James Patterson - Alex Cross 10 - London Bridges

by London Bridges

  I spotted two policemen near a Virgin record store and made my way up to them. I explained who I was, and then told them to please call the directeur de la s‚curit‚ publique.

  I didn't tell the cops what was in the black valise, but I quickly revealed the contents to the director when he came on the line. "Is the threat real, Dr. Cross?" he wanted to know. "Is the bomb live?"

  "I don't know. How could I? Please respond as if it is. That's what I'm doing." Get your bomb squad over here. Now! Get off the phone!

  Within a few minutes, the whole of the Beaubourg district had been evacuated, except for a dozen or so patrolmen, the military police, and several bomb-squad experts. At least I hoped they were experts, the best France had to offer.

  I was told to sit on the ground, which I did. Right alongside the black valise, of course. I did everything I was told to do, because I had no choice in the matter. I was feeling sick to my stomach, and sitting made it a little better, though not much. At least the initial dizziness I'd felt was starting to pass.

  First, a bomb-sniffing dog was brought in to smell me and the suitcase. A handsome, young German shepherd, the chien explo, approached very cautiously, eyeing the suitcase as if it were a rival dog, an enemy.

  When the shepherd got within five yards, she completely froze. A low growl rumbled up from her chest. The hair on her neck rose. Oh shit. Oh God, I thought.

  The dog continued to growl until she was certain of radioactive contents, then she quickly retreated to her handlers. Very wise of the shepherd. I was left alone again. I'd never been more frightened in my life, nothing had come even close. The thought of being blown apart, possibly vaporized, isn't pleasant. It's a tough one to wrap your mind around.

  After what seemed like an eternity, though it was only a few minutes, two bomb-squad technicians in moon suits cautiously headed my way. I saw that one of them was clutching bolt cutters. God bless him! This was such an incredibly surreal moment.

  The man with the cutters knelt down beside me. "It's okay, you're okay," he whispered. Then he carefully sliced through the handcuffs.

  "You can leave. Get up slowly," he said. I rose cautiously, rubbing my wrist, but already backing away from the suitcase.

  My alien-looking escorts and I hurried out of the designated "hot zone" to where two black bomb-squad vans were parked. Of course, the van was still in the "hot zone" as well. If a nuclear bomb went off, at least a square mile of Paris would be vaporized instantly.

  From inside one of the vans I watched the team of technicians work to deactivate the bomb. If they could. I never considered leaving the scene, and the next few minutes were the longest of my life. No one in the van spoke, and we were all holding our breath. The idea of dying like this, so suddenly, was almost impossible to conceive.

  Word came back from the French bomb technicians: "The suitcase is open."

  Then, less than a minute later, "The fissile material is there. It's real. It seems to be in working order, unfortunately."

  The bomb was real. It wasn't a fake threat. The Wolf was still keeping his promises, wasn't he? The sadistic bastard was everything he said he was.

  Then I saw one of the technicians pump his arm in the air. A cheer went up around the console in the van. I didn't understand exactly what had happened at first, but it seemed like good news. No one explained anything to me.

  "What just happened?" I finally asked in French.

  One of the techs turned to me. "There's no trigger! It couldn't blow up. They didn't want it to explode, thank God. They only wanted to scare the shit out of us."

  "It worked," I told him. "I shit you not."

  Chapter 82

  Over the next couple of hours it was revealed that the suitcase bomb had everything necessary for a nuclear explosion except a single part, a pulsed neutron emitter, a trigger. All the difficult elements were there. I couldn't eat that night, couldn't keep anything down, couldn't concentrate at all. I'd been tested, but I couldn't get the idea of radiation poisoning to leave my brain.

  I also couldn't get Maud Boulard out of my mind: her face, the tenor of her voice, our absurd lunch together, the detective's stubbornness and na‹vet‚, her red hair splayed out on the sidewalk. The casual brutality of the Wolf and his people.

  I kept flashing back to the Russian who had struck me in the farmhouse. Had it been the Wolf? Why would he let me see him? And then, why not?

  I went back to the Relais and suddenly wished that I hadn't asked for a room facing the street. My body felt numb all over, exhausted, but my mind wouldn't stop racing at warp speed. The noise rising from the street was a disturbance that I couldn't handle right now. They have nuclear weapons. This isn't a bluff. It's going to happen. A holocaust.

  I decided to call the kids at about six o'clock, their time. I talked to them about all the things in Paris that I didn't see that day-everything except what had really happened to me. So far, the media had none of it, but that wouldn't last.

  Then I called Nana. I told her the truth about how it had felt sitting on the pavement with a bomb attached to my wrist. She was the one I always told about my worst days, and this was probably the worst of them all.

  Chapter 83

  When I arrived at my small office at the Pr‚fecture I got another surprise. Martin Lodge was waiting there for me. It was 7:15: ten hours and forty-five minutes to doomsday.

  I shook Martin's hand, and told him how glad I was that he was there. "Not much time left. Why are you here?"

  "Last words, I suppose. I have to give the final update on the situation in London. As well as Tel Aviv. From our vantage point, anyway."

  "And?"

  Martin shook his head. "You don't want to hear the same rotten story twice."

  "Yeah. I do."

  "Not this story, you don't. Oh hell, it's all cocked up, Alex. I think he might have to blow up a city to get them to act. That's how bad it is. The worst is Tel Aviv. I think it's basically hopeless there. They don't make deals with terrorists. You asked."

  The morning briefing started at eight sharp and included a quick summary on the briefcase bomb from the technicians who had taken it apart. They reported that the bomb was authentic in design, but there was no neutron emitter, no trigger, and possibly not enough radioactive material inside.

  An army general spoke about the current situation in Paris: the people were frightened and staying off the streets, but only a small percentage had actually fled the city. The army was prepared to move in and declare martial law about the time of the deadline, which was sixP.M.

  Then it was time for Martin. He strode to the front of the room and spoke in French. "Good morning. Isn't it incredible what can happen once we adapt ourselves to a new reality? The people of London have been splendid, for the most part. Some rioting. Not too much in terms of what could have happened. I suspect that those who might have given us the most trouble got out of London early. As for Tel Aviv, they're so accustomed to crisis and living under threatening scenarios-let's just say that they're handling this very well.

  "Anyway, that's the good news. The bad is that we've raised most of the money, but not all of it. That's in London. And Tel Aviv? As best we can tell, they're not going to make a deal. The Israelis hold their cards very close to the vest, so we're not sure what's transpired there.

  "We're putting on pressure, of course. And so is Washington. I know that private individuals have been approached to put up the entire ransom. That could still happen. But it isn't clear if the government will take the money. They simply don't want to meet terrorist demands.

  "Less than ten hours," Martin Lodge said. "To be blunt, we don't have time for a lot of bullshit. Somebody has to drop the hammer on anyone who's resisting paying the ransom."

  A policeman had come up to me and was whispering against my ear. "Sorry. You're needed, Dr. Cross."

  "What is it?" I whispered back. I wanted to hear everything that was being said in this meeting.

  "Just come. It's an emerg
ency. Right now, please."

  Chapter 84

  I knew that, ironically, an "emergency" had to be considered good news at this point in the countdown. At 8:30 that morning I was inside a speeding police cruiser, the blare of its siren disturbing the peace all along our route across Paris.

  My God, the streets were bleak and deserted. Except for soldiers and the police, anyway. My part in an ongoing interrogation was explained to me during the ride. "We have an arms dealer in custody, Dr. Cross. We have reason to believe that he helped supply the bombs. Maybe he's one of the men who you saw out in the country. He's a Russian-with a white beard."

  Minutes later we arrived in front of the Brigade Criminelle, a dark, nineteenth-century building in a quiet neighborhood along the Seine. Actually, this was the infamous "La Crim" from countless French movies and police stories, including several about Inspector Maigret that Nana and I had read together when I was a kid. Life imitates art, or something like that.

  Once inside La Crim I was led up a rickety staircase, all the way to the top floor, the fourth. The interrogation was being conducted up there.

  I was brought down a narrow hallway to room 414. The brigadier who escorted me knocked once, and then we stepped inside.

  I recognized the Russian arms dealer instantly.

  They had caught White Beard, the one who'd told me he was the Wolf.

  Chapter 85

  The room was small and cramped, as it was situated right under the eaves. It had a low, rain-stained, sloping ceiling and a tiny Velux, a skylight. I looked at my watch-8:45. Tick, tick, tick.

  I was hurriedly introduced to the interrogation team of Captain Coridon and Lieutenant Leroux-and their prisoner, a Russian arms dealer, Artur Nikitin. I already knew Nikitin, of course. He wore no shirt or shoes and was cuffed, hands behind his back. He was also sweating profusely. He was definitely the white-bearded Russian from the farmhouse.

  I had been told during the ride over that the Russian hoodlum did business with al Qaeda that had made him millions. It was believed that he was involved with suitcase nukes, that he knew how many had been sold, and that he knew who had bought them.

  "Cowards!" he was shouting at the French police as I entered the room. "Fucking goddamn cowards. You can't do this to me. I've done nothing wrong. You French claim to be such liberals, but you are not!"

  He looked at me and pretended he had no idea who I was. His bad acting made me smile.

  Captain Coridon told him, "You may have noticed that you have been brought to the Pr‚fecture de Police rather than the offices of the DST. That's because you're not being charged as an 'illegal trafficker in arms.' The charge is murder. We are homicide detectives. Trust me, there are no liberals in this room, unless it's you."

  Nikitin's brown eyes remained wide with anger, but I also detected traces of confusion, especially now that I was there. "This is bullshit! I can't believe it. I've done nothing wrong. I am a businessman! A French citizen. I want my lawyer!"

  Coridon looked at me. "You try."

  I stepped forward and threw a hard uppercut into the Russian's jaw. His head snapped back. "We're not even close to being even," I told him. "No one knows that you're here! You will be tried as a terrorist, and you will be executed. No one will care, not after tomorrow. Not after your bombs help destroy Paris and kill thousands."

  The Russian yelled at me. "I tell you again-I've done nothing! You can't do anything to me. What weapons? What bombs? Who am I, Saddam Hussein? You can't do this."

  "We can, and we will execute you," shouted Captain Coridon from off to the side. "You are a dead man as soon as you leave this room, Nikitin. We have other scum to talk to. Whoever helps us first, we help them."

  "Get him out of here!" Coridon finally said. "We're wasting time with this bastard!"

  The brigadier grabbed Nikitin by his hair and by the band of his pants. He threw him halfway across the room. The Russian's head smacked against the wall, but he scrambled to his bare feet. His eyes were large and fearful now. Maybe he was beginning to understand that the rules of interrogation had changed. Everything had changed now.

  "Last chance to talk," I said. "Remember, you're just a gnat to us."

  "I didn't sell anything to anyone here in France! I sell in Angola, for diamonds!" Nikitin said.

  "I don't care, and I don't believe you!" Captain Coridon shouted at the top of his voice. "Get him out of here."

  "I know something!" Nikitin suddenly blurted out. "The suitcase nukes! The number is four. It's al Qaeda who's behind it. Al Qaeda made the plan! They call the shots. The prisoners of war-everything."

  I turned to the French policemen and shook my head. "The Wolf gave him up to us. And he's not going to be pleased with his 'performance.' He'll kill him for us. I don't believe a word he just said."

  Nikitin looked at the three of us, then he spit, " Al Qaeda! Fuck you if you don't like it, or believe it."

  I stared back at him. "Prove what you're saying. Make us believe you. Make me believe you, because I don't."

  "All right," Nikitin said then. "I can do that. I'll make all of you believers."

  Chapter 86

  As soon as I arrived back at the Pr‚fecture, Martin Lodge caught up with me. "Let's go!" He started to pull me along.

  "What? Go where?" I looked at my watch-something I seemed to be doing every couple of minutes now. It was 10:25.

  "A raid is going down in a few minutes. The hideout that the Russian gave you-it's real."

  Martin and I hurried upstairs to the crisis room at police headquarters. My old pal Etienne Marteau met us and guided us to a row of monitors set up to view the raid. Everything was happening incredibly fast for a change. Too fast maybe, but what choice did we have?

  Marteau said, "They're confident, Alex. They coordinated with the power authority, EDF-GDF. The power grid in the area goes down and then they go in."

  I nodded at what he was saying and watched the screens in front of us. It was strange to be once removed from the action. Then it was happening! French soldiers appeared out of nowhere, dozens of them. They wore RAID jackets: Recherche, assistance, intervention et dissuasion. They carried assault rifles.

  The soldiers rushed toward a small town house that looked harmless enough. They broke down the front door. It happened in seconds.

  A UBL, a French version of the Hummer, appeared and crashed through a wooden gate in the rear. Soldiers jumped from the UBL.

  "We'll see soon enough," I said to Martin. "RAID is good at what they do?"

  "Yes, they are skillful at destruction and death."

  A couple of the French police were miked and carried cameras, so we got to see and hear much of the raid as it happened. A door was thrown open, a gun fired from inside, then a blaze of return fire.

  Someone's shrill scream, the sound of a body thumping against the floorboards.

  Two gunmen ran out into a narrow hallway. Both in their underwear. Shot down before they knew what hit them.

  A half-naked female with a handgun-shot in the throat.

  "Don't kill them all," I muttered at the monitor.

  A Cougar helicopter swooped down and more commandos appeared. Inside the house, soldiers swarmed into a bedroom, then fell on a man lying on a cot. They took him alive, thank God.

  Other terrorists were surrendering, their hands held high.

  Then more rapid gunshots, off camera this time.

  A suspect was marched down the hall with a gun held to his head. An older man. The Wolf? Was it possible they had captured him? The policeman with the gun was smiling as if he had scored something big. The raid was certainly fast and efficient. At least four of the terrorists had been captured alive.

  Then we waited impatiently for news. The cameras at the raid site were shut down. We waited some more.

  Finally, about three in the afternoon, an army colonel stood at the front of the room in the crisis center. Every seat was taken; there was no more standing room; the tension was almost unbearable
.

  The colonel began, "We have identified the prisoners, those who are alive. One from Iran, a Saudi, a Moroccan, two Egyptians. A cell. Al Qaeda. We know who they are. It is doubtful that we caught the Wolf. It is also doubtful that these terrorists were involved in the threat to Paris. I am sorry to give you bad news at this late hour. We did our best. But he remains a step ahead of us. I'm sorry."

  Chapter 87

  The terrible, "final" deadline was so close now, and no one had any more information on what would happen next. We seemed to have run out of options to stop the Wolf.

  At 5:45, I was one of several nervous men and women climbing out of dark Renaults and then hurrying toward the tall ironwork gates of the MinistŠre de l'Int‚rieur building for a meeting with the DGSE, which is the French equivalent of our CIA. The front gates were immense. Like supplicants entering a cathedral, we seemed small and insignificant as we passed through them. I felt small and insignificant, as well as at the mercy of higher powers, and not just God.