London Bridges

weren’t willing to negotiate, were they? They couldn’t give in to terrorists, not without a fight. Was that what came next? The fight?
    Once again the deadline passed, and I felt as if we were playing Russian roulette.
    There were no attacks in London, New York, Washington, or Frankfurt that night. The Wolf didn’t retaliate right away. He just let us stew.
    I talked to the kids at my aunt’s house and then,
finally,
to Nana. Nothing had happened in D.C. so far. Nana had gone for a walk in the neighborhood with Kayla, she told me. Everything was fine there.
Walk in the park, right, Nana?
    Finally, at 5:00 A.M. in London most of us went home to get some needed rest, if we
could
sleep.
    I dozed for a few hours, then the phone rang. Martin Lodge was on the line.
    “What’s happened?” I asked as I sat upright in my hotel bed. “What has he done?”

Chapter 67
    “NOTHING’S HAPPENED, ALEX. Calm down. I’m downstairs in the hotel lobby. Nothing’s happened. Maybe he was bluffing. Let’s hope so. Get dressed and come for breakfast at my house. I want you to meet my family. My wife wants to meet you. You need a break, Alex. We all do.”
    How could I say no? After all that we’d been through in the past few days? Half an hour later, I was in Martin’s Volvo headed out to Battersea, just over the river from Westminster. Along the way, Martin tried to prepare me for breakfast, and for his family. We both wore our beepers, but neither of us wanted to talk about the Wolf or his threats. Not for an hour or so, anyway.
    “The wife is Czech—Klára Cernohosska, born in Prague, but she’s a real Brit now. Listens to Virgin and XFM, and all the talk shows on BBC Radio. She insisted on a Czech breakfast this morning, though. She’s showing off for you. You’ll love it. I hope so. No, I think you will, Alex.”
    I thought so, too. Martin was actually smiling as he drove and talked about his family. “The eldest of my brood is Hana. Guess who chooses the names in our family? Hint: the kids are Hana, Daniela, and Jozef. What’s in a name, though? Hana is obsessed with Trinny and Susannah on the TV show
What Not to Wear.
She’s
fourteen,
Alex. The middle child, Dany, plays hockey at Battersea Park—and she’s also crazy about ballet. Joe is mad about football, skateboarding and PlayStation. That just about covers it, don’t you think? Did I mention that we’re eating Czech for breakfast?”
    A few minutes later we arrived in Battersea. The Lodge house was a Victorian redbrick with a slate roof and largish garden. Very neat and nice, proper, appropriate for the neighborhood. The garden was colorful and well tended and showed that somebody had his priorities in order.
    The whole family was waiting in the dining room, where the food was just being laid out. I was formally introduced to everyone, including a cat named Tigger, and I immediately felt pretty much at home, as well as missing my own family, feeling a sharp pang that stayed with me for a while.
    Martin’s wife, Klára, identified the food as it was laid out on the sideboard. “Alex, these are
koláce,
pastries with a cream cheese center.
Rohlíky
—rolls.
Turka,
which is Turkish-style coffee.
Párek,
two kinds of sausage, very good, a specialty of the house.”
    She looked at the eldest daughter, Hana, who was a neat blend of her mother and dad. Tall, slim, a pretty face but with Martin’s hooked nose. “Hana?”
    Hana grinned at me. “What kind of eggs would you like, sir? You can have
vejce na mekko.
Or
míchaná vejce. Smazená vejce,
if you like.
Omeleta?
”
    I shrugged, then said, “
Míchaná vejce.
”
    “Excellent choice,” said Klára. “Perfect pronunciation. Our guest is a born linguist.”
    “Good. Now what is it?” I asked. “The food I ordered?”
    Hana giggled. “Just scrambled eggs. Perfect with the
rohlíky
and
párek.
”
    “Yes, the rolls and sausage,” I said, and the girls clapped for my show-off performance.
    It went that way for the next hour or so, most pleasantly, with Klára asking a lot of informal questions about my life in America while telling me about the American mystery novels she enjoyed, as well as the latest Booker Prize winner
Vernon God Little,
which she said “is very funny, and captures the craziness of your country much like Günter Grass did with Germany in
The Tin Drum.
You should read it, Alex.”
    “I live it,” I told Klára.
    It was only at the end of the meal that the kids admitted