London Bridges

finish, I want to talk to you about the next steps. We’re very close to getting our money. They’re weakening day by day, and I have a plan. You’re going to be a rich man, Ilya.”
    The Wolf climbed into the driver’s seat, which was on the right side. He flipped a switch, the dashboard lit up, and the car roared and shook. The Wolf watched Ilya’s face go pale and laughed merrily. In his own strange way he loved Ilya Frolov.
    “We’re sitting right on the engine. It’s going to get very hot in here now. Maybe a hundred and thirty degrees. That’s why we wear a ‘cool suit.’ It’s going to get noisy, too. Put on your helmet, Ilya. Last warning.”
    And then they were off!
    The Wolf lived for this—the exhilaration, the raw power of the world’s finest race cars. At this speed he had to concentrate on the driving—nothing else mattered, there
was
nothing else while he spun around the test track. Everything about the ride was about power: the noise, since there was no sound-dampening material inside; the vibration—the stiffer the suspension, the faster the car could change direction; the g-force, resulting in as much as six hundred pounds of pressure on some turns.
    God, what a glorious machine—so perfect—whoever made it was a genius.
    There are still some of us in the world,
he thought to himself.
I should know.
    Finally he slowed and steered the highly temperamental car off the track. He climbed out, pulled off his helmet, shook out his hair, and shouted to the skies.
    “That was so great! My God, what an experience. Better than sex! I’ve ridden women and cars—I prefer the race car!”
    He looked over at Ilya Frolov and saw that the man was still pale and shaking a bit. Poor Ilya.
    “I’m sorry, my friend,” the Wolf spoke softly. “I’m afraid you don’t have the balls for the next ride. Besides, you
know
what happened in Paris.”
    He shot his friend dead on the test track. Then the Wolf just walked away, never looking back. He had no interest in the dead.

Chapter 71
    THAT SAME AFTERNOON the Wolf visited a farmhouse about fifty kilometers southeast of the test track. He was the first to arrive and settled in the kitchen, which he kept as dark as a crypt. Artur Nikitin had been ordered to come alone, and he did as he was told. Nikitin was former KGB and had always been a loyal soldier. He worked for Ilya Frolov, mostly as an arms dealer.
    The Wolf heard Artur approaching on the back steps. “No lights,” he called. “Just come inside.”
    Artur Nikitin opened the door and stepped inside. He was tall, with a thick white beard, a big Russian bear of a man, physically not unlike the Wolf himself.
    “There’s a chair. Sit. Please. You are my guest,” said the Wolf.
    Nikitin obeyed. He showed no fear. Actually, he had no fear of death.
    “You have always done good work for me in the past. This will be our last job together. You’ll make enough to walk away from the life, to do as you wish. Does that sound all right?”
    “It sounds very good. Whatever you wish, I do. It’s the secret of my success.”
    “Paris is very special to me,” the Wolf continued. “In another life, I lived there for two years. And now, here I am again. It’s no coincidence, Artur. I need your help here. More than that, I need your loyalty. Can I depend on you?”
    “Of course. Without a doubt. I’m
here,
aren’t I?”
    “I plan to blow a big hole in Paris, cause lots more trouble, then get filthy rich. I can still depend on you?”
    Nikitin found himself smiling. “Absolutely. I don’t like the French anyway. Who does? It will be a pleasure. I especially like the ‘filthy rich’ part.”
    The Wolf had found his man for the job. Now he gave him his piece of the puzzle.

Chapter 72
    TWO DAYS AFTER the bombing of Westminster Bridge, I traveled back to Washington. During the long flight, I forced myself to make extensive notes about what the Wolf might do next. What
could
he do? Would he strike again, keep on bombing cities until he got his money? And what was the significance of bridges to him?
    Only one thing seemed obvious to me: the Wolf wasn’t going to disappear and leave things as they had been before. He wasn’t going away.
    Even before my plane landed I got a message from Ron Burns’s office. I was to go to headquarters as soon as I arrived in Washington.
    But I didn’t go to the Hoover Building; I went home instead. Like Bartleby the Scrivener, I respectfully declined my