The Big Bad Wolf ак-9

by James Patterson

  I nodded. ‘Let me go get my kids up.’

  Twenty minutes later my family was escorted outside to a waiting van. They climbed inside, like frightened refugees in a war zone. That’s what the world was becoming, wasn’t it? Every city and town was a potential battlefield. No place was safe.

  Just before I climbed in the van, I spotted the photographer posted across the street from our house on Fifth Street. It looked like he was filming the evacuation of our house. How was that?

  I’m not sure how I knew who he was, but somehow I knew. He’s not from any newspaper, I thought. I felt myself filling with rage and disgust. He works for Christine’s lawyers.

  Chapter One Hundred and Thirteen

  Chaos.

  The next day, and for two days after that, I found myself in Huntsville, Texas, the site of the federal prison where Lawrence Lipton had been murdered while he was in the custody of the Federal Bureau. No one there had any explanation for how Lipton and two agents had been killed.

  It had happened during the night. In his cell. Actually, the small suite where he was kept under guard. None of the video cameras had a record of visitors. None of the interviews or interrogations turned up a suspect. Lipton had most of the bones in his body broken. Zamochit. The Wolf’s trademark.

  The same method had been used on an Italian Mafia figure named Augustino Palumbo this past summer. According to stories, Palumbo’s killer had been a Russian mobster, possibly the Wolf. The murder had taken place at the supermax prison in Florence, Colorado.

  The following morning I arrived in Colorado. I was there to visit a killer named Kyle Craig, who had once been an FBI agent, and also a friend of mine. Kyle was responsible for dozens of murders; he was one of the worst psychopathic killers in history. I had captured him. My friend.

  We met in an interview room on death row in the Isolation Unit. Kyle looked surprisingly fit. When I’d last seen him he was gaunt, very pale, with deep, dark hollows under his eyes. He appeared to have put on at least thirty pounds, all of it muscle. I wondered why – what had given Kyle hope? Whatever it was scared me a little.

  ‘All roads lead to Florence?’ he quipped and grinned as I entered the visiting room. ‘Some associates of yours from the Bureau were here just yesterday. Or was it the day before? You know, the last time we met, Alex, you said you didn’t care what I think. That hurt.’

  I corrected him, which I knew would annoy Kyle. ‘Not exactly what I said. You accused me of being condescending, and told me that you didn’t like it. I said, “Who cares what you like anymore?” I do care about what you think. That’s why I’m here.’

  Kyle laughed again, and the braying sound he made, the baring of his teeth, chilled me. ‘You always were my favorite,’ he said.

  ‘You were expecting me?’ I asked.

  ‘Hmm. Hard to say. Not really. Maybe at some time in the future.’

  ‘You look like you have big plans. You’re all buffed.’

  ‘What plans could I possibly have?’

  ‘The usual. Grand delusions, homicidal fantasies, rape, the slaughter of innocents.’

  ‘I do hate it when you play psychologist, Alex. You didn’t make it in that world for a good reason.’

  I shrugged. ‘I know that, Kyle. None of my patients in Southeast had money to pay me. I needed to start a practice in Georgetown. Maybe I will someday.’

  He laughed again. ‘Talk about delusions. So why are you here? No, I’ll tell you why. There’s been a terrible miscarriage of justice and I’m being released. You’re the messenger of glad tidings.’

  ‘The only miscarriage is that you haven’t been executed, Kyle.’

  Kyle’s eyes sparkled. I was one of his favorites. ‘All right, now that you’ve charmed me, what is it that you want?’

  ‘You know what I want, Kyle,’ I said. ‘You know exactly why I’m here.’

  He clapped his hands loudly, ‘Zamochit! The mad Russian!’

  For the next half an hour I told Kyle everything I knew about the Wolf, well nearly everything. Then I gave him the kicker. ‘He met with you on the night he came here to kill “Little Gus” Palumbo. Did you set up the kill for him? Somebody did.’

  Kyle leaned back and seemed to be considering his options, but I knew he’d already decided what he meant to do. He was always a step or two ahead.

  Finally he leaned forward, and beckoned me closer. I wasn’t afraid of Kyle, at least not physically, not even with his extra pounds of muscle. I almost hoped he’d make a move.

  ‘I do this out of love and respect for you,’ Kyle said. ‘I did meet with the Russian last summer. Ruthless chap, no conscience. I liked him. We played chess. I know who he is, my friend. I might be able to help you.’

  Chapter One Hundred and Fourteen

  It took me another day at Florence, but I finally negotiated a name out of Kyle. Now could we believe him? The name was checked and rechecked in Washington, but the Bureau was becoming confident that he had given us the Red Mafiya leader. I had doubts – because it came from Kyle. But we had no other leads.

  Maybe Kyle wanted to use it to try and blow me up, or embarrass the Bureau. Or maybe he wanted to demonstrate how smart he was, how well-connected, how superior to us all. The name, the person’s position, made the arrest controversial and risky. If we went after this man, and we were wrong, the embarrassment would stick to the Bureau.

  So we waited for nearly a week. We checked all of our information again and did several interviews in the field. The suspect was put on surveillance.

  When we had completed the due diligence, I met with Ron Burns and the Director of the CIA in Burns’s office. Ron got to the point. ‘We believe he’s the Wolf, Alex. Craig is probably telling the truth.’

  Thomas Weir from the CIA nodded my way. ‘We’ve been watching this suspect in New York for some time. We thought he’d been KGB back in Russia, but there wasn’t conclusive evidence. We never suspected Red Mafiya, never the Wolf. Not this man. Not given his position with the Russian Government.’

  Weir’s look was intense. ‘We increased the levels of audio surveillance to include the apartment where the suspect lives in Manhattan. He’s making arrangements to go after Director Burns again.’

  Burns looked at me. ‘He doesn’t forgive and forget, Alex. Neither do I.’

  ‘Is that it? We go to New York and arrest him?’

  Burns and Weir nodded solemnly. ‘This should be the end of it,’ said Burns. ‘Go and take down the Wolf. Bring me his head.’

  Chapter One Hundred and Fifteen

  This should be the end of it. From Director Burns’s mouth to God’s ear.

  The Century is a famous art deco apartment building on Central Park West, north of Columbus Circle, in New York City. For decades it has been a residence of choice for the well-to-do and famous actors, artists, and business-people, but especially for those who are humble enough to share space with working-class families who’ve passed down their apartments for decades.

  We arrived at the building around four in the morning. HRT immediately took over the three main entrances on Central Park, Sixty-Second and Sixth-Third Streets. This was the largest bust I had been a part of, definitely the most complicated: the New York City Police, FBI, CIA and Secret Service were all involved in the operation. We were about to take down an important Russian. The head of the trade delegation to New York. A businessman himself, supposedly above suspicion. The repercussions would be severe if we were wrong. But how could we be wrong? Not this time.

  I was at the Century, along with my partner for the past week or so. Ned Mahoney was hardworking, honest, and tough in the clutch. The head of HRT had been to my house, and even passed Nana’s inspection, mostly because he’d grown up on the streets of D.C.

  Ned and I and a dozen others were climbing the stairs to two penthouse floors, since the suspect’s apartment was on twenty-five and twenty-six. He was powerful and wealthy. He had a good reputation with Wall Street and the banks. So was he the Wolf
? If so, why hadn’t his name ever come up before? Because the Wolf was so good, so careful?

  ‘Be glad when this is over with,’ Mahoney said without a huff or puff as he mounted the stairs.

  ‘How did it get out of hand like this?’ I asked. ‘There are too many people here.’

  ‘Always too much politics. Better get used to it. World we live in. Too many suits, not enough workers.’

  We finally reached twenty-five. Ned, me, and four other agents stopped there. The rest of the team continued to twenty-six. We waited for them to get into position. This was it. I hoped this was it. Was the real Wolf on one of these two floors?

  I heard an urgent voice in my earpiece. ‘Suspect coming out of a window! Man in his underwear jumped from the tower! Jesus Christ! He’s down on the landing between the towers. He’s on the roof. Running.’

  Mahoney and I understood what had happened. We rushed down to the twentieth floor. The Century had two towers that rose up from twenty. A large expanse of roof connected them.

  We burst out on to the roof and could just about make out a barefoot man in his underwear. Even in the darkness, the figure gave the impression of being burly, balding and bearded. He turned and fired at us with a pistol. The Wolf? Balding? Burly? Could this be him?

  He hit Mahoney!

  He hit me!

  We went down hard. Chest shots! Hurt like hell! Took my breath away. Fortunately, we were wearing Kevlar vests.

  The man in his underwear wasn’t.

  Mahoney’s return fire took out a kneecap; my first shot struck his thickset stomach. He went down spurting blood and howling.

  We ran to the side of Andrei Prokopev. Mahoney kicked away his gun. ‘You’re under arrest!’ Ned yelled into the face of the wounded Russian. ‘We know who you are.’

  A helicopter appeared between the Century’s dueling towers. A woman was screaming from one of the windows several stories above us. Suddenly, the helicopter was landing! What the hell was this?

  A man came out of a window in the tower and dropped to the roof. Then another man. Professional gunmen, it looked like. Bodyguards?

  They were quick on the draw and began shooting the instant they hit the roof. HRT returned fire. Several shots were exchanged. Both gunmen were hit and went down. Neither got up again. HRT was that good.

  The helicopter was setting down on the roof. It wasn’t media or police. It was there to get the Wolf and whisk him away, wasn’t it? There were shots from the helicopter. Mahoney and I fired into the cockpit. There was a rapid exchange of gunfire. Then the shooting stopped inside.

  For several seconds the only sound on the roof was the loud, eerie whir of the helicopter’s rotor blades. ‘Clear!’ one of our agents finally yelled. ‘They’re down in the copter!’

  ‘You’re under arrest!’ Mahoney screamed at the Russian in his underwear. ‘You’re the Wolf. You tried to attack my house, my family!’

  I had something else in mind, another kind of message. I leaned in close and said, ‘Kyle Craig did this to you.’ I wanted him to know, and maybe pay Kyle back some day.

  Maybe with zamochit.

  Chapter One Hundred and Sixteen

  I hoped to God it was over now. We all did. Ned Mahoney flew back to Quantico that morning, but I spent the rest of the day at FBI headquarters in lower Manhattan. The Russian Government had filed protests everywhere they could, but Andrei Prokopev was still in custody and State Department people were all over the FBI offices. Even a few Wall Street firms had questioned the arrest.

  So far, I hadn’t been allowed to talk to the Russian again. He was scheduled for surgery, but his life wasn’t in danger. He was being grilled by someone, just not by me.

  Burns finally reached me at around four o’clock in the office I was using in FBI-New York. ‘Alex, I want you to head back to Washington,’ he said. ‘Flight arrangements have been made. We’ll be waiting for you here.’ That was all that he told me.

  Burns signed off so I didn’t get the chance to ask any questions. It was obvious that he didn’t want me to. Around seven-thirty I arrived at the Hoover Building and was told to go to the SIOC conference area on six. They were waiting for me there. Not exactly waiting, since a shirt-sleeves meeting was already in progress. Ron Burns was at the table, which wasn’t a good sign. Everybody looked tense and exhausted.

  ‘Let me bring Alex up to date,’ he said when I entered the room. ‘Have a rest, kick back. There’s been a new wrinkle. None of us are very happy about it. You won’t be either.’

  I shook my head and felt a little sick as I sat down. I didn’t need new wrinkles, I had more than enough already.

  ‘The Russians are actually cooperating for a change,’ Burns said. ‘It seems that they’re not denying that Andrei Prokopev has Red Mafiya connections. He does. They’ve been monitoring him for some time themselves. They hoped to use him to penetrate the huge black market still coming out of Moscow.’

  I cleared my throat. ‘But.’

  Burns nodded. ‘Right. The Russians tell us – now – that Prokopev is not the man we’re looking for. They’re certain of it.’

  I felt completely drained. ‘Because?’

  It was Burns’s turn to shake his head. ‘They know what the Wolf looks like. He was KGB after all. The real Wolf set us up to believe he was Prokopev. Andrei Prokopev was one of his rivals in the Red Mafiya.’

  ‘To be the Russian Godfather?’

  ‘To be the Godfather – Russian or otherwise.’

  I pursed my lips, took a breath. ‘Do the Russians know who the Wolf really is?’

  Burns’s eyes narrowed. ‘If they do, they won’t tell us. Not yet anyway. Maybe they’re afraid of him too.’

  Chapter One Hundred and Seventeen

  Late that night I took the decision to return to my home. I sat at the piano on the sun porch with one of Billy Collins’s poems running around my head. It was called ‘The Blues’ and was about the band giving sympathy to a lonely musician who had lost his lover. Which was what I was thinking about as I sat at the piano and made up a melody to go with the poem. We had lost. It happened a lot in police work, though nobody wants to admit it. Lives had been saved, though. Elizabeth Connelly and a couple of others had been found; Brendan Connelly was in jail. Andrei Prokopev had been caught. But we seemed to have lost the big one – for now anyway. The Wolf was still out there. The Godfather was free to do what he did, and that wasn’t good for anybody.

  The next morning, I arrived early to meet Jamilla Hughes’s flight into Reagan National. I had the usual butterflies before her plane got in. But mostly I couldn’t wait to see Jam. Nana and the kids had insisted on coming to the airport. A little show of support – for Jamilla. And for me. For all of us, actually.

  The airport was crowded, but relatively quiet and peaceful, probably on account of the high ceilings. My family and I stood at an exit from Terminal A near the security check. I saw Jam, then so did the kids, who started poking me all over. She was wearing black from head to toe; she looked better than ever, and Jamilla always looked good to me.

  ‘She’s beautiful, and so cool,’ Jannie said and lightly touched the back of my hand. ‘You know that, don’t you, Daddy?’

  ‘She is, isn’t she?’ I agreed, looking at Jannie now, rather than at Jamilla. ‘She’s also smart. Except about men, it would seem.’

  ‘We really like her,’ Jannie continued. ‘Can you tell?’

  ‘I can. I like her too.’

  ‘But do you love her?’ Jannie asked in her usual no-nonsense, get-to-the-heart-of-the matter-way. ‘Do you?’

  I didn’t say anything. That part was between Jam and me.

  ‘Well – do you?’ Nana joined in.

  I didn’t answer Nana either, so she shook her head, rolled her eyes.

  ‘What do the boys think?’ I turned to Damon and little Alex. The Big Boy was clapping his hands and grinning, so I knew where he stood.

  ‘She’s definitely all that,’ said Damon, and he star
ted to grin. He always got a little goofy around Jamilla.

  I moved toward her and they let me go alone. I snuck a glance, and they were grinning like a Cheshire cat family. I had a lump in my throat. Don’t know why. I felt a little spacey and my knees were weak. Don’t know why either.

  ‘I can’t believe everybody came,’ Jamilla said as she slid into my arms. ‘That makes me happy. I can’t tell you how much, Alex. Wow. I think I’m going to cry. Even though I’m a tough-as-nails homicide detective. You all right? You aren’t all right. I can tell.’

  ‘Oh, I’m fine now.’ I held her tight, then I actually picked Jam up, set her back down.

  We were quiet for a moment. ‘We’re going to fight for little Alex,’ she said.

  ‘Of course,’ I told her. Then I said something that I’d never told Jamilla before, though it had been on the tip of my tongue many times. ‘I love you,’ I whispered.

  ‘I love you too,’ she said. ‘More than you can imagine. More than even I can imagine.’

  A single tear ran down Jamilla’s cheek. I kissed it away.

  Then I saw the photographer taking pictures of us.

  The same one who was at the house the day we were evacuated for personal safety.

  The one hired by Christine’s lawyer.

  Had he had gotten Jamilla’s tear on film?

  Chapter One Hundred and Eighteen

  They came to the house on Fifth Street; they came about a week after Jamilla went back to California.

  Them again.

  One of the saddest days of my life.

  Indescribable.

  Unthinkable.

  Christine was there with her lawyer and Alex Junior’s law guardian, and a case manager from Children’s Protective Services. The case manager wore a plastic ID around her neck, and it was probably her presence that bothered me the most. My children have been raised with so much love and attention, never with abuse or neglect. There was no need for Children’s Services. Gilda Haranzo had gone to court and been granted a declaration of order giving Christine temporary guardianship of little Alex. She had won custody based on the claim that I was ‘a lightning rod for danger’, putting the child in harm’s way.