“So, that having been said, let me give you the gory details—the numbers. Our price to go away. I hope someone has a pencil and paper.”
“Go ahead,” said Burns.
“All right, here we go, then.
“New York, six hundred fifty million U.S. dollars. London, six hundred million. Dollars. Washington, four hundred fifty million. Frankfurt, four hundred fifty million. A grand total of two billion one hundred and fifty million in U.S. dollars. Plus, there are fifty-seven political prisoners I want released. You will be provided with the names in the next hour. For what it’s worth, all the prisoners are from the Middle East. You figure it out. Interesting puzzle, don’t you think?
“You have four days to deliver the money and the prisoners. That’s plenty of time, no? More than fair? You’ll be told how and where. You have four days from . . . right . . . now.
“And, yes, I’m perfectly serious. I also realize that I’m asking for a great deal of money and that it will be deemed ‘impossible’ to raise. I expect to hear as much. But don’t bother with the excuses or the whining.”
There was a short pause.
“That’s the fucking point of the call, Mr. Burns. Deliver the money. Deliver the prisoners. Don’t mess up again. Oh, and I suppose there is one other thing. I don’t forgive and forget. You are going to die before this is over, Director Burns. So keep looking over your shoulder. One of these days, I’ll be there. And boom! But for right now, four days!”
Then the Wolf hung up.
Ron Burns stared straight ahead and spoke through clenched teeth, “You’ve got that right, boom! One of these days, I’ll be there for you.”
Then Burns’s eyes slowly went around the room, and stopped at me. “We’re on the clock, Alex.”
Chapter 35
BURNS CONTINUED: “I’d like Dr. Cross to give us his impressions of the Russian maniac. He knows all about him. For those of you who don’t know Alex Cross, he came to us from the Washington PD. Their loss, believe me. He’s the man who put Kyle Craig away.”
“And who let Geoffrey Shafer escape once or twice,” I spoke up from my seat. “My impressions so far? Well, I won’t belabor the obvious too much. There’s his need for complete control and power. I can tell you this: he wants to do things on a large scale, work a big stage. He’s a creative, obsessive planner. He’s an ‘executive type,’ meaning that he organizes, delegates well, doesn’t have problems making difficult decisions.
“But most of all, he’s vicious. He likes to hurt people. He likes to watch people get hurt. He’s giving us plenty of time to think about what could happen. That’s partly because he knows we won’t, can’t, pay him easily. But also because he’s preying on our minds. He knows how hard it will be to catch him. Bin Laden is still free, isn’t he?
“I’ll tell you what doesn’t track for me—the assassination attempt on the director. I don’t see how it fits his pattern. Not this early in the game, anyway. And I especially don’t like it that he missed, that he failed.”
The words came out wrong and I looked at Burns, but he waved me off. “Do you think he missed? Or was Tom Weir the real target?” he asked.
“My guess . . . Weir was the target. I don’t think the Wolf made a mistake. Not one this big. I do think he lied about what happened.”
“Any idea why? Anybody?” Burns glanced around the room.
No one spoke up, so I continued. “If Thomas Weir was the target, it’s the best clue we have. Why would he be a significant threat to the Wolf? What could he have known? I wouldn’t be surprised if Weir and the Wolf knew each other from somewhere, even if Weir wasn’t aware of it. Weir is important. But where would Thomas Weir have come across the Russian? That’s a question we need to ask.”
“And then answer in a hurry,” said Burns. “Let’s get on it. Everybody—and I mean everybody—in the Bureau!”
Chapter 36
THE MAN WHO had made the most recent phone calls for the Wolf had his instructions and he knew enough to follow them precisely. He was to be seen in Washington. That was his piece.
The Wolf was to be seen, which would definitely cause a stir. Wouldn’t it?
The phone calls he’d made to FBI headquarters and elsewhere would soon be traced to the Four Seasons Hotel on Pennsylvania Avenue. It was part of the current plan, and the plan had been nearly flawless thus far.
So he calmly walked down to the hotel lobby and made certain he was noticed at the concierge desk and also by the couple of doormen out front. It helped that he was tall, blond, bearded, and wore a long cashmere coat. All according to the plan he’d been given.
Then he took a leisurely stroll along M Street, checking out restaurant menus in the windows and the latest fashions of Georgetown.
He found it somewhat comical that he could actually see police cruisers and the FBI as they sped toward the Four Seasons from several directions.
Finally the man stepped into a white Chevy van that was waiting for him at the corner of M and Thomas Jefferson.
The van sped away in the direction of the airport. In addition to the driver, there was a second man. He sat in back beside the one who’d made the phone calls from the Four Seasons.
“It went well?” the driver asked once they were a few miles from M Street and the commotion going on there.
The bearded man shrugged. “Of course it did. They have an accurate description. Something to go on, a little hope, whatever they want to call it. It went perfectly. I did what was asked of me.”
“Excellent,” said the second man. He then pulled out a Beretta and shot the blond man in the right temple. He was brain-dead before he even heard the explosion.
Now the police and FBI had a physical description of the Wolf—but no one alive matched it.
Chapter 37
THERE WAS MORE INTRIGUE, or at least confusion, that afternoon. According to our telecommunications people, the Wolf had called us from the Four Seasons Hotel in D.C., and he had been spotted there. The description we had of him was already being sent around the world. It was possible that he’d slipped up, but I didn’t know if I could believe it. He’d always called on cell phones before, but this time he used a hotel phone. Why?
I got a surprise when I arrived home a little before 9:30 that night. Dr. Kayla Coles was in the living room with Nana. The two of them were huddled together on the sofa, conspiring about God only knew what. I was a little concerned that Nana’s doctor was there so late in the evening.
“Everything okay?” I asked. “What’s going on?”
“Kayla was in the neighborhood. She just stopped by,” Nana answered. “Isn’t that right, Dr. Coles? No problems that I know of. Except you missed supper.”
“Well, actually,” Kayla spoke up, “Nana was feeling a little faint again. So I stopped by as a precaution.”
“Now, Kayla, don’t exaggerate, please. Let’s not get carried away,” Nana scolded in her usual way. “I’m just fine. Fainting’s just a part of my life now.”
Kayla nodded and smiled pleasantly. Then she sighed out loud and leaned back on the couch. “I’m sorry. You tell it, Nana.”
“I felt a little faint a few days last week. As you know, Alex. No big thing. If we still had Alex Junior around to take care of, then maybe I would be more concerned.”
“Well, I’m concerned,” I said.
Kayla smiled and shook her head. “Right. Like Nana said, I was in the neighborhood and I just stopped by, Alex. Strictly social. I did take her blood pressure. Everything seems to be in working order. I would like her to go for a few blood tests.”
“Fine, I’ll go for tests,” said Nana. “Let’s talk about the weather now.”
I shook my head. At both of them. “You still working too hard?” I asked Kayla.
“Look who’s talking,” she said, then smiled brightly. Kayla had tremendous spirit and could always light up a room. “Unfortunately, there’s too much work to do around here. Don’t get me started about the number of people i
n the capital of this wealthy nation of ours who can’t begin to afford to see a good doctor, or wait for hours and hours at St. Anthony’s and several other hospitals I could name around this town.”
I had always liked Kayla, and maybe, to be honest, I was even a little intimidated by her. Why is that? I wondered as we talked. I noticed that she’d lost some weight, what with all her running around and do-gooding in the neighborhood and elsewhere. The truth was, she looked better than ever. I almost felt embarrassed to have noticed.
“What are you standing there gawking at?” Nana asked. “Sit down and join us.”
“I have to go,” Kayla said, and stood up from the couch. “It is late, even for me.”
“Don’t let me break up the party,” I protested. Suddenly I didn’t want Kayla to leave. I wanted to talk about something other than the Wolf and the terror attacks that had been threatened.
“You’re not breaking up the party, Alex. Wouldn’t happen. But I still have two more house calls to make.”
I looked at my watch. “Two more calls at this hour? You’re something else. Wow. You’re crazy, you know that?” I grinned.
“Maybe I am,” Kayla said, and shrugged. “Probably true.” Then she kissed Nana with obvious affection. “You take care. Blood tests. Don’t forget.”
“My memory is fine.”
When she was gone, Nana said to me, “Kayla Coles is something else, Alex. And you know what? I think that one reason she comes around here is to see you. That’s my cockeyed theory, anyway, and I’m sticking with it.”
The thought had occurred to me, too. “Then why does she leave so fast when I get here?”
Nana frowned and raised an eyebrow at me. “Maybe it’s because you never ask her to stay. Maybe it’s because you gawk at her when she’s here. Why is that? You know, she just could be the one for you. Don’t argue with me. She scares you, and that might be a good thing.”
I thought about it, and I didn’t have a response. It had been a long day and my brain wasn’t firing on all cylinders. “So you’re okay?” I asked Nana. “You’re sure you’re feeling all right?”
“Alex, I’m eighty-three years old. More or less. How okay can I be?” she asked. Then Nana kissed me on the cheek and headed off to bed.
“You’re not getting any younger yourself,” she turned and chirped over her shoulder.
Good one, Nana.
Chapter 38
NOT EVERYONE WAS headed off to bed yet that night. The night was still young in some quarters.
The Weasel had never been any good at controlling his so-called baser desires and physical needs. This fact scared him sometimes, because it was an obvious weakness and vulnerability, but it also turned him on. The danger, the adrenaline rush. Actually, it made him feel more alive than anything else in his life. When he went for the kill, he felt so good, so powerful, that it took over everything and he lost himself completely in the moment.
Shafer knew Washington, D.C., very well from his earlier posting at the British embassy, and he knew the poorer sections, because it was where he had hunted most often in the past.
The Weasel was hunting tonight. And he was feeling alive again, that his life had a purpose.
He drove a black Mercury Cougar along South Capitol. A cool drizzle was falling, and there were only a couple of skanks walking the streets. But one of the girls had already caught his eye.
He cruised around the block a couple of times, checking her out in the most obvious ways, playing at being a john.
He finally slowed the Cougar beside a petite black girl showing off her wares near the hot Nation nightclub. She wore a silver bustier, matching short skirt, and platform heels.
The very best part: he had been instructed to go hunting in Washington tonight. He was following orders from the Wolf. Just doing his job.
The young black girl thrust her chest forward provocatively as he leaned across the front seat to talk to her. She probably thought that her pert young nipples put her in control of the situation. This encounter will be interesting, he was thinking. Shafer had on a wig, and he had colored his face and hands black. A dumb old rock tune was playing inside his head: “The name of the song is I like it like that.”
“Those real?” he asked as the girl leaned in close.
“Last time I checked they were. Maybe you should find out for yourself? You interested in a feel? It could be arranged, you know. A private tour, just for you, darlin’.”
Shafer smiled pleasantly, playing the game, too, the street hustle. If the girl noticed he was wearing blackface, she wasn’t letting on. Nothing bothers this one, does it? Well, we’ll see about that.
“Hop in,” he said. “I’d like to check you out. Breast to toe, as it were.”
“It’s a hundred,” she said, and suddenly stood back from the car. “Y’okay with that? ’Cause if you’re not —”
Shafer continued to smile. “If they’re real, a hundred is fine. It won’t be a problem.”
The girl opened the door and hopped into the car. She was wearing way too much perfume. “See for yourself, sweetheart. They’re kind of small-like, but they’re soooo nice. And they’re all yours.”
Shafer laughed again. “You know, I like you a great deal. Remember what you said, though. I’ll hold you to it.” They’re all mine.
Chapter 39
I WAS ON DUTY again at midnight, and I felt as though I was back in Homicide. I arrived in a familiar neighborhood that was mostly white clapboard row houses, many of them deserted, on New Jersey Avenue in Southeast. A crowd had already gathered at the murder scene, including some local gangbangers and little kids on bikes still up at that late hour.
A man in a Rastafarian hat full of dreadlocks was shouting at the police from behind the yellow crime-scene tape. “Hey, ya hear dat music?” he called in a loopy, wheezy voice. “Ya like dat music? Dat mah people music.”
Sampson met me outside one of the dilapidated row houses, and we went in together.
“Just like bad old times,” John said, shaking his head. “That why you’re here, Dragonslayer? Are you nostalgic for the old days? Want to come back to the Washington PD?”
I nodded and gestured around. “Yeah. I missed this. Bad homicide scenes in the middle of the night.”
“Bet you do, too. I would.”
The building where the body had been found was boarded up in front, but it was easy enough for us to get inside. There was no front door.
“This is Alex Cross,” Sampson said to the patrolmen standing just outside the open doorway. “You heard of him? This is the Alex Cross, brother.”
“Dr. Cross,” said the man as he stepped aside to let us enter.
“Gone,” said John Sampson, “but not forgotten.”
Once we were in, the scene was sadly familiar and reprehensible. Garbage was strewn in the hallways, and the smell of decaying food and urine was overpowering. Maybe it was because I hadn’t been inside one of these vacated rattraps in a while, over a year now.
We were told that the body was on the top floor, the third, so Sampson and I began to climb.
“Dumping grounds,” he muttered.
“Yeah, I know. I remember the drill pretty well.”
“At least we don’t have to visit the goddamn basement,” Sampson grumped. “So, why did you say you’re here? I didn’t catch that part.”
“I just missed hanging with you. Nobody calls me Sugar anymore.”
“Uh-huh. You Feebies aren’t into nicknames? So why are you here, Sugar?”
Sampson and I had made our way to the third floor. There were Washington PD uniforms everywhere up there. This really was déjà vu all over again. I put on plastic gloves, and so did Sampson. I did miss working with him, and sadly, this brought it all home, the good and the bad.
We stopped outside the second door on the right just as a young black patrolman was leaving. He had his hand over his mouth, a white handkerchief wrapped over the fist. I think he was going to be sick any second.
That part doesn’t change, either.
“Hope he didn’t barf all over our crime scene,” Sampson said. “Goddamn rookies.”
Then we went inside. “Oh man,” I muttered. You see things like this over and over in Homicide, but you never get used to it, and you don’t forget the details, the sensations, the smells, the taste it leaves in your mouth.
“He called it in to us first,” I told Sampson. “That’s why I’m here.”
“Who’s he?” he asked.
“You tell me,” I said.
We walked over closer to the body that lay on the bare wooden floor. Young woman, probably still in her teens. Petite, pretty enough. Naked except for one platform hanging off the toes on her left foot. Golden ankle charm on her right foot. Her hands were tied behind her back with what looked like plastic cable. A black plastic bag had been stuffed inside her mouth.
I’d seen this kind of murder before, exactly this kind. So had Sampson.
“Prostitute.” Sampson sighed. “Patrolmen seen her around on South Capitol. Eighteen, nineteen years old, maybe even younger. So who is he?”
It looked to me as if the girl’s breasts had been sliced right off her chest. Her face had been attacked, too. A checklist of deviant behavior ran through my head, the kind of things I hadn’t thought about for a while: expressive aggression (check), sadism (check), sexualization (check), offense planning (check). Check, check, check.
“It’s Shafer, John. It’s the Weasel. He’s back in Washington. But that’s not the worst of it. I wish to hell it were.”
Chapter 40
WE KNEW A BAR that was open, so Sampson and I went for a beer after we left the slaughter scene on New Jersey Avenue. We were officially off duty, but I had my beeper clipped on. So did John. There were only two other guys drinking in the gin mill, so we pretty much had the place to ourselves.
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