The Big Bad Wolf

“Oh, Alex, that’s terrible.
Terrible.
Did you talk to her about it?”
    “I sure did. I was at her lawyer’s this afternoon. Christine finds it hard to be tough; her lawyer doesn’t.”
    “Alex, has Christine seen the two of you together? How you are with him? You’re like that old movie
Kramer vs. Kramer.
Dustin Hoffman and that cute little boy.”
    “No, she hasn’t really watched us together, but I’ve seen her with Alex. He turned on the charm. Welcomed her back without any recriminations. Little traitor.”
    Jamilla was angry now. “Little Alex
would.
Always the perfect gentleman. Like his father.”
    “That, plus—she is his mother. The two of them have a history, Jam. It’s complicated.”
    “No, it isn’t. Not for me, not for anybody with a brain. She left him, Alex. Separated herself by three thousand miles. Stayed away for a year. What’s to say she won’t do it again? So what are you going to do now?”
    That was the big question, wasn’t it?
    “What do you think? What would you do?”
    Jam sniffed out a laugh. “Oh, you know me—I’d fight her like hell.”
    I finally smiled. “That’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to fight Christine like hell.”

Chapter 73
    THE PHONE CALLS weren’t over for the night. As soon as I got off with Jamilla, and we’re talking sixty seconds here, the infernal contraption started to ring. I wondered if it was Christine. I really didn’t want to talk about Alex right now. What would she want to say to me—and what could I say to her?
    The phone wouldn’t stop ringing, though. I looked at my watch. Saw it was past midnight. Now what? I hesitated before I finally snatched it up.
    “Alex Cross,” I said.
    “Alex. This is Ron Burns. Sorry to call you so late. I’m just flying into D.C. from New York. Another conference on counterterrorism, whatever the hell that’s supposed to mean right now. Nobody seems to know exactly how to fight the bastards, but everybody has a theory.”
    “Play by their rules. Of course, that would inconvenience a few people,” I said. “And it’s sure not politically or socially correct.”
    Burns laughed. “You go to the heart of the matter,” he said. “And you aren’t timid about your ideas.”
    I said, “Speaking of which . . .”
    “I know you’re a little pissed,” he said. “I don’t blame you after what’s been happening. The Bureau runaround, everything you were warned about. You have to understand something, Alex. I’m trying to turn around a very slow-moving ocean liner. In the Potomac. Trust me for a little longer. By the way,
why are you still in D.C.?
Not up in New Hampshire?”
    I blinked, didn’t understand. “What’s in New Hampshire? Oh, shit, don’t tell me.”
    “We have a suspect. Nobody told you, did they? Your idea about tracking the mentions of the Wolf’s Den on the Internet worked. We got somebody!”
    I couldn’t believe what I was hearing now, at midnight. “Nobody told me. I’ve been home since I left work.”
    There was a silence on his end. “I’m going to make a couple of calls. Get on a plane in the morning. They’ll be
expecting
you in New Hampshire. Believe me, they will be expecting you. And Alex, trust me a little longer.”
    “Yeah, I will.” A
little
longer.

Chapter 74
    IT SEEMED BOTH UNLIKELY and peculiar, but a respected assistant professor of English at Dartmouth was the subject of the FBI surveillance in New Hampshire. He had recently gone into a chat room called Taboo and bragged about an exclusive Web site where anything could be bought, if you had enough money.
    An agent at SIOC had downloaded the strange conversation with Mr. Potter . . .
    Boyfriend: Exactly how much is enough money to buy “anything”?
    Mr. Potter: More than you have, my friend. Anyway, there’s an eye scan to keep out riffraff like yourself.
    The Package: We’re honored that you’re slumming with us tonight.
    Mr. Potter: The Wolf’s Den is only open about two hours a week. None of you are invited, of course.
    It turned out that Mr. Potter was the moniker used by Dr. Homer Taylor. Guilty or not, Dr. Taylor was under a microscope right now. Twenty-four agents in two-person teams working eight-hour shifts were watching every step he took in Hanover. During the work week, he lived in a small Victorian house near the college and walked back and forth to classes. He was a thin, balding, proper-looking man who wore English-made suits with bright-colored bow ties and