London Bridges: A Novel (17 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Miss you, Dad,” Damon said.

“Je t'aime,” said Jannie.

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

Je t'aime aussi.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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