Chapter 40.
We knew a bar that was open, so Sampson and I went for a beer after we left the slaughter scene on New Jersey Avenue. We were officially off duty, but I had my beeper clipped on. So did John. There were only two other guys drinking in the gin mill, so we pretty much had the place to ourselves.Didn"t matter one way or the other. It was good just to be with John. I needed to talk to him. I really needed to talk to Sampson about something."You sure it"s Shafer?" he asked me once we had our beers and some nuts in front of us. I told him about the disturbing tape I"d seen from Sunrise Valley. But not about the other threats, or the ransom. I couldn"t, and that bothered me a lot. I"d never lied to Sampson, and this felt like a lie."It"s him. No doubt about it.""That"s messed up," John said. "The Weasel. Why would he come back to Washington? He almost got caught here the last time.""Maybe that"s why. The thrill of it, the challenge.""Yeah, and maybe he misses us. I won"t miss him this time. Put one right between his eyes."I sipped my beer. "Shouldn"t you be home with Billie?" I asked."It"s a work night. Billie is cool with it, with my job. Her sister"s staying with us for a while, anyway. They"re both asleep by now.""How"s that working out? Married life? Billie"s sister at the house?""I like Trina, so it"s okay. Funny, things I couldn"t imagine getting used to aren"t a problem. I"m happy. First time, maybe. Floatin" on a cloud, man."I grinned at Sampson. "Ain"t love grand?""Yes, it is. You ought to try it again sometime.""I"m ready," I said, and smiled."You think so? I wonder about that. Are you really ready?""Listen, John, there"s something I need to talk to you about.""Figured that out already. Something about that bombing. Then the murder of Thomas Weir. Shafer back in town." Sampson looked into my eyes. "So what is it?""This is confidential, John. They"ve made a threat against Washington. It"s pretty serious. We"ve been warned about an attack. They demanded a huge ransom to stop it.""Which can"t be paid?" Sampson asked. "The United States doesn"t negotiate with terrorists.""I don"t know about that. I"m not sure if anybody does, except maybe the president. I"m on the inside, but not that far inside. Anyway, now you know as much as I do.""And I should act accordingly.""Yeah, you should. But you can"t talk about this with anybody. Not anyone, not even Billie."Sampson took my hand. "I got it. Thank you."
Chapter 41.
On the way home late that night I was guilt-tripping and a little shaky about what I"d told Sampson, but I felt I"d had no choice. John was my family, simple as that. Also, maybe I was on burnout because we were working eighteen-to-twenty-hour days. Maybe the stress was getting to me. There was a lot of disaster planning going on behind the scenes, but n.o.body I talked to knew where we were on the ransom demands. Everybody"s nerves were frayed, including mine. About twelve hours were gone on our deadline.Other questions burned in my mind. Was Shafer the one who had murdered and maimed the woman we"d found on New Jersey Avenue? I was almost sure he was, and Sampson agreed. But why commit that type of grisly murder now? Why risk it? I sure as h.e.l.l doubted it was a coincidence that the young woman"s body had been dumped less than two miles from my house.It was late and I wanted to think about something else, anything else, but I couldn"t get my head off the case. I drove the old Porsche faster than I needed to on the mostly empty streets, knowing I had to focus on the driving. It didn"t really work too well, though.I pulled into my driveway and sat in the car for a few minutes. I tried to clear my head before I went inside. Things to do. I needed to give Jamilla a call-it was only eleven on the coast. I felt as though my head would explode. And I knew when I"d felt this way before: the last time the Weasel went on a killing spree in Washington. Only this was so much worse.I finally trudged inside the house, past the old piano on the sunporch. I thought about sitting down and playing. A little blues? Broadway? At two in the morning? Sure, why not. I couldn"t sleep, anyway.The phone began to ring and I ran to get it. Awhh, Jesus, who the h.e.l.l?I s.n.a.t.c.hed up the phone on the kitchen wall near the fridge."h.e.l.lo. Cross."Nothing.And then a hang-up.Seconds later, the phone rang again. I picked up after one ring.Another hang-up.And another after that.I took the phone off the hook. Set it on the counter inside Nana"s oven mitt to m.u.f.fle the sound.I heard a noise behind me.I turned around quickly.Nana was standing there in the doorway, all five feet, ninety-five pounds of her. Her brown eyes were fired up."What"s wrong, Alex? What are you doing up?" she asked. "This isn"t right. Who"s calling the house this late at night?"I sat down at the kitchen table, and over some tea I told Nana everything that I could.
Chapter 42.
The next day I was paired up with Monnie Donnelley, which was good news for both of us. Our a.s.signment was to gather information on Colonel Shafer and the mercenaries being used in the attacks; our timetable- fast, incredibly fast.Monnie, as usual, already knew a lot about the subject, and she talked nonstop while she retrieved even more data for the case. Once Monnie gets going, it"s difficult to get her to stop, almost impossible. The woman is relentless about facts being the way to truth."Mercenaries, the "dogs of war," so-called. Mostly former soldiers from Special Forces-Delta Force, Army Rangers, SEALs, SAS if they"re Brits. Many are totally legit, Alex, though they operate in a kind of legal netherworld. What I mean is that they aren"t subject to the U.S. military"s code of conduct or even our laws. Technically, they"re subject to the laws of the countries where they serve, but some of those hot spots have p.i.s.s-poor judicial systems, if they have any system at all.""So they"re pretty much on their own. That would appeal to Shafer. Most mercenaries work for private companies now?"Monnie nodded. "Yes, they do, Gra.s.shopper. Private military companies, PMCs. Earn as much as twenty thousand a month. Average probably closer to three or four. Some of the larger PMCs have their own artillery, tanks. Even fighter jets, if you can believe it.""I can. These days I can believe anything. h.e.l.l, I even believe in the big bad Wolf."Monnie turned away from her computer screen and looked at me. I sensed that one of her famous "stats" was on the way. "Alex, the Defense Department currently has over three thousand contracts with U.S.-based PMCs. Contracts are valued at over three hundred billion dollars. You believe that?"I whistled. "Well, that sort of puts the Wolf"s demands in perspective, doesn"t it?""Pay the man," said Monnie. " Then we"ll go catch him.""It"s not my call. But I don"t entirely disagree. At least that could be a plan."Monnie went back to her computer. "Here"s a tidbit on the Weasel. Worked with an outfit called Mainforce International. Listen to this-offices in London, Washington, and Frankfurt."That got my attention. "Three of the targeted cities. What else do you have on Mainforce?""Let me see. Clients include financial inst.i.tutions; oil, of course; precious stones.""Diamonds?""Are a mercenary"s best friend. Shafer was going under the name Timothy Heath. Worked in Guinea to "free" some mines taken over by "the populace." Heath/Shafer was arrested in Guinea, charged with trying to bribe local officials. He had a million pounds on him, cash, when he was arrested.""How did he get out of that one?""Says he escaped. Hmmm. No detail. No follow-up, either. Odd.""That"s one thing the Weasel"s always been good at. Wiggling out of tight spots. Getting away with it. Maybe that"s why the Wolf wanted him for this job.""No," said Monnie, and she turned and stared into my eyes, "the Wolf wanted him because Geoffrey Shafer has gotten under your skin. And because you"re close to the director of the FBI."
Chapter 43.
At two that same afternoon, I was on my way to Cuba, Guantanamo Bay. Gitmo, as it"s called. I was on a mission from the director, and also the president of the United States. Lately, our base at Guantanamo Bay had been much in the news on account of more than seven hundred "detainees" being held there in connection with the war on terror. An interesting place, to say the least. A historical one, for better or worse.Once I landed, I was escorted to Camp Delta, the site of most of the cellblocks. All around the prison area were several guard towers and razor wire. According to a rumor I"d heard on the ride down, one U.S. corporation was receiving in excess of a hundred million dollars a year for services provided at Guantanamo Bay.The man I was there for was originally from Saudi Arabia. He was being kept in the small psych ward on the grounds, which was in a separate building from the cellblocks. I wasn"t given his name. Nor was I told very much about him, except that he had important information about the Wolf.I met with the prisoner inside a "quiet room," an isolation cell with mattresses on the walls and no windows. Two small chairs had been brought into the room for the purpose of the interview."I"ve told the others everything I know," he said to me in very good English. "I thought that we made a deal for my release. I was promised as much two days ago. Everybody here lies. So who are you?""I was sent down here from Washington to listen to your story. Just tell me everything again. This can only help you. It can"t hurt."The prisoner nodded wearily. "No, nothing can hurt me anymore. It"s true. You know, I have been here two hundred and twenty-seven days. I did not do anything wrong. Not a single thing. I was teaching high school in Newark, New Jersey. I have never been charged with anything. What do you think of that?""I think you have a way out of here now. Just tell me what you know about the Russian who goes by the name Wolf.""And why do I talk to you? I think I may have missed that part. Who are you, again?"I shrugged. I"d been told not to reveal who I was to the prisoner. "You have everything to gain, nothing to lose. You want to get out of here, and I can help you achieve your goal.""But will you, sir?""I will help you if I can."So the man talked to me. In fact, he went on for over an hour and a half. His life had been interesting. He had worked in security for the royal family in Saudi Arabia, sometimes traveling with them in the United States. He liked what he saw here and decided to stay, but he still had friends back home who worked in security."They spoke to me about a Russian who had talks with dissident royal family members, of whom there are many. This Russian was looking for capital to finance a big operation that would seriously hurt the United States as well as certain countries in Western Europe. A doomsday scenario was discussed, though I don"t have specifics.""Do you have a name for the Russian? Where was the man from? What country, what city?""This is the most interesting thing," said the prisoner. "The Russian-it is my impression it was a woman, not a man. I am confident about my information. The code name or whatever was definitely Wolf."Now what?" the prisoner asked when he was finished talking. "Will you help me?""No, now you repeat your story," I said. "From the top.""It will be the same," he said. "Because it is the truth."Late that night I left Gitmo for Washington. Although it was very late, I had to report on my interview with the prisoner. I met with Director Burns and Tony Woods in the director"s small conference room. Burns wanted to know my bottom line on the Saudi"s credibility. Had we learned something useful about the Wolf? Was he negotiating in the Middle East?"I think we should let the prisoner go," I told Burns."So you believe him?"I shook my head. "I think he was given information, for whatever reason. I don"t know if the information is accurate. Neither does he. I think that either we charge him or we set him free.""Alex, was the Wolf in Saudi Arabia? Is it possible the Wolf is a woman?"I repeated myself. "I think he told us what he was told. Let the schoolteacher go home to Newark."And Burns snapped at me, "I heard you the first time."He let out a long sigh. "I was with the president today, his advisers. They don"t see how we can make a deal with these b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. It"s their position that we won"t." Burns stared at me. "Somehow, we have to find the Wolf. In the next two days."
Chapter 44.
It"s extraordinarily bad to be waiting for something devastating to happen and not be able to do a d.a.m.n thing to prevent it. I was up at five the next morning and I had breakfast with Nana. "We have to talk about you and the kids," I said as I sat at the kitchen table with coffee and a slice of unb.u.t.tered cinnamon toast. "You awake for this?""I"m fully awake, Alex. How about you?" she said. "You ready to match wits with me?"I nodded, and bit my tongue. Nana had something to say to me, and I was supposed to listen. I"ve learned that no matter how old you get, to some extent you always remain a child in the eyes of your parents and grandparents. That was certainly true with Nana Mama."Go ahead, I"m listening," I said."You better be. The reason that I"m not going to move out of Washington," Nana began, "is twofold. Are you with me so far? Good."First of all, this has been my home for eighty-three years. This is where Regina Hope was born, and where I plan to die. That may be a little foolish, I know, but it is what it is. I love the city of Washington, love our neighborhood, and I especially love this old house where so much has happened to me. It goes, I go with it. It"s sad, really sad, but the situation here in Washington is a part of life now. This is the way of the world now, Alex."I had to smile a little at my grandmother. "You know, you just jumped right back into your old schoolteacher tone of voice. You realize that?""Maybe I did, and if so, then so what? It"s a serious subject," Nana said. "I didn"t sleep most of the night. I was lying there in the dark, thinking about what I wanted to say to you. Now, what do you have to say on the subject? You want us to move, don"t you?""Nana, if the kids got hurt, I"d never be able to forgive myself.""Neither would I," she said. "Goes without saying." Her eyes remained steely. G.o.d, she is tough.Nana stared deeply into my eyes, but she was thinking, reconsidering, I hoped. "This is where I live, Alex. I have to stay. If you think it"s the right thing to do, the kids should go with Aunt Tia for a while. Now . . . is that all you"re going to eat? A measly slice of toast? Let me make you a decent breakfast. I"m sure you have a long day in front of you, a terrible day."
Chapter 45.
The Wolf was in the Middle East, so at least some of the rumors about him appeared to be true.The meeting, which the Wolf called "a little fund-raiser," took place in a city of tents in the desert about seventy miles southwest of Riyadh in Saudi Arabia. Those present were split between the Arab world and Asia. And then there was the Wolf, who called himself "a world traveler, a citizen of no particular country."But was this person really the Wolf? Or merely a representative? A stand-in? No one knew for certain. Wasn"t the Wolf supposed to be female? That was one of the current rumors.But this man was tall, with long dark brown hair and a full beard, and the other partic.i.p.ants couldn"t help thinking he would be hard to disguise, and presumably easy to find, but that didn"t seem to be the case; it only enhanced his reputation as a person of mystery, and possibly a true mastermind.So did his behavior during the half hour or so before the meeting began. While some sipped whiskey and others mint tea and chatted amicably, the Wolf stood off to the side, talking to no one and impatiently waving off the few who approached him. He seemed so above it all.The weather was balmy, so it was decided to hold the meeting outside in the open air. The partic.i.p.ants left the tent and were seated according to country of origin.The business meeting was then called to order and the Wolf took center stage. He addressed the gathering in English. He knew all of them spoke the language, or at least understood it well enough."I am here to report that everything is going very well so far, very much according to plan. We should all rejoice, give thanks.""How do we know this other than your word?" asked one of the princ.i.p.als at the meeting. The Wolf knew the man was a mujahid, a fighter, a warrior for Islam.The Wolf smiled genially. "As you said, you have my word. And perhaps not in this country, but most of the world has televisions, newspapers, and radios to verify that we"ve created problems for the Americans, the English, the Germans. Actually, CNN is available here-inside the tent-if you"d like some validation other than my word."The Wolf"s dark eyes shifted away from the mujahid, who was now red-faced, embarra.s.sed, but also clearly angry."The plan is working, but now it"s time for another donation to keep all our important pieces in motion. I"ll go around the table and you can signal if you are in agreement with me. You have to spend money to make money. A Western idea, perhaps, but a true one."The Wolf went from face to face, receiving nods or raised hands as he proceeded-except from the one Arab troublemaker, who sat with his arms folded defiantly and said, "I need to hear more. Your word is not enough.""Understood," said the Wolf. "I have gotten your message, and now I have one for you, warrior."In a split second the Wolf raised his hand-and a pistol shot rang out. The bearded Saudi fell from his chair, dead on the spot, lifeless eyes staring up at the heavens."Does anyone else need to hear more? Or is my word good enough?" the Wolf asked. "Do we move on to the next important phase of our war against the West?"No one said a word."Good. Then we move on to the next phase," said the Wolf. "This is exciting, no? Trust me, we are winning. Allah Akbar." G.o.d is great. And so am I.
Chapter 46.
I was feeling relatively peaceful at 6:15 in the morning, driving to work along Independence Avenue, coffee cup in hand, Jill Scott singing on the radio. Suddenly my cell phone went off and I knew that all was lost.Kurt Crawford was on the line and he sounded excited, wouldn"t give me a chance to get in a word. "Alex, Geoffrey Shafer was just spotted on a surveillance tape in New York City. He visited an apartment that we were watching before this mess even began. We think we"ve found the cell that might be ready to strike in Manhattan."They"re al Qaeda, Alex. What the h.e.l.l does that mean? We want you in New York this morning. We"re holding a seat for you, so get on your horse out to Andrews."I grabbed the "bubble" off the pa.s.senger seat and slapped it on the roof of the car. It felt a little like my old D.C. PD days.I headed out to Andrews Air Force Base, and less than half an hour later I was on board a jet-black Bell helicopter bound for the Downtown Manhattan Heliport on the East River. As we flew over the city, I imagined New York in full panic. We had to face one real problem: it was physically impossible to evacuate everyone in the target cities. They were just too large. Plus, we had been warned. If we attempted an evacuation, the Wolf had promised to strike immediately. So far, word of the Wolf"s threat had not leaked to the media, but the strikes in Nevada, England, and Germany had the whole world on edge.As soon as I arrived at the heliport on the East River I was rushed to the FBI offices in lower Manhattan. Tense high-level meetings had been going on there since early that morning, when someone looking at surveillance tapes recognized Shafer. What was he doing in New York now? And visiting with al Qaeda? Suddenly the rumors about the Wolf"s travels in the Middle East made some sense. But what was going on?Inside Federal Plaza I got a quick, thorough briefing about a terrorist cell that was staying in a small brick building near the Holland Tunnel. It wasn"t clear whether Shafer was still inside. He had entered at nine the night before and no one had seen him leave."The others are clearly members of al-Jihad," I was told by Angela Bell, the information a.n.a.lyst a.s.signed to the counterterrorism squad in New York. She said that the decrepit, three-story structure where the cell was holed up was shared by a Korean import-export business and a Spanish-translation business. The terrorist cell was posing as a relief charity called Afghan Children a.s.sistance.Based on the surveillance reports we had in hand, there were several indicators of terrorist planning and activity around New York. Chemicals and mixing apparatuses had turned up in a self-storage s.p.a.ce in Long Island City. The place had been rented by an occupant of the property near the Holland Tunnel; a pickup truck owned by a cell member had been modified with heavy-duty springs to handle a very heavy load. A possible bomb? What kind of bomb?That morning plans were being coordinated for raids on the Long Island storage facility and the walk-up near the Holland Tunnel.Finally, about four in the afternoon, I was driven to TriBeCa to join the strike team.
Chapter 47.
We had been warned not to do this. But how could we obey? What"s more, how could anyone expect us to obey when so many lives were in danger? And maybe we could argue that the raid was solely a hit on al Qaeda and had nothing to do with the Wolf. h.e.l.l, maybe it didn"t.The apartment where the terrorists were staying, and where Geoffrey Shafer might still be, was a fairly easy one to monitor. The front of the redbrick building had only a single entrance. The rear fire escapes emptied onto a narrow alley where we had already put closed-circuit wireless cameras. One side of the building ab.u.t.ted a textbook printer; the other opened onto a small parking lot.Was the Weasel still inside?An HRT a.s.sault force and a SWAT team from the NYPD had taken over the top floor of a TriBeCa meatpacking plant a couple of blocks from the Holland Tunnel. We a.s.sembled there, fine-tuning the a.s.sault, waiting for word to come about whether the attack would happen or not.HRT wanted a go, and they were pushing hard for an a.s.sault between two and three in the morning. I didn"t know what I would do if it were my call. We had a cell of known terrorists, and possibly Shafer, in our sights. But we"d been warned about the consequences. It could also be a setup, some kind of test for us.At a little before midnight word began to circulate that HRT surveillance had turned up something else. About one in the morning I was called in to a small bookkeeping room that was serving as headquarters. It was getting close to put-up-or-shut-up time.Michael Ainslie from our New York office was the senior agent in charge. He was a tall, reed-thin, good-looking man with loads of experience in the field, but I had the distinct impression he would have been more comfortable on a tennis court than in the middle of a dangerous mess like this one."Here"s what we have so far from surveillance," Ainslie told the group. "One of HRT"s snipers picked up a couple of images and then we shot some more. We think it"s all pretty good news. Take a look for yourselves."The visual images had been downloaded to a laptop, and Ainslie played them for us. The video stream was a series of wide and tight shots showing half a dozen windows on the east side of the building."We were concerned that these windows haven"t been covered up," Ainslie pointed out. "These little s.h.i.ts are supposed to be smart and careful, right? Anyway, we"ve identified five males and two females inside the building. I"m sorry to say that Colonel Shafer hasn"t shown up on any of the surveillance tapes. Not so far, anyway."We don"t have anything on him leaving the building, either, just going inside. We"re using thermal imaging to see if we might have missed him or any others." The Washington PD hadn"t been able to afford thermal, but I"d seen it work since coming to the Bureau. It picked up heat variances, hot spots, which allowed surveillance to see right through walls.Ainslie pointed to the close-up shot that was on the laptop screen now. "Here"s where it gets interesting," he said, and froze a shot showing two men seated at a small table in the kitchen."On the left is Karim al-Lilyas. He"s number fourteen on Homeland Security"s. .h.i.t list; he"s definitely al Qaeda. Suspected of involvement in the "ninety-eight bombings of our emba.s.sies in Dar es Salaam and Nairobi. We don"t know when he arrived, or why, but he sure as h.e.l.l is here now."The man beside al-Lilyas, Ahmed el-Masry, is big number eight on the list. He"s hot. He"s also an engineer. Neither of these b.a.s.t.a.r.ds was on earlier surveillance tapes."Both must have just snuck into town. For what reason? Under ordinary circ.u.mstances we"d be in that kitchen with them right now, making mint tea for everybody, getting ready for a nice long chat."They have these same pictures downtown and in Washington right now. We ought to hear something soon, one way or the other."Ainslie looked around the room and finally cracked a smile. "For the record, I recommended that we go in, make some tea, have that chat."The small room broke into loud applause. For a brief moment there, it was almost fun.
Chapter 48.
Some of the more devil-may-care, gung-ho guys from the Hostage Rescue Team, which is just about all of them, call this kind of dangerous operation "five minutes of panic and thrill. Their panic, our thrill." The very personal thrill for me would be bringing down Geoffrey Shafer.HRT and SWAT desperately wanted to go into the building and were at the ready. Two dozen heavily armed, state-of-the-art warriors were strutting around the wooden floor of the meatpacking plant; they were pumped up and supremely confident in their ability to do the job right and very quickly. Watching them, it was hard not to be, and even harder not to ask to be included in the raid.The real problem was that if they succeeded, we all might lose. We had been warned and been given dramatic lessons about what would happen if we disregarded the orders handed down by the Wolf. And yet, the men under our surveillance might be his attack team in New York. So what did we do?I knew every detail about the job. Taking down the building would involve full-team deployment of the group, including both HRT and NYPD SWAT. There were six a.s.sault teams and six sniper teams, which HRT believed was two too many. They didn"t want help from SWAT. The HRT sniper teams were called X-Ray, Whiskey, Yankee, and Zulu; each included seven members. One FBI team was a.s.signed to each side of the building; SWAT would a.s.sist on the front and rear only.The interesting thing for me was the certainty that HRT was the superior a.s.sault team, the opposite of what I"d felt when I was with the D.C. police. The HRT snipers were disguised in "urban hide" kits, individualized bunches of black muslin, rope, dark PVC tubing, and the like. Each sniper had a specific target, and every window and door in the building was covered.The question remained: were we going in?And was Shafer still there? Was the Weasel in that building right now?At 2:30 in the morning I joined a two-man sniper team in the brownstone directly across the street from the targeted one. This was starting to get very intense and very hairy.The snipers were holed up inside a ten-by-ten room. They had made a tent out of black muslin set back about three feet from the window. The window itself was kept closed, and I was given an explanation by one of them. "If we get the signal to go, we"ll use a lead pipe to knock out the windowpane. Seems kind of crude, but n.o.body"s come up with a better option."There wasn"t too much small talk in the cramped, hot room, but for the next half hour I got to watch the targeted building through a sniper scope from a backup rifle. My heart was starting to race pretty good now. I was searching for Shafer in the scope. What if I saw him? How could I stay up there?The seconds were ticking away and I could just about measure them with my own heartbeats. The a.s.sault team was the "eyes and ears" for Command, and all we could do was wait for our official orders to come down.Go.No go.I finally broke the silence in the small room. "I"m going down on the street. I need to be down there for this."
Chapter 49.
This was more like it.I set up with an HRT a.s.sault team just around the corner from the terrorist hideout. Technically I wasn"t supposed to be there-so officially I wasn"t-but I"d called Ned Mahoney and he smoothed the way for me.Three o"clock in theA.M. The minutes pa.s.sed very slowly, without more news or clarification from Command in New York or FBI headquarters in the Hoover Building in Washington. What were they thinking? How could anybody make an impossible decision like this one?Go?No go?Obey the Wolf?Disobey and take the consequences?Three-thirty came and went. Then four o"clock. Still no word from the higher-ups back at headquarters.I got strapped up in a black flight suit with full armor and was given an MP-5. The HRT guys all knew about Shafer and my personal stake in this.The senior agent in charge sat down beside me on the ground. "You okay? Everything all right?""I was D.C. Homicide. I"ve gone into a lot of places, lot of hot spots.""I know you have. If Shafer"s in there, we"ll get him. Maybe you"ll get him." Yeah, maybe I"ll blow that creep away after all.And then, amazingly, we got the order to go. Green light! Five minutes of panic and thrill.First thing, I heard the snipers breaking windows across the street.Then we were running toward the hideout building. Everybody was strapped up for war, all in black flight suits and armed to the teeth.Two eight-pa.s.senger Bell helicopters suddenly appeared and veered in toward the roof of the brick building. They hovered and a.s.sault specialists began to "fast-rope" down.One team of four was climbing up the side of the building, an amazing sight in itself.Another of HRT"s "go to war" slogans flashed through my head- speed, suspense, and violence of action. It was happening just like that.I heard explosive entry charges blasting out doors, three or four different blasts within seconds. There would be no negotiating as part of this a.s.sault.We were in. This was good-I was in.Gunshots echoed through the dark halls of the building. Then machine-gun bursts came from somewhere above me.I made it up to the second floor. A male with wild, bushy hair came out of a doorway. He had a rifle."Hands in the air!" I yelled at him. "In the air. High."He understood English-he put his hands up and let the rifle drop."Where"s Colonel Shafer? Where"s Shafer?" I screamed at him.The man just shook his head back and forth, back and forth, looking dazed and confused.I left the prisoner with a couple of HRT guys, then hurried upstairs to the third floor. I wanted the Weasel so badly now. Was he in there somewhere?A waif of a woman in black suddenly ran across a large living-room area at the head of the stairs."Stop!" I bellowed at her. "You-stop!"But she didn"t-she went right out an open window in the living room. I heard her scream, then nothing after that. Sickening to watch.And finally I heard "Secure. The building is secure! All floors secure!"But nothing about Geoffrey Shafer, nothing about the Weasel.
Chapter 50.
The HRT and NYPD SWAT teams were swarming around the building. All the doors had been blown off their hinges, and several windows were shattered. So much for "knock and announce" protocol, but the plan seemed to have worked well from what I could see so far. Except for finding Shafer. Where was that son of a b.i.t.c.h? I"d missed him like this a couple of times before.The woman who"d gone out the top-floor window was dead, which is what happens when you plunge headfirst three stories down onto a sidewalk. I congratulated a few HRT guys as I made my way through the top floor; they did the same for me.I met Michael Ainslie on the stairs. "Washington wants you involved with the interrogations," he told me, not seeming too pleased. "There are six of them. How do you want to handle it?""Shafer?" I asked Ainslie. "Anything on him?""They say he isn"t here. We don"t know for sure. We"re still looking for him."I couldn"t help feeling a letdown about the Weasel, but I sucked it up. I walked inside a works.p.a.ce that had been turned into a quasi-apartment. Sleeping bags and a few stained mattresses were strewn across the bare wooden floor. Five males and a woman sat together handcuffed like prisoners of war, which I suppose they were.I stared at them without saying a word at first.Then I pointed to the youngest-looking male: small, thin, wire-rimmed gla.s.ses, scruffy beard, of course. "Him," I said, and started to walk out of the room. "I want that one. Bring him now!"After the young male was taken from the main living area to a smaller adjoining bedroom, I looked around the main room again.I pointed to another youngish male with long curly black hair and a full beard. "That one," I said, and he was also escorted out. No explanation.Next I was introduced to an FBI interpreter, a man named Wasid who spoke Arabic, Farsi, Pashto. We entered the bedroom next door together."He"s probably Saudi, possibly all of them are," the interpreter told me on the way in. Wherever he was from, the small, thin young man seemed extremely nervous. Sometimes Islamic terrorists are more comfortable with the idea of dying than with being captured and questioned by the Devil. That was my leverage here: I was the Devil.I encouraged the translator to engage the terrorist suspect in small talk about his hometown and then his difficult transition to life in New York, the Devil"s den. I asked that he slip in that I was a fairly good man and one of the few FBI agents who wasn"t inherently evil. "Tell him I read the Koran. Beautiful book."In the meantime, I sat and tried to model the terrorist"s behavior, to mimic it, without being too obvious. He sat forward in his chair. So did I. If I could become the first American he would learn to trust, even a little, he might let something slip.It didn"t work too well at first, but he did answer a few questions about his city of origin; he maintained that he came to America on a student visa, but I knew he didn"t have a pa.s.sport. He also didn"t know the location of any universities in New York, not even NYU.Finally, I got up and stomped angrily out of the room. I went to see the second suspect and repeated the same process with him.Then I returned to the skinny youth. I carried in a stack of reports and threw them on the floor. There was a loud whack, and he actually jumped."Tell him he lied to me!" I yelled at the translator. "Tell him I trusted him. Tell him the FBI and CIA aren"t filled with fools, whatever he"s been told in his country. Just keep talking to him. Yelling is even better. Don"t let him talk until he has something to tell us. Then yell over whatever he has to say. Tell him he"s going to die and then we"ll track down his entire family in Saudi Arabia!"For the next couple of hours, I kept going back and forth between the two rooms. My years as a therapist made me fairly good at reading people, especially in a disturbed state. I picked out a third terrorist, the remaining woman, and added her to the mix. CIA officers were questioning the subjects every time I left a room. No torture, but it was a constant barrage.In the FBI training sessions at Quantico, they talk about their principles of interrogation as the RPMs: rationalization, projection, and minimization. I rationalized like crazy: "You"re a good person, Ahmed. Your beliefs are true ones. I wish I had your strong faith." I projected blame: "It isn"t your fault. You"re just a young guy. The United States government can be evil at times. Sometimes I think we need to be punished myself." I minimized consequences: "So far, you"ve committed no actual crimes here in America. Our weak laws and judicial system can protect you." And I got down to business: "Tell me about the Englishman. We know that his name is Geoffrey Shafer. He"s called the Weasel. He was here yesterday. We have videotapes, photographs, audiotapes. We know he was here. Where is he now? He"s the one we really want."I kept at it, repeating my pitch again and again. "What did the Englishman want you to do? He"s the guilty one, not you or your friends. We already know this. Just fill in a few blanks for us. You"ll be able to go home."Then I repeated the same questions about the Wolf.Nothing worked with any of the terrorists, though, not even the young ones. They were tough; more disciplined and more experienced than they looked; smart and clearly very motivated.Why not? They believed in something. Maybe there"s something to be learned from that, too.
Chapter 51.
The next terrorist I chose was older, ruddily good-looking, with a thick mustache and white, nearly perfect teeth. He spoke English and told me, with some pride, that he had studied at Berkeley and Oxford."Biochemistry and electrical engineering. Does that surprise you?" His name was Ahmed el-Masry, and he was number eight on Homeland Security"s. .h.i.t list.He was very willing to talk about Geoffrey Shafer."Yes, the Englishman came here. You are right about this, of course. Video- and audiotapes don"t usually lie. He claimed to have something important he wanted to talk to us about.""And did he?"El-Masry frowned deeply. "No, not really. We thought he might be one of your agents.""So why did he come here?" I asked. "Why did you consent to see him?"El-Masry shrugged off my question. "Curiosity. He said that he had access to tactical nuclear explosive devices."I winced, and my heart started to beat a whole lot faster. Nuclear devices in the metropolitan New York area? "Did he have the weapons?""We agreed to talk with him. We believed he meant suitcase nuclear bombs. Suitcase nukes. Difficult to obtain, but not impossible. As you may know, the Soviet Union built them during the Cold War. No one knows how many, or what happened to them. The Russian Mafiya has tried to sell them in recent years, or so it"s rumored. I wouldn"t actually know. I came here to be a professor, you see. To look for employment."A shudder pa.s.sed through me. Unlike conventional warheads, suitcase nukes were designed to go off at ground level. They were about the size of a large valise and could easily be operated by an infantryman.They could also be concealed just about anywhere, even carried on foot around New York, Washington, London, Frankfurt."So, did he have access to suitcase nukes?" I asked el-Masry.He shrugged. "We are just students and teachers. In truth, why should we care about nuclear weapons?"I thought that I understood what he was doing now-bargaining for himself and his people."Why did one of your students kill herself diving from a window?" I asked.El-Masry"s eyes narrowed in pain. "She was afraid all the time she was in New York. She was an orphan, her parents killed in an unjust war by Americans."I nodded slowly as if I understood and sympathized with what he was telling me. "All right, you haven"t committed any crimes here. We"ve been watching you for weeks. But did Colonel Shafer have access to nuclear weapons?" I asked again. "That"s the question I need answered. It"s important for you, and for your people. Are you following me?""I believe so. Are you suggesting that we would be deported if we cooperate? Sent home? Since we"ve committed no actual crimes?" el-Masry asked. He was trying to pin down the deal.I came right back at him. "Some of you have committed serious crimes in the past. Murders. The others will be questioned, and then they will be sent home."He nodded. "All right, then. I did not get the impression that Mr. Shafer had tactical nuclear weapons in his possession. You say that you"ve been watching us. Maybe he knew that also? Does that make sense to you? That you were set up? I don"t pretend to understand this myself. But these are thoughts that pa.s.s through my mind as I sit and talk to you."Unfortunately, what he was telling me made sense. I was afraid that might be what had happened. A trap, a test. It was the Wolf"s pattern so far."How did Shafer get out of here without our seeing him leave?" I asked."The bas.e.m.e.nt in the building connects to a building to the south. Colonel Shafer knew that. He seemed to know a lot about us."It was nine in the morning by the time I left the building. I felt exhausted, as though I could lie down and sleep in an alleyway. The suspects would be transported soon, and the whole area was still shut down, even the Holland Tunnel because of our fear that it might be a primary target, that it might suddenly be blown up.Had everything been a test, a trap?
Chapter 52.
The day"s weirdness wasn"t over.A crowd had gathered outside the building, and as I pushed a way out toward my ride, someone called to me. "Dr. Cross!"Dr. Cross? Who was calling me?A kid in a tan and crimson windbreaker waved so that I"d see him."Dr. Cross, over here! Dr. Alex Cross! I need to talk to you, man."I walked over to the young man, who was probably in his late teens. I stopped and leaned in close to him. "How do you know my name?" I asked.He shook his head and backed up a step. "You were warned, man," he said. "You were warned by the Wolf!"As soon as the words were out of his mouth I was all over him, grabbing at his hair, his jacket. I took him down on the ground in a headlock. I fell on top of him with all my weight.Red-faced, his lean body torquing powerfully, he started screaming at me. " Hey! hey! I was paid to give you a message. Get the f.u.c.k off me. Guy gave me a hundred bucks. I"m just a messenger, man. English guy told me you were Dr. Alex Cross."The youth, the messenger, looked into my eyes. "You don"t seem like no doctor to me."
Chapter 53.
The Wolf was in New York. He couldn"t miss the big deadline, not for all the money in the world. This was going to be too good, too delicious not to savor.The negotiations were really heating up now. The U.S. president, the British prime minister, the German chancellor-of course, none of them wanted to make a deal, to be exposed for the incredible weaklings they were. One couldn"t deal with terrorists, could one? What kind of precedent would it set? They needed even more pressure, more stress, more convincing before they collapsed.h.e.l.l, he could do that. He would be only too happy to oblige, to torture these fools. The whole thing was so predictable-to him, anyway.He went for a long walk on the East Side of Manhattan. A const.i.tutional. He was feeling at the top of his game. How could the governments of the world compete with him? He had every advantage. No politics, no media pundits, bureaucracies, laws or ethics to get in his way. Who could beat that?He returned to one of several apartments he owned around the world, this one a stunning penthouse overlooking the East River, and made a phone call. Lightly squeezing his black rubber ball, he spoke to a senior agent from the New York FBI office, one of their top people, a woman.The agent told him everything the Bureau knew so far and what they were doing to find him, which was basically nothing of consequence. They had a far better chance of suddenly finding bin Laden than of finding him.The Wolf yelled into the telephone receiver. "I"m supposed to pay you for this s.h.i.t? For telling me what I already know? I should kill you instead."But then the Russian laughed. "Just a nasty joke, my friend. You bring me good news. And I have news for you: there is going to be an incident in New York very soon. Stay away from the bridges. Bridges are very dangerous places. I know this from past experience."
Chapter 54.
Bill Capistran was the man with the plan, and also a very bad and dangerous att.i.tude-serious anger-management problems, to put it mildly. But soon he"d also be the man with 250 large in his bank account in the Caymans. All he had to do was his particular job, and what he had to do wasn"t going to be that hard. I can do this, no problemo.Capistran was twenty-nine years old, slim and sinewy, originally from Raleigh, North Carolina. He had played lacrosse for a year at North Carolina State, then left for the Marines. After a three-year stint he"d been recruited to do merc work for a company out of Washington. Then two weeks ago he"d been approached by a guy he knew from D.C., Geoffrey Shafer, and he"d agreed to do the biggest job of his career. Two hundred fifty thousand"s worth.He was on the job now.At seven in the morning, he drove a black Ford van east across Fifty-seventh Street in Manhattan, then turned north at First Avenue. Finally, he parked near the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge, also called the Queensboro.He and two men in white painters" overalls climbed out of the van, then gathered up equipment from the back. Not paint and drop cloths and aluminum ladders. Explosives. A combination of C4 and nitrate to be packed into the bridge"s lowest trusses at a strategic point near the Manhattan side of the East River.Capistran knew the Queensboro inside and out by now. He stared up at the st.u.r.dy, ninety-five-year-old bridge, and what he saw was an open, flexible structure, a cantilever-truss design, the only one of the four East River bridges that wasn"t a suspension bridge. Which meant that it required a special kind of bomb, one that he just happened to have in the back of the van.This is something else, Capistran couldn"t help thinking as he and his compadres hauled their gear toward the bridge. New York City. The East Side. All these fancy-a.s.sed big-business d.i.c.ks, these blond princesses, walking around as though the world was theirs for the taking. Nerves aside, he was almost enjoying himself now, and he found himself whistling a song that struck him as pretty funny. "The 59th Street Bridge Song (Feelin" Groovy)" by Simon and Garfunkel-whom he considered to be typical New York City a.s.sholes, too. Both of them-Curly and the Midget.For the past couple of days, Capistran had been working into the wee hours with a couple of sympathetic engineering students at Stony Brook University out on Long Island. One whiz kid was from Iran, the other from Afghanistan. They got a kick and a half out of the irony, too: New York-trained college students helping to blow up New York. Land of the f.u.c.king free, right? They called their team the Manhattan Project. Another insider joke.At first they had considered an ANFO, a type of bomb that would blow a crater in a road for sure but was unlikely to topple a large bridge like the Queensboro. The college whizzes told Capistran he could see what an ANFO would accomplish just by setting off a firecracker on a city street. Or imagining it. The explosion would be characterized by "coward forces which always seek the path of least resistance." In other words, the bomb would make a nasty little burn on the road, but the real destructive power would escape up and sideways into the air.Not good enough for today. Too benign. Not even close to what was needed.Then the clever-as-h.e.l.l college students came upon a much better way to blow up the bridge. They instructed Capistran on how and where to attach several small charges at different points in the foundation. This was similar to the way demolition companies toppled old buildings, and it would work like a charm.Since he had absolutely no interest in being caught, Capistran had considered sending divers into the East River to set the charges on the supports. He had approached the bridge several times himself. And to his surprise, he found security to be virtually nonexistent.That"s exactly the way it was early that morning. He and his two a.s.sociates walked out on the lower supports of the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge and n.o.body said boo to them.From a distance, the ornate silver-painted ironwork and finials had made the old bridge look rather delicate. Up close, the real power of the structure was revealed: the ma.s.sive trusses; rivets as large as a man"s kneecaps.This sounded crazy, but it would work-his piece would work.Sometimes he wondered how he"d gotten so sour on everything, so bitter and full of rage. h.e.l.l, years ago in the Marines he"d been part of the rescue team that had extracted downed pilots like Scott O"Grady in Bosnia. Well, he wasn"t a war hero anymore. He was just another capitalist working in the system, right? And that was a lot truer statement than most people could let themselves believe.As he continued to walk out on the support structure, Capistran couldn"t help humming, then singing the words, "Groovy. Feeling very groovy."
Chapter 55.
The strangest, most puzzling thing happened next.The deadline pa.s.sed-and nothing happened.There was no message from the Wolf, no immediate attacks. Nothing. Silence. It was eerie, but also incredibly scary.The Wolf was the only one who knew what was going on now-or maybe, the Wolf, the president, and a few other world leaders. Rumor had it that the president, vice president, and the cabinet had already been moved out of Washington.This thing wouldn"t stop, would it? The news stories certainly wouldn"t. The Post, the New York Times, USA Today, CNN, the networks-they had all gotten hold of some version of the threats against major cities. No one knew which cities, or who was doing the threatening. But after years of yellow and orange alerts from Homeland Security, no one seemed to take the threats and rumors too seriously.The uncertainty, the war of nerves had to be part of the Wolf"s plan, too. I was in Washington for the Memorial Day weekend, and was asleep when I got a call to get over to the Hoover Building right away.I looked at the alarm clock, squinting to focus, saw that it was three in the morning. Now what? Have there been reprisals? If so, they weren"t telling me over the phone."I"ll be right there," I said, pushing myself out of bed, cursing under my breath. I showered under hot, then cold water for a minute or two, toweled off, threw on clothes, and got in the car and drove through Washington in a horrible daze. All I knew was that the Wolf was going to call in thirty minutes.Three-thirty in the morning, after a long weekend, with the expired deadline hanging over our head. He wasn"t just controlling, he was s.a.d.i.s.tic.When I arrived at the crisis room on five, there were at least a dozen others already there. We greeted one another like old friends at somebody"s wake. For the next couple of minutes, bleary-eyed agents kept filing into the conference room, n.o.body seeming completely awake. A ragged line formed at the coffee table as a couple of pots finally arrived. Everybody looked nervous and on edge."No Danish?" said one of the other agents. "Where"s the love?" But n.o.body even smiled at his joke.Director Burns came in a few minutes past 3:30. He was wearing a dark suit and tie, formal for him, but especially at this time of the morning. I had the sense that he didn"t have any idea what was happening, either. The Wolf was in charge, not any of us."And you thought I was a tough boss," Director Burns cracked after a couple of minutes of silence in the room. Finally, there was a sprinkling of laughter. "Thank you for coming," Burns added.The Wolf came on the line at 3:43. The filtered voice. The characteristic smugness and disdain."You"re probably wondering why I scheduled a meeting in the middle of the night," he began. "Because I can. How do you like that? Because I can."In case you haven"t been able to tell, I don"t like you people very much. Not at all, actually. I have my reasons, good ones. I hate everything America stands for. So maybe this is partly about revenge? Maybe you"ve wronged me somewhere, sometime in the past? Maybe you wronged my family. That"s a part of the puzzle. Revenge is a sweet bonus for me."But let me get to the present. Correct me if I"m wrong, but I think I instructed you not to conduct any more investigations into my whereabouts."So what do you do? You bust six poor b.a.s.t.a.r.ds in downtown Manhattan because you suspect they"re working with me. Why, one poor girl was so distraught that she went out a third-floor window. I saw her fall! I suppose that your thinking-such as it is-was that if you took out my operatives there, then New York City would be safe."Oh, I"m sorry, I almost forgot. There"s also a little matter of a deadline you missed."Did you think I had forgotten about that? Well, I didn"t forget about the deadline. Or the insult in your missing it. Now, watch what I can do."
Chapter 56.
At 3:40 in the morning, following instructions, the Weasel took up a position on a bench in the riverfront park on Sutton Place and Fifty-seventh Street. There was a great deal that bothered him about this job, but the problems were balanced by two large positives: he was being paid a lot of money, and he was in the middle of the action again. Jesus, am I ever in the middle of the s.h.i.t.He stared down on the East River"s dark, swift-moving currents. A red tugboat marked MCALLISTER BROTHERS was a.s.sisting a containership on its way. The city that never sleeps, right? h.e.l.l, the bars on First and Second Avenues were just getting down to their last call. A little earlier he"d pa.s.sed an animal medical center that was still open for late-night pet emergencies. Pet emergencies? Jesus, what a city, what a messed-up country America had become.A lot of New Yorkers would be wide-awake soon, and they would find it exceedingly difficult to get back to sleep. There would be weeping and the gnashing of teeth. The Wolf was going to make certain of that in a minute or so.Shafer watched the seconds on his watch tick down to 3:43, but he was also keeping an eye on the river and the Queensboro Bridge.Cars and cabs and quite a few trucks were whizzing along up there, even at this hour. Easily a hundred vehicles were crossing the bridge right now, probably more than that. The poor w.a.n.kers!At 3:43 Shafer pressed a b.u.t.ton on his cell phone.This transmitted a simple coded squirt to a small antenna on the Manhattan side of the bridge. A circuit began to close. . . .A primer fired. . . .Microseconds later, a message straight from h.e.l.l was delivered to the people of New York City, and the rest of the world.A symbolic message.Another wake-up call.A ma.s.sive explosion ripped through the girders and trusses of the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge. Joints were severed instantly, shockingly, terminally. The old steel structures snapped like peanut brittle. Huge rivets popped out and plummeted toward the East River. Tarmac crumbled. Reinforced concrete fractured like paper being shredded.The upper roadbed cracked in two, then enormous sections dropped like bombs onto the lower deck, which was breaking up as well, peeling away, twisting and twirling toward the water below.Cars were falling into the water. A delivery truck carrying a full load of newspapers from a plant in Queens rolled backward down the inverted roadway and then pirouetted into the East River. It was followed by more cars and trucks, dropping like lead weights. Electric lines drooped and sparked along the entire length of the bridge. More cars, dozens of them, plummeted from the bridge, fell into the river, then disappeared beneath the surface.Some people were exiting their cars, then jumping to their death in the river. Shafer could hear their terrifying screams all the way across the river.And in every apartment building lights began to blink on, then TVs and computers, as the people of New York heard the first reports about a terrible disaster that was impossible to believe and that would have been unthinkable until a few years ago.His work for the night done, Geoffrey Shafer finally rose from his park bench and went to get some sleep. If he could sleep. He understood this much: things were just getting started. He was on his way to London.London Bridge, he thought. All the bridges of the world, falling, crashing down. Modern society coming apart at the seams. The sodding Wolf may be a madman, but he is a brilliant b.u.g.g.e.r at being bad. A b.l.o.o.d.y brilliant madman!Part ThreeWOLF TRACKS
Chapter 57.
The Wolf slowed his powerful black Lotus to just over a hundred miles an hour while he talked on his mobile phone, one of six he had with him in the car. He was headed toward Montauk on the tip of Long Island, but he had important business to attend to on the way, even at one in the morning. He had the American president, the German chancellor, and the British prime minister on the line. Top to top. What could beat that?"This call can"t be traced, so don"t waste your time trying. My tech people are better than your people," he informed them. "Now, what"s on everybody"s mind? We"re eight hours past the deadline. And?""We need more time," the English prime minister spoke up for the group. Good for him. Was he the real leader of the three? That would be a surprise. The Wolf had thought of him more as a follower."You have no idea -" the American president started to say, but he was cut off by the Wolf, smiling to himself, relishing the show of disrespect toward the powerful world leader."Stop. I don"t want to hear any more lies!" he yelled into the phone."You have to listen to what we have to say," the German chancellor interjected. "Give us the opportunity -"The Wolf ended the conversation then and there. He lit up a victory cigar, took a couple of satisfied puffs, then set the smoke down in the ashtray. He reconnected the call, using a second cell phone.They were still there, waiting for him to call back. He didn"t actually underestimate any of these powerful men, not really, but what choice did they have but to wait on his call?"Do you want me to attack all four cities? Is that what I have to do to prove how serious I am? I"ll do it in a flash. I"ll do it now, give the order right now. But don"t tell me you need more time. You don"t! The countries holding the prisoners are your puppets, for Christ"s sake."The real problem is that you can"t be seen for what you really are. You can"t be viewed around the world as weak and powerless. But you are! How did it happen? How did you allow it to happen? Who put people like you into these positions of great power? Who elected you? The money and the political prisoners. Good-bye."The prime minister spoke before the Wolf could disconnect again. "You have it all wrong! It is you who have a choice to make, not us. We take your point about the strength of your position versus ours. It"s a given. But we cannot put this package together quickly. It can"t physically be done, and I think you know that. Of course we don"t want to make a deal with you, but we will. We have to. We just need more time to get it done. We will get it done. You have our promise on it."The Wolf shrugged. The English prime minister definitely surprised him: he was succinct, and he at least had some b.a.l.l.s."I"ll think about it," said the Wolf, then disconnected. He picked up his cigar and savored this idea: he was the most powerful person in the world right now. And unlike any of them, he was the right man for the job.
Chapter 58.
A business-cla.s.s pa.s.senger who called himself Randolph Wohler de-planed the British Airways flight from New York at 6:05 in the morning. His pa.s.sport and other pieces of ID backed up his ident.i.ty. It is good to be home again, thought Wohler, who was actually Geoffrey Shafer. And it"s going to be even better if I get to blow London off the map.The seventyish-looking gentleman pa.s.sed through Customs without a problem. He was already thinking about his next move: a visit to his children. That was his piece. Curious and strange. But he was past questioning orders from the Wolf. Besides, he wanted to see his progeny. Daddy had been away for far too long.He had a part to play, another mission, another piece of the puzzle. The brat pack lived with his deceased wife"s sister in a small house near Hyde Park. He remembered the house as he pulled up in a rented Jaguar S type. He had a most unpleasant memory of his wife now, Lucy Rhys-Cousins, a brittle, small-minded woman. He"d murdered her in a Safeway in Chelsea, right in front of the twins. That truly merciful act had orphaned his twin daughters, Tricia and Erica, who were six or seven now, and Robert, who must be fifteen. Shafer believed they were far better off without their whining, sniveling mother.He knocked on the front door of the house and found that it was unlocked, so he barged in unannounced.He discovered his wife"s younger sister, Judi, playing with the twins on the living-room floor, bent over a game of Monopoly, which he believed they were all capable of losing -not a winner in the group."Daddy"s home!" he exclaimed, and beamed a smile that was perfectly horrible. He then pointed a Beretta at dear Aunt Judi"s chest."Don"t make a sound, Judi, not a one. Don"t give me the slightest excuse to pull this trigger. It would be so easy, and such a great pleasure. And yes, I sincerely hate you, too. You remind me of a fat version of your beloved sister."h.e.l.lo, children! Say h.e.l.lo to your dear old dad. I"ve come a long ways to see you. All the way from America."His twin girls, his sweet daughters, started to cry, so Shafer did the only thing he could think of to restore order: he pointed his gun straight at Judi"s tear-stained face and walked closer to her. "Make them stop whining and screeching. Now! Show me you deserve to be their keeper."The aunt bent low and pressed the girls to her chest, and while they didn"t actually stop crying, the sound was at least m.u.f.fled and subdued."Judi, now listen to me," Shafer said as he moved behind her and pressed the barrel of the Beretta to the back of her head. "As much as I would like to, I"m not here to f.u.c.k and murder you. Actually, I have a message for you to be pa.s.sed on to the home secretary. In a strange, ironic twist, your absurd, pitiful life actually matters for now. Can you believe it? I can"t."Aunt Judi seemed confused, her natural state as far as Shafer could tell. "How would I do that?" she blubbered."Just call the sodding police! Now shut up and listen. You"re to tell the police that I came to visit, and I told you that no one is safe anymore. Not the police, not their families. We can go to their houses, just like I came to your house today."Just to make sure she got it, Shafer repeated the message twice more. Then he turned his attention back to Tricia and Erica, who interested him about as much as the ridiculous porcelain dolls covering the mantel in the room. He hated those silly, frilly porcelain doodads that had once belonged to his wife and that she had doted on as if they were real."How is Robert?" he asked the twins, and received no reaction.What is this? The girls had already mastered the hopelessly lost and confused look of their mother and their blubbering auntie. They said not a word."Robert is your brother!" Shafer yelled, and the girls started to sob loudly again. "How is he? How is my son? Tell me something about your brother! Has he grown two heads? Anything!""He"s all right," Tricia finally simpered."Yes, he"s all right," Erica repeated, following her sister"s lead."He"s all right, is he? Well, that"s all right, then," Shafer said with utter disdain for these two clones of their mother.He found that he was actually missing Robert, though. He rather enjoyed the mildly twisted lad at times. "All right, give your father a kiss," he finally demanded. "I am your father, you pitiful twits," he added for good measure. "In case you"ve forgotten."The girls wouldn"t kiss him, and he wasn"t permitted to kill them, so Shafer finally had to leave the dreadful house. On the way out, he swept the porcelain dolls off the mantel, sending them crashing to the floor."In memory of your mother!" he called back over his shoulder.
Chapter 59.
The most common complaint from soldiers serving in Iraq is that they feel that everything around them is absurd and makes no sense. More and more, this is the way of modern-day warfare. I felt it now myself.We were past the deadline and living on borrowed time. That"s how it seemed to me. Feeling as if I hadn"t been able to catch my breath in days, I was on my way to London with two agents from our International Terrorism Section.Geoffrey Shafer was in England. Even more insane, he wanted us to know he was there. Someone did.The flight into Heathrow Airport arrived at a little before six in the morning and I went straight to a hotel just off Victoria Street and slept until ten. After that short rest, I made my way to New Scotland Yard, just around the corner, on Broadway. It was great to be so near Buckingham Palace, Westminster Abbey, and the Houses of Parliament.Upon arrival, I was taken to the office of Detective Superintendent Martin Lodge of the Met. Lodge told me, modestly enough, that he kept the Anti Terrorist Branch, called SO13, running smoothly. On our way to the morning"s briefing he gave me a thumbnail sketch of himself."Like you, I came up through the police ranks. Eleven years with the Met after a stint with SIS in Europe. Before that I trained at Hendon, then a constabl