London Bridges

detective with the French National Police. Marteau was a small and wiry man, cooperative and competent on the face of it. But I had the sense that he’d been assigned to watch me more than to work with me. That was so messed up, so counterproductive, it started to drive me crazy.
    In the late afternoon I spoke to Ron Burns’s office about going home. My request was denied. By Tony Woods! Tony never even bothered to take it to the director. He reminded me that Thomas Weir and the Wolf had probably met in Paris.
    “I didn’t forget, Tony,” I told him, and hung up.
    So I began to wade through the records and data that had been collected by the National Police. I looked for connections to Thomas Weir, or even the CIA. I was even trying to keep an open mind about Islamic terrorists, for God’s sake!
    Detective Marteau was slightly helpful, but the process was slow and the Frenchman needed frequent breaks for cigarettes and coffee. This wasn’t going anywhere, and again I had the feeling that whatever help I could bring to the situation was being wasted there. I was getting a really bad headache, too.
    About six o’clock we gathered in the crisis center. The goddamn clock was ticking! The Wolf would call again, I finally learned. The mood in the room was charged but clearly negative: we all knew we were being manipulated and insulted. I was sure the atmosphere was the same in Washington, London, Tel Aviv.
    Suddenly we heard his voice on the speakerphone. Heavily filtered. Familiar. Obscene.
    “Sorry to keep everybody waiting,” he said, and although he didn’t laugh, there was nothing but derision in his tone. I wanted to scream at the bastard.
    “But then, of course,
I
have been kept waiting, haven’t I? I know, I know, it’s because the precedent is unacceptable to all the governments, the loss of face. I
understand.
I get it.
    “And now, I need
you
to understand something, too. This deadline is the final one. I will even make a concession. If it makes you feel better, go ahead and try to find me. Bring your investigations out into the open. Catch me if you can.
    “But know this, and know it well, you bastards. This time, the money must be paid on time. All of it. The prisoners of war must be released. All of them. The deadline will not be extended, and believe me, it is a
dead
line. If you miss it, even by minutes, there will be tens of thousands of murders in each of the four cities. You heard me right—I said
murders.
Believe me, I will push the button. I will kill in a way the world has rarely seen. Especially in Paris.
Au revoir, mes amis.
”

Chapter 76
    LATER THAT NIGHT Etienne Marteau and I thought we might have stumbled onto something useful and maybe even important. At that point every clue was being looked at as vital.
    The French National Police had intercepted several messages dialed on the phone of a known arms dealer working out of Marseilles. The dealer specialized in hardware from the Red Army, contraband that was floating all over Europe, especially in Germany, France, and Italy. In the past, he’d sold contraband to radical Islamic groups.
    Marteau and I read and re-read the transcript of a phone conversation between the arms dealer and a suspected terrorist with ties to al Qaeda. The conversation was coded, but the French police had broken most of it down:
    ARMS DEALER: Cousin, how is your business these days? [Are you ready to do the job?] Are you coming to see me soon? [Can you travel?]
    TERRORIST: Oh, you know, I have a wife and too many children. These things are sometimes complicated. [He has a large team.]
    ARMS DEALER: For God’s sake, I have told you before—bring your woman and the children with you. You should come right now. [Bring your whole team now.]
    TERRORIST: We are all very tired. [We are being watched.]
    ARMS DEALER: Everyone is tired. But you will love it here. [It’s safe for you.] I guarantee it.
    TERRORIST: All right, then. I will start loading up my family.
    ARMS DEALER: I have my stamp collection ready for you. [Probably special tactical weapons.]
    “What does he mean, ‘my stamp collection’?” I asked. “That’s a key phrase, isn’t it?”
    “They’re not sure, Alex. They believe it’s weapons. What kind—who knows for certain? Something serious.”
    “Will they stop the terrorist team now? Or let them into France and watch them?”
    “I think the plan is to let them come in and hope they lead us to others. Higher-ups. Everything is moving