James Patterson - Alex Cross 10 - London Bridges

by London Bridges

  Three professional killers on the move at that very moment, maybe feeling the same misgivings he had.

  A trap had been set for the police.

  A terrible death trap for everybody in that house. Police killed as well. What a mess.

  When he was in his final position, only about fifteen hundred feet from the main house, Bari hoisted the ungainly tube up onto his shoulder. He set his right hand on the pistol grip and sighted the weapon with his left. He held the launcher like a conventional rifle, though it was far from conventional.

  He easily found his target in the viewfinder. He could hardly miss hitting a house. Then he waited for a final command in his earphones.

  God, he didn't like this! He pictured the astonishingly pretty girl from Hamburg. Jeri was her name. So sweet, and what a perfect body. He waited, half hoping the signal wouldn't come. For Jeri's sake, for the sake of everyone inside.

  But there it was! Electronic. Impersonal as a stranger's funeral. A whistling sound between his ears.

  Two short, one long.

  He took a deep breath, slowly exhaled. Then, reluctantly, he squeezed the trigger.

  Bari felt a slight recoil, less than a rifle's, actually.

  The launch engine inside the weapon ignited. The first-stage engine propelled the missile only about twenty to thirty feet, at which point it was safe for the secondary propulsion system to engage.

  His eyes followed a vapor trail of solid rocket-fuel exhaust. The Stinger was on its way to the target. He heard a low roar as the missile accelerated to 1,500 miles per hour.

  Be safe, Jeri.

  The Stinger struck the estate broadside-a near perfect hit.

  He was already reloading for the next shot.

  Chapter 110

  There were loud whooshing noises, and then fiery, hellish explosions everywhere I looked. Chaos reigned everywhere. And death as well.

  French police and army personnel were frantically running for cover. A rocket or missile had struck the northern roofs of the villa, tossing slate, wood, and bricks from a chimney high into the air. Then a second missile struck. A third was only seconds behind.

  I had started racing back toward the main house when I got another surprise out of nowhere.

  A side door of the boathouse flew open and a dark blue Mercedes sedan roared up a gravel path toward the main road. I ran to a police sedan parked on the grass, started it up, and gave chase.

  There wasn't time to tell anybody what I was doing. Not even Sandy. I wondered how a police car was going to keep up with a souped-up Mercedes. Probably not too well. No, probably not at all.

  I stayed with the powerful CL55 out of Cap-Ferrat, all the way to the Basse Corniche. I nearly killed myself, and maybe a few others, on the twisty road, but I didn't lose whoever was speeding in front of me.

  Who the hell was in the car? Why was somebody running? Could it be the Wolf?

  Traffic toward Monaco was moving, but it was heavy. The lights from a tow truck up ahead indicated that some poor driver had jackknifed on this winding road. That was my one long-shot hope. The traffic was slowing down the Benz. But suddenly the Mercedes swung around and headed west.

  The sports sedan was moving very fast past an endless array of billboards and restaurant signs. And so was I.

  I rounded a curve, and the whole of the bay of Villefranche-sur-Mer appeared in all its inimitable beauty and splendor, the moon large and full in the sky. The city rose above the bay, which was filled with sailboats and yachts, like a rich kid's bathtub. The Mercedes spun down a slick, sloping hill, sometimes at a speed of a hundred miles per hour. I thought I remembered from somewhere that the car had close to five hundred horsepower. It sure seemed like it.

  Then we were entering the old port of Nice, and I began to close the gap behind the sedan. The narrow streets were surprisingly crowded, especially around the bars and nightclubs, which seemed everywhere now, thank God.

  The Mercedes barely avoided a drunken group coming out of the Etoile Filante nightclub.

  And then, horn blaring, I roared through the same crowd, the pedestrians cursing and shaking fists at me.

  The Mercedes made a sharp right-onto the N7, the Moyenne Corniche, a higher road.

  I followed as best I could, knowing that I would probably lose him now. Lose who, though? Who was in the blue Mercedes?

  The way up was incredibly steep and winding. We were headed back toward Monaco, but the traffic was light this way, and the Mercedes was effortlessly picking up speed. The driver had known to go backward in order to go forward-much faster-at a speed the police sedan couldn't possibly match.

  After about two kilometers I was pretty sure I would lose him. We were back in Villefranche, but the highest part of town. The view down onto Cap-Ferrat and Beaulieu was breathtaking, and I couldn't avoid looking; even at this speed it filled my eyes like a painting.

  I couldn't let him get away, and I pushed the police car up close to a hundred again. How long could I possibly keep up?

  There was a tunnel, dimness, then almost total darkness-and at the end of the tunnel the astonishing sight of a medieval village perched high on a hillside.

  EZEread a sign, and I wished I could go easy.

  Just past the village, the road became even more dangerous. It was as if the Moyenne Corniche were taped onto the side of the cliffs. Down below, the color of the sea seemed to be changing from azure to opal to silver-gray.

  I could smell oranges and lemons in the air. My senses were sharp. Fear can do that.

  I was losing the Mercedes, though, so I made the only move I could. Instead of slowing around the next curve, I accelerated.

  Chapter 111

  I began to gain on the Mercedes and I kept my foot pressed to the floor. Are you suicidal? I wondered about myself.

  Suddenly the Mercedes skidded all the way across the opposite lane. It struck the side of the mountain, a glancing blow, but very damaging to the car at that speed. Then it swerved back and forth on the road, across both lanes. It caromed off the rocks again. The blue sedan suddenly took off into the sky.

  It was airborne, falling toward the sea.

  I braked to the side of the road and jumped from my car. I saw the Mercedes hit the side of the cliff twice, then roll onto the lower highway far below. I couldn't get down there from where I was. Couldn't climb down, anyway.

  I didn't see any movement from the wreck. Whoever was inside the Mercedes had to be dead. But who is it?

  I got back in the police car I had commandeered at the estate. It took me close to ten minutes to make my way to the lower highway and the scene of the wreck. French police and an ambulance had already arrived and so had many early-morning onlookers.

  As I climbed from my car, I could see that the body hadn't been removed from the wreckage. Medical workers were leaning inside the car and seemed to be working frantically. They were talking to whoever had been driving. Who was it?

  One of them shouted, "He's still alive. One male! He's alive in here!"

  I started to run toward the wreckage to get a look at the driver. Who? Could he talk to me? I glanced back up at the Moyenne and wondered how the driver could have survived the long fall and crash. The Wolf was supposed to be a tough guy. This tough?

  I flashed my creds, and the police surrounding the wreck let me move on.

  Then I could see. I knew who it was trapped in the wreck. I couldn't believe it, though. I just couldn't believe what I was seeing with my own eyes.

  My heart was thumping loudly, racing out of control. So was my mind, what was left of it. I came up to the smoldering, overturned car. I knelt on the rocky ground and leaned forward.

  "It's Alex," I said.

  The car's driver looked at me and tried to focus. His body was trapped inside the crumpled Mercedes. He'd been crushed by metal everywhere below the shoulders. Just awful to see.

  But Martin Lodge was alive, and he was hanging on. He seemed to want to say something, and I moved closer. "It's
Alex," I said again. I turned my head so that my ear was near his mouth.

  I needed to know the identity of the Wolf. I had so many questions.

  Martin whispered, "It's all for nothing. Your manhunt is useless. I'm not the Wolf. I never even saw him."

  Then he died on me, and everyone else who was waiting for an answer.

  Chapter 112

  The Lodge family had been taken into protective custody back in England. We all felt that if the Wolf suspected that the wife or any of the children had been told anything incriminating, they would be targets. Maybe he'd kill them just to be safe, or because he felt like killing somebody that day.

  The next morning I flew to London and met with the police at Scotland Yard, specifically Lodge's superior, a man named John Mortenson. First, he reported that none of the survivors at Cap-Ferrat seemed to know anything about the Wolf, or even who Martin Lodge had been.

  "There is a new development, a little wrinkle," he told me then.

  I leaned back in a leather lounger with a view of Buckingham Palace. "At this point, I'm not surprised about anything, John. Tell me what's going on. This is about the Lodge family?"

  He nodded, sighed, and then began. "It starts with Kl ra Lodge. Kl ra Cernohosska, actually. Let me begin with her. It turns out Martin was on the team that brought a defector named Edward Morozov out of Russia back in 'ninety-three. Martin worked with the American CIA, with Cahill and Hancock, and also Thomas Weir. Only there was no Edward Morozov. He was an unidentified KGB defector whose name we don't know. We think that it was the Wolf."

  "You started by saying something about Martin's wife, Kl ra. What about her?"

  "For one thing, she's not Czech. She came out of Russia with the man called Morozov. She was an assistant to a KGB chief, and also our main source of information in Moscow. She and Lodge apparently got cozy during the transfer, and then she was relocated to England. He had her identity changed, got rid of the records. Then he married her. How about that?"

  "And she knows who the Wolf is, what he looks like? Is that it?"

  "We don't know what Kl ra knows. She won't talk to us. She might talk to you, though."

  I sat back, shook my head. "Why me? I met her only once."

  Mortenson shrugged, then he gave a half smile. "She says her husband trusted you. You believe that? What the hell is that supposed to mean? Why would she trust you, if you met her only once?"

  Unfortunately, I had no idea.

  Chapter 113

  What remained of the Lodge family was being kept under wraps in a small town called Shepton Mallet, which was about 120 miles west of London. Rolling valleys, lots of green countryside, perfect for hiding them, at least temporarily.

  The Lodges were staying in a converted farmhouse on a "no through" road outside of town. The land was fairly flat there, and anything approaching could be seen for miles. Besides, this was an armed compound, heavily armed.

  I arrived at about six that evening. The inside of the farmhouse was pleasant, with lots of antique furniture, but I had dinner with the family in a cramped bunker that was located belowground.

  Kl ra didn't cook the meal as she had in London, and I wondered if she approved of the fare. I doubted it. The food was dreadful, worse than airplane fare. "No m¡chan vejce on the menu," I finally tried as a joke for her.

  "You remember our breakfast in Battersea, even the correct pronunciation. That's good, Alex," Kl ra said. "You're very observant. Martin said you were a good agent."

  When the meal was over, the children-Hana, Daniela, Jozef-were sent to their room to do homework. Kl ra sat with me and smoked a cigarette. She took long puffs and inhaled deeply.

  "Homework?" I asked. "Here? Tonight?"

  "It's good to have discipline, habits to fall back on. I think it is. So you were with Martin? When he died?" she asked. "What did he say to you? Please tell me."

  I considered my response. What did Kl ra want to hear? And what should I tell her?

  "He said that he wasn't the Wolf. Is that true, Kl ra?"

  "Anything else? What else did he tell you?"

  I thought about telling Kl ra he'd talked about her and the children, but I didn't. I didn't want to lie to her. Probably I couldn't. "No, Kl ra. That's all it was. There wasn't much time. Only a few seconds. He didn't suffer too long. He didn't seem to be in pain. I think he was in shock."

  She nodded. "Martin thought I could trust you. He said it was your flaw, actually. He would never say anything sentimental, not even with his dying breath."

  I stared into Kl ra's deep brown eyes, which seemed surprisingly alert.

  "How do you feel about that?" I asked.

  She laughed. "It's why I loved him."

  She had things to tell me that night in the English countryside. A negotiation was begun between the two of us. Or rather, I got to listen to her demands.

  "I want safe passage out of England for myself and the children. New identities, and we get to keep some savings to live on. I'll tell you where we want to live, but not right now. That will come a little later."

  "Prague?" I asked. It was a small joke.

  "No, definitely not Prague, Alex. And not Russia, either. Or anywhere in America, for that matter. I'll tell you where, when the time comes. But first, let's decide on what I have to give you to guarantee our safe passage out of England."

  "Oh, that's easy. You have to give us a lot," I said. "You have to give up the Wolf. But can you do that, Kl ra? What do you know? Who is he? Where is he? What did Martin tell you?"

  Finally she smiled. "Oh, he told me everything. Martin adored me."

  Chapter 114

  The Wolf flew his own plane into Teterboro Airport in the northern corner of New Jersey. A black Range Rover was waiting there for him, and he took it into New York City, a city he'd always despised. The traffic was bad, as usual, and it took him as long to get from Teterboro to Manhattan as it had to fly to the metropolitan area from New Hampshire.

  The doctor's office was situated in a brownstone on Sixty-third Street just off Fifth. The Wolf parked the Range Rover and hurried inside.

  It was a little past nine in the morning. He didn't bother to check if he was being watched. He didn't think so, but if he was, there was nothing he could do about it now. Besides, he felt he had this morning sufficiently covered. As usual, there was a plan for every eventuality.

  The nurse on duty for the plastic surgery was also there to act as a receptionist. She and the hotshot surgeon would be the only ones present for the procedures. He had insisted on a staff of two and that the office be closed to other patients for the day.

  "There are a few legal forms for you to look over and sign," the nurse told him with a tight smile. She might not have known who he was, but she suspected there had to be a very good reason for this much secrecy, not to mention that she was being paid handsomely to work this shift.

  "No, I will sign nothing, thank you," he said, then pushed past her and went looking for Dr. Levine. He found her in a small operating theater that was already brightly lit, and very cold.

  "Reminds me of Siberia. A gulag I spent time in one winter," he said.

  The doctor turned, and she was mildly attractive, slender, well preserved, probably in her early forties. He could fuck her, in a pinch, but he wasn't in the mood right then. Maybe later.

  "Dr. Levine," he said, and shook hands with the surgeon. "I'm ready, and I don't want to be here more than a few hours. So let's begin. Now."

  "That's not possible," Dr. Levine started to object.

  The Wolf raised his hand to silence her, and it almost seemed as if he might actually strike the doctor. She flinched.

  "I won't be needing general anesthesia. As I said, I'm ready. So are you."

  "Sir, you have no idea what you're saying. None, I assure you. The procedures we have scheduled include a face, neck, and brow lift. Liposuction. Jaw and cheek implants. And a nose job. The pain will be unbearable. Trust me on that."

  "No, it will
be bearable. I've known much worse pain," said the Wolf. "I will allow you only to monitor my vital statistics. There will be no more stupid discussion about anesthesia. Now, get me ready for the procedures. Or else."

  "Or else what?" Dr. Levine bristled. The small woman rocked back on her heels.

  "Just or else," answered the Wolf. "That covers a great deal of territory, don't you think? It covers pain beyond what you believe I cannot endure. Can you, Dr. Levine? Can your two children, Martin and Amy, endure such pain? Or your husband, Jerrold? Let's begin. I have a schedule to keep."