London Bridges: A Novel (16 page)

The whole family was waiting in the dining room, where the food was just being laid out. I was formally introduced to everyone, including a cat named Tigger, and I immediately felt pretty much at home, as well as missing my own family, feeling a sharp pang that stayed with me for a while.

Martin's wife, Klára, identified the food as it was laid out on the sideboard. “Alex, these are koláce, pastries with a cream cheese center. Rohlíky —rolls. Turka, which is Turkish-style coffee. Párek, two kinds of sausage, very good, a specialty of the house.”

She looked at the eldest daughter, Hana, who was a neat blend of her mother and dad. Tall, slim, a pretty face but with Martin's hooked nose. “Hana?”

Hana grinned at me. “What kind of eggs would you like, sir? You can have vejce na mekko. Or míchaná vejce. Smazená vejce, if you like. Omeleta?”

I shrugged, then said, “ Míchaná vejce.”

“Excellent choice,” said Klára. “Perfect pronunciation. Our guest is a born linguist.”

“Good. Now what is it?” I asked. “The food I ordered?”

Hana giggled. “Just scrambled eggs. Perfect with the rohlíky and párek.”

“Yes, the rolls and sausage,” I said, and the girls clapped for my show-off performance.

It went that way for the next hour or so, most pleasantly, with Klára asking a lot of informal questions about my life in America while telling me about the American mystery novels she enjoyed, as well as the latest Booker Prize winner Vernon God Little, which she said “is very funny, and captures the craziness of your country much like Günter Grass did with Germany in The Tin Drum. You should read it, Alex.”

“I live it,” I told Klára.

It was only at the end of the meal that the kids admitted that the names for the breakfast foods were just about the only Czech words they knew. Then they began to clear away the food and started in on the dishes.

“Oh, and there's ty vejce jsou hnusný,” said Jozef, or Joe, the eight-year-old.

“I'm almost afraid to ask—what does that mean?”

“Oh, that the eggs were gross,” said Joe, who laughed with little-boy delight at his joke.

There was nothing to do once I left Martin and Klára's, except obsess and worry about the Wolf and where he might strike, if he was going to retaliate. Back at the hotel, I caught a few more hours of sleep, then I decided to walk and I felt that this might be a long walk. I needed it.

Something strange, though. I was strolling along Broadway and I had the feeling that somebody was following me. I didn't think I was being paranoid. I tried to see who it was, but either he was very good or I wasn't that skilled at spy games. Maybe if this had been Washington instead of London. But it was difficult for me to spot who or what was out of place here—except me, of course.

I stopped in at Scotland Yard and there was still no word from the Wolf. And so far, no reprisals. Not in any of the targeted cities. The calm before the storm?

An hour or so later, having walked up Whitehall, past No. 10 Downing Street to Trafalgar Square and back, and feeling much better for the exercise, I made my way to the hotel and had that same creepy feeling again—as if someone was watching me, following. Who? I didn't actually see anyone.

Back in my room, I called the kids at Aunt Tia's. Then I talked to Nana, who was on Fifth Street by herself. “Oddly peaceful,” she joked. “But I wouldn't mind a full house again. I miss everybody.”

“So do I, Nana.”

I fell off to sleep again, in my clothes, and didn't wake until the phone rang. I hadn't bothered to pull the drapes and it was dark outside. I looked at the clock—Jesus—four in the morning. I guess I was finally catching up on some of the sleep I'd lost.

“Alex Cross,” I said into the phone.

“It's Martin, Alex. I'm on my way from home. He wants us to go to the Houses of Parliament, to meet him on the sidewalk outside the Strangers' Entrance. Shall I pick you up?”

“No. It's faster if I walk. I'll meet you there.” Parliament at this time of the morning? It didn't sound good.

Maybe five minutes later I was back outside again, hurrying along Victoria Street, heading toward Westminster Abbey. I was certain that the Wolf was going to pull something and that it would hurt like hell. Did that mean all four cities were about to be hit? That wouldn't surprise me. Nothing would at this point.

“Hello, Alex. Fancy meeting you here.”

A man stepped out of the shadows. I hadn't even noticed him standing there. Preoccupied, maybe only half awake, a little careless.

He stepped all the way out of the shadows and I saw his gun. It was pointed at my heart.

“I'm supposed to be out of the country by now. But I had this one thing I had to do. Kill you. I wanted you to see it coming, too. Just like this. I've had dreams about this moment. Maybe you have, too.”

The speaker was Geoffrey Shafer. He was so cocky and confident, and he clearly had the upper hand. Maybe that's why I didn't even think about what I should do, and I didn't hesitate. I barreled into Shafer, waited for the thundering gunshot to follow.

It came, too. Only he didn't hit me, at least I didn't think so. I suspected the shot was deflected to the side. Didn't matter. I blocked Shafer hard into the building behind him. I saw surprise and pain in his eyes, and that was the motivation I needed. Also his gun had gone flying in the scuffle.

I hit him hard with a roundhouse into his midsection, probably below the belt, maybe a nut cruncher. I hoped so. He grunted and I knew I'd hurt him. But I wanted to hurt Shafer more, for all kinds of reasons. I wanted to kill him right there in the street. I crunched another shot to his stomach and I could feel it go weak under my fist. Then I went for the bastard's head. I slammed a hard right hand into his temple. Then a left to his jaw. He was hurt badly, but he wouldn't go down.

“That all you got, Cross? Here's something for you,” he snarled.

He had a switchblade and I started to step away—but then I realized that he was hurt and that this was my best chance. I hit Shafer again, on his nose. Broke it! He still wouldn't go down and he swiped out viciously with the knife. He sliced my arm, and I realized how crazy I was, how lucky not to be hurt, or killed.

I had a chance to reach for my own gun and I pulled it out of the holster on the back of my belt.

Shafer charged at me, and I'm not sure if he saw the gun. Maybe he thought I wouldn't be armed in London.

“No!” I yelled. It was all I had time to say.

I fired point-blank into his chest. He fell back against the wall and slowly slid to the ground.

His face was nothing but shock, as maybe he realized that he was mortal after all. “Fucker, Cross,” he muttered. “Bastard.”

I bent down over him. “Who is the Wolf? Where is he?”

“Go to hell,” he said, and then he died, and went there instead.

London Bridge is falling down,

Falling down, falling down.

Minutes after the Weasel died on the streets of London, his old army mate, Henry Seymour, drove an eleven-year-old white van through the night—and he was thinking that he had no fear of death. None at all. He welcomed it, actually.

At a little past 4:30, traffic was already heavy on the Westminster Bridge. Seymour parked as close to it as he could, then walked back and rested his arms on the parapet, looking west. He loved the sight of Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament from the grand old bridge, always had, ever since he was a small boy visiting London on day trips from Manchester, where he'd been raised.

He was noticing everything this morning. On the opposite bank of the Thames he saw the London Eye, which he thoroughly despised. The Thames was as dark as the early-morning sky. The smell in the air was slightly salty and fishy. Rows of plum-colored tourist buses sat idle near the bridge, waiting for the day's first passengers to arrive in just an hour or so.

Isn't going to happen, though. Not on this day of days. Not if old Henry has his way this morning.

Wordsworth had written of the view from Westminster Bridge (he thought it was Wordsworth): “Earth has not anything to show more fair.” Henry Seymour always remembered that one, though he wasn't much for poets, or what they had to say.

Write a poem about this shit. Somebody write a poem about me. The bridge and poor Henry Seymour and all these other poor bastards out here with me this morning.

He went to fetch the van.

At 5:34 the bridge seemed to ignite at its center. Actually, Henry Seymour's van was what blew up. The strip of roadway beneath it rose up and then split apart; the bridge's supports toppled; triple-globed lampposts flew into the air like uprooted flowers blowing in the fiercest wind anyone could imagine. For a moment everything was quiet, deathly quiet, as Seymour's spirit floated away. Then police sirens began to scream all over London.

And the Wolf called Scotland Yard to take credit for his handiwork. “Unlike you people, I keep my promises,” he said. “I tried to build bridges between us, but you keep tearing them down. Do you understand? Do you finally understand what I'm saying? ”The London bridge is gone . . . and it's only the beginning. This is too good to end—I want it to go on and on."

Payback.

Part Four

PARIS, SCENE OF THE CRIME

The test track was a familiar one, located sixty kilometers south of Paris. The Wolf was there to drive a prototype race car, and he had some company for the ride.

Walking beside him was a former KGB man who had handled his business in France and Spain for many years. His name was Ilya Frolov, and Ilya knew the Wolf by sight. He was one of the few men still alive who did, which filled him with some dread that day, though he thought of himself as one of the Wolf's few friends.

“What a beauty!” the Wolf said as the men walked up beside a red Porsche-powered prototype Fabcar. This very model had run in the Rolex Sports Car Series.

“You love your cars,” Ilya said. “Always have.”

“Growing up outside Moscow, I never thought I would own a car, any car. Now I own so many that I lose count sometimes. I want you to take a ride with me. Get in, my friend.”

Ilya Frolov shook his head and raised both his hands in protest. “Not me. I don't like the noise, the speed, anything about it.”

“I insist,” said the Wolf. He raised the gull wing on the passenger side first. “Go ahead, it won't bite you. You'll never forget the ride, Ilya.”

Ilya forced a laugh, then started to cough. “That's what I'm afraid of.”

“After we finish, I want to talk to you about the next steps. We're very close to getting our money. They're weakening day by day, and I have a plan. You're going to be a rich man, Ilya.”

The Wolf climbed into the driver's seat, which was on the right side. He flipped a switch, the dashboard lit up, and the car roared and shook. The Wolf watched Ilya's face go pale and laughed merrily. In his own strange way he loved Ilya Frolov.

“We're sitting right on the engine. It's going to get very hot in here now. Maybe a hundred and thirty degrees. That's why we wear a 'cool suit.' It's going to get noisy, too. Put on your helmet, Ilya. Last warning.”

And then they were off!

The Wolf lived for this—the exhilaration, the raw power of the world's finest race cars. At this speed he had to concentrate on the driving—nothing else mattered, there was nothing else while he spun around the test track. Everything about the ride was about power: the noise, since there was no sound-dampening material inside; the vibration—the stiffer the suspension, the faster the car could change direction; the g-force, resulting in as much as six hundred pounds of pressure on some turns.

God, what a glorious machine—so perfect—whoever made it was a genius.

There are still some of us in the world, he thought to himself. I should know.

Finally he slowed and steered the highly temperamental car off the track. He climbed out, pulled off his helmet, shook out his hair, and shouted to the skies.

“That was so great! My God, what an experience. Better than sex! I've ridden women and cars—I prefer the race car!”

He looked over at Ilya Frolov and saw that the man was still pale and shaking a bit. Poor Ilya.

“I'm sorry, my friend,” the Wolf spoke softly. “I'm afraid you don't have the balls for the next ride. Besides, you know what happened in Paris.”

He shot his friend dead on the test track. Then the Wolf just walked away, never looking back. He had no interest in the dead.

That same afternoon the Wolf visited a farmhouse about fifty kilometers southeast of the test track. He was the first to arrive and settled in the kitchen, which he kept as dark as a crypt. Artur Nikitin had been ordered to come alone, and he did as he was told. Nikitin was former KGB and had always been a loyal soldier. He worked for Ilya Frolov, mostly as an arms dealer.

The Wolf heard Artur approaching on the back steps. “No lights,” he called. “Just come inside.”

Artur Nikitin opened the door and stepped inside. He was tall, with a thick white beard, a big Russian bear of a man, physically not unlike the Wolf himself.

“There's a chair. Sit. Please. You are my guest,” said the Wolf.

Nikitin obeyed. He showed no fear. Actually, he had no fear of death.

“You have always done good work for me in the past. This will be our last job together. You'll make enough to walk away from the life, to do as you wish. Does that sound all right?”

“It sounds very good. Whatever you wish, I do. It's the secret of my success.”

“Paris is very special to me,” the Wolf continued. “In another life, I lived there for two years. And now, here I am again. It's no coincidence, Artur. I need your help here. More than that, I need your loyalty. Can I depend on you?”

“Of course. Without a doubt. I'm here, aren't I?”

“I plan to blow a big hole in Paris, cause lots more trouble, then get filthy rich. I can still depend on you?”