London Bridges

109
    ALL HE HAD was his piece of the puzzle, his part in this terrible mission. But it was more than enough. Bari Naffis knew that there had been an incursion at the estate in Villefranche-sur-Mer and that within the hour people would die because of it, including friends of his and one girl he’d slept with, a fashion model from Hamburg. Eye candy to be sure, but very precious stuff.
    The French army and police had already taken over the mansion. And now it was Bari’s turn to go to work, to do his job. He didn’t know why this had to happen, only that it did.
    As he turned onto the D125, it seemed to him that he was already too late. But he had his orders. Someone had obviously foreseen that this would happen.
    The Wolf had known it was coming, hadn’t he? He had eyes in the back of his head. Eyes everywhere! What a scary bastard that one was.
    That was all that Bari Naffis knew—and all he cared about right now. He had been well paid in advance, even if this made little sense to him and was highly distasteful. Why kill and maim so many?
    Half an hour before, he’d received a radio signal from the main house; the noise had awakened him from a sound sleep in his hotel room.
    He jumped from bed, dressed, then hurried to a prearranged position on an estate to the north. He tried not to think about his friends and a lover inside the house. Maybe she would survive somehow.
    No matter. He wasn’t going to cross the Wolf over some girl. Bari ran through the woods and thick brush cover. He was carrying a Man Portable Air Defense System, about as ungainly a weapon as there was. The missile launcher was five feet in length, a little over thirty-five pounds. Still, it was extremely well balanced and equipped with a rifle-style pistol grip and forestock. It fired an FIM-92A Stinger missile, and there were two other operators in the woods besides himself. Each of them had his little bit of work to do, his piece of the whole.
    Three professional killers on the move at that very moment, maybe feeling the same misgivings he had.
    A trap had been set for the police.
    A terrible death trap for everybody in that house. Police killed as well. What a mess.
    When he was in his final position, only about fifteen hundred feet from the main house, Bari hoisted the ungainly tube up onto his shoulder. He set his right hand on the pistol grip and sighted the weapon with his left. He held the launcher like a conventional rifle, though it was far from conventional.
    He easily found his target in the viewfinder. He could hardly miss hitting a house. Then he waited for a final command in his earphones.
    God, he didn’t like this! He pictured the astonishingly pretty girl from Hamburg. Jeri was her name. So sweet, and what a perfect body. He waited, half hoping the signal wouldn’t come. For Jeri’s sake, for the sake of everyone inside.
    But there it was! Electronic. Impersonal as a stranger’s funeral. A whistling sound between his ears.
    Two short, one long.
    He took a deep breath, slowly exhaled. Then, reluctantly, he squeezed the trigger.
    Bari felt a slight recoil, less than a rifle’s, actually.
    The launch engine inside the weapon ignited. The first-stage engine propelled the missile only about twenty to thirty feet, at which point it was safe for the secondary propulsion system to engage.
    His eyes followed a vapor trail of solid rocket-fuel exhaust. The Stinger was on its way to the target. He heard a low roar as the missile accelerated to 1,500 miles per hour.
    Be safe, Jeri.
    The Stinger struck the estate broadside—a near perfect hit.
    He was already reloading for the next shot.

Chapter 110
    THERE WERE LOUD whooshing noises, and then fiery, hellish explosions everywhere I looked. Chaos reigned everywhere. And death as well.
    French police and army personnel were frantically running for cover. A rocket or missile had struck the northern roofs of the villa, tossing slate, wood, and bricks from a chimney high into the air. Then a second missile struck. A third was only seconds behind.
    I had started racing back toward the main house when I got another surprise out of nowhere.
    A side door of the boathouse flew open and a dark blue Mercedes sedan roared up a gravel path toward the main road. I ran to a police sedan parked on the grass, started it up, and gave chase.
    There wasn’t time to tell anybody what I was doing. Not even Sandy. I wondered how a police car was going to keep up with a souped-up Mercedes. Probably not