London Bridges: A Novel (26 page)

He nodded, sighed, and then began. “It starts with Klára Lodge. Klára Cernohosska, actually. Let me begin with her. It turns out Martin was on the team that brought a defector named Edward Morozov out of Russia back in 'ninety-three. Martin worked with the American CIA, with Cahill and Hancock, and also Thomas Weir. Only there was no Edward Morozov. He was an unidentified KGB defector whose name we don't know. We think that it was the Wolf.”

“You started by saying something about Martin's wife, Klára. What about her?”

“For one thing, she's not Czech. She came out of Russia with the man called Morozov. She was an assistant to a KGB chief, and also our main source of information in Moscow. She and Lodge apparently got cozy during the transfer, and then she was relocated to England. He had her identity changed, got rid of the records. Then he married her. How about that?”

“And she knows who the Wolf is, what he looks like? Is that it?”

“We don't know what Klára knows. She won't talk to us. She might talk to you, though.”

I sat back, shook my head. “Why me? I met her only once.”

Mortenson shrugged, then he gave a half smile. “She says her husband trusted you. You believe that? What the hell is that supposed to mean? Why would she trust you, if you met her only once?”

Unfortunately, I had no idea.

What remained of the Lodge family was being kept under wraps in a small town called Shepton Mallet, which was about 120 miles west of London. Rolling valleys, lots of green countryside, perfect for hiding them, at least temporarily.

The Lodges were staying in a converted farmhouse on a “no through” road outside of town. The land was fairly flat there, and anything approaching could be seen for miles. Besides, this was an armed compound, heavily armed.

I arrived at about six that evening. The inside of the farmhouse was pleasant, with lots of antique furniture, but I had dinner with the family in a cramped bunker that was located belowground.

Klára didn't cook the meal as she had in London, and I wondered if she approved of the fare. I doubted it. The food was dreadful, worse than airplane fare. “No míchaná vejce on the menu,” I finally tried as a joke for her.

“You remember our breakfast in Battersea, even the correct pronunciation. That's good, Alex,” Klára said. “You're very observant. Martin said you were a good agent.”

When the meal was over, the children—Hana, Daniela, Jozef—were sent to their room to do homework. Klára sat with me and smoked a cigarette. She took long puffs and inhaled deeply.

“Homework?” I asked. “Here? Tonight?”

“It's good to have discipline, habits to fall back on. I think it is. So you were with Martin? When he died?” she asked. “What did he say to you? Please tell me.”

I considered my response. What did Klára want to hear? And what should I tell her?

“He said that he wasn't the Wolf. Is that true, Klára?”

“Anything else? What else did he tell you?”

I thought about telling Klára he'd talked about her and the children, but I didn't. I didn't want to lie to her. Probably I couldn't. “No, Klára. That's all it was. There wasn't much time. Only a few seconds. He didn't suffer too long. He didn't seem to be in pain. I think he was in shock.”

She nodded. “Martin thought I could trust you. He said it was your flaw, actually. He would never say anything sentimental, not even with his dying breath.”

I stared into Klára's deep brown eyes, which seemed surprisingly alert.

“How do you feel about that?” I asked.

She laughed. “It's why I loved him.”

She had things to tell me that night in the English countryside. A negotiation was begun between the two of us. Or rather, I got to listen to her demands.

“I want safe passage out of England for myself and the children. New identities, and we get to keep some savings to live on. I'll tell you where we want to live, but not right now. That will come a little later.”

“Prague?” I asked. It was a small joke.

“No, definitely not Prague, Alex. And not Russia, either. Or anywhere in America, for that matter. I'll tell you where, when the time comes. But first, let's decide on what I have to give you to guarantee our safe passage out of England.”

“Oh, that's easy. You have to give us a lot,” I said. “You have to give up the Wolf. But can you do that, Klára? What do you know? Who is he? Where is he? What did Martin tell you?”

Finally she smiled. “Oh, he told me everything. Martin adored me.”

The Wolf flew his own plane into Teterboro Airport in the northern corner of New Jersey. A black Range Rover was waiting there for him, and he took it into New York City, a city he'd always despised. The traffic was bad, as usual, and it took him as long to get from Teterboro to Manhattan as it had to fly to the metropolitan area from New Hampshire.

The doctor's office was situated in a brownstone on Sixty-third Street just off Fifth. The Wolf parked the Range Rover and hurried inside.

It was a little past nine in the morning. He didn't bother to check if he was being watched. He didn't think so, but if he was, there was nothing he could do about it now. Besides, he felt he had this morning sufficiently covered. As usual, there was a plan for every eventuality.

The nurse on duty for the plastic surgery was also there to act as a receptionist. She and the hotshot surgeon would be the only ones present for the procedures. He had insisted on a staff of two and that the office be closed to other patients for the day.

“There are a few legal forms for you to look over and sign,” the nurse told him with a tight smile. She might not have known who he was, but she suspected there had to be a very good reason for this much secrecy, not to mention that she was being paid handsomely to work this shift.

“No, I will sign nothing, thank you,” he said, then pushed past her and went looking for Dr. Levine. He found her in a small operating theater that was already brightly lit, and very cold.

“Reminds me of Siberia. A gulag I spent time in one winter,” he said.

The doctor turned, and she was mildly attractive, slender, well preserved, probably in her early forties. He could fuck her, in a pinch, but he wasn't in the mood right then. Maybe later.

“Dr. Levine,” he said, and shook hands with the surgeon. “I'm ready, and I don't want to be here more than a few hours. So let's begin. Now.”

“That's not possible,” Dr. Levine started to object.

The Wolf raised his hand to silence her, and it almost seemed as if he might actually strike the doctor. She flinched.

“I won't be needing general anesthesia. As I said, I'm ready. So are you.”

“Sir, you have no idea what you're saying. None, I assure you. The procedures we have scheduled include a face, neck, and brow lift. Liposuction. Jaw and cheek implants. And a nose job. The pain will be unbearable. Trust me on that.”

“No, it will be bearable. I've known much worse pain,” said the Wolf. “I will allow you only to monitor my vital statistics. There will be no more stupid discussion about anesthesia. Now, get me ready for the procedures. Or else.”

“Or else what?” Dr. Levine bristled. The small woman rocked back on her heels.

“Just or else,” answered the Wolf. “That covers a great deal of territory, don't you think? It covers pain beyond what you believe I cannot endure. Can you, Dr. Levine? Can your two children, Martin and Amy, endure such pain? Or your husband, Jerrold? Let's begin. I have a schedule to keep.”

Always a schedule.

And a plan.

He never once screamed, never made a sound during any of the grueling procedures, and neither the surgeon nor the nurse could comprehend what they were witnessing. The patient seemed to have no feeling at all. As males often do, he bled a great deal during the operations, and there was already a lot of deep purple bruising on his face. The pain he endured during the hour-and-a-half rhinoplasty, or nose job, was the worst by far, especially when large chunks of bone and cartilage were removed without even a topical anesthetic.

At the conclusion of the rhinoplasty, the final procedure, he was told by Dr. Levine not to stand, but he did anyway.

His neck felt tight and tender, and there was Betadine all over his scalp and throat. “Not bad,” he rasped. “I've experienced much worse.”

“Do not blow your nose. For at least a week,” the doctor insisted, seemingly trying to maintain her dignity and a tenuous sense of control.

The Wolf reached into his trousers and produced a handkerchief, but then put it back. “Just kidding,” he said, then frowned. “Do you have any sense of humor, Doctor?”

“You can't drive, either,” said the doctor. “That I will not allow. For the sake of others.”

“No, of course not. I wouldn't think of it, putting others in jeopardy. I'll just leave my vehicle here on the street to be carjacked. Let me get your money. It's become boring to be here with you.”

It was then, as he walked to fetch his briefcase, that the Russian staggered slightly—and also got the first look at himself in a mirror, his incredibly bruised and swollen face, at least what showed around the bandages.

“You do nice work,” he said, and laughed.

He opened the briefcase and pulled out a Beretta with silencer. He shot the astonished nurse in the face, twice, then turned to Dr. Levine, who had hurt him so much.

“Any other things I should or shouldn't do?” he asked. “Any last bits of advice you wish to impart?”

“My children. Please don't kill me,” the doctor begged. “You know I have children.”

“They'll be better off without you. I think so, bitch. I bet they would agree.”

He shot her through the heart. A mercy killing, he thought to himself, especially after the way she'd tortured him. Plus, he just didn't like her, the humorless bitch.

Finally, the Wolf left the office and walked to his Range Rover. He was thinking that no one knew what he looked like now. Not a single person anywhere.

And that got him laughing, almost uncontrollably. This was his piece of the puzzle.

“There he is—has to be.”

“He's laughing! What's so funny? Look at him. Can you believe it?”

“He looks like he was scalped, then had his skin flayed,” Ned Mahoney said when the heavily bandaged man in a gray overcoat emerged from the brownstone. “He looks like a goddamn ghoul.”

“Don't underestimate him,” I reminded Ned. “And don't forget, he is a ghoul.”

We were watching the Wolf—at least, the man we believed to be the Wolf—as he left a plastic surgeon's office on the East Side of Manhattan. We had just gotten there, less than sixty seconds before. Almost missed him again.

“Don't worry, I'm not underestimating him, Alex. That's why we have half a dozen teams getting ready to pounce on him. If we'd gotten here sooner, we could have grabbed him inside the doctor's office.”

I nodded. “At least we're here. It was a complicated negotiation in England. Klára Lodge and her children are somewhere in northern Africa now. She did her part.”

“So the Wolf has had a tracking device under his shoulder blade since he came out of Russia? That's the story?”

“We're here, aren't we? According to Klára, Martin Lodge knew where he was all along. That kept Lodge alive.”

“We're ready to go, then? We take him?”

“We're ready. I'm ready.” Jesus, was I ready. I wanted to take this bastard down so badly. I couldn't wait to see the look on his face.

Mahoney spoke into the mike attached to his headset. “Close on him now. And remember, he's extremely dangerous.”

You got that right, Neddo.

The black Range Rover was stopped at a light on the corner of Fifth Avenue and Fifty-ninth Street. Dark sedans pulled up on both sides. A third car blocked off the intersection. Agents jumped out of the cars. We had him!

Gunfire suddenly erupted from a white Hummer in front of the Range Rover. The doors of the Hummer flew open. Three men with automatic weapons came out firing.

“Where the hell did they come from?” Mahoney yelled into his mike. “Everybody down!”

We were already out of our car and running toward the gunfight. Ned fired and took down one of the Wolf's bodyguards. I hit another, and a third bodyguard opened up on us.

Meanwhile, the Wolf was out of the Range Rover and running down Fifth Avenue, staying out in the street with the cars. The condition of his face made him look as though he'd already been shot, or maybe badly burned in a fire. People on the sidewalk were hitting the pavement because of the gunshots coming from everywhere. Several were screaming uncontrollably. How far did the Wolf think he could get, looking the way he did? In New York City, maybe far!

More gunmen appeared, seemingly out of nowhere. More of his bodyguards. He had certainly brought backup. Had we brought enough?

And then the Wolf ducked into a store on Fifth. Mahoney and I followed him. I didn't even notice what store it was. Upscale. Glitzy. Fifth Avenue, for God's sake!

The Wolf did the unthinkable then. Although nothing he did completely surprised me anymore. His right arm shot forward and released a dark object into the air. I watched it start to tumble.

I shouted, “Grenade! Everybody down! Get down! Grenade!”

A powerful explosion at the front of the store blew out two massive picture windows. Shoppers were hurt. The smoke was very thick and dark. Everybody inside the store was screaming, including the clerks behind nearly every counter.

I never lost sight of the Wolf, never lost my focus on him. No matter what he did, no matter what the danger, he couldn't be allowed to get away this time. The cost was too high. This was the man who had held the world hostage. He'd already murdered thousands.

Mahoney ran down one aisle and I took another. The Wolf appeared to be headed for an exit onto a side street. I'd lost track of where we were. Fifty-fifth Street? Fifty-sixth?