London Bridges: A Novel (8 page)

"I want to hear your story. Everything you know, every single detail. And I don't care that you told it before. You hear me? You understand? I don't care how many times you think you told it.

“Right now, you two are murder suspects. So I want to hear your side of things. Talk to me. I am your lifeline, your only lifeline. Now talk.”

They did. Both of them. They rambled, incoherently at times, but they talked. A little more than two hours later I left the interview room feeling that I'd heard the whole truth, at least their sketchy version of it.

Ron Frazier and Leonard Pickett were drifters who lived near Union Station. Both were army veterans. They'd been hired off the street to run around the FBI building like the crazies that they probably were in real life. The camouflage outfits were theirs, the same clothes they said they wore every day in the park and panhandling on the streets of D.C.

Next I went into another interview room to brief two very senior agents from upstairs. They looked about as tense as I felt. I wondered what they knew about Ron Burns.

“I don't think those two know much of anything,” I told them. “They may have been approached by Geoffrey Shafer. Whoever hired them had an English accent. The physical description fits Shafer. Whoever it was paid them all of two hundred bucks. Two hundred dollars to do what they did.”

I looked across at the senior agents. “Your turn. Tell me what happened upstairs. Who was shot? Is it Ron Burns?”

One of the two agents, Millard, took a deep breath, then spoke. “This doesn't leave the room, Alex. Not until we say so. Understood?”

I nodded solemnly. “Is the director dead?”

“Thomas Weir is dead. Weir is the one who was shot,” said Agent Millard.

Suddenly I felt weak-kneed and woozy. Somebody had killed the director of the CIA.

Chaos.

Once word got out about the murder of Thomas Weir, it was on every TV channel and the press corps began to circle the Hoover Building. Of course, nobody could tell them what we thought had really happened, and every reporter knew in his gut that we were holding back information.

Later that afternoon we'd learned that the body of a woman had been found in the woods of northern Virginia. We believed that she might have been the sniper who killed Tom Weir. A Winchester rifle was found with the body, and it was almost definitely the murder weapon.

At five o'clock the Wolf made contact again.

The phone in the crisis room rang. Ron Burns himself picked up.

I had never seen the director look graver, and more vulnerable. Thomas Weir had been a friend of his; the Weir and Burns families went on vacation to Nantucket together in the summertime.

The Wolf began, “You're an extraordinarily lucky man, Director. Those bullets were meant for you. I don't make many mistakes, but I also know they're inevitable in a military operation this complex. I accept that mistakes happen in any war. It's simply a fact of life.”

Burns said nothing. His face was expressionless, a pale mask, impossible to read, even by any of us.

The Wolf continued, "I understand how you're feeling, how all of you are feeling. Mr. Weir was a family man, yes? Basically a decent human being? So now you're angry at me. You want to put me down like a mad dog. But think about it from my perspective. You were told the rules, and you still chose to go your own way.

"As you can see now, your way led to disaster and death. It always will lead to disaster and death. It's inevitable. And the stakes are much higher than just a single life. So let's move on. The clock is ticking.

“You know, it's difficult to find people today who will listen. Everyone is so self-absorbed these days. Take Captain Williams, for example, our assassin. She was instructed not to tell anyone about the job she was hired to do. But she told her husband. Now she's dead. I understand that you found the body. News flash: the husband is dead, too. You might want to retrieve the body at their home. It's in Denton, Maryland. Do you need an address? I can help with that.”

Burns spoke. “We already found her husband's body. What's the point of your call? What do you want from us?”

"I would think it would be obvious, Mr. Director. I want you to know that I mean exactly what I say. I expect compliance, and I will get it. One way or the other, I will get my way. I always do.

“So, that having been said, let me give you the gory details—the numbers. Our price to go away. I hope someone has a pencil and paper.”

“Go ahead,” said Burns.

"All right, here we go, then.

"New York, six hundred fifty million U.S. dollars. London, six hundred million. Dollars. Washington, four hundred fifty million. Frankfurt, four hundred fifty million. A grand total of two billion one hundred and fifty million in U.S. dollars. Plus, there are fifty-seven political prisoners I want released. You will be provided with the names in the next hour. For what it's worth, all the prisoners are from the Middle East. You figure it out. Interesting puzzle, don't you think?

"You have four days to deliver the money and the prisoners. That's plenty of time, no? More than fair? You'll be told how and where. You have four days from . . . right . . . now.

“And, yes, I'm perfectly serious. I also realize that I'm asking for a great deal of money and that it will be deemed 'impossible' to raise. I expect to hear as much. But don't bother with the excuses or the whining.”

There was a short pause.

“That's the fucking point of the call, Mr. Burns. Deliver the money. Deliver the prisoners. Don't mess up again. Oh, and I suppose there is one other thing. I don't forgive and forget. You are going to die before this is over, Director Burns. So keep looking over your shoulder. One of these days, I'll be there. And boom! But for right now, four days!”

Then the Wolf hung up.

Ron Burns stared straight ahead and spoke through clenched teeth, “You've got that right, boom! One of these days, I'll be there for you.”

Then Burns's eyes slowly went around the room, and stopped at me. “We're on the clock, Alex.”

Burns continued: “I'd like Dr. Cross to give us his impressions of the Russian maniac. He knows all about him. For those of you who don't know Alex Cross, he came to us from the Washington PD. Their loss, believe me. He's the man who put Kyle Craig away.”

“And who let Geoffrey Shafer escape once or twice,” I spoke up from my seat. "My impressions so far? Well, I won't belabor the obvious too much. There's his need for complete control and power. I can tell you this: he wants to do things on a large scale, work a big stage. He's a creative, obsessive planner. He's an 'executive type,' meaning that he organizes, delegates well, doesn't have problems making difficult decisions.

"But most of all, he's vicious. He likes to hurt people. He likes to watch people get hurt. He's giving us plenty of time to think about what could happen. That's partly because he knows we won't, can't, pay him easily. But also because he's preying on our minds. He knows how hard it will be to catch him. Bin Laden is still free, isn't he?

“I'll tell you what doesn't track for me—the assassination attempt on the director. I don't see how it fits his pattern. Not this early in the game, anyway. And I especially don't like it that he missed, that he failed.”

The words came out wrong and I looked at Burns, but he waved me off. “Do you think he missed? Or was Tom Weir the real target?” he asked.

“My guess . . . Weir was the target. I don't think the Wolf made a mistake. Not one this big. I do think he lied about what happened.”

“Any idea why? Anybody?” Burns glanced around the room.

No one spoke up, so I continued. “If Thomas Weir was the target, it's the best clue we have. Why would he be a significant threat to the Wolf? What could he have known? I wouldn't be surprised if Weir and the Wolf knew each other from somewhere, even if Weir wasn't aware of it. Weir is important. But where would Thomas Weir have come across the Russian? That's a question we need to ask.”

“And then answer in a hurry,” said Burns. “Let's get on it. Everybody—and I mean everybody—in the Bureau!”

The man who had made the most recent phone calls for the Wolf had his instructions and he knew enough to follow them precisely. He was to be seen in Washington. That was his piece.

The Wolf was to be seen, which would definitely cause a stir. Wouldn't it?

The phone calls he'd made to FBI headquarters and elsewhere would soon be traced to the Four Seasons Hotel on Pennsylvania Avenue. It was part of the current plan, and the plan had been nearly flawless thus far.

So he calmly walked down to the hotel lobby and made certain he was noticed at the concierge desk and also by the couple of doormen out front. It helped that he was tall, blond, bearded, and wore a long cashmere coat. All according to the plan he'd been given.

Then he took a leisurely stroll along M Street, checking out restaurant menus in the windows and the latest fashions of Georgetown.

He found it somewhat comical that he could actually see police cruisers and the FBI as they sped toward the Four Seasons from several directions.

Finally the man stepped into a white Chevy van that was waiting for him at the corner of M and Thomas Jefferson.

The van sped away in the direction of the airport. In addition to the driver, there was a second man. He sat in back beside the one who'd made the phone calls from the Four Seasons.

“It went well?” the driver asked once they were a few miles from M Street and the commotion going on there.

The bearded man shrugged. “Of course it did. They have an accurate description. Something to go on, a little hope, whatever they want to call it. It went perfectly. I did what was asked of me.”

“Excellent,” said the second man. He then pulled out a Beretta and shot the blond man in the right temple. He was brain-dead before he even heard the explosion.

Now the police and FBI had a physical description of the Wolf—but no one alive matched it.

There was more intrigue, or at least confusion, that afternoon. According to our telecommunications people, the Wolf had called us from the Four Seasons Hotel in D.C., and he had been spotted there. The description we had of him was already being sent around the world. It was possible that he'd slipped up, but I didn't know if I could believe it. He'd always called on cell phones before, but this time he used a hotel phone. Why?

I got a surprise when I arrived home a little before 9:30 that night. Dr. Kayla Coles was in the living room with Nana. The two of them were huddled together on the sofa, conspiring about God only knew what. I was a little concerned that Nana's doctor was there so late in the evening.

“Everything okay?” I asked. “What's going on?”

“Kayla was in the neighborhood. She just stopped by,” Nana answered. “Isn't that right, Dr. Coles? No problems that I know of. Except you missed supper.”

“Well, actually,” Kayla spoke up, “Nana was feeling a little faint again. So I stopped by as a precaution.”

“Now, Kayla, don't exaggerate, please. Let's not get carried away,” Nana scolded in her usual way. “I'm just fine. Fainting's just a part of my life now.”

Kayla nodded and smiled pleasantly. Then she sighed out loud and leaned back on the couch. “I'm sorry. You tell it, Nana.”

“I felt a little faint a few days last week. As you know, Alex. No big thing. If we still had Alex Junior around to take care of, then maybe I would be more concerned.”

“Well, I'm concerned,” I said.

Kayla smiled and shook her head. “Right. Like Nana said, I was in the neighborhood and I just stopped by, Alex. Strictly social. I did take her blood pressure. Everything seems to be in working order. I would like her to go for a few blood tests.”

“Fine, I'll go for tests,” said Nana. “Let's talk about the weather now.”

I shook my head. At both of them. “ You still working too hard?” I asked Kayla.

“Look who's talking,” she said, then smiled brightly. Kayla had tremendous spirit and could always light up a room. “Unfortunately, there's too much work to do around here. Don't get me started about the number of people in the capital of this wealthy nation of ours who can't begin to afford to see a good doctor, or wait for hours and hours at St. Anthony's and several other hospitals I could name around this town.”

I had always liked Kayla, and maybe, to be honest, I was even a little intimidated by her. Why is that? I wondered as we talked. I noticed that she'd lost some weight, what with all her running around and do-gooding in the neighborhood and elsewhere. The truth was, she looked better than ever. I almost felt embarrassed to have noticed.

“What are you standing there gawking at?” Nana asked. “Sit down and join us.”

“I have to go,” Kayla said, and stood up from the couch. “It is late, even for me.”

“Don't let me break up the party,” I protested. Suddenly I didn't want Kayla to leave. I wanted to talk about something other than the Wolf and the terror attacks that had been threatened.

“You're not breaking up the party, Alex. Wouldn't happen. But I still have two more house calls to make.”

I looked at my watch. “Two more calls at this hour? You're something else. Wow. You're crazy, you know that?” I grinned.

“Maybe I am,” Kayla said, and shrugged. “Probably true.” Then she kissed Nana with obvious affection. “You take care. Blood tests. Don't forget.”

“My memory is fine.”

When she was gone, Nana said to me, “Kayla Coles is something else, Alex. And you know what? I think that one reason she comes around here is to see you. That's my cockeyed theory, anyway, and I'm sticking with it.”

The thought had occurred to me, too. “Then why does she leave so fast when I get here?”

Nana frowned and raised an eyebrow at me. “Maybe it's because you never ask her to stay. Maybe it's because you gawk at her when she's here. Why is that? You know, she just could be the one for you. Don't argue with me. She scares you, and that might be a good thing.”