London Bridges: A Novel (10 page)

“I can. These days I can believe anything. Hell, 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 institutions; 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.”

At two that same afternoon, I was on my way to Cuba, Guantánamo 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 Guantánamo 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 Guantánamo 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 bastards. It's their position that we won't.” Burns stared at me. “Somehow, we have to find the Wolf. In the next two days.”

It's extraordinarily bad to be waiting for something devastating to happen and not be able to do a damn 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 unbuttered 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. God, 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.”

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 participants 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 participants 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 principals 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, embarrassed, 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.” God is great. And so am I.

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 hell 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 passenger 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.