James Patterson - Alex Cross 10 - London Bridges

by London Bridges

  We were escorted to the bank president's office, which had a serious look. Neat as a pin, too. Only one transaction on the desk blotter, everything else filed away.

  Sandy handed Mr. Delmar Pomeroy an envelope. "A signed warrant," she said. "The account number is 616479Q."

  "Everything has been promptly arranged," Herr Pomeroy said to us. That was all. Then his warrant officer took us to look at the transactions in and out of account number 616479Q. So much for the secrecy and security of Swiss banks. Everything has been promptly arranged.

  Chapter 104

  This was feeling more like an efficient, orderly police investigation now. Even though I knew it really wasn't. Sandy, two of her agents from Interpol, and I got to look through all of Corky Hancock's transactions in a small, windowless room somewhere deep in the basement of the Zurich Bank. The former CIA agent's account had grown from two hundred thousand U.S. dollars to slightly over six million. Youza.

  The latest, and largest, deposits totaled three and a half million and had come in four installments this year.

  The source of the payment was an account in the name of Y. Jikhomirov. It took us a couple of hours to track down all of the records. There were more than a hundred pages going all the way back to '91. The year the Wolf had been brought out of Russia. Coincidence? I didn't believe in them. Not anymore.

  We carefully examined withdrawals from the Jikhomirov account. They included payments to a company that leased private jets; regular air travel with British Airways and Air France; hotels: Claridge's, the Bel-Air in L.A., the Sherry-Netherland in New York, the Four Seasons in Chicago and Maui. There were wire transfers to America, South Africa, Australia, Paris, Tel Aviv. The trail of a Wolf?

  And an entry that particularly caught my interest-the purchase of four expensive sports cars in France, all from a dealership in Nice, Riviera Motors. A Lotus, a special-edition Jaguar, and two Aston Martins.

  "The Wolf is supposed to be a sports car enthusiast," I said to Sandy. "Maybe the cars mean something. Maybe we're closer than we suspect. What do you think?"

  She nodded agreement. "Yes, I think we should visit Riviera Motors in Nice. Nice is nice. But first, Alex, lunch in Zurich. I made you a promise."

  "No, I think you made me promise. After my bad Swiss Army knife joke."

  I was hungry anyway, so it seemed a good idea. Sandy chose the Veltliner Keller, one of her favorites-a restaurant she thought I would appreciate.

  As we entered, she explained that Veltliner Keller had been a restaurant since 1551, a long time for any business to survive. So we forgot about police work for an hour and a half. We dined on barley soup, zuppe engadinese; a casserole, veltliner topf; and very good wine. Everything was just so: crisp white linens and napkins, roses in sterling vases, crystal salt and pepper shakers.

  "This is one of your better ideas," I told Sandy near the end of the meal. "A nice break in the action."

  "It's called lunch, Alex. You have to try it more. You should come to Europe with your friend, Jamilla. You're working too hard."

  "It shows, I guess."

  "No, actually you look as good as ever. You're holding up better than Denzel-in his latest movies, anyway. Somehow you persevere. I don't know how, but you do. But I can tell that you're twisted up inside. Eat, relax, then we'll go to Nice and check out some sports cars. It will be like a holiday. Maybe we'll even catch a killer. Finish your wine, Alex."

  "Right," I said, "and then I have to buy some chocolate for Jannie. A suitcase full. I made another promise."

  "Didn't you promise to catch the Wolf?" Sandy asked.

  "Yeah, that too."

  Chapter 105

  Next stop, a luxury-car dealership in Nice. I felt as if I were in an Alfred Hitchcock movie.

  The owner of Riviera Motors, the "concessionnaire exclusif Jaguar, Aston Martin, Lotus," appeared to like drama, too, at least in a design sense. To that effect, a long row of gleaming black cars was displayed in the showroom. The cars were clearly visible from the street through monumental bay windows. The shiny black machines cut a startling contrast to a spotless white floor.

  "What do you think?" Sandy asked as we climbed out of our rented Peugeot, which we had parked across the street from the dealership.

  "I think I need a new car," I said to her. "And I know the Wolf likes fancy sports cars."

  We went inside and stopped at the reception desk in front. Behind it was an elegant reception person, well tanned with a bleached and ironed ponytail. She was checking Sandy and me out: Both over six feet; ebony and ivory. Who are these people?

  "We're here to see Monsieur Garnier," Sandy said to the woman in French.

  "You have an appointment with Monsieur, madame?"

  "We do indeed. Interpol and the FBI, respectively-and respectfully, I might add. Monsieur Garnier is expecting us, I believe. We're here on important business."

  While we waited, I continued to take in the place. The expensive cars were precisely parked in a herringbone pattern, interspersed with voluminous potted plants. In an adjacent service atelier, mechanics in matching Jaguar-green jumpsuits worked with pristine tools.

  The manager of the car dealership appeared after a couple of minutes' wait. He was dressed in a fashionable gray suit, but not too flashy, just clearly expensive and right.

  "You've come about a couple of Aston Martins, a Jaguar, a Lotus?" he asked.

  "Something like that, monsieur," Sandy told him. "Let's go up to your office. We wouldn't want to hurt business by talking down here in the showroom."

  The manager smiled. "Oh, believe me, madame, our business is bulletproof."

  "We'll see about that," I told him in French. "Or maybe a better way of putting it: let's try and keep it that way. This is a murder investigation."

  Chapter 106

  The manager suddenly became extremely polite and cooperative. The four luxury cars in question had been purchased by an M. Aglionby, who apparently had a home nearby on the beautiful peninsula, Cap-Ferrat, just east of Nice. Monsieur Garnier told us it was "off the Basse Corniche, the main coastal road to Monaco. You can't miss it. And you won't miss the Aglionby estate."

  "To Catch a Thief," Sandy said as we sped along toward Cap-Ferrat about two hours later. We had lost a little time calling in backup.

  "Actually, the most memorable shots in the Hitchcock movie were filmed up there," Sandy went on. She pointed toward a parallel road winding along the cliffs; it was at least a hundred yards higher than the one we were driving on. In other words, very high up, and dangerous-looking.

  "Also, we're here to catch a mass murderer without any conscience," I said, "not a witty and charming cat burglar like Cary Grant was in the flick."

  "This is true, too. Keep me focused, Alex. I could easily get distracted here," Sandy said. But I knew she was focused-always. That's why we got along so well.

  The Aglionby estate was located on the west side of Cap-Ferrat, in Villefranche-sur-Mer. There were glimpses of villas and gardens hidden behind high stucco and rock walls as we rode along D125, also known as boulevard Circulaire. Half a dozen cars and vans followed us, also catching the sights, no doubt: a shiny blue Rolls-Royce convertible easing out of one of the estates, with a blonde in sunglasses and a kerchief behind the wheel; dark-glassed tourists catching rays on the terrace of the Grand H“tel du Cap-Ferrat; a bathing pool dug into solid rock at Piscine de Sun beach.

  "You think this is a fool's errand, Alex?" Sandy asked.

  "It's what we do. Hit and miss, hunt and peck. I feel good about this one. It has to be something. Monsieur Aglionby has to be connected somehow."

  I was hopeful. We had found an awful lot of money in the account of Corky Hancock, and most of it had come in recently. But how much did he really know about the Wolf? How much did anyone know?

  Then we saw the estate we were looking for-and Sandy drove past. " Got you, you bastard," she said. "Aglionby? The Wolf? Why not?"

  "Whoever lives back there is certainly
loaded. Jesus, how much is enough?"

  "When you have a billion dollars or so, this is rather modest, Alex. It's not a question of a house-it's houses. The Riviera, London, Paris, Aspen."

  "If you say so. I've never had a billion myself. Or a villa on the Riviera."

  The place in question was a sun-drenched, Mediterranean-style mansion, creamy yellow with white detailing; it had gleaming balustrades and porticos, shutters that the staff apparently closed to the midday sun. Or maybe the people inside just didn't want to be seen? Four stories, thirty-plus rooms-as cozy as Versailles.

  But for now all we were interested in was a peek. As we had planned earlier, we reconnoitered at a small hotel just up the coast. The decision was made by local police officials to use the estate bordering the Aglionby place on the south side. It was vacant now, except for a large staff. We would dress and pose as gardeners and household help, starting tomorrow morning.

  Sandy and I listened to the plan as it was laid out, step by step. We looked at each other, shook our heads. Not this time.

  I spoke. "We're going in tonight," I announced. "With or without your help."

  Chapter 107

  The decision to go right away was backed enthusiastically by Interpol, and even by the French in Paris, who were in close contact with Washington and wanted the murderous Wolf as badly as the rest of the world did, maybe more. For a change, everything happened very quickly that afternoon and through the early evening. I was going to be part of the assault, and so was Sandy.

  The attack was planned as if the Wolf was definitely inside the villa. Seven two-person teams of snipers were deployed on all sides of the estate, which were designated as white (north), red (east), black (south), and green (west). Every door and window was covered, and each of the snipers had a specific number of targets. They were closest to the estate. Our eyes and ears.

  So far, they weren't seeing any sign that we'd been spotted.

  While the snipers moved into position, the rest of us-Interpol, the FBI, the French army and police-strapped on war gear: black Nomex flight suits, body armor, handguns, MP-5 submachine guns. Three helicopters were waiting less than a mile away and would be used during the assault. We were ready for the green light, but some of the more jaded among us expected a last-minute delay for politics, cold feet at the command level, something unforeseen to get in the way.

  I lay flat on the ground on my stomach beside Sandy Greenberg. We were less than a hundred yards from the main house. Starting to feel the jitters. At least, I was. The Wolf could be inside this house; maybe he was Aglionby.

  Some lights were on inside, but we seldom saw anyone at the windows past midnight. Security was modest on the grounds, just a couple of guards.

  "Awfully quiet," said Sandy. "I don't know if I like this, Alex. Security's light."

  "It's almost two in the morning."

  "You surprised that we're going in?" Sandy asked.

  I smiled. " Are we going in? No, I'm not surprised. Remember, the French want the Wolf. Maybe even more than we do."

  Then the signal came to go! Sandy and I were part of the second assault team, and we ran toward the house about forty-five seconds after the first wave. We entered through the back- black. The kitchen, to be exact.

  Somebody had switched on the overheads. A guard lay on the floor, his hands cuffed behind his head. Highly polished marble was everywhere, four stoves at the center of the room. I noticed a large glass bowl on a table. I took a peek at what looked like dark noses inside.

  Figs, I finally realized, smiling to myself.

  Then Sandy and I were running down a long hallway. No gunshots had been fired inside the house yet. Lots of other noise, though.

  We came to the formal living room of diplomatic proportions: chandeliers dangled over our head, polished-marble floor, half a dozen dark and solemn paintings by French and Dutch masters.

  No Wolf so far. No sign of him.

  "This for entertaining, or signing treaties?" Sandy asked me. "Alex, why aren't they fighting back? What's going on? Is he here?"

  We climbed a winding staircase and saw French soldiers leading men and women out of the bedrooms. Most were in their underwear; a few were naked. Nobody looked very sexy, but they certainly looked surprised.

  I didn't see anybody who might be the Wolf, but how could I tell for certain what the Wolf looked like? How could anybody?

  The interrogations began immediately right there in the hallways. Where is the Wolf?... Who is Aglionby?...

  The entire house was searched a second time, then a third.

  Marcel Aglionby wasn't at the house, we were told by several of the guests. He was on business in New York. One of his daughters was present; this was her party, her guests, her friends-though some of them looked to be twice her age. Her father was a respected banker, she swore to us. No way was he a criminal, no way was he the Wolf.

  So is he the Wolf's banker? And where does that lead us?

  I hated to think it, but I couldn't help myself: The Wolf wins again.

  Chapter 108

  We searched the place one more time and, over the threats of the daughter, started to take it apart, piece by piece.

  I had to say the house was amazing, filled with antiques and artwork. Sandy thought that Aglionby might be trying to emulate the nearby La Fiorentina, which has been called the most beautiful house in the world. The banker certainly had expensive taste, and could afford to indulge them. Hand-painted Louis XVI pieces were everywhere, as were Louis XV chandeliers; antique Turkish carpets; Chinese screens and panels; tapestries; paintings, classical and modern, on nearly every wall. Works by Fragonard, Goya, Pieter Brueghel. All of it financed by the Wolf? Why not? He has over two billion to throw around.

  We assembled the "suspects" in the billiards room, which had three billiards tables and nearly as many plush sofas as the living room. The same tailored formality. Did anyone here know anything about the Wolf? It didn't look that way to me. More likely, some of them might know Paris and Nicky Hilton.

  "Does anyone want to speak for the group?" the French police commander addressed them.

  No one volunteered; no one answered any questions. Either they didn't know or they had been told not to say.

  "All right, then, let's separate them. We'll begin the interviews now. Someone will talk," the commander warned.

  Since I hadn't been asked to participate in the interrogations, I wandered out onto the grounds and walked down toward the water. Had we been given another false lead to follow? The Wolf's game-playing, his strategies and counterstrategies, had been relentless from the beginning. Why should it stop now?

  There was a large-actually, very long-wooden boathouse at the water's edge. It stood maybe a hundred yards from the main house. But what was this? Somebody had transformed the old boathouse into a garage to house a collection of more than thirty very expensive sports cars and luxury sedans. Maybe this was finally something. Evidence that the Wolf might have used this estate. Or was it another ruse, a tease?

  I was standing between the boathouse and the water when all hell broke loose.

  Chapter 109

  All he had was his piece of the puzzle, his part in this terrible mission. But it was more than enough. Bari Naffis knew that there had been an incursion at the estate in Villefranche-sur-Mer and that within the hour people would die because of it, including friends of his and one girl he'd slept with, a fashion model from Hamburg. Eye candy to be sure, but very precious stuff.

  The French army and police had already taken over the mansion. And now it was Bari's turn to go to work, to do his job. He didn't know why this had to happen, only that it did.

  As he turned onto the D125, it seemed to him that he was already too late. But he had his orders. Someone had obviously foreseen that this would happen.

  The Wolf had known it was coming, hadn't he? He had eyes in the back of his head. Eyes everywhere! What a scary bastard that one was.

  That was all that Bari Naff
is knew-and all he cared about right now. He had been well paid in advance, even if this made little sense to him and was highly distasteful. Why kill and maim so many?

  Half an hour before, he'd received a radio signal from the main house; the noise had awakened him from a sound sleep in his hotel room.

  He jumped from bed, dressed, then hurried to a prearranged position on an estate to the north. He tried not to think about his friends and a lover inside the house. Maybe she would survive somehow.

  No matter. He wasn't going to cross the Wolf over some girl. Bari ran through the woods and thick brush cover. He was carrying a Man Portable Air Defense System, about as ungainly a weapon as there was. The missile launcher was five feet in length, a little over thirty-five pounds. Still, it was extremely well balanced and equipped with a rifle-style pistol grip and forestock. It fired an FIM-92A Stinger missile, and there were two other operators in the woods besides himself. Each of them had his little bit of work to do, his piece of the whole.