The gates opened onto a grand courtyard, a vast expanse of cobblestones, and I was reminded of the horse-drawn carriages that had once rolled through these very gates. Had there been progress in the world since then? It didn't seem like it on that particular day.
I walked with other police officers, government ministers, and directors into a magnificent entry hall with a marbled pink and white tile floor. Armed guards lined the staircase. Hardly anyone spoke on the way up. There was only the dull sound of our plodding footsteps, the occasional nervous cough. It was possible that within the hour, Paris, London, Washington, and Tel Aviv would be bombed and thousands would die. There could be a much higher number of casualties. A hundred thousand or more was a possibility.
A Russian gangster is doing this? One with mysterious ties to al Qaeda? We are at his mercy now, aren't we? How incredibly strange.
The meeting was in the Salle des Fˆtes, and once again I couldn't help wondering what I was doing there. I was the American representative in Paris because the FBI wanted me there, because there was a chance that I could make a difference with my experience as a psychologist and homicide detective, because something tragic might have happened to the Wolf in Paris a long time ago. We still hadn't figured out what.
Inside the main hall, tables had been arranged in a U shape and covered with plain white fabric. Propped on easels were laminated maps of Europe, the Middle East, and the United States. The target areas were circled in thick red crayon. Crude, but effective.
A dozen or more TV monitors were up and running. So was a state-of-the-art teleconferencing system. There were more gray and blue suits than usual, more important people, more obvious power on display. For some reason, I noticed several pairs of rimless titanium eyeglasses-the ever-fashionable French.
Live scenes from London, Washington, Paris, and Tel Aviv played on the TV monitors mounted on the walls. The cities were quiet. Most of the army and police were inside as well. Etienne Marteau came and sat beside me. Martin Lodge had already returned to London.
"What do you think our chances are, realistically, here in Paris, Alex?" Etienne asked.
"Etienne, I don't know what's happening. No one does. Maybe we stopped the main cell of terrorists earlier. My guess is that everything has been leading up to today's deadline. I think the Wolf knew how difficult it would be to pull this together. Something happened to him here in Paris. We still don't know what it is. What can I say? We're out of time. We're fucked."
Suddenly, Etienne sat up straight in his chair. "My God, it's President Debauney."
Chapter 88
Aramis Debauney, the French president, looked to be in his mid-fifties and was very well dressed for the occasion, very formal. He was a compact man with slicked-back silver-gray hair and a pencil-thin mustache, and he wore wire-rimmed eyeglasses. He looked somewhat calm and in control of his emotions as he strode quickly to the front of the room, and began to talk. You could hear a pin drop.
"As you know, I have worked in the trenches and on the front lines of law enforcement for many years myself. So I wanted you to hear from me now. I also wanted to be with you for these final minutes before the deadline runs out.
"I have news. The money has been raised. In Paris. In London. Washington. And in Tel Aviv, with help from many friends of Israel around the world. The entire sum will be transferred in three and a half minutes, approximately five minutes before the deadline expires.
"I want to thank everyone in this room, and all of those you represent, for countless hours of hard work, for personal sacrifices that no one should ask, for the most heroic effort, incredible bravery by so many. We did the best that we could, and most important, we will survive this crisis. Eventually we will get these inhuman bastards, all of them! We will get this Wolf, the most inhuman of them all."
There was a gold Empire clock on the wall behind the president. Everyone watched it intently. How could we not?
At 5:55 Paris time, President Debauney said, "The money is being transferred now. It will happen in a matter of seconds.... All right. It's done. This should be over now. We will be all right. Congratulations to all of you. Thank you."
There was an audible sigh of relief in the cavernous room, smiles and handshakes, some hugs.
Then we waited, almost a reflex action.
For any kind of communication from the Wolf.
For breaking news from the other targeted cities: Washington, London, Tel Aviv.
The final sixty seconds before the deadline were incredibly tense and dramatic, even though the ransom had been delivered. I could do nothing but watch the second hand on the clock. Finally, I said a prayer for my family, for the people in all four cities, for the world we live in.
Then it was six in Paris and London; twelve in Washington; seven in Tel Aviv.
The deadline had passed. But what did it mean? Were we truly safe?
There were no significant changes on any of the monitors, no disruptions, no explosions on the live video feeds. Nothing.
And there was no call from the Wolf.
Two more minutes passed.
Ten minutes.
And then, a terrible explosion rocked the room-and the world.
Part Five
DELIVER US FROM EVIL
Chapter 89
The bomb, or bombs, not nuclear, but powerful enough to cause massive damage, went off in the first arrondissement, near the Louvre. The entire area, a maze of lanes and dead-end streets, was nearly flattened. Close to a thousand people died immediately, or at least within a few seconds. The terrible multiple explosions were heard, and felt, all over Paris.
The Louvre suffered only minor damage from the blasts, but the three-block area covering rue de Marengo, rue de l'Oratoire and rue Bailleul was almost completely destroyed. As was a nearby bridge-a small one-crossing the Seine.
A bridge. Another bridge. In Paris this time.
Not a word of explanation was heard from the Wolf. He didn't take credit for the wanton and despicable act, nor did he deny it.
He didn't need to explain his actions, did he? He thought he was God.
There are other supremely arrogant people who labor inside our government in Washington, and also some who work in the national media, who believe that they can accurately predict what will happen in the future because they know, or think they know, what happened in the past. I suspect it's the same in Paris, London, Tel Aviv, and everywhere else in the world: all these basically intelligent, maybe even well-intentioned people who proclaim, "That couldn't happen," or "Here's how it would happen in the real world." As if they really know. But they don't know. Nobody knows.
All bets are off nowadays. Anything can happen, and sooner or later, it probably will. We don't seem to be getting any smarter as a species, just crazier and crazier. Or at the very least, a whole lot more dangerous. Unbelievably, unbearably more dangerous.
Or maybe that was just my mood as I flew back from Paris. A terrible, terrible tragedy had occurred there after all. The Wolf had won, if what he did could be called winning, and it hadn't even been a close contest.
A power-mad Russian gangster had adopted the tactics of terrorism, or so it seemed. He was better than we were-more organized, more cunning, and far more brutal when he needed results. I couldn't even remember the last time we'd had a victory in our battle with the Wolf and his forces. He was smarter. I just prayed that it was over now. Could it be? Or was it another calm before another storm? I couldn't bear to think about that possibility.
I arrived home a little before three on a Thursday afternoon. The kids were back; Nana had never left Fifth Street. When I got there I insisted on cooking dinner, wouldn't take no for an answer. It was what I needed: cook a good meal, talk to Nana and the kids about anything we wanted to talk about, get lots of hugs. Not have a single thought about what had happened in Paris, or the Wolf, or any kind of police work.
So I made my interpretation of a French-style dinner and I even spoke French with Damon a
nd Jannie while the meal was being prepared. Jannie set the dining table with Nana's silver, cloth napkins, a lace tablecloth that we used only for special occasions. The meal? Langoustines r“ties brunoises de papaye poivrons et oignons doux -prawns with papaya, peppers, and onions. For a main course, chicken stew in a sweet red wine sauce. We drank small glasses of wine with the meal, a delightful Minervois, and ate with enthusiasm.
But for dessert-brownies and ice cream. I was back in America, after all.
I was home, thank God.
Chapter 90
Home again, home again.
The next day I didn't go to work and the kids stayed out of school. It seemed to satisfy everybody's needs, even Nana Mama's, who encouraged us all to play hooky. I called Jamilla a couple of times, and talking to her helped, as it always did, but something seemed off between us.
For our day of hooky-playing I took the kids on a day trip to St. Michaels, Maryland, which is situated on Chesapeake Bay. The village turned out to be a lively snapshot of quaint, coastal charm: a thriving marina, a couple of small inns with rockers set out on the porches, even a lighthouse. And the Chesapeake Bay Maritime Museum, where we got to watch real shipwrights working on a skipjack restoration. It felt as though we were back in the nineteenth century, which didn't seem like such a bad idea.
After lunch at the Crab Claw Restaurant we embarked on an actual skipjack charter. Nana Mama had taken her school classes there many times over the years, but she stayed home this trip, protesting that she had too much work to do around the house. I only hoped she was really feeling okay. I still remembered the way she used to teach her students on the field trips, so I took over as the guest lecturer.
"Jannie and Damon, this is the last fleet of working sailing vessels in North America. Can you imagine? These ships have no winches, just manpower and blocks and tackles. The fishermen are called watermen," I told them, just as Nana had told her classes years before.
Then off we went on the Mary Merchant for a two-and-a-half-hour cruise into the past.
The captain and his mate showed us how to hoist a sail with a block and tackle, and soon we had caught a breeze with a loud whoosh and the rhythmic smack of waves against the hull. What an afternoon it was. Gazing up at a sixty-foot mast made from a single log shipped all the way from Oregon. The smells of salt air, linseed oil, residual oystershells. The closeness of my two eldest children, the look of trust and love in their eyes. Most of the time, anyway.
We passed stands of pine woods, open fields where tenant farmers raised corn and soybean, and great white-columned estates that had once been plantations. I almost felt as if I were back in another century and it was a good break, much needed R & R. Only a couple of times did I drift into thoughts of police work, but I quickly pulled myself back.
I half listened as the captain explained that "only boats under sail" can dredge for oysters-except twice a week, when engine-powered yawls were allowed on the bay. I suspected that it was a clever conservation ploy to make the watermen work hard for their oysters; otherwise, the supply might run out.
What a fine day-as the boat heeled to starboard, the boom swung out, the mainsail and jib filled the air with a loud smack, and Jannie, Damon, and I squinted into the setting sun. And we understood, for a little while anyway, that this had something to do with the way life was supposed to be lived, and maybe even why such moments needed to be cherished and remembered.
"Best day of my life," Jannie told me. "I'm not even exaggerating too much."
"Same here," I said. "And I'm not exaggerating at all."
Chapter 91
When we got home early that evening I saw a scuffed-up white van parked in front of the house. I recognized the bright green logo on the door: HOMECARE HEALTH PROJECT. What was this? Why was Dr. Coles there?
Suddenly I was nervous that something had happened to Nana while I was out with the kids. The fragile state of her health had been on my mind more and more lately; the reality that she was in her mid-eighties now, though she wouldn't tell exactly how old she was, or rather, she lied about it. I hurried out of the car and up the front steps ahead of the kids by a couple of strides.
"I'm in here with Kayla," Nana called as I opened the front door and Damon and Jannie slid by me on either side. "We're just kicking back, Alex. No need for alarm. Take your time."
"So who's alarmed?" I asked as I slowed and walked into the living room, saw the two of them "kicking back" on the sofa.
"You were, Mr. Worrywart. You saw the Health truck outside, and what did you think? Sickness," said Nana.
She and Kayla both laughed merrily, and I had to smile, too-at myself. I made a very weak protest. "Never happened."
"Then why did you rush up the front steps like your trousers were on fire? Oh, forget it, Alex," Nana said, and laughed some more.
Then she waved her hand as if to chase away any unwanted negativity in the room. "Come. Sit down with us for a minute or two. Can you spare it? Tell me everything. How was St. Michaels? Has it changed very much?"
"Oh, I suspect that St. Michaels is pretty much the same as it was a hundred years ago."
"Which is a good thing," Nana said. "Thank God for small favors."
I went over and gave Kayla a kiss on the cheek. She had helped Nana when she was sick a while back, and now she stopped in regularly. Actually, I'd known Kayla since we were both growing up in the neighborhood. She was one of us who got out, received an education, and then came back, to give back. The Homecare Health Project brought doctors to the homes of the sick in Southeast. Kayla had started it, and she kept it going with incredibly hard work, including fund-raising, which she mostly did herself.
"You look good," I told her. The words just came out.
"Yes, I lost some weight, Alex," she said, and cocked an eyebrow at me. "It's all this running around that I do. I try my best to keep the weight on, but it just comes off, damn it."
I had noticed. Kayla is close to six feet, but I had never seen her looking so trim and fit, not even when she was a kid. She's always had a sweet, pretty face and a disposition to match.
"It also sets a better example for folks," she said. "Too many people in the neighborhood are overweight. Too many are obese, even a lot of the kids. They think it's in their genes."
Then Kayla laughed. "Plus, I must admit, it has helped my social life, my outlook on things, whatever. Whatever."
"Well, you always look good to me," I said, putting my foot in it again.
Kayla rolled her eyes at Nana. "He lies so easily. He's really good at it." They both laughed again.
"Anyway, thank you for the compliment, Alex," said Kayla. "I'll take it for what it's worth. I don't even consider it too condescending. Oh, you know what I mean."
I decided I'd better change the topic. "So Nana is fine, and going to live to a hundred?"
"I would expect so," Kayla said.
But Nana frowned. "Why do you want to get rid of me so soon?" she asked. "What did I do to deserve that?"
I laughed. "Maybe it's because you're a constant pain in my butt. You know that, don't you?"
"Of course I know it," Nana said. "That's my job in life. My reason for being is to torment you. Don't you know that yet?"
And as she said those words, I finally felt that I was home again, really home, back from the wars. I took Kayla and Nana out to the sunporch and played "An American in Paris" for them. That's what I had been not too long ago, but no more.
About eleven, I walked Kayla outside to her Health van. We stopped and talked for a moment on the front porch.
"Thanks for coming by to see her," I said.
"You don't have to thank me," Kayla said. "I do it because I want to. It just so happens that I love your grandmother. I love her tremendously. She's one of my guiding lights, my mentor. Has been for years."
Then Kayla leaned in very quickly, and she kissed me. She held the kiss for a few seconds. When she pulled away she was laughing. "I've wanted to do that for the long
est time."
"And?" I asked, more than slightly surprised at what had just happened.
"Now I've done it, Alex. Interesting."
"Interesting?"
"I have to go. I have to run."
Laughing to herself, Kayla ran out to her van.
Interesting.
Chapter 92
After some much-needed R & R I went back to work and found that I was still assigned to the extortion/terrorism case, which apparently now involved chasing down whoever was responsible, whoever had the money. I was told that I was picked because I'm relentless.
James Patterson - Alex Cross 10 - London Bridges Page 17