London Bridges: A Novel (18 page)

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

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

“Maybe a little too loosey-goosey,” I said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Out of the corner of my eye—a flash!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A new partner? Now?

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

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

“Our deadline is close,” I told her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good for them. It is the exit after all.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I'm a messenger now? For what?” I asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sit down,” said the Russian.

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

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

“We understand,” I said.

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

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

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

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

“Why the prisoners?” I asked.

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

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