed in the water. We had secured a floor plan of the house, and learned it had been purchased for twenty-four million dollars two years ago. Don’t ruffle any feathers.

A large party was in progress at the estate, which belonged to Ari Manning. According to Sterling, he was Pasha Sorokin, the Wolf.

‘Looks like everybody’s having a fine old time,’ Mahoney said from the deck. ‘Man, I love a good party. Food, music, dancing, bubbly.’

‘Yeah, it’s jumping. And the surprise guests haven’t even shown up,’ I said.

Ari Manning was known around Fort Lauderdale and Miami for the parties he hosted, sometimes a couple a week. His extravaganzas were famous for their surprises – surprise guests like the coaches of the Miami Dolphins and Miami Heat; ‘hot’ musical and comedy acts from Las Vegas; politicians and diplomats and ambassadors, even right up to the White House.

‘Guess we’re tonight’s surprise special guests,’ Mahoney said and grinned at me.

‘Flown in all the way from Dallas,’ I said. ‘With our entourage of fourteen.’

The guests, the nature of the glitzy party itself, made the operation tense, which was probably why Mahoney and I felt compelled to make a few jokes. We’d talked about waiting, but HRT wanted to go in now, while we knew the Wolf was there. The Director agreed, and had actually made the final decision.

A guy in a ridiculous sailor suit was vigorously waving us away from the dock. We kept coming. ‘What’s this asshole on the dock want?’ Mahoney said to me.

‘We’re full up! You’re too late!’ the man on the dock shouted to us. His voice carried above the music blasting from speakers in the back part of the mansion.

‘Party doesn’t start without us,’ Ned Mahoney called back. Then he tooted the horn.

‘No, no! Don’t come in here!’ Sailor Suit began to yell. ‘Get away!’

Mahoney tooted the horn again.

The cruiser bumped a Bertram speeder and the guy on the dock looked as if he were going to have a stroke. ‘Jesus, be careful. This is a private party! You can’t just come in here. Are you friends of Mr Manning?’

Mahoney tooted again. ‘Absolutely. Here’s my invitation.’ He pulled out his ID and his gun.

I was already off the boat and running toward the house.

Chapter One Hundred and One

I pushed my way through the crowd of very well-heeled partygoers who were making their way to candlelit tables. Dinner was being served now. Steak and lobsters, lots of champagne, and pricey wine. Everybody seemed to have worn their Dolce and Gabbana, their Versace, their Yves Saint Laurent couture. I had on faded jeans and a blue FBI windbreaker.

Coiffed heads turned and eyes flashed at me as if I were a party crasher. I was, too. The party crasher from hell. These people had no idea.

‘FBI,’ Mahoney called from behind as he led his heavily armed teams into the crowd.

I knew from Sterling what Pasha Sorokin looked like, and I headed his way. He was right there. The Wolf had on an expensive gray suit, a blue cashmere T-shirt. He was talking to two men near a billowing, blue-and-yellow-striped canopy where the grills were working. Enormous cuts of meat and fish were being prepared by smiley, sweaty chefs, all of them black or Hispanic.

I pulled out my Glock, and Pasha Sorokin stared at me without moving a muscle. He just stared. Didn’t make a move, didn’t try to run. Then he smiled, as if he’d been expecting me and was glad I’d finally arrived. What was with this guy?

I saw him flash a hand signal to a white-haired man whose arm was draped around a curvy blonde less than half his age. ‘Atticus!’ he called, and Atticus scurried over faster than kitchen help.

‘I’m Atticus Stonestrom, Mr Manning’s lawyer,’ he said. ‘You have absolutely no reason to be here, to barge into Mr Manning’s house like this. You’re completely out of line and I’m asking you to leave.’

‘Not going to happen. Let’s move this private party inside. Just the three of us,’ I said to Atticus Stonestrom and Pasha. ‘Unless you want the arrest to take place in front of all these guests.’

The Wolf looked at his lawyer, then shrugged as if this were no big deal to him. He started to walk toward the house. Then he turned – pretending he’d just remembered something. ‘Your little boy’s name,’ he said. ‘It’s also Alex, isn’t it?’

Chapter One Hundred and Two

She wasn’t dead! How good was that? How amazing?

Elizabeth Connelly was lost in her own world again, and it was the best place. She was walking a perfect beach on Oahu’s north shore. She was picking up the most amazing seashells, one after the other, comparing the textures.

Then she heard shouts – ‘FBI!’ She couldn’t believe it.

The FBI was here? At the house? Her heart pounded, then nearly stopped, then pounded again, even louder.

Had they finally come to rescue her? Why else would they be here? Oh my good God!

Lizzie began to shake all over. Tears spilled down her cheeks. They had to find her and let her out now. The Wolf’s arrogance was about to burn him down!

I’m in here. I’m here! I’m right here!

The party got terribly quiet suddenly. Everyone was whispering, and it was hard to hear. But she definitely heard ‘FBI’, and that’s why they were here. ‘Drugs!’ Everyone seemed to think so.

But Lizzie prayed this wasn’t about drugs. What if they took the Wolf to jail? She would be left here. She couldn’t stop shaking.

She had to let the FBI know she was here. But how? She was always bound and gagged. They were so close… I’m in the closet! Please look in the closet!

She had imagined dozens of escape plans, but only after the Wolf opened the door and leashed her out to go to the bathroom or walk in the main part of the house. Lizzie knew there was no way to get out of the locked closet. Not tied up the way she was. She didn’t know how to signal the FBI.

Then she heard someone making a loud announcement. A male. Deep voice. Calm and in control.

‘I’m Agent Mahoney with the FBI. Everyone has to leave the main house immediately. Please assemble on the back lawns. Everyone is to leave the house now! No one leaves the grounds.’

Lizzie heard shoes scraping the hardwood floors – rapid footsteps. People were leaving, weren’t they? Then what? She’d be all alone. If they took the Wolf away… what would happen to her? There had to be something she could do to let the FBI know she was in here. What?

Someone named Atticus Stonestrom was talking loudly.

Then she heard the Wolf speak, and it chilled her. He was still in the house. Arguing with someone. She couldn’t tell who, or exactly what they were saying.

What can I do? Something! Anything!

What, what?

What haven’t I thought of before?

And then Lizzie had an idea. Actually, she’d had it before, but always dismissed it.

Because it scared the hell out of her!

Chapter One Hundred and Three

‘I’m glad you’re here to see this for yourself, Atticus,’ the Wolf said to his lawyer. ‘This is such bullshit harassment. My businesses are beyond reproach. You know that better than anyone. This is highly insulting.’ He looked at me. ‘Do you know how many business associates you’ve insulted at this party?’

I was still restraining myself from his physical threat to my family, to little Alex. I didn’t want to take him down; I wanted to take him out.

‘Trust me, this isn’t harassment,’ I told the lawyer. ‘We’re here to arrest your client for kidnapping and murder.’

Sorokin rolled his eyes. ‘Are you people mad? Do you know who I am?’ he asked. Jesus, I’d heard almost the same speech the day before in Dallas.

‘As a matter of fact, I do,’ I said. ‘Your real name is Pasha Sorokin, not Ari Manning. Some people say you’re the Russian Godfather. You’re the Wolf.’

Sorokin heard me out – then he laughed a crazy laugh. ‘You are such fools. You, especially.’ He pointed at me. ‘You just don’t get it.’

Suddenly there were shouts coming from one of the other rooms on the first floor. ‘Fire!’ people were yelling.

‘C’mon, Alex!’ Mahoney said. He and I left Sorokin with three agents and ran to see what the hell was going on. How could there be a fire? Now?

Guests were rushing out of a large study off the main living room. There was a fire. It seemed to have started in the study. Mahoney and I pushed through the exiting crowd. Apparently, the fire was in a closet. Swirls of smoke came from under the door. A lot of smoke.

I didn’t hesitate. I lowered my shoulder and hit the closet door hard. I slammed into it again. The wood cracked this time. I hit it once more and the door collapsed. Thick black smoke billowed out.

I stepped up close and tried to peer inside. Then I saw something move.

Someone was in there. I could see a face.

Elizabeth Connelly was on fire!

Chapter One Hundred and Four

I took a breath then lunged forward into the cloud of smoke and heat. I felt the skin on my face begin to burn. I forced myself inside the walk-in closet. Stooped down. I grabbed Elizabeth Connelly in my arms and stumbled backwards out of the closet with her. My eyes were tearing, my face felt blistered. Elizabeth’s eyes were open wide as I removed her gag. Ned Mahoney worked on the rope bindings around her arms.

‘Thank you,’ she whispered in a voice hoarse with smoke. ‘Oh, thank you,’ she gasped.

Tears ran from her eyes, smudging the soot on her cheeks. My heart thumped a wild beat as I held her hand and waited for the paramedics to come. I couldn’t believe she was alive, but it made everything worthwhile.

I only got to savor the feeling for a few seconds. Shots rang out. I ran from the den, turned the corner, and saw two agents down, but alive.

‘Bodyguard came in firing,’ the closer agent told me. ‘They ran upstairs.’

I hurried up the stairs with Ned Mahoney following close behind. Why would the Wolf go upstairs? It didn’t make sense to me. More agents joined us. We searched every room. Nothing! We couldn’t find the Wolf, or the bodyguard. Why had they run upstairs?

Mahoney and I did another full walk-through of all the rooms on the second and third floors. Fort Lauderdale police had begun to arrive and helped secure the house.

‘I don’t see how he got out of here,’ Mahoney said. We were huddled together in the second-floor hallway. Puzzled and disgusted.

‘Has to be a way out up here somewhere. Let’s look again.’

We went back down the hallway when I had a thought. I retraced our steps down the second-floor hallway, checking in several guest bedrooms as I walked. At the far end of the hall was another stairway, probably used by the help. We’d already searched it. Sealed it off at the bottom. Then it suddenly struck me. A small detail that I had overlooked.

I hurried down to the first landing. There was a casement window and a window seat there. It was just as I’d remembered. Two small cushions on the floor. I opened the latched cover of the window seat.

Ned Mahoney groaned out loud. He saw what I’d found. The escape route. The Wolf had gotten out!

‘He might still be here. Let’s see where this goes,’ I said. Then I lowered myself into the opening. There were narrow wooden stairs, a half-dozen of them. Mahoney held a flashlight on me as I climbed down.

‘It’s here, Ned,’ I called back to him. I saw how they’d made it out. A window was open. I could see water a few feet below.

‘They went into the Intercoastal,’ I called up to Mahoney. ‘They’re in the water!’

Chapter One Hundred and Five

I joined the frantic search in the waterway and the rest of the neighborhood, but it was already getting dark. Mahoney and I raced up and down estate-lined narrow streets. Then we drove along nearby Las Olas Boulevard, hoping against hope that someone had spotted two men in soaking-wet clothes. But no one had seen the Wolf or his bodyguard.

I wouldn’t give up. I went back to the Isla Bahia-estates area. Something was wrong. Why hadn’t anyone spotted two men fitting that description? I wondered if they had diving gear in the cellar alcove. How thoroughly had the Wolf planned his escape? What extra precautions had he taken?

Then I let my mind go in a different direction – he’s arrogant and fearless. He didn’t believe we’d find him and come here to take him down. He didn’t have an escape route! So maybe he was still hiding in Isla Bahia.

I passed my ideas on to HRT, but they’d already begun to go door-to-door at the estates. There were dozens of agents and local police combing the exclusive neighborhood in Fort Lauderdale. I wouldn’t give up, wouldn’t let the others quit. Whatever drove me – stubbornness? perseverance? – had paid off before. But we didn’t find the Wolf, or anyone who’d seen him in Isla Bahia.

‘There’s nothing? No sign? Nobody saw anything?’ I asked Mahoney.

‘Nothing,’ Mahoney said. ‘We found a cocker spaniel on the loose. That’s it.’

‘We know who owns the dog?’ I asked.

Mahoney rolled his eyes. I didn’t blame him. ‘I’ll check.’ He went away and came back after a couple of minutes.

‘It belongs to a Mr and Mrs Steve Davis. The Davises live at the end of the street. We’ll bring them their dog. Satisfied?’

I shook my head. ‘Not really. Let’s the two of us return the dog,’ I said. ‘I don’t know why a dog would be loose this late at night. Is the family home?’

‘Doesn’t look like it. The lights are off at the house. C’mon, Alex. Jesus. This is hopeless. You’re clutching at straws. Pasha Sorokin is gone.’

‘Let’s go. Get the dog,’ I said. ‘We’re going to the Davis house.’

Chapter One Hundred and Six

We had started toward the Davis house with the brown and white cocker spaniel when a report came over the two-way. ‘Two suspicious males. Heading toward Las Olas Boulevard. They’ve spotted us! We’re in pursuit.’

We were only a few blocks from the shopping district and got there in minutes. The cocker spaniel was barking in the back seat. Fort Lauderdale police patrol cars and FBI sedans had already formed a tight ring around a GAP clothing store. More patrol cars were still arriving, their sirens screaming in the night. The street was crowded and the local police were having trouble stopping the pedestrian flow.

Mahoney drove up to the blockade. We left a window cracked for the dog. We jumped out and ran toward GAP. We were wearing flak jackets, carrying handguns.

The store lights were blazing. I could see people inside. But not the Wolf. Not the bodyguard either.

‘We think it’s him,’ an agent told us when we got up close to the store.

‘How many gunmen inside?’ I asked.

‘We count two. Two that we know about. Could be more. There’s a lot of confusion.’

‘Yeah, no shit,’ said Mahoney. ‘I get that impression.’

For the next few minutes nothing useful happened – except that more Lauderdale patrol cars arrived on the scene. So did a heavily armed and armored SWAT Unit. A hostage negotiator showed up. Then a pair of news helicopters began to hover over the GAP store and surrounding palm trees.

‘Nobody’s answering the goddamn phone inside,’ the negotiator reported. ‘It just rings.’

Mahoney looked questioningly at me and I shrugged. ‘We don’t even know if it’s them inside.’

The negotiator took up an electronic bullhorn. ‘This is the Fort Lauderdale police. Come out of the store now. We’re not going to negotiate. Come out with your hands up. Whoever’s in there, get out now!’

The approach sounded wrong to me. Too confrontational. I walked up to the negotiator. ‘I’m FBI, Agent Cross. Do we need to back him into a corner? He’s violent. He’s extremely dangerous.’

The negotiator was a stocky guy with a thick mustache; he was wearing a flak jacket, but it wasn’t secured. ‘Get the fuck away from me!’ he shouted in my face.

‘This is a federal case,’ I shouted right back. I grabbed the bullhorn out of his hand. The negotiator went at me with his fists, but Mahoney wrestled him to the ground. The press was watching; to hell with them. We had a job to do here.

‘This is the FBI!’ I spoke into the bullhorn. ‘I want to talk to Pasha Sorokin.’

Then suddenly the strangest thing of the night happened, and it had been a very strange night. I almost couldn’t believe it.

Two men emerged from the front door of the GAP.

They held their hands over their heads. They were shielding their faces from the cameras, or maybe from us.

‘Get down on the ground!’ I shouted at them. They didn’t comply.

But then I could see – it was Sorokin and the bodyguard.

‘We’re not armed,’ Sorokin yelled loud enough for everybody to hear. ‘We’re innocent citizens. We have no guns.’

I didn’t know whether to believe him. None of us knew what to make of this. The TV helicopter over our heads was getting too close.

‘What’s he pulling?’ Mahoney asked me.

‘Don’t know… Get down!’ I shouted again.

The Wolf and the bodyguard continued to walk toward us. Slowly and carefully. Hands held high.

I moved ahead with Mahoney. We had our guns out. Was this a trick? What could they try with dozens of rifles and handguns aimed at them?

The Wolf smiled when he saw me. Why the hell was he smiling?

‘So, you caught us,’ he called out. ‘Big deal! It doesn’t matter, you know. I have a surprise for you, FBI. Ready? My name is Pasha Sorokin. But I’m not the Wolf.’

He laughed. ‘I’m just some guy shopping in the GAP store. My clothes got wet. I’m not the Wolf, Mr FBI. Is that funny or what? Does it make your day? It makes mine. And it will make the Wolf’s too.’

Chapter One Hundred and Seven

Pasha Sorokin wasn’t the Wolf. Was that possible? There was no way to know for sure. Over the next forty-eight hours it was confirmed that the men we had captured in Florida were Pasha Sorokin and Ruslan Fedorov. They were Red Mafiya, but both claimed never to have met the real Wolf. They said they had played the ‘parts’ they were given – stand-in roles – according to them. Now they were willing to make the best deals they could.

There was no way for us to know for sure what was going on – but the deal-making went on for two days. The Bureau liked to make deals. I didn’t. Contacts were made inside the Mafiya; more doubts were raised about Pasha Sorokin being the Wolf. Finally, the CIA operatives who’d gotten the Wolf out of Russia were found and brought to Pasha’s cell. They said he wasn’t the man they’d help get out of the Soviet Union.

Then it was Sorokin who gave us a name we wanted – one that blew my mind completely, blew everybody’s minds. It was part of his ‘deal’.

He gave us Sphinx.

And he told us where we could find him.

The next morning, four teams of FBI agents waited outside Sphinx’s house until he left for work. We had agreed not to take him inside the house. I wouldn’t let it go down that way. I just couldn’t do it.

We all felt that Lizzie Connelly and her daughters had been through more than enough pain already. They didn’t need to see Brendan Connelly – Sphinx – arrested at the family house in Buckhead. They didn’t need to find out the awful truth about him like that.

I sat in a dark blue sedan parked two blocks up the street, but with a view of the large Georgian-style house. I was feeling numb. I remembered the first time I’d been there. I recalled my talk with the girls; and then with Brendan Connelly in his den. His grief had seemed heartfelt, as genuine as his young daughters’.

Of course, no one else had suspected he had betrayed his wife, sold her to another man. Pasha Sorokin had met Elizabeth at a party in the Connelly house. He’d wanted her; Brendan Connelly didn’t. The judge had been having affairs for years. Elizabeth reminded Sorokin of the model Claudia Schiffer, who had appeared on billboards all over Moscow during his gangster days. So the horrifying trade was made. A husband had sold his own wife into captivity; he’d gotten rid of her in the worst way imaginable. How could he have hated Elizabeth so much? And how could she have loved him?

Ned Mahoney was in the car with me, waiting for action: the takedown of Sphinx. If we couldn’t have the Wolf yet, he was our second choice; the consolation prize.

‘I wonder if Elizabeth knew about her husband’s secret life?’ Mahoney muttered.

‘Maybe she suspected something. They didn’t sleep together regularly. When I visited the house, Connelly showed me his den. There was a bed in there. Unmade.’

‘Think he’ll go to work today?’ Mahoney asked. He was calmly munching an apple. A very cool head to work with.

‘He’ll know we took down Sorokin and Fedorov by now. I figure he’ll be cautious. He’ll probably play it straight. Hard to tell.’

‘Maybe we should take him at the house. You think?’ He bit into his apple again. ‘Alex?’

I shook my head. ‘I can’t do it, Ned. Not to his family.’

‘Okay. Just asking, buddy.’

We waited. A little past nine, Brendan Connelly finally came out the front door of the house. He walked to a silver Porsche Boxster parked in the wraparound driveway. He had on a blue suit, carried a black gym bag. He was whistling.

‘Scumbag!’ Mahoney whispered. Then he spoke into his two-way. ‘This is Alpha One… we have Sphinx leaving the house. He’s getting into a Porsche. Prepare to converge. Vehicle/license is V6T-81K.’

We heard back immediately. ‘This is Braves One… we have Sphinx in full sight too. We’ve got him covered. He’s ours.’

Then, ‘Braves Three in place at second intersect. We’re waiting on him.’

‘Should be about ten to fifteen seconds. He’s heading down the street. Making a right. It’s the route he always takes to work.’

I spoke very calmly to Mahoney. ‘I want to take him down, Ned.’

He looked straight ahead through the windshield. Didn’t answer me. But he didn’t say no.

I watched the Porsche proceed at a normal speed to the next cross street. The Boxster eased into the turn. And then Brendan Connelly ran!

‘Oh boy,’ said Mahoney and tossed away his apple.

Chapter One Hundred and Eight

‘Suspect is going southeast. He must have seen us!’ A message came over the short wave.

I gunned our car in the direction where the Porsche had disappeared. I managed to get the sedan up to sixty-five on the narrow, winding street lined with gated McMansions. I still couldn’t see the silver Porsche up ahead.

‘I’m heading east,’ I spoke into the two-way. ‘I’ll take a chance he’s trying to get to the highway.’ I didn’t know what else to do. I passed several cars coming the other way on the quiet street. A couple of drivers sat on their horns. That’s what I would have done too. I was going seventy-five miles an hour in a residential area.

‘I see him!’ Mahoney yelled.

I stepped down hard on the gas. I was finally making up some ground. I spotted a blue sedan approaching the Porsche from the east. It was Braves Two. We had Brendan Connelly from two sides. Now the question was whether or not he’d give up.

Suddenly the Porsche shot right off the road and into a thicket of bushes that rose higher than the car’s roof. The Porsche tilted forward, then disappeared down a steep slope.

I didn’t slow down until the last second, then I braked hard and went into a controlled shudder and spin.

‘Jesus Christ!’ Mahoney shouted from the passenger side.

‘Thought you were HRT,’ I said.

Mahoney laughed. ‘All right then, partner! Let’s get the bad guy!’

I steered the sedan through the bushes and found myself on a steep hill dotted with large rocks and trees. When the first branches cleared, I had limited vision because of all the other trees. Then I saw the Porsche smack into a mid-sized oak, and career to one side. The car slid sideways another fifty feet before it finally stopped.

Sphinx was down.

‘Let’s go get the bad guy!’ I shouted.

Chapter One Hundred and Nine

Mahoney and I wanted Sphinx and it was personal with me, maybe with both of us. I let our sedan roll another fifty or sixty yards. Then I braked and the car stopped. Mahoney and I jumped out. We almost slid down the steep hill, which was slippery with mud.

‘Crazy son of a bitch!’ Ned Mahoney shouted as we stumbled ahead.

‘What choice did he have? He had to run.’

‘I mean you. You’re crazy! What a ride.’

We saw Brendan Connelly lurch out of the damaged Porsche. He held a handgun aimed our way. Connelly fired off two quick shots. He wasn’t good with a gun, though. But he was shooting real bullets.

‘Son of a bitch!’ Mahoney fired a shot and hit the Porsche – just to show Connelly that we could shoot him if we wanted to.

‘Put the gun down,’ Mahoney shouted. ‘Put the gun down!’

Brendan Connelly started to run down the hill but he was stumbling a lot. Mahoney and I kept gaining on him until we were only thirty yards or so behind.

‘Let me,’ I said.

Brendan Connelly looked back over his shoulder just then. I could tell he was tired, scared, or both. His legs and arms were pumping in a disjointed rhythm. He might work out in some gym, but he wasn’t ready for this.

‘Get back! I’ll shoot!’ he shouted – almost right into my face.

I hit him, and it was like a speeding tractor-trailer back-ending a barely moving compact. Connelly went down, cartwheeling crazily. I stayed upright. Didn’t even lose my balance. This was the good part. It almost made up for some of our misses and failures.

Connelly’s ignominious roll finally stopped after twenty yards, but then he made his biggest mistake – he got back up.

I was on him in a second. I was all over Sphinx, and it was where I wanted to be. Mano a mano with this bastard. He had sold his own wife – the mother of his children.

I threw a hard right-handed shot into the bridge of Connelly’s nose. The perfect shot, or close to it. Probably broke it from the crunch I heard. He went down on one knee – but he got up again. Former college jock. Former tough guy. Current asshole.

His nose was hanging to one side. Good deal. I threw an uppercut into the pit of Connelly’s stomach and liked the feeling so much I threw another. I crunched another right into his gut, which was softening to the touch. Then a quick, hard hook to his cheek. I was getting stronger.

I jabbed his broken nose and Connelly moaned. I jabbed again. I looped a roundhouse at his chin, connected, bull’s-eye. Brendan Connelly’s blue eyes rolled back into his forehead. The lights went out and he dropped into the mud, and stayed there, where he belonged.

I heard a voice behind me. ‘That how it’s done in D.C.?’ Mahoney asked from a few yards up the hill.

I stared up at him. ‘That’s how it’s done, Natty Bumpo. Hope you took notes.’

Chapter One Hundred and Ten

The next couple of weeks were quiet, disturbingly, maddeningly so. I found out I was being assigned to headquarters, as Deputy Director of Investigations under Director Burns. ‘A big, fat plum,’ I was told by everybody. It sounded like a desk job to me, and I didn’t want that. I wanted the Wolf. I wanted the street. I wanted action. I hadn’t come over to the Bureau to be a desk jockey in the Hoover Building.

I was given a week off and Nana, the kids and I went everywhere together. There was a lot of tension in the house, though. We were waiting to hear what Christine Johnson was going to do.

Every time I looked at Alex my heart ached; every time I held him in my arms, or tucked him in bed at the end of the day, I thought about his leaving the house for good. I couldn’t let that happen, but my lawyer had advised me it could.

The Director needed to see me in his office one morning during my week off. It wasn’t too much of a problem. I stopped in after I dropped the kids at school. Tony Woods, Burns’s assistant, seemed particularly glad to see me.

‘You’re something of a hero for the moment. Enjoy it,’ he said, sounding, as always, like an Ivy League prof. ‘Won’t last long.’

‘Always the optimist, Tony,’ I said.

‘That’s my job description, young man.’

I wondered how much Ron Burns shared with his assistant, and also what the Director had in mind this morning. I wanted to ask Tony about this plum job I was slated for. But I didn’t. I figured he wouldn’t tell me anyway.

Coffee and sweet rolls were waiting in Burns’s office, but the Director wasn’t there. It was a little past eight. I wondered if he’d even gotten to work yet. It was hard to imagine that Ron Burns had a life outside the office, though I knew he had a wife and four children, and lived out in Virginia, about an hour from D.C.

Burns finally appeared at the door in a blue dress shirt and tie, with the shirtsleeves rolled up. So now I knew he’d had at least one meeting before this one. Actually, I hoped this meeting wasn’t about another case that he wanted me to dive into. Unless it involved the Wolf.

Burns grinned when he saw me sitting there. He read my look instantly. ‘Actually, I have a couple of nasty cases for you to work on. But that isn’t why I wanted to see you, Alex. Have some coffee. Relax. You’re on vacation, right?’

He walked into the room, sat down across from me. ‘I want to hear how it’s going so far. You miss being a homicide detective? Still want to stay in the Bureau? You can leave if you want to. The Washington P.D. wants you back. Badly.’

‘That’s good to hear, that I’m wanted. As for the Bureau, what can I say? The resources are amazing. Lot of good people here, great people. I hope you know that.’

‘I do. I’m a fan of our personnel, most of them, anyway. And on the dark side?’ he asked. ‘Problem areas? Things to work on? I want to hear what you think. I need to hear it. Tell me the truth, as you see it.’

‘Bureaucracy. It’s a way of life. It’s almost the FBI’s culture. And fear. It’s mostly political in nature, and it inhibits agents’ imaginations. Did I mention bureaucracy? It’s bad, awful, crippling. Just listen to your agents.’

‘I’m listening,’ Burns said. ‘Go on.’

‘The agents aren’t allowed to be nearly as good as they can be. Of course that’s a complaint with most jobs, isn’t it?’

‘Even your old job with the Washington P.D.?’

‘Not as much as here. That’s because I sidestepped a lot of red tape and other bullshit that got in the way.’

‘Good. Keep sidestepping the bullshit, Alex,’ Burns said. ‘Even if it’s mine.’

I smiled. ‘Is that an order?’

Burns nodded soberly. I felt that he had something else on his mind. ‘I had a difficult meeting before you got here. Gordon Nooney is leaving the Bureau.’

I shook my head. ‘I hope I didn’t have anything to do with that. I don’t know Nooney well enough to judge him. Seriously. I don’t.’

‘Sorry, but you did have something to do with it. But it was my decision. The buck passes through here at a hundred miles an hour, and I like it that way. I do know Nooney well enough to judge him. Nooney was the leak to the Washington Post. That son of a bitch has been doing it for years. Alex, I thought about putting you in Nooney’s job.’

I was shocked to hear it. ‘I’ve never trained people. I didn’t finish orientation myself.’

‘But you could train our people.’

I wasn’t sure about that. ‘Maybe I could struggle through. But I like the streets. It’s in my blood. I’ve learned to accept that about myself.’

‘I know. I get it, Alex. I want you to work right here in the Hoover Building though. We’re going to change things. We’re going to win more than we lose. Work the big cases with Stacy Pollack at headquarters. She’s one of the best. Tough, smart, she could run this place some day.’

‘I can work with Stacy,’ I said, and left it at that.

Ron Burns put out his hand and I took it.

‘This is going to be good. Exciting stuff,’ he said. ‘Which reminds me of a promise I made. There’s a spot here for Detective John Sampson, and any D.C. street cop you like. Anybody who wants to win. We’re going to win, Alex.’

I shook Ron Burns’s hand on it. The thing is, I wanted to win, too.

Chapter One Hundred and Eleven

On a Monday morning I was in my new office on the fifth floor at headquarters in D.C. Tony Woods had given me a walking tour earlier that morning, and I was struck by strange, funny details that I couldn’t get out of my head. Like… the office doors were metal all through the building, except on the executive floor, where they were wood. The odd thing, though, the wood doors looked exactly like the metal ones. Welcome to the FBI.

Anyway, I had a lot of reading to do, and I hoped I’d get used to being in an eleven-by-fifteen-foot office, which was kind of bare. The furniture looked as if it were on loan from the Government Accounting Office; there was a file cabinet with a large dial lock; a coat tree that held my black vest and blue nylon raid jacket. The office also looked down on Pennsylvania Avenue, which was something of a ‘perk’.

Just past two that afternoon I got a phone call, actually the first incoming message to my new office. It was Tony Woods. ‘All settled in?’ he asked. ‘Anything you need?’

‘I’m getting there, Tony. I’ll be fine. Thanks for asking.’

‘Good. Alex, you’re going out of town in about an hour. There’s a lead on the Wolf in Brooklyn. Stacy Pollack will be going with you, so it’s a big deal. You fly out of Quantico at fifteen hundred. This thing isn’t over.’

I called home, then I gathered some paperwork on the Wolf, grabbed the overnight bag I’d been told to keep in my office, and headed to the parking garage. Stacy Pollack came down a few minutes later.

She drove, and it took us less than half an hour to get to the small private airfield at Quantico. On the way, she told me about the lead in Brooklyn. Supposedly, the real Wolf had been spotted at Brighton Beach. At least we weren’t giving up on him.

One of the black Bells was saddled up and waiting for us. Stacy and I got out of the sedan and walked side by side to the helicopter. I remember that the skies were bright blue and streaming with clouds that appeared to be shredding in the distance. A crisp smell of fall was in the air.

‘Nice day for a train wreck,’ Stacy said and grinned.

A shot rang out from the woods directly behind us. I had thrown back my head, laughing at Stacy’s little joke. I saw her get hit and blood spatter. I went down and covered her body.

Agents were running on to the tarmac. One of them fired in the direction of the sniper shot. Two came sprinting toward us, the others ran toward the woods, in the direction of the shots. I lay on Stacy, trying to protect her, hoping she wasn’t dead, but wondering if maybe the bullet had been meant for me.

You’ll never catch the Wolf, Pasha Sorokin had said in Florida. He will catch you. Now the warning had come true.

The briefing that night at the Hoover Building was the most emotional I had seen at the Bureau so far. Stacy Pollack was alive, but she was in a critical condition at Walter Reed. Most of the agents respected Stacy Pollack tremendously, and they couldn’t believe she’d been targeted. I still wondered if the bullet had been meant for me? She and I had been headed to New York to see about the Wolf; he was the chief suspect in the shooting. But did he have help? Was there someone inside the Bureau?

‘The other bad news,’ Ron Burns told the group that night, ‘is that our lead in Brighton Beach turns out to be bogus. The Wolf isn’t in New York, apparently he wasn’t there recently. The questions that we have to answer are, did he know we were going after him? If he knew, how did he know? Did one of us tell him? I promise that we will spare nothing to get the answers to those questions.’

After the meeting, I was one of the agents invited to a smaller briefing held in the Director’s conference room. The mood continued to be somber, serious, and angry. Burns took the floor again, and he seemed more upset by the Stacy Pollack shooting than anyone else.

‘When I said that we were going to bring that Russian bastard down, I wasn’t using hyperbole for effect. I’m establishing a BAM team to go after him. He said that he would come after us, and he did. Now we’re going to come after him, with everything we have, all our resources.’

Heads around the room nodded their approval. I’d heard of the existence of BAM teams in the FBI, but hadn’t known if they were real or not. I knew what the acronym stood for – By Any Means. It was what we needed to hear right now. It was what I needed to hear.

BAM.

Chapter One Hundred and Twelve

Everything felt like it was going much too fast, like it was spinning out of control. Maybe that was right. The case was out of our control – the Wolf was running it.

I got a phone call at home two nights later. It was a quarter past three in the morning. ‘This had better be good.’

‘It isn’t. All hell’s broken loose, Alex. It’s a war.’ The caller was Tony Woods and he sounded groggy.

I massaged my forehead as I spoke. ‘What war? Tell me what happened?’

‘We got word from Texas a few minutes ago. Lawrence Lipton is dead, murdered. They got to him in his cell.’

I was starting to wake up in a hurry.

‘How? He was in our custody, wasn’t he?’

‘Two agents were killed with Lipton. He predicted it, didn’t he?’

I nodded, then I said, ‘Yeah.’ And so had the Wolf.

‘Alex, they got to the Lipton family, too. They’re all dead. HRT is on the way to your house, also the Director’s, even Mahoney’s. Anybody who worked on the case is considered vulnerable and at risk.’

That got me up out of bed. I took my Glock out of the cabinet beside my bed.

‘I’ll be waiting for HRT,’ I told Woods, then I hurried downstairs with my gun in hand.

Was the Wolf already here? I wondered.

The war came to our house a few minutes later, and even though it was HRT, it couldn’t have been much scarier. Nana Mama was up and she greeted the heavily armed FBI agents with angry looks, but also offers of coffee. Then she and I went to wake the children, as gently as we could.

‘This isn’t right, Alex. Not in our home,’ Nana whispered as we went upstairs to get Jannie and Damon. ‘The line has to be drawn somewhere, doesn’t it? This is bad.’

‘I know it is. It’s gotten out of control, everything has. The world is that way now.’

‘So what are you going to do about it? What are you planning to do?’

‘Right now, wake the kids. Hug them, kiss them. Get them out of this house for a while.’

‘Are you listening to yourself?’ Nana asked as we arrived at the doorway to Damon’s bedroom. He was already sitting up in bed.

‘Dad?’ he said.

Suddenly I was aware of Ned Mahoney coming up behind me. ‘Alex, can I have a second?’ What was he doing here? What else had happened?

‘I’ll wake them, get them dressed,’ Nana said. ‘Talk to your friend.’

I stayed behind with Mahoney. ‘What is it, Ned? Can’t it wait for a couple of minutes? Jesus.’

‘The bastards hit Burns’s house. Everybody’s all right. We got there in time.’

I stared into Mahoney’s eyes. ‘Your family?’

‘They’re out of the house. They’re safe for now. We’ve got to find him, and burn him.’

I nodded. ‘Let me go get my kids up.’

Twenty minutes later my family was escorted outside to a waiting van. They climbed inside, like frightened refugees in a war zone. That’s what the world was becoming, wasn’t it? Every city and town was a potential battlefield. No place was safe.

Just before I climbed in the van, I spotted the photographer posted across the street from our house on Fifth Street. It looked like he was filming the evacuation of our house. How was that?

I’m not sure how I knew who he was, but somehow I knew. He’s not from any newspaper, I thought. I felt myself filling with rage and disgust. He works for Christine’s lawyers.

Chapter One Hundred and Thirteen

Chaos.

The next day, and for two days after that, I found myself in Huntsville, Texas, the site of the federal prison where Lawrence Lipton had been murdered while he was in the custody of the Federal Bureau. No one there had any explanation for how Lipton and two agents had been killed.

It had happened during the night. In his cell. Actually, the small suite where he was kept under guard. None of the video cameras had a record of visitors. None of the interviews or interrogations turned up a suspect. Lipton had most of the bones in his body broken. Zamochit. The Wolf’s trademark.

The same method had been used on an Italian Mafia figure named Augustino Palumbo this past summer. According to stories, Palumbo’s killer had been a Russian mobster, possibly the Wolf. The murder had taken place at the supermax prison in Florence, Colorado.

The following morning I arrived in Colorado. I was there to visit a killer named Kyle Craig, who had once been an FBI agent, and also a friend of mine. Kyle was responsible for dozens of murders; he was one of the worst psychopathic killers in history. I had captured him. My friend.

We met in an interview room on death row in the Isolation Unit. Kyle looked surprisingly fit. When I’d last seen him he was gaunt, very pale, with deep, dark hollows under his eyes. He appeared to have put on at least thirty pounds, all of it muscle. I wondered why – what had given Kyle hope? Whatever it was scared me a little.

‘All roads lead to Florence?’ he quipped and grinned as I entered the visiting room. ‘Some associates of yours from the Bureau were here just yesterday. Or was it the day before? You know, the last time we met, Alex, you said you didn’t care what I think. That hurt.’

I corrected him, which I knew would annoy Kyle. ‘Not exactly what I said. You accused me of being condescending, and told me that you didn’t like it. I said, “Who cares what you like anymore?” I do care about what you think. That’s why I’m here.’

Kyle laughed again, and the braying sound he made, the baring of his teeth, chilled me. ‘You always were my favorite,’ he said.

‘You were expecting me?’ I asked.

‘Hmm. Hard to say. Not really. Maybe at some time in the future.’

‘You look like you have big plans. You’re all buffed.’

‘What plans could I possibly have?’

‘The usual. Grand delusions, homicidal fantasies, rape, the slaughter of innocents.’

‘I do hate it when you play psychologist, Alex. You didn’t make it in that world for a good reason.’

I shrugged. ‘I know that, Kyle. None of my patients in Southeast had money to pay me. I needed to start a practice in Georgetown. Maybe I will someday.’

He laughed again. ‘Talk about delusions. So why are you here? No, I’ll tell you why. There’s been a terrible miscarriage of justice and I’m being released. You’re the messenger of glad tidings.’

‘The only miscarriage is that you haven’t been executed, Kyle.’

Kyle’s eyes sparkled. I was one of his favorites. ‘All right, now that you’ve charmed me, what is it that you want?’

‘You know what I want, Kyle,’ I said. ‘You know exactly why I’m here.’

He clapped his hands loudly, ‘Zamochit! The mad Russian!’

For the next half an hour I told Kyle everything I knew about the Wolf, well nearly everything. Then I gave him the kicker. ‘He met with you on the night he came here to kill “Little Gus” Palumbo. Did you set up the kill for him? Somebody did.’

Kyle leaned back and seemed to be considering his options, but I knew he’d already decided what he meant to do. He was always a step or two ahead.

Finally he leaned forward, and beckoned me closer. I wasn’t afraid of Kyle, at least not physically, not even with his extra pounds of muscle. I almost hoped he’d make a move.

‘I do this out of love and respect for you,’ Kyle said. ‘I did meet with the Russian last summer. Ruthless chap, no conscience. I liked him. We played chess. I know who he is, my friend. I might be able to help you.’

Chapter One Hundred and Fourteen

It took me another day at Florence, but I finally negotiated a name out of Kyle. Now could we believe him? The name was checked and rechecked in Washington, but the Bureau was becoming confident that he had given us the Red Mafiya leader. I had doubts – because it came from Kyle. But we had no other leads.

Maybe Kyle wanted to use it to try and blow me up, or embarrass the Bureau. Or maybe he wanted to demonstrate how smart he was, how well-connected, how superior to us all. The name, the person’s position, made the arrest controversial and risky. If we went after this man, and we were wrong, the embarrassment would stick to the Bureau.

So we waited for nearly a week. We checked all of our information again and did several interviews in the field. The suspect was put on surveillance.

When we had completed the due diligence, I met with Ron Burns and the Director of the CIA in Burns’s office. Ron got to the point. ‘We believe he’s the Wolf, Alex. Craig is probably telling the truth.’

Thomas Weir from the CIA nodded my way. ‘We’ve been watching this suspect in New York for some time. We thought he’d been KGB back in Russia, but there wasn’t conclusive evidence. We never suspected Red Mafiya, never the Wolf. Not this man. Not given his position with the Russian Government.’

Weir’s look was intense. ‘We increased the levels of audio surveillance to include the apartment where the suspect lives in Manhattan. He’s making arrangements to go after Director Burns again.’

Burns looked at me. ‘He doesn’t forgive and forget, Alex. Neither do I.’

‘Is that it? We go to New York and arrest him?’

Burns and Weir nodded solemnly. ‘This should be the end of it,’ said Burns. ‘Go and take down the Wolf. Bring me his head.’

Chapter One Hundred and Fifteen

This should be the end of it. From Director Burns’s mouth to God’s ear.

The Century is a famous art deco apartment building on Central Park West, north of Columbus Circle, in New York City. For decades it has been a residence of choice for the well-to-do and famous actors, artists, and business-people, but especially for those who are humble enough to share space with working-class families who’ve passed down their apartments for decades.

We arrived at the building around four in the morning. HRT immediately took over the three main entrances on Central Park, Sixty-Second and Sixth-Third Streets. This was the largest bust I had been a part of, definitely the most complicated: the New York City Police, FBI, CIA and Secret Service were all involved in the operation. We were about to take down an important Russian. The head of the trade delegation to New York. A businessman himself, supposedly above suspicion. The repercussions would be severe if we were wrong. But how could we be wrong? Not this time.

I was at the Century, along with my partner for the past week or so. Ned Mahoney was hardworking, honest, and tough in the clutch. The head of HRT had been to my house, and even passed Nana’s inspection, mostly because he’d grown up on the streets of D.C.

Ned and I and a dozen others were climbing the stairs to two penthouse floors, since the suspect’s apartment was on twenty-five and twenty-six. He was powerful and wealthy. He had a good reputation with Wall Street and the banks. So was he the Wolf? If so, why hadn’t his name ever come up before? Because the Wolf was so good, so careful?

‘Be glad when this is over with,’ Mahoney said without a huff or puff as he mounted the stairs.

‘How did it get out of hand like this?’ I asked. ‘There are too many people here.’

‘Always too much politics. Better get used to it. World we live in. Too many suits, not enough workers.’

We finally reached twenty-five. Ned, me, and four other agents stopped there. The rest of the team continued to twenty-six. We waited for them to get into position. This was it. I hoped this was it. Was the real Wolf on one of these two floors?

I heard an urgent voice in my earpiece. ‘Suspect coming out of a window! Man in his underwear jumped from the tower! Jesus Christ! He’s down on the landing between the towers. He’s on the roof. Running.’

Mahoney and I understood what had happened. We rushed down to the twentieth floor. The Century had two towers that rose up from twenty. A large expanse of roof connected them.

We burst out on to the roof and could just about make out a barefoot man in his underwear. Even in the darkness, the figure gave the impression of being burly, balding and bearded. He turned and fired at us with a pistol. The Wolf? Balding? Burly? Could this be him?

He hit Mahoney!

He hit me!

We went down hard. Chest shots! Hurt like hell! Took my breath away. Fortunately, we were wearing Kevlar vests.

The man in his underwear wasn’t.

Mahoney’s return fire took out a kneecap; my first shot struck his thickset stomach. He went down spurting blood and howling.

We ran to the side of Andrei Prokopev. Mahoney kicked away his gun. ‘You’re under arrest!’ Ned yelled into the face of the wounded Russian. ‘We know who you are.’

A helicopter appeared between the Century’s dueling towers. A woman was screaming from one of the windows several stories above us. Suddenly, the helicopter was landing! What the hell was this?

A man came out of a window in the tower and dropped to the roof. Then another man. Professional gunmen, it looked like. Bodyguards?

They were quick on the draw and began shooting the instant they hit the roof. HRT returned fire. Several shots were exchanged. Both gunmen were hit and went down. Neither got up again. HRT was that good.

The helicopter was setting down on the roof. It wasn’t media or police. It was there to get the Wolf and whisk him away, wasn’t it? There were shots from the helicopter. Mahoney and I fired into the cockpit. There was a rapid exchange of gunfire. Then the shooting stopped inside.

For several seconds the only sound on the roof was the loud, eerie whir of the helicopter’s rotor blades. ‘Clear!’ one of our agents finally yelled. ‘They’re down in the copter!’

‘You’re under arrest!’ Mahoney screamed at the Russian in his underwear. ‘You’re the Wolf. You tried to attack my house, my family!’

I had something else in mind, another kind of message. I leaned in close and said, ‘Kyle Craig did this to you.’ I wanted him to know, and maybe pay Kyle back some day.

Maybe with zamochit.

Chapter One Hundred and Sixteen

I hoped to God it was over now. We all did. Ned Mahoney flew back to Quantico that morning, but I spent the rest of the day at FBI headquarters in lower Manhattan. The Russian Government had filed protests everywhere they could, but Andrei Prokopev was still in custody and State Department people were all over the FBI offices. Even a few Wall Street firms had questioned the arrest.

So far, I hadn’t been allowed to talk to the Russian again. He was scheduled for surgery, but his life wasn’t in danger. He was being grilled by someone, just not by me.

Burns finally reached me at around four o’clock in the office I was using in FBI-New York. ‘Alex, I want you to head back to Washington,’ he said. ‘Flight arrangements have been made. We’ll be waiting for you here.’ That was all that he told me.

Burns signed off so I didn’t get the chance to ask any questions. It was obvious that he didn’t want me to. Around seven-thirty I arrived at the Hoover Building and was told to go to the SIOC conference area on six. They were waiting for me there. Not exactly waiting, since a shirt-sleeves meeting was already in progress. Ron Burns was at the table, which wasn’t a good sign. Everybody looked tense and exhausted.

‘Let me bring Alex up to date,’ he said when I entered the room. ‘Have a rest, kick back. There’s been a new wrinkle. None of us are very happy about it. You won’t be either.’

I shook my head and felt a little sick as I sat down. I didn’t need new wrinkles, I had more than enough already.

‘The Russians are actually cooperating for a change,’ Burns said. ‘It seems that they’re not denying that Andrei Prokopev has Red Mafiya connections. He does. They’ve been monitoring him for some time themselves. They hoped to use him to penetrate the huge black market still coming out of Moscow.’

I cleared my throat. ‘But.’

Burns nodded. ‘Right. The Russians tell us – now – that Prokopev is not the man we’re looking for. They’re certain of it.’

I felt completely drained. ‘Because?’

It was Burns’s turn to shake his head. ‘They know what the Wolf looks like. He was KGB after all. The real Wolf set us up to believe he was Prokopev. Andrei Prokopev was one of his rivals in the Red Mafiya.’

‘To be the Russian Godfather?’

‘To be the Godfather – Russian or otherwise.’

I pursed my lips, took a breath. ‘Do the Russians know who the Wolf really is?’

Burns’s eyes narrowed. ‘If they do, they won’t tell us. Not yet anyway. Maybe they’re afraid of him too.’

Chapter One Hundred and Seventeen

Late that night I took the decision to return to my home. I sat at the piano on the sun porch with one of Billy Collins’s poems running around my head. It was called ‘The Blues’ and was about the band giving sympathy to a lonely musician who had lost his lover. Which was what I was thinking about as I sat at the piano and made up a melody to go with the poem. We had lost. It happened a lot in police work, though nobody wants to admit it. Lives had been saved, though. Elizabeth Connelly and a couple of others had been found; Brendan Connelly was in jail. Andrei Prokopev had been caught. But we seemed to have lost the big one – for now anyway. The Wolf was still out there. The Godfather was free to do what he did, and that wasn’t good for anybody.

The next morning, I arrived early to meet Jamilla Hughes’s flight into Reagan National. I had the usual butterflies before her plane got in. But mostly I couldn’t wait to see Jam. Nana and the kids had insisted on coming to the airport. A little show of support – for Jamilla. And for me. For all of us, actually.

The airport was crowded, but relatively quiet and peaceful, probably on account of the high ceilings. My family and I stood at an exit from Terminal A near the security check. I saw Jam, then so did the kids, who started poking me all over. She was wearing black from head to toe; she looked better than ever, and Jamilla always looked good to me.

‘She’s beautiful, and so cool,’ Jannie said and lightly touched the back of my hand. ‘You know that, don’t you, Daddy?’

‘She is, isn’t she?’ I agreed, looking at Jannie now, rather than at Jamilla. ‘She’s also smart. Except about men, it would seem.’

‘We really like her,’ Jannie continued. ‘Can you tell?’

‘I can. I like her too.’

‘But do you love her?’ Jannie asked in her usual no-nonsense, get-to-the-heart-of-the matter-way. ‘Do you?’

I didn’t say anything. That part was between Jam and me.

‘Well – do you?’ Nana joined in.

I didn’t answer Nana either, so she shook her head, rolled her eyes.

‘What do the boys think?’ I turned to Damon and little Alex. The Big Boy was clapping his hands and grinning, so I knew where he stood.

‘She’s definitely all that,’ said Damon, and he started to grin. He always got a little goofy around Jamilla.

I moved toward her and they let me go alone. I snuck a glance, and they were grinning like a Cheshire cat family. I had a lump in my throat. Don’t know why. I felt a little spacey and my knees were weak. Don’t know why either.

‘I can’t believe everybody came,’ Jamilla said as she slid into my arms. ‘That makes me happy. I can’t tell you how much, Alex. Wow. I think I’m going to cry. Even though I’m a tough-as-nails homicide detective. You all right? You aren’t all right. I can tell.’

‘Oh, I’m fine now.’ I held her tight, then I actually picked Jam up, set her back down.

We were quiet for a moment. ‘We’re going to fight for little Alex,’ she said.

‘Of course,’ I told her. Then I said something that I’d never told Jamilla before, though it had been on the tip of my tongue many times. ‘I love you,’ I whispered.

‘I love you too,’ she said. ‘More than you can imagine. More than even I can imagine.’

A single tear ran down Jamilla’s cheek. I kissed it away.

Then I saw the photographer taking pictures of us.

The same one who was at the house the day we were evacuated for personal safety.

The one hired by Christine’s lawyer.

Had he had gotten Jamilla’s tear on film?

Chapter One Hundred and Eighteen

They came to the house on Fifth Street; they came about a week after Jamilla went back to California.

Them again.

One of the saddest days of my life.

Indescribable.

Unthinkable.

Christine was there with her lawyer and Alex Junior’s law guardian, and a case manager from Children’s Protective Services. The case manager wore a plastic ID around her neck, and it was probably her presence that bothered me the most. My children have been raised with so much love and attention, never with abuse or neglect. There was no need for Children’s Services. Gilda Haranzo had gone to court and been granted a declaration of order giving Christine temporary guardianship of little Alex. She had won custody based on the claim that I was ‘a lightning rod for danger’, putting the child in harm’s way.

The irony of what was happening was so deep that I almost couldn’t stand it. I was trying to be the kind of policeman that most people wanted, and this was what I got? A lightning rod for danger? Is that what I was now?

And yet – I knew exactly how I had to act this morning on Fifth Street. For little Alex’s sake. I would abandon all my anger – and focus on what was best for him. I would be supportive during the handover. If it was possible, I wouldn’t let anything frighten the Boy, or upset him. I even had a long printed list of Alex’s likes and dislikes ready for Christine.

Unfortunately, Alex wasn’t buying any of this. He ran behind my legs and hid from Christine and the lawyer; I reached around and gently stroked his head. He was shaking all over, quivering with rage.

Gilda Haranzo said, ‘Maybe you should help Christine take little Alex to the car. Would you please do that?’

I turned and tenderly wrapped my arms around the Big Boy. Then Nana, followed by Damon and Jannie, knelt beside him for a group hug. ‘We love you, Alex. We’ll visit you, Alex. You’ll come see us, Alex. Don’t be scared.’

Nana handed Alex his favorite book, which was Whistle for Willie. Jannie gave him his love-worn plush cow ‘Moo’. Damon hugged his brother and tears started down his cheeks.

‘I’ll be talking to you tonight. You and Moo,’ I whispered and kissed my son’s darling little face. I could feel his heart going fast. ‘Every night. Forever and a day, my sweet boy. Forever and a day.’

And little Alex said, ‘Forever, Daddy.’

Then they took my son away.