London Bridges: A Novel (6 page)

Ned Mahoney sat hunched forward in his chair, and he was giving the Wolf the finger. “Yes, I'm right here. I'm listening.” He still had his middle finger extended. “What can I do for you?”

“You can leave now, Mr. Mahoney. I'm afraid that you won't be needed. You're too unstable for my tastes. Too dangerous. And, yes, I'm quite serious.”

Burns motioned for Mahoney to go.

“There will be no need for the FBI's Hostage Rescue Team,” said the Wolf. "If it comes to that, all is lost, I assure you. I hope you're beginning to understand how my mind works. I don't want HRT mobilized, and I don't want any further investigation. Call off the dogs.

“Are you all listening? No one is to try to find out who I am—or who we are. Do you really understand? Please respond if you do.”

Everyone in the room called out, “Yes.” They understood. Once again, it seemed that the Wolf was trying to make us feel like children, or maybe he just enjoyed humiliating the FBI, CIA, and Homeland Security.

“Anyone who didn't respond just then, please leave the room,” said the Wolf. "No, no, sit back down. I'm just having fun at your expense. I'm what you might call a 'creative type.' But I am serious about Mr. Mahoney, and about there being no formal investigation. I'm deadly serious about it, in fact.

“Now, then, let's get down to today's business, shall we? This is an interesting juncture, actually. I hope someone is taking notes.”

There was a pause of approximately fifteen seconds. Then the Wolf resumed. "I want you to know the targeted cities. It's time for that.

“There are four—and I would advise that these cities prepare for a worst-possible-case scenario. The cities should prepare for total destruction.”

Another pause, then:

“The targeted cities are . . . New York . . . London . . . Washington . . . Frankfurt. These cities should prepare for the worst disasters in history. And not a word of this goes public. Or I attack immediately.”

Then he was gone again. And he still hadn't given us any deadline.

The President of the United States was up at 5:30 that morning. Unfortunately, he had already been in meetings for almost two hours. He was on his fourth cup of black coffee.

The National Security Council had been in his office since a little past 3:30. Those present included the heads of the FBI and CIA, plus several intelligence experts. Everyone was taking the Wolf seriously.

The president felt he was sufficiently briefed for his next challenging meeting, but he could never tell about these things, not for sure, especially when politics came into play in a real emergency situation.

“Let's get this unfortunate circus started. Let's do it.” He finally turned to his chief of staff.

A couple of minutes later he was talking with the German chancellor and the British prime minister. They were all on-screen, all slightly out of sync in the strange land of videoconferencing.

The president found it a little hard to fathom, but none of the countries' intelligence services had anything concrete on who the Wolf was or where he might be living. He said as much to the others.

“Finally, we agree on something,” the German chancellor said.

“Everyone is aware that he exists, but no one has a clue where he is,” the prime minister agreed. “We think he's former KGB. We think he's in his late forties. But all we know is that he's very clever. It's maddening.”

They all agreed on that single fact, and finally they agreed on one other thing.

There could be no negotiations with the terrorist.

Somehow, the Wolf had to be hunted down—and terminated with extreme prejudice.

Part Two

MISDIRECTIONS

All large cities were becoming the same boring and antiseptic place to the Wolf now, as capitalism and multinational businesses spread everywhere and major crime followed and spread as well. The Wolf spent part of the night walking in one of the world's most important cities; it doesn't matter which one, since the Russian was equally uncomfortable in nearly all of them.

But tonight, he happened to be in Washington, D.C. Plotting the next steps.

No one understood the Wolf, not a single person in the world. Of course, no one was ever understood by anyone else, was he? Any rational person knew that. But no one could possibly comprehend the Wolf's extraordinary level of paranoia, something burned into his heart long ago—in Paris, of all places. Something almost physical, a poison in the system. His Achilles' heel, he suspected. And this paranoia, the certainty of an untimely death, led to a passion—not exactly a love of life, but a need to play fiercely at it, to win at all costs, or at least never to lose.

So the Wolf walked the streets of downtown Washington, and he planned even more murders.

Alone. Always alone. Frequently squeezing his black rubber handball. A good-luck charm? Hardly. But ironically, a key to everything about him. The little black ball.

Time to think, to plan, to execute, he reminded himself. He was sure that the governments wouldn't listen to his demands; they couldn't give in. Not yet, not so easily.

They needed another lesson. Possibly more than one lesson.

And so a late-night drive out to FBI Director Burns's home in the Washington suburbs.

What a desirable life the man seemed to live with his family. The Wolf genuinely felt that way.

An attractive, well-kept ranch house—modest enough, consistent with an American Dream of a sort. A blue Mercury sedan in the driveway. Bike rack with three two-wheelers. Basketball hoop with a glass backboard and a bright white square above the rim.

Should this family die? A simple enough task to execute. Pleasurable in a way. Richly deserved.

But was it the most effective lesson?

The Wolf wasn't sure. So the answer was probably no.

Besides, there was another target to consider.

A grudge to settle.

What could be better than that?

Revenge, a dish best served cold, thought the Wolf, squeezing his rubber ball again and again.

Welcome to the process-obsessed federal government and its completely bizarre way of doing things. That was my mantra lately, something I told myself nearly every time I entered the Hoover Building. And never truer than during these past few days.

What happened next followed the prescribed protocol under a couple of recent presidential decision directives that affected the Bureau. The response to the Wolf would fall into two distinct categories: “investigation” and “consequence management.” The FBI would oversee the investigation; the Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA) would be in charge of consequence management.

Very neat and orderly, and unworkable. In my opinion, anyway.

Because the threat was to a major U.S. metropolitan area—two, actually, New York City and Washington—the Domestic Emergency Support Team was deployed, and we met with them on the fifth floor of the Hoover Building. I was starting to feel that I worked out of the crisis center; still, it was anything but dull.

The morning's first subject was threat assessment. On account of the three bombed towns, we were taking the “terrorists” seriously, of course. The discussion was led by the new deputy director of the Bureau, a man named Robert Campbell McIllvaine Jr. The director had recently talked him out of retirement in California because he was so good at what he did. Some of the talk was about false alarms, since there had been many of them in the past couple of years. It was agreed that this wasn't a false alarm. Bob McIllvaine was certain of it, which was enough for most of us.

The second topic was consequence management, so FEMA ran the session. The ability of health-care providers to deal with a big blast in Washington, New York, or both cities simultaneously was called into question. The dangers of sudden evacuation were now a major issue because the sheer panic to get out of either city, but especially New York, could kill thousands.

The theoretical but very frank talk that morning was the scariest I'd ever been a part of, and it got only worse. After a thirty-minute lunch—for those with an appetite—and a break for phone calls, we launched into suspect assessment.

Who is responsible? Is it the Wolf? The Russian mob? Could it be some other group? And what do they want?

The initial list of alternatives was long, but it was quickly whittled down to al Qaeda, Hezbollah, the Egyptian Islamic Jihad, or possibly a freelance group operating for profit and maybe working with one of the organized terrorist units.

Finally, the talk turned to “action steps” to be spearheaded by the Bureau. Mobile and fixed, or static, surveillance was being set up on several suspects around the United States, but also in Europe and the Middle East. We had begun a huge investigation already, one of the largest in history.

All of it against the explicit and threatening orders given by the Wolf.

Late that evening I was still going over some of the most recent data that had been collected on Geoffrey Shafer here and in Europe. Europe? I wondered. Is that where this plot is coming from? Maybe England, where Shafer lived for so many years? Maybe even Russia? Or one of the Russian settlements inside the United States?

I read a few reports about Shafer's years working as a procurer of mercenaries in Africa.

Then something hit me.

When he had traveled back to England recently, he'd used a disguise: he'd gone into the country in a wheelchair. He'd apparently traveled around London using the wheelchair disguise. It was also doubtful he knew that we knew.

It was a clue, and I put it into the system immediately. I flagged it as something important.

Maybe the Weasel was using a wheelchair in Washington.

And maybe we were suddenly one step ahead of him, instead of two steps behind.

On that note, I finally called it a night. At least, I hoped the day was finally over.

Very early the following morning, the Weasel made his way through crowded and noisy Union Station in a black, collapsible wheelchair, and he was thinking mostly happy thoughts. He liked to win, and he was winning at every twist and turn.

Geoffrey Shafer had very good military contacts in Washington, D.C., which made him extremely valuable to the operation. He had contacts in London, too, one of the other target cities, but that wasn't as important to the Wolf. Still, he was a player again and he liked the feeling of being somebody.

Besides, he wanted to hurt a lot of people in America. He despised Americans. The Wolf had given him an opportunity to do some real damage here. Zamochit. The breaking of bones. Mass murder.

Lately Shafer had been wearing his hair cut short, and he'd also dyed it black. He couldn't exactly disguise the fact that he was six foot two, but he had done something better—actually, he'd gotten this idea from an old associate. During daylight at least, he traveled around Washington in the wheelchair, a state-of-the-art model he could easily throw in the back of the Saab station wagon he was driving. If he was noticed occasionally—and he was—it was for all the wrong reasons.

At 6:20 that morning, Shafer met with a contact inside Union Station. They both got on queue—the contact standing behind Shafer—at a Starbucks. They struck up what appeared to be a casual conversation.

“They're on the move,” said the contact, who worked as an assistant to a higher-up in the FBI. “Nobody listened to the warnings not to investigate. They've already moved surveillance into the targeted cities. They're looking for you here, of course. Agent Cross is assigned to you.”

“I wouldn't have it any other way,” Shafer said, and smiled crookedly, as he always did. He wasn't surprised about the surveillance. The Wolf had predicted it. So had he. He stayed in line and bought a latte. Then he pressed a button and the wheelchair rolled to a row of pay phones near the railway station's ticket booths. He sipped his hot drink as he placed a local call.

“I have some scut work for you. Pays very well,” he said to the woman who answered. “Fifty thousand dollars for just an hour or so of your time.”

“Well, then, I'm your scut,” said the woman, who happened to be one of the world's very best snipers.

The meeting with the “subcontractor” took place just before noon in the food court at the Tysons Corner mall. Colonel Shafer met Captain Nicole Williams at a small table directly across from a Burger King.

They had burgers and sodas laid out in front of them, but neither ate what Shafer referred to as “godawful Yankee artery cloggers.”

“Nice wheels,” Captain Williams said with a smirk when she saw him arrive in the wheelchair. “You have no shame, do you?”

“Whatever works, Nikki.” He returned her smile. “You know me well enough by now. Whatever the job takes, I get it done.”

“Yeah, I know you, Colonel. Anyway, thanks for thinking of me for this.”

“Wait until you hear about the job before you thank me,” he said.

“That's why I'm here. To listen.”

Actually, Shafer was already a little concerned; he was surprised that Nikki Williams had let herself go so much since the last time they'd worked together. He doubted that she was five foot six, but she must have weighed close to two hundred pounds now.

Still, Nikki Williams exuded the confidence of the highly skilled professional Shafer knew she had always been. They'd worked together for six months in Angola, and Captain Williams was very good at her specialty. She'd always delivered what was asked of her before.

He told Nikki Williams only her part of the job and repeated the fee, which was fifty thousand dollars for less than an hour's work. The thing he liked best about Nikki was that she never complained about the difficulty of any job, or even its risks.

“What's the next step for me? When do we go?” were her only two questions after he had detailed the basics, though not the actual target.