London Bridges

veteran trouper’s smile. “Sometimes the best way to learn is through mistakes. We’ve made plenty in Ireland. Anyway, here we are, Alex. They’re all waiting inside. They want to meet you very much. Get ready for some incredible bullshit, though. MI5 and MI6 will both be here. They fight over everything. Don’t let it get to you. We manage to sort it all out in the end. Most of the time, anyway.”
    I nodded. “Like the Bureau and the CIA back home. I’m sure I’ve seen it before.”
    As it turned out, Detective Superintendent Lodge was right on about the turf wars, and I figured that the feud was probably hurting progress in London, even under the present crisis circumstances. Also in the room were a few Special Branch men and women. The prime minister’s chief of staff. Plus the usual crowd from London’s emergency services.
    As I took a seat I groaned inside—another goddamn meeting. Just what I didn’t need.
We’re past the deadline—they’re blowing up things!
I wanted to yell.

Chapter 60
    THE LARGE BEACH HOUSE outside Montauk on Long Island didn’t belong to the Wolf. It was a rental, forty thousand a week, even in the off-season.
A complete rip-off,
the Wolf knew, but he didn’t mind so much. Not today, anyway.
    It was quite an impressive place, though—Georgian style, three stories rising above the beach, immense swimming pool shielded from the wind by the house itself, pebbled driveway lined with cars—mostly limousines, muscular drivers in dark suits congregating around them.
    Everything here,
he thought with some bitterness,
paid for with my money, my sweat, my ideas!
    They were waiting for him, several of his associates in the Red Mafiya. They were gathered inside a library/sitting room with panoramic views of the deserted beach and the Atlantic.
    They pretended to be his dearest, closest friends as he entered the room, shaking his hand, patting his broad back and shoulders, muttering easy lies about how good it was to see him.
The very few who know what I look like. The inner circle, the ones I trust more than anyone else.
    Lunch had been served before he arrived, and then the entire household staff had been removed from the house. He had parked in back, then come in through the kitchen. No one had seen him except the men in this room, nine of them.
    He stood before them and lit up a cigar.
To victory.
    “They have asked for an extension of the deadline. Can you believe it?” the Wolf said between satisfying puffs.
    The Russian men around the table began to laugh. They shared the Wolf’s disdain for the current governments and leaders around the world. Politicians were weak by nature and the few strong ones who snuck into office somehow were soon weakened by the process of government. It had always been that way.
    “Drop the hammer!” one of the men shouted.
    The Wolf smiled. “You know, I should. But they have a point—if we act now, we lose, too. Let me get them on the line. They’re expecting an answer. This is interesting, no? We
negotiate
with the United States, Britain, and Germany. As if we were a world power.”
    The Wolf raised his index finger as the call went through. “They’re expecting to hear from me. . . .”
    “You’re all on the line?” he spoke into the phone.
    They were.
    “No small talk, the time for that has passed. Here is my decision. You have another two days, till seven o’clock, eastern standard time,
but
. . .
    “The price has just doubled!”
    He disconnected. Then he looked around at his people.
    “What? You approve, or what? Do you know how much money I just made for you?”
    They all began to clap, then cheer.
    The Wolf stayed with them for the remainder of the afternoon. He endured their false compliments, their requests thinly disguised as suggestions. But then he had other business in New York City, so he left them to enjoy the house by the sea, and whatever.
    “The ladies will arrive soon,” he promised. “Models and beauty queens from New York. They say the most beautiful pussy in the world. Have fun.”
On my money, my sweat, my brilliance.
    He was back in the Lotus then, heading toward the Long Island Expressway. He was squeezing the black rubber ball, but finally he set it down. He took out his cell phone again. Pressed a few numbers. A code was transmitted. A circuit closed. A primer fired.
    Even from that far away, he heard the beach house explode. He didn’t need them anymore; he didn’t need anyone.
    Zamochit!
The