London Bridges Read online

  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 nobody 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 hell 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 hell?

  I snatched up the phone on the kitchen wall near the fridge.

  “Hello. 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 muffle 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 assignment 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 piss-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, Grasshopper. 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. 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.”

  Chapter 43

  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.”

  Chapter 44

  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.”

  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 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.”

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