London Bridges: A Novel (25 page)

The interrogations began immediately right there in the hallways. Where is the Wolf? . . . Who is Aglionby? . . .

The entire house was searched a second time, then a third.

Marcel Aglionby wasn't at the house, we were told by several of the guests. He was on business in New York. One of his daughters was present; this was her party, her guests, her friends—though some of them looked to be twice her age. Her father was a respected banker, she swore to us. No way was he a criminal, no way was he the Wolf.

So is he the Wolf's banker? And where does that lead us?

I hated to think it, but I couldn't help myself: The Wolf wins again.

We searched the place one more time and, over the threats of the daughter, started to take it apart, piece by piece.

I had to say the house was amazing, filled with antiques and artwork. Sandy thought that Aglionby might be trying to emulate the nearby La Fiorentina, which has been called the most beautiful house in the world. The banker certainly had expensive taste, and could afford to indulge them. Hand-painted Louis XVI pieces were everywhere, as were Louis XV chandeliers; antique Turkish carpets; Chinese screens and panels; tapestries; paintings, classical and modern, on nearly every wall. Works by Fragonard, Goya, Pieter Brueghel. All of it financed by the Wolf? Why not? He has over two billion to throw around.

We assembled the “suspects” in the billiards room, which had three billiards tables and nearly as many plush sofas as the living room. The same tailored formality. Did anyone here know anything about the Wolf? It didn't look that way to me. More likely, some of them might know Paris and Nicky Hilton.

“Does anyone want to speak for the group?” the French police commander addressed them.

No one volunteered; no one answered any questions. Either they didn't know or they had been told not to say.

“All right, then, let's separate them. We'll begin the interviews now. Someone will talk,” the commander warned.

Since I hadn't been asked to participate in the interrogations, I wandered out onto the grounds and walked down toward the water. Had we been given another false lead to follow? The Wolf's game-playing, his strategies and counterstrategies, had been relentless from the beginning. Why should it stop now?

There was a large—actually, very long—wooden boathouse at the water's edge. It stood maybe a hundred yards from the main house. But what was this? Somebody had transformed the old boathouse into a garage to house a collection of more than thirty very expensive sports cars and luxury sedans. Maybe this was finally something. Evidence that the Wolf might have used this estate. Or was it another ruse, a tease?

I was standing between the boathouse and the water when all hell broke loose.

All he had was his piece of the puzzle, his part in this terrible mission. But it was more than enough. Bari Naffis knew that there had been an incursion at the estate in Villefranche-sur-Mer and that within the hour people would die because of it, including friends of his and one girl he'd slept with, a fashion model from Hamburg. Eye candy to be sure, but very precious stuff.

The French army and police had already taken over the mansion. And now it was Bari's turn to go to work, to do his job. He didn't know why this had to happen, only that it did.

As he turned onto the D125, it seemed to him that he was already too late. But he had his orders. Someone had obviously foreseen that this would happen.

The Wolf had known it was coming, hadn't he? He had eyes in the back of his head. Eyes everywhere! What a scary bastard that one was.

That was all that Bari Naffis knew—and all he cared about right now. He had been well paid in advance, even if this made little sense to him and was highly distasteful. Why kill and maim so many?

Half an hour before, he'd received a radio signal from the main house; the noise had awakened him from a sound sleep in his hotel room.

He jumped from bed, dressed, then hurried to a prearranged position on an estate to the north. He tried not to think about his friends and a lover inside the house. Maybe she would survive somehow.

No matter. He wasn't going to cross the Wolf over some girl. Bari ran through the woods and thick brush cover. He was carrying a Man Portable Air Defense System, about as ungainly a weapon as there was. The missile launcher was five feet in length, a little over thirty-five pounds. Still, it was extremely well balanced and equipped with a rifle-style pistol grip and forestock. It fired an FIM-92A Stinger missile, and there were two other operators in the woods besides himself. Each of them had his little bit of work to do, his piece of the whole.

Three professional killers on the move at that very moment, maybe feeling the same misgivings he had.

A trap had been set for the police.

A terrible death trap for everybody in that house. Police killed as well. What a mess.

When he was in his final position, only about fifteen hundred feet from the main house, Bari hoisted the ungainly tube up onto his shoulder. He set his right hand on the pistol grip and sighted the weapon with his left. He held the launcher like a conventional rifle, though it was far from conventional.

He easily found his target in the viewfinder. He could hardly miss hitting a house. Then he waited for a final command in his earphones.

God, he didn't like this! He pictured the astonishingly pretty girl from Hamburg. Jeri was her name. So sweet, and what a perfect body. He waited, half hoping the signal wouldn't come. For Jeri's sake, for the sake of everyone inside.

But there it was! Electronic. Impersonal as a stranger's funeral. A whistling sound between his ears.

Two short, one long.

He took a deep breath, slowly exhaled. Then, reluctantly, he squeezed the trigger.

Bari felt a slight recoil, less than a rifle's, actually.

The launch engine inside the weapon ignited. The first-stage engine propelled the missile only about twenty to thirty feet, at which point it was safe for the secondary propulsion system to engage.

His eyes followed a vapor trail of solid rocket-fuel exhaust. The Stinger was on its way to the target. He heard a low roar as the missile accelerated to 1,500 miles per hour.

Be safe, Jeri.

The Stinger struck the estate broadside—a near perfect hit.

He was already reloading for the next shot.

There were loud whooshing noises, and then fiery, hellish explosions everywhere I looked. Chaos reigned everywhere. And death as well.

French police and army personnel were frantically running for cover. A rocket or missile had struck the northern roofs of the villa, tossing slate, wood, and bricks from a chimney high into the air. Then a second missile struck. A third was only seconds behind.

I had started racing back toward the main house when I got another surprise out of nowhere.

A side door of the boathouse flew open and a dark blue Mercedes sedan roared up a gravel path toward the main road. I ran to a police sedan parked on the grass, started it up, and gave chase.

There wasn't time to tell anybody what I was doing. Not even Sandy. I wondered how a police car was going to keep up with a souped-up Mercedes. Probably not too well. No, probably not at all.

I stayed with the powerful CL55 out of Cap-Ferrat, all the way to the Basse Corniche. I nearly killed myself, and maybe a few others, on the twisty road, but I didn't lose whoever was speeding in front of me.

Who the hell was in the car? Why was somebody running? Could it be the Wolf?

Traffic toward Monaco was moving, but it was heavy. The lights from a tow truck up ahead indicated that some poor driver had jackknifed on this winding road. That was my one long-shot hope. The traffic was slowing down the Benz. But suddenly the Mercedes swung around and headed west.

The sports sedan was moving very fast past an endless array of billboards and restaurant signs. And so was I.

I rounded a curve, and the whole of the bay of Villefranche-sur-Mer appeared in all its inimitable beauty and splendor, the moon large and full in the sky. The city rose above the bay, which was filled with sailboats and yachts, like a rich kid's bathtub. The Mercedes spun down a slick, sloping hill, sometimes at a speed of a hundred miles per hour. I thought I remembered from somewhere that the car had close to five hundred horsepower. It sure seemed like it.

Then we were entering the old port of Nice, and I began to close the gap behind the sedan. The narrow streets were surprisingly crowded, especially around the bars and nightclubs, which seemed everywhere now, thank God.

The Mercedes barely avoided a drunken group coming out of the Etoile Filante nightclub.

And then, horn blaring, I roared through the same crowd, the pedestrians cursing and shaking fists at me.

The Mercedes made a sharp right—onto the N7, the Moyenne Corniche, a higher road.

I followed as best I could, knowing that I would probably lose him now. Lose who, though? Who was in the blue Mercedes?

The way up was incredibly steep and winding. We were headed back toward Monaco, but the traffic was light this way, and the Mercedes was effortlessly picking up speed. The driver had known to go backward in order to go forward—much faster—at a speed the police sedan couldn't possibly match.

After about two kilometers I was pretty sure I would lose him. We were back in Villefranche, but the highest part of town. The view down onto Cap-Ferrat and Beaulieu was breathtaking, and I couldn't avoid looking; even at this speed it filled my eyes like a painting.

I couldn't let him get away, and I pushed the police car up close to a hundred again. How long could I possibly keep up?

There was a tunnel, dimness, then almost total darkness—and at the end of the tunnel the astonishing sight of a medieval village perched high on a hillside.

EZEread a sign, and I wished I could go easy.

Just past the village, the road became even more dangerous. It was as if the Moyenne Corniche were taped onto the side of the cliffs. Down below, the color of the sea seemed to be changing from azure to opal to silver-gray.

I could smell oranges and lemons in the air. My senses were sharp. Fear can do that.

I was losing the Mercedes, though, so I made the only move I could. Instead of slowing around the next curve, I accelerated.

I began to gain on the Mercedes and I kept my foot pressed to the floor. Are you suicidal? I wondered about myself.

Suddenly the Mercedes skidded all the way across the opposite lane. It struck the side of the mountain, a glancing blow, but very damaging to the car at that speed. Then it swerved back and forth on the road, across both lanes. It caromed off the rocks again. The blue sedan suddenly took off into the sky.

It was airborne, falling toward the sea.

I braked to the side of the road and jumped from my car. I saw the Mercedes hit the side of the cliff twice, then roll onto the lower highway far below. I couldn't get down there from where I was. Couldn't climb down, anyway.

I didn't see any movement from the wreck. Whoever was inside the Mercedes had to be dead. But who is it?

I got back in the police car I had commandeered at the estate. It took me close to ten minutes to make my way to the lower highway and the scene of the wreck. French police and an ambulance had already arrived and so had many early-morning onlookers.

As I climbed from my car, I could see that the body hadn't been removed from the wreckage. Medical workers were leaning inside the car and seemed to be working frantically. They were talking to whoever had been driving. Who was it?

One of them shouted, “He's still alive. One male! He's alive in here!”

I started to run toward the wreckage to get a look at the driver. Who? Could he talk to me? I glanced back up at the Moyenne and wondered how the driver could have survived the long fall and crash. The Wolf was supposed to be a tough guy. This tough?

I flashed my creds, and the police surrounding the wreck let me move on.

Then I could see. I knew who it was trapped in the wreck. I couldn't believe it, though. I just couldn't believe what I was seeing with my own eyes.

My heart was thumping loudly, racing out of control. So was my mind, what was left of it. I came up to the smoldering, overturned car. I knelt on the rocky ground and leaned forward.

“It's Alex,” I said.

The car's driver looked at me and tried to focus. His body was trapped inside the crumpled Mercedes. He'd been crushed by metal everywhere below the shoulders. Just awful to see.

But Martin Lodge was alive, and he was hanging on. He seemed to want to say something, and I moved closer. “It's Alex,” I said again. I turned my head so that my ear was near his mouth.

I needed to know the identity of the Wolf. I had so many questions.

Martin whispered, “It's all for nothing. Your manhunt is useless. I'm not the Wolf. I never even saw him.”

Then he died on me, and everyone else who was waiting for an answer.

The Lodge family had been taken into protective custody back in England. We all felt that if the Wolf suspected that the wife or any of the children had been told anything incriminating, they would be targets. Maybe he'd kill them just to be safe, or because he felt like killing somebody that day.

The next morning I flew to London and met with the police at Scotland Yard, specifically Lodge's superior, a man named John Mortenson. First, he reported that none of the survivors at Cap-Ferrat seemed to know anything about the Wolf, or even who Martin Lodge had been.

“There is a new development, a little wrinkle,” he told me then.

I leaned back in a leather lounger with a view of Buckingham Palace. “At this point, I'm not surprised about anything, John. Tell me what's going on. This is about the Lodge family?”