‘Actually, I do. You’re Henry Lipton’s oldest son. You’re married with three children, and a nice house in Highland Park. You’re also involved with a kidnapping and murder scheme that we’ve been tracking closely for several weeks. You’re Sterling, and I want you to understand something– all your connections, all your father’s connections in Dallas, will not help you now. On the other hand, I would like to protect your family as much as possible. That’s up to you. I’m not bluffing. I don’t ever bluff. This is a federal crime, not a local one.’
‘I’m going to call my lawyer,’ Lawrence Lipton said and went for the phone.
‘You have that right. But I wouldn’t if I were you. It won’t do any good.’
My tone of voice, something, stopped Lipton from making the call. His flabby hand moved away from the phone on his desk. ‘Why?’ he asked.
I said, ‘I don’t care about you. You’re involved in murder. But I’ve seen your kids, your wife. We’ve been watching you at the house in Highland Park. We’ve already spoken to your neighbors and friends. When you’re arrested, your family will be in danger. We can protect them from the Wolf.’
Suddenly Lipton’s face and neck reddened and he erupted with, ‘What the hell is wrong with you? Are you crazy? I’m a respected businessman. I never kidnapped or harmed another human being in my life. This is crazy.’
‘You gave the orders. The money came to you. Mr Potter sent you a hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars. Or rather, the FBI did.’
‘I’m calling my lawyer,’ Lipton screamed. ‘This is ridiculous and insulting. I don’t have to take this from anybody.’
I shrugged. ‘Then you’re going down in the worst possible way. These offices will be searched immediately. And then your home in Highland Park. Your parents’ home in Kessler Park will be searched. Your father’s office will be searched. Your wife’s offices at the Museum of Art will be searched.’
He picked up his phone. I could see that his hand was shaking, though. Then he whispered, ‘Go fuck yourself.’
I pulled out a two-way and spoke into it. ‘Hit the offices and the houses,’ I said. I turned back to Lipton. ‘You’re under arrest. You can call your lawyer now. Tell him you’ve been taken to the FBI offices.’
Minutes later, a dozen agents stormed into the office with its gorgeous city views and stylish and expensive furnishings.
We arrested Sterling.
Chapter Ninety-Seven
Pasha Sorokin was close, and he was watching everyone and everything with great interest. Maybe it was time to show the FBI how these things were done in Moscow, to show them that this wasn’t a child’s game to be played with rules made up by the police.
He had been there at Sterling’s office building in Dallas when the FBI team rushed inside. More than a dozen of them came calling. A strange assemblage to be sure: some dressed in dark business suits, others in dark blue windbreakers with FBI boldly imprinted on the back. Who did they really expect to find here? The Wolf? Others from the Wolf’s Den?
They had no concept of what they were getting themselves into. Their dark sedans and vans were parked in plain view on the street. Less than fifteen minutes after they had entered the office building, they came out with Lawrence Lipton in handcuffs, pathetically trying to shield his face. What a scene. They wanted to make a show of this, didn’t they? Why do that? he wondered. To prove how tough they were? How smart? But they weren’t smart. I will show you how tough and smart you need to be. I will show you how lacking you are in every way.
He instructed his driver to start the car. The wheelman did not look around at his boss in the backseat. He said nothing. He knew not to question orders. The Wolf’s ways were strange and unorthodox, but they worked.
‘Drive past them,’ he ordered. ‘I want to say hello.’
The FBI agents were casting nervous looks around the street as they led Lawrence Lipton toward a waiting van. A black man walked beside Sterling. Tall and strangely confident. Pasha Sorokin knew from his informant in the Bureau that this was Alex Cross, and that he was held in high regard.
How was it possible that a black man was given command of the raid? he wondered. In Russia, the American negro was looked down upon. The Wolf had never gotten past his own prejudice; there was no reason to in the US.
‘Get me close!’ he told the driver. He lowered the rear-passenger side window. The second Cross and Lipton had passed his car Sorokin thrust out an automatic weapon, and aimed it at the back of Sterling’s head. Then, an amazing thing – something he hadn’t anticipated – happened.
Alex Cross threw Lipton down on to the pavement, and they both rolled behind a parked car. How had Cross known? What had he seen to alert him?
The Wolf fired anyway, but he didn’t really have a clear shot. Still, the gunshot rang out loudly. He had delivered a message. Sterling wasn’t safe. Sterling was a dead man.
Chapter Ninety-Eight
We transported Lawrence Lipton to the Dallas field office and were holding him there. I threatened to transfer him to Washington if there was any interference from the local police or even the press. I struck a deal with them. I promised Dallas detectives they’d have their turn with Lipton. As soon as I was done.
At eleven o’clock that night I slumped into a windowless interview room. It was sterile and claustrophobic, and I felt as if I’d been there a couple of hundred times before. I nodded to Lawrence Lipton. He didn’t respond; he looked just awful. Probably I did too.
‘We can help you, your family. We’ll keep them safe. Nobody else can help you now,’ I said. ‘That’s the truth.’
Lipton finally spoke to me. ‘I don’t want to talk to you again. I already told you, I’m not involved in any of the shit you say I am. I’m not going to talk any more. Get my lawyer.’ He waved me away.
For the past seven hours he’d been questioned by FBI agents and Dallas detectives. This was my third session, and it wasn’t getting easier. His lawyers were in the building, but they’d backed off. They had been informed that he could be formally charged with kidnapping and conspiracy to commit murder and immediately transported to Washington. His father was also in the building but had been denied access to his son. I’d interviewed Henry Lipton, and he’d wept and insisted his son’s arrest was a mistake.
I sat down across from him. ‘Your father is in the building. Would you like to see him?’ I asked.
He laughed. ‘Sure. All I have to do is admit that I’m a kidnapper and murderer. Then I can see my father and ask his forgiveness for my sins.’
I ignored the sarcasm. He wasn’t very good at it. ‘You know we can confiscate the records of your father’s company, shut it down? Also, your father is a likely target for the Wolf. We’re not here to hurt your family members,’ I added. ‘Not unless your father is involved in this too.’
He shook his head, kept his eyes lowered. ‘My father has never been in trouble.’
‘That’s what I keep hearing,’ I said. ‘I’ve read a lot about you and your family in the past day or so. Gone all the way back to your schooldays at Texas. You were involved in a couple of scrapes in Austin. Two date rapes. Neither case went to trial. Your father saved you then. It won’t happen this time.’
Lawrence Lipton didn’t respond. His eyes were dead, and he looked as if he hadn’t slept in days. His blue dress shirt was as wrinkled as a used Kleenex tissue, soaked with perspiration at the underarms. His hair was wet, dripping little rivers of moisture down to his shirt collar and sideburns. The skin under his eyes sagged and had a purplish tint in the harsh, interrogation-room light.
He finally said, ‘I don’t want my family hurt. Leave my father out of this. Get him protection.’
I nodded. ‘Okay, Lawrence. Where do we start? I’m ready to put your family in protective custody until we catch him.’
‘And afterward?’ he asked. ‘It doesn’t stop with them.’
‘We’ll protect your family.’
Lipton sighed loudly, th
en said, ‘All right, I’m the moneyman. I’m Sterling. I might be able to get you to the Wolf. But I need the promises in writing. Lots of promises.’
Chapter Ninety-Nine
I was heading into the deepest darkness again, attracted to it as most people are attracted to sunlight. I kept thinking about Elizabeth Connelly, still missing, and feared dead.
Lipton’s father visited a couple of times and the two men wept together. Mrs Lipton was allowed to see her husband. There was a lot of crying among the family members and most of the emotions seemed genuine.
I was in the interrogation room with Sterling until a little past three in the morning. I was prepared to stay later, as long as it took to get the information I needed. Several deals were struck with his lawyers during the night.
At around two, with most of the lawyering done, Lipton and I sat down to talk again. Two senior agents from the Dallas field office were in the room with us. They were only there to take notes and tape-record.
This was my interview to conduct.
‘How did you get involved with the Wolf?’ I asked Lawrence Lipton after a few minutes in which I emphasized my concern for his family. He seemed more clear-headed and more focused than he’d been a few hours before. I sensed that a weight had been lifted from him. Guilt, betrayal of his family – especially his father? His school records revealed he was a bright, but troubled, student. His problems always centered on an obsession with sex, but he’d never received a day of treatment. Lawrence Lipton was a freak.
‘How did I get involved?’ he said, seeming to be asking the question of himself. ‘I have a thing for young girls, you see. Teens, pre-teens. There’s lots of it available these days. The Internet opened new sources.’
‘For what? Be as concrete as you can, Lawrence.’
He shrugged. ‘For freaks like myself. Suddenly we can get what we want, when we want it. And I know how to search for the nastiest sites. At first I settled for photos and movies. I especially liked real-time films.’
‘We found some. In your office at home.’
‘One day a man came to see me. He came to the office, just like you did.’
‘To blackmail you?’ I asked.
Lipton shook his head. ‘No, not blackmail. He said he wanted to know what I really wanted. Sexually. And then he would help me get it. I threw him out. He came back the next day. He had records of everything I’d bought on the Internet. “So what do you really want?” he asked again. I wanted young girls. Pretty ones, with no strings attached, no rules. He supplied me two or three a month. Exactly what I fantasized. Color of hair, shape of breasts, shoe size, freckles, anything I desired.’
‘What happened to the girls? Did you murder them? You have to tell me.’
‘I’m not a killer. I liked to see the girls get off. Some did. We’d party, then they would be released. Always. They didn’t know who I was, or where I was from.’
‘So you were satisfied with the arrangement?’
Lipton nodded and his eyes lit up. ‘Very. I’d been dreaming of this my whole life. The reality was as good as the fantasy. Of course there was a price.’
‘A bill had to be paid?’
‘Oh yeah. I got to meet the Wolf, at least I think it was him. He had sent an emissary to my office in the early days. But then he came to see me. In person, he was very scary. Red Mafiya, he said. The KGB came up, but I don’t know what his connection to them was.’
‘What did he want from you?’
‘To go into business with him, to be a partner. He needed my company’s expertise with computers and the Internet. The sex club was secondary with him, a throw-in. He was heavily into extortion, money laundering, counterfeiting. The club was my thing. Once our deal was struck, I went looking for wealthy freaks who wanted their dreams fulfilled. Freaks who were willing to spend six figures for a slave, male, female, didn’t matter. Sometimes a specific target; sometimes a physical type.’
‘To murder?’ I asked Lipton.
‘Whatever they wanted. Let me tell you where I think he was going with the club. He wanted to involve very rich, powerful men. We already had one, a senator from West Virginia. He had big plans.’
‘Is the Wolf here in Dallas?’ I finally asked. ‘You’ve got to help me, if you want my help.’
Lipton shook his head. ‘He isn’t from around here. He’s not in Dallas. Not in Texas. He’s a mystery man.’
‘But you know where he is?’
He hesitated, but finally went on. ‘He doesn’t know that I know. He’s smart, but not about computers. I tracked him once. He was sure his messages were secure, but I had them cracked. I needed to have something on him.’
Then Sterling told me where he thought I could find the Wolf. And also, who he was. If I could believe what he was saying, Sterling knew the name Pasha Sorokin was using in the United States.
It was Ari Manning.
Chapter One Hundred
I sat high in the cockpit of a luxury cabin cruiser in the Intercoastal Waterway near Millionaires Row in Fort Lauderdale, Florida. Were we close to the Wolf now? I needed to believe that we were. Sterling swore to it, and he had no reason to lie to us, did he? He had every reason to tell the truth.
Sightseers came here on motorboat tours, so I figured we wouldn’t be noticed right away. Besides, darkness was starting to fall. We drove past mansions that were mostly Mediterranean- or Portuguese-style, but an occasional Georgian Colonial supposedly signaled ‘northern money’. We’d been warned to tread lightly, not to ruffle feathers in the wealthy neighborhood, which, frankly, wouldn’t be possible. We were going to ruffle a lot of feathers in a few minutes.
On board the cruiser with me was Ned Mahoney, and two of his seven-person assault teams. Mahoney didn’t ordinarily go on missions himself. The Director was changing all that. The FBI had to get stronger in the field.
I watched a large waterfront house through binoculars as our boat approached a dock. Several expensive yachts and speedboats bobbed in the water. We had secured a floor plan of the house, and learned it had been purchased for twenty-four million dollars two years ago. Don’t ruffle any feathers.
A large party was in progress at the estate, which belonged to Ari Manning. According to Sterling, he was Pasha Sorokin, the Wolf.
‘Looks like everybody’s having a fine old time,’ Mahoney said from the deck. ‘Man, I love a good party. Food, music, dancing, bubbly.’
‘Yeah, it’s jumping. And the surprise guests haven’t even shown up,’ I said.
Ari Manning was known around Fort Lauderdale and Miami for the parties he hosted, sometimes a couple a week. His extravaganzas were famous for their surprises – surprise guests like the coaches of the Miami Dolphins and Miami Heat; ‘hot’ musical and comedy acts from Las Vegas; politicians and diplomats and ambassadors, even right up to the White House.
‘Guess we’re tonight’s surprise special guests,’ Mahoney said and grinned at me.
‘Flown in all the way from Dallas,’ I said. ‘With our entourage of fourteen.’
The guests, the nature of the glitzy party itself, made the operation tense, which was probably why Mahoney and I felt compelled to make a few jokes. We’d talked about waiting, but HRT wanted to go in now, while we knew the Wolf was there. The Director agreed, and had actually made the final decision.
A guy in a ridiculous sailor suit was vigorously waving us away from the dock. We kept coming. ‘What’s this asshole on the dock want?’ Mahoney said to me.
‘We’re full up! You’re too late!’ the man on the dock shouted to us. His voice carried above the music blasting from speakers in the back part of the mansion.
‘Party doesn’t start without us,’ Ned Mahoney called back. Then he tooted the horn.
‘No, no! Don’t come in here!’ Sailor Suit began to yell. ‘Get away!’
Mahoney tooted the horn again.
The cruiser bumped a Bertram speeder and the guy on the dock looked as if he were going to have a stroke. ‘J
esus, be careful. This is a private party! You can’t just come in here. Are you friends of Mr Manning?’
Mahoney tooted again. ‘Absolutely. Here’s my invitation.’ He pulled out his ID and his gun.
I was already off the boat and running toward the house.
Chapter One Hundred and One
I pushed my way through the crowd of very well-heeled partygoers who were making their way to candlelit tables. Dinner was being served now. Steak and lobsters, lots of champagne, and pricey wine. Everybody seemed to have worn their Dolce and Gabbana, their Versace, their Yves Saint Laurent couture. I had on faded jeans and a blue FBI windbreaker.
Coiffed heads turned and eyes flashed at me as if I were a party crasher. I was, too. The party crasher from hell. These people had no idea.
‘FBI,’ Mahoney called from behind as he led his heavily armed teams into the crowd.
I knew from Sterling what Pasha Sorokin looked like, and I headed his way. He was right there. The Wolf had on an expensive gray suit, a blue cashmere T-shirt. He was talking to two men near a billowing, blue-and-yellow-striped canopy where the grills were working. Enormous cuts of meat and fish were being prepared by smiley, sweaty chefs, all of them black or Hispanic.
I pulled out my Glock, and Pasha Sorokin stared at me without moving a muscle. He just stared. Didn’t make a move, didn’t try to run. Then he smiled, as if he’d been expecting me and was glad I’d finally arrived. What was with this guy?
I saw him flash a hand signal to a white-haired man whose arm was draped around a curvy blonde less than half his age. ‘Atticus!’ he called, and Atticus scurried over faster than kitchen help.
‘I’m Atticus Stonestrom, Mr Manning’s lawyer,’ he said. ‘You have absolutely no reason to be here, to barge into Mr Manning’s house like this. You’re completely out of line and I’m asking you to leave.’
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