London Bridges

business, shall we? This is an interesting juncture, actually. I hope someone is taking notes.”
    There was a pause of approximately fifteen seconds. Then the Wolf resumed. “I want you to know the targeted cities. It’s time for that.
    “There are four—and I would advise that these cities prepare for a worst-possible-case scenario. The cities should prepare for total destruction.”
    Another pause, then:
    “The targeted cities are . . . New York . . . London . . . Washington . . . Frankfurt. These cities should prepare for the worst disasters in history. And not a word of this goes public. Or I attack immediately.”
    Then he was gone again. And he still hadn’t given us any deadline.

Chapter 24
    THE PRESIDENT of the United States was up at 5:30 that morning. Unfortunately, he had already been in meetings for almost two hours. He was on his fourth cup of black coffee.
    The National Security Council had been in his office since a little past 3:30. Those present included the heads of the FBI and CIA, plus several intelligence experts. Everyone was taking the Wolf seriously.
    The president felt he was sufficiently briefed for his next challenging meeting, but he could never tell about these things, not for sure, especially when politics came into play in a real emergency situation.
    “Let’s get this unfortunate circus started. Let’s do it.” He finally turned to his chief of staff.
    A couple of minutes later he was talking with the German chancellor and the British prime minister. They were all on-screen, all slightly out of sync in the strange land of videoconferencing.
    The president found it a little hard to fathom, but none of the countries’ intelligence services had anything concrete on who the Wolf was or where he might be living. He said as much to the others.
    “Finally, we agree on something,” the German chancellor said.
    “Everyone is aware that he exists, but no one has a clue where he is,” the prime minister agreed. “We
think
he’s former KGB. We
think
he’s in his late forties. But all we know is that he’s very clever. It’s maddening.”
    They all agreed on that single fact, and finally they agreed on one other thing.
    There could be no negotiations with the terrorist.
    Somehow, the Wolf had to be hunted down—and terminated with extreme prejudice.

Chapter 25
    ALL LARGE CITIES were becoming the same boring and antiseptic place to the Wolf now, as capitalism and multinational businesses spread everywhere and major crime followed and spread as well. The Wolf spent part of the night walking in one of the world’s most important cities; it doesn’t matter which one, since the Russian was equally uncomfortable in nearly all of them.
    But tonight, he happened to be in Washington, D.C. Plotting the next steps.
    No one understood the Wolf, not a single person in the world. Of course, no one was ever understood by anyone else, was he? Any rational person knew that. But no one could possibly comprehend the Wolf’s extraordinary level of paranoia, something burned into his heart long ago—in Paris, of all places. Something almost physical, a poison in the system. His Achilles’ heel, he suspected. And this paranoia, the certainty of an untimely death, led to a passion—not exactly a love of life, but a need to play fiercely at it, to win at all costs, or at least never to lose.
    So the Wolf walked the streets of downtown Washington, and he planned even more murders.
    Alone. Always alone. Frequently squeezing his black rubber handball. A good-luck charm? Hardly. But ironically, a key to everything about him. The little black ball.
    Time to think, to plan, to execute,
he reminded himself. He was sure that the governments wouldn’t listen to his demands; they
couldn’t
give in. Not yet, not so easily.
    They needed another lesson. Possibly more than one lesson.
    And so a late-night drive out to FBI Director Burns’s home in the Washington suburbs.
    What a desirable life the man seemed to live with his family. The Wolf genuinely felt that way.
    An attractive, well-kept ranch house—modest enough, consistent with an American Dream of a sort. A blue Mercury sedan in the driveway. Bike rack with three two-wheelers. Basketball hoop with a glass backboard and a bright white square above the rim.
    Should this family die?
A simple enough task to execute. Pleasurable in a way. Richly deserved.
    But was it the most effective lesson?
    The Wolf wasn’t sure. So the answer was probably