The Big Bad Wolf ак-9

by James Patterson

  Then the announcer came over the PA. ‘Canadian goal by number eighteen, Stevie Bowen. Time of goal, nineteen minutes and thirty-two seconds.’

  The period ended like that, 2–2. The Zamboni chugged out resurfacing the ice between periods. More beer and more nachos were consumed. And the resurfaced ice became a slick glass sheet once again.

  For the next sixteen minutes, the game was knotted at 2–2. The Wolf wanted to garrote Teptev and Dobrushkin. Then the Canadian center, Bowen, plowed through a half-hearted check and burst into the Flyer zone. He dropped a pass along the right boards. A shot! Wide! Recovered by Alexei Dobrushkin – who settled behind his own net with the puck.

  He skated to his right – then snapped a pass across the ice – across the goal mouth – and it was picked off by Bowen. Bowen slapped the puck into the corner of the net.

  Goal – Canadians!

  The Wolf smiled for the first time that night. Then he turned to his companion, his seven-year-old son, Dimitri, which would have surprised everyone who supposedly knew him.

  ‘Let’s go, Dimmie, the game’s over. The Canadians will win. Just like I told you they would. Didn’t I tell you?’

  Dimitri wasn’t convinced about the outcome, but he knew better than to argue with his father. ‘You were right, Daddy,’ said the boy. ‘You’re always right.’

  Chapter Eighty-One

  That night at eleven-thirty I planned to enter the Wolf’s Den for the first time. I needed the help of Mr Potter, though. Homer Taylor had been moved to Washington for the purpose. I needed his eyes.

  The two of us sat close together, Taylor in cuffs, in an operation room on the fifth floor of the Hoover. The professor was nervous, and I guessed that he was having second thoughts about our arrangement with respect to the Wolf. ‘Don’t think that he won’t get to you. He’s relentless. He’s crazy,’ he warned me again.

  ‘I’ve avoided crazy men before,’ I said. ‘We still have a deal?’

  ‘We do. What choice do I have? But you’ll regret it. So will I, I’m afraid.’

  ‘We’re going to protect you.’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘So you say.’

  The night had been a busy one already. The top computer experts at the Bureau had tried password-cracking software to get into the Wolf’s Den. So far, everything had failed. So had a ‘brute force’ attack that can often decode encrypted data by feeding in combinations of letters and numbers. Nothing had worked. We needed Mr Potter to get inside. We needed his eyes. The blood-vessel patterns of the retina and the pattern of flecks on the iris offered unique methods of identification. Scanning involved a low-intensity light source and an optical coupler.

  Potter set one eye up to the device and then focused on a red dot. An impression was taken and then sent on. Seconds later, we had access.

  This is Potter, I typed as Taylor was led out of the operations room. He would be transferred to Lorton Federal Prison for the night, then taken back to New England. I put him out of my mind, but I wouldn’t be able to forget his warning about the Wolf.

  We were just talking about you, said someone with the username Master Trekr.

  I wondered why my ears were buzzing, I typed, and wondered if I was communicating with the Wolf for the first time. Was he on-line? If so, where was he? What city?

  I was center stage in the operation room used by SIOC. More than a dozen agents and technicians were gathered around me. Most were on computers too. The scene looked like a very high-tech classroom.

  Master Trekr: Weren’t really talking about you, Potter. UR paranoid. Same as it ever was.

  I looked at the other user names.

  Sphinx 3000.

  ToscaBella.

  Louis XV.

  Sterling 66.

  No Wolf. Did that mean he wasn’t on-line in the Den? Or was he Master Trekr? Was he observing me now? Was I passing his test?

  I need a replacement for ‘Worcester’, I typed. Potter had told me that Francis Deegan’s code name was ‘Worcester’.

  Sphinx 3000: Take a number. We were talking about my package, my delivery. It’s my turn. You know that, you fruitcake.

  I didn’t respond at first. This was my first test. Would Potter apologize to Sphinx 3000? I didn’t think he would. More likely, he’d come back with a caustic reply. Or would he? I chose to say nothing for now.

  Sphinx 3000: Fuck U too. I know what UR thinking. U kinky bastard. As I was saying before I was interrupted. I want a Southern belle, the more hung up on herself, the more self-absorbed she is, the better. I want an ice goddess, who I plan to shatter. Totally into herself. She wears Chanel and Miu Miu and Bulgari Jewelry. Even to the shopping mall. Heels of course. I don’t care if she’s tall or short. Beautiful face. Pert tits.

  ToscaBella: How orignal.

  Sphinx 3000: Fuck original, and sorry to repeat myself, but fuck U. Give me that old-time rock-and-roll music. I want what I want, and I’ve earned it.

  Sterling 66: Anything else? This Southern belle of yours? In her twenties? Thirties?

  Sphinx 3000: That’d be good. All or any of the above.

  Louis XV: Teens?

  Sphinx 3000: That’d be good too.

  Sterling 66: How long do you plan to keep her around?

  Sphinx 3000: One glorious night of ecstasy and wild abandon… Just one night.

  Sterling 66: And then?

  Sphinx 3000: I’m going to dispose of her. Now, do I get my goddess?

  There was a pause.

  No answer came from anyone.

  What was going on? I wondered.

  Of course U do, answered Wolf. Just be careful, Sphinx. Be very careful. We’re being watched.

  Chapter Eighty-Two

  I wasn’t sure how to react to the Wolf, or his message to Sphinx. Should I speak now? Did he know we were on to him? How could he?

  Sterling 66: Now what’s your problem, Mr Potter?

  This was my chance. I wanted to try and draw out Wolf if I could. But could I pull it off? I was aware that everyone was watching me in the operation room.

  I don’t have a problem, I typed. I’m just ready for another boy. U know I’m good for it. Haven’t I always been?

  Sterling 66: UR ready for another boy? U just recently received ‘Worcester’. Less than a week ago.

  I typed: Yes, but he’s left us.

  Sphinx 3000: That’s very funny. UR so cute, Potter. Such a cute psycho-killer.

  Sphinx didn’t like Potter, did he? I had to assume the feeling was mutual. I typed, I love u too. We should get together and bond in person.

  Sterling 66: When U say ‘he’s left us’, I assume U mean that he’s dead?

  Potter: Yes, the dear boy passed. I’m over my grieving though. Ready to move on.

  Sphinx 3000: Hilarious.

  This bickering was starting to get on my nerves. Who the hell were these sick bastards? Where were they? Besides cyberspace?

  I have someone in mind. I’ve been watching him for a while, I typed

  Sphinx 3000: I’ll bet he’s gorgeous.

  I typed: Oh, he is. One of a kind. The love of my life.

  Sterling 66: U said that about Worcester. What city?

  I typed: Boston. Cambridge, actually. He’s a student at Harvard. Working for his doctorate. Argentinian, I believe. Rides polo ponies in the summer.

  Sterling 66: Where did U bump into this one, Potter?

  The next tidbit I’d gotten from Homer Taylor himself. Actually, I did bump into him. He’s so firm.

  Sphinx 3000: Where did you meet him? Tell, tell.

  I typed: I was at Harvard for a symposium.

  Sterling 66: On?

  I typed: Milton. Of course.

  Sterling 66: He was attending?

  I typed: No – I literally bumped into him. In the men’s room. I watched him for the rest of the day. Found out where he lived. Been studying him for three months.

  Sterling 66: So why did U purchase Worcester?

  I knew the question was co
ming. Impulse, I typed. Then, But this boy in Cambridge, that’s true love. Not a casual thing.

  Sterling 66: So U have a name? An address?

  I typed: I do. And I have my checkbook.

  Sterling 66: Worcester won’t be found? UR certain?

  I could hear Potter’s voice in my head as I typed. Good lord, no. Not unless someone goes swimming in my septic tank.

  Sphinx 3000: Gross, Potter. I love it.

  Sterling 66: Well, if U have checkbook in hand.

  Wolf: No. We’ll wait on this. It’s too soon, Potter. We’ll get back to you. As always, I’ve enjoyed our talk, but I have other matters to attend to.

  Wolf signed off. He was gone. Shit. He’d come and gone, just like that. The mystery man as always. Who was this bastard?

  I stayed on-line, chatting with the others for a few minutes – expressing my disappointment at the decision, my eagerness to make a purchase. Then I left the site too.

  I looked around the operation room at my colleagues. A few began to clap, partly mocking me, but mostly it was congratulatory. Cop-to-cop stuff. Almost like old times. I felt marginally accepted by the others in the room. For the first time, actually.

  Chapter Eighty-Three

  We waited to hear from the Wolf again. Everyone in the overcrowded room wanted to take him down in the worst way. He was a complicated and twisted killer, but, besides that, the FBI needed a win; a lot of people working their asses off needed it. Snaring the Wolf would be a tremendous victory. If we could just find him. And what if we could get all of the other sick bastards too? Sphinx. ToscaBella. Louis XV. Sterling.

  Still, something was bothering me a lot. If the Wolf was as powerful and successful as he seemed to be, why was he involved in this at all? Because he’d always been into lots of kinds of crimes? Or because he was a sex freak himself? Was that it, the Wolf was a freak? Where could I go with that line of thinking?

  He’s a freak, and therefore?…

  Except for a couple of hours when I went home to see the kids, I remained inside the Hoover Building for the next day and a half. So did a lot of other agents on the case, even Monnie Donnelley who was as emotionally invested in this as anybody. We continued to collect information, especially about Russian mobsters in the States, but mostly we waited for a call from the Wolf’s Den to Mr Potter. A yes or a no, a go or a no-go. What was the bastard waiting for?

  I talked to Jamilla several times – good talks, also to Sampson, the kids, Nana Mama. I even talked to Christine. I had to find out where her head was at about little Alex. After our talk, I wasn’t sure if she knew, which was the most disturbing thing of all. I began to detect an ambivalent tone in her voice when she spoke about raising Alex, even though she said she was prepared to sue for custody. Considering all she’d been through, it was hard for me to stay angry at her.

  I would rather have given up my right arm than my little boy, though. Just thinking about it gave me a headache that throbbed continuously and made the long wait for a solution even worse.

  The phone on my desk rang around ten on the second evening and I picked up right away. ‘Waiting for my call? How’s it going?’ It was Jamilla, and though she sounded close, she was all the way across country in California.

  ‘Sucks,’ I said. ‘I’m stuck in a small, windowless room with eight smelly FBI hackers.’

  ‘That good, huh? So I take it the Wolfman hasn’t called back with an answer.’

  ‘No. And it’s not just that.’ I told Jamilla about my phone call with Christine.

  She wasn’t nearly as sympathetic as I was. ‘Who the hell does she think she is? She walked on her little boy. She was for all that time.’

  ‘It’s more complicated than that,’ I said.

  ‘No, it isn’t, Alex. You always like to give people the benefit of the doubt. You think people are basically good.’

  ‘I guess I do. That’s the reason I can do my job. Because most people are basically good and they don’t deserve the shit that gets heaped on them.’

  Jamilla laughed. ‘Well, neither do you. Think about that. Neither does little A, Damon, Jannie, Nana Mama. Not that you asked for my opinion. I’ll shut up now. So what is going on with the case? Change the subject to something more pleasant.’

  ‘We’re waiting on this Russian hood and his creeped-out friends. I still don’t understand why he’s involved in a kidnapping ring.’

  ‘You’re at FBI headquarters, the Hoover cube?

  ‘Yes, but it’s not exactly a cube. It’s only seven stories on Pennsylvania Avenue, because of the D.C. building codes. And eleven stories in the back part of the building.’

  ‘Thanks for sharing that. You’re starting to sound like a Feebie. I’ll bet it feels weird to be in there.’

  ‘No, I just figure I’m on the fifth floor. Could be in either part of the building.’

  ‘Ha, ha. No, working the other side, the dark side. Being in the J. Edgar Hoover Building. Being a Feebie. Just thinking about it makes me shiver.’

  ‘The waiting is the same, Jam. The waiting’s always the same.’

  ‘At least you have good friends to talk to some of the time. At least you have some nice phone pals.’

  ‘I do, don’t I? And you’re right, it’s easier waiting here with you.’

  ‘I’m glad you feel that way. We need to see each other, Alex. We need to touch each other. There are things we have to talk about.’

  ‘I know that. As soon as this case is over. I promise. I’ll be on the first plane.’

  Jamilla laughed again. ‘Well, get cracking, boy. Catch the big bad Wolf psycho bastard. Otherwise, I’ll be on my own plane East.’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘Promise.’

  Chapter Eighty-Four

  A dozen or so agents had been sitting around eating thick roast beef sandwiches, German potato salad, and drinking iced tea when contact with the Wolf’s Den was made again. ‘Roast beef’ has a special meaning inside the FBI, but that was another story. The Wolf was calling.

  Potter. We’ve made a decision on your request, the e-mail said. Get back to us.

  The group continued to eat. We agreed there was no need to get back to the Wolf instantly. It would raise his suspicions if Potter was there waiting for the call. An agent was already playing the part of Dr Homer Taylor in Hanover at Dartmouth. We had spread a lie that the professor had the flu and wouldn’t be conducting any classes for the next day or two. Occasionally, ‘sightings’ of Professor Taylor were arranged at his house – sometimes looking out windows, or sitting out on the front porch. To our knowledge, no one else had inquired about Taylor at Dartmouth, or at his house in Webster. Both locations were being watched closely by agents.

  I hoped that the agents in the field knew what the hell they were doing. At this point we had no idea how careful the Wolf was, or whether his suspicions had already been aroused. We didn’t know enough about the Russian. Not even if he had someone in the Bureau feeding him information.

  It was agreed that I would wait an hour and a half, since I hadn’t been on-line when he established contact, and the Wolf would know that. During the past day we’d been unsuccessful in trying to connect the Wolf’s Den to an owner or even to one of the other users. This probably meant that a high-level hacker had protected the site well. The Bureau’s experts were confident they would breakthrough, but it hadn’t happened yet.

  Homer Taylor had been transported to D.C. again, and we used his eyes for the retina scan. Then I sat down at a computer and began to type. I was following the model of communication to the Wolf’s Den provided by Homer Taylor as part of our deal.

  This is Mr Potter, I began. Can I have my lover?

  Chapter Eighty-Five

  I waited for the Wolf to answer Potter’s insane question. We all did.

  No response came. Shit. What had I done wrong? I’d gone too far, hadn’t I? He was clever. Somehow, he knew what we were up to. But how?

  ‘I’ll stay on for a while,’ I said
as I looked around the room. ‘I want what he has to offer. He knows it. I’m supposed to be horny.’

  This is Potter, I typed again, a few minutes later.

  Suddenly words began to appear on my screen.

  I read: Wolf: That’s redundant, Potter. I know who you are.

  I typed some more words in Taylor’s strident ‘voice’. UR rude to make me wait like this. U know how I feel, what I’m going through.

  Wolf: How could I? You’re the scary freak, Potter, not me.

  I typed: Not so. UR the real freak. The cruellest of all.

  Wolf: Why do you say that? You think I take hostages like you?

  My heart raced. What did he mean by that? Did the Wolf have a hostage? Maybe more than one? Could Elizabeth Connelly still be alive after all this time? Or some other hostage? Maybe one we didn’t even know about?

  Wolf: So tell me something, faggot. Prove yourself to me.

  Prove myself? How? I waited for more instruction to come. But it didn’t.

  I typed: What do U want to know? UR right – I’m horny. No, not really. I’m in love.

  Wolf: What happened to Worcester? You were in love with him too.

  The chat was heading into uncharted waters. I was guessing – hoping I could maintain continuity with things Homer Taylor might have shared before. The other question made me edgy: was this really the Wolf I was speaking to?

  I typed, Francis was incapable of love. He made me very angry. He’s gone now, never to be heard from again.

  Wolf: And there will be no repercussions?

  I’m careful. Like U. I like my life; I don’t want to be caught. And I won’t be!!!

  Wolf: Does that mean Worcester rests in pieces?

  I wasn’t sure how to answer. With a cruel joke of my own? Something like that, I typed: UR funny.

  Wolf: Be more specific. Give me the bloody details, Potter. Give!

  Is this a test? I don’t need this shit.

  Wolf: You know it is.