The Big Bad Wolf

anybody. We continued to collect information, especially about Russian mobsters in the States, but mostly we waited for a message from the Wolf’s Den to Mr. Potter. A yes or a no, a go or a no go. What was the bastard waiting for?
    I talked to Jamilla several times—good talks—also to Sampson, the kids, Nana Mama. I even talked to Christine. I had to find out where her head was at about Little Alex. After our talk, I wasn’t sure if she knew, which was the most disturbing thing of all. I began to detect an ambivalent tone in her voice when she spoke about raising Alex, even though she said she was prepared to sue for custody. Considering all she’d been through, it was hard for me to stay angry at her.
    I would rather have given up my right arm than my little boy, though. Just thinking about it gave me a headache that throbbed continuously and made the long wait for a resolution even worse.
    The phone on my desk rang around ten on the second evening, and I picked up right away. “Waiting for my call? How’s it going?” It was Jamilla, and though she sounded close, she was all the way across the country in California.
    “Sucks,” I said. “I’m stuck in a small windowless room with eight smelly FBI hackers.”
    “That good, huh? So I take it the Wolfman hasn’t gotten back with an answer.”
    “No. And it’s not just that.” I told Jamilla about my phone call with Christine.
    She wasn’t nearly as sympathetic to Christine as I was. “Who the hell does she think she is? She walked out on her little boy.”
    “It’s more complicated than that,” I said.
    “No, it isn’t, Alex. You always like to give people the benefit of the doubt. You think people are basically good.”
    “I guess I do. That’s the reason I can do my job. Because most people
are
basically good and they don’t deserve the shit that gets heaped on them.”
    Jamilla laughed. “Well, neither do you. Think about that. Neither do Little A., Damon, Jannie, Nana Mama. Not that you asked for my opinion. I’ll shut up now. So what
is
going on with the case? Change the subject to something more pleasant.”
    “We’re waiting on this Russian hood and his creeped-out friends. I still don’t understand why he’s involved in a kidnapping ring.”
    “You’re at FBI headquarters, the Hoover cube? That’s where you’re calling from?”
    “Yes, but it’s not exactly a cube. It’s only seven stories on Pennsylvania Avenue because of the D.C. building codes. And eleven stories in back.”
    “Thanks for sharing that. You’re starting to sound like a Feebie. I’ll bet it feels weird to be in there.”
    “No, I just figure I’m on the
fifth
floor. Could be in either part of the building.”
    “Ha ha. No, working the other side, the
dark
side. Being in the
J. Edgar Hoover
Building.
Being
a Feebie. Just thinking about it makes me shiver.”
    “The waiting is the same, Jam. The waiting’s always the same.”
    “At least you have good friends to talk to some of the time. At least you have some nice phone pals.”
    “I do, don’t I. And you’re right, it’s easier waiting here with you.”
    “I’m glad you feel that way. We need to see each other, Alex. We need to touch each other. There are things we have to talk about.”
    “I know that. As soon as this case is over. I promise. I’ll be on the first plane.”
    Jamilla laughed again. “Well, get cracking, boy. Catch the big bad Wolf psycho bastard. Otherwise I’ll be on my own plane east.”
    “Promise?”
    “Promise.”

Chapter 83
    A DOZEN OR SO AGENTS were sitting around eating thick roast beef sandwiches and German potato salad and drinking iced tea when contact with the Wolf’s Den was made again. “Roast beef” had a special meaning inside the FBI, but that was another story. The Wolf was calling.
    Potter. We’ve made a decision on your request,
the e-mail said.
Get back to us.
    The group continued to eat. We agreed there was no need to get back to the Wolf instantly. It would raise his suspicions if Potter was there waiting for the call. An agent was already playing the part of Dr. Homer Taylor in Hanover. We had spread a lie that the professor had the flu and wouldn’t be conducting any classes for a while. Occasionally, “sightings” of Professor Taylor were arranged at his house—sometimes looking out windows or sitting out on the front porch. To our knowledge, no one had inquired about Taylor at Dartmouth or at his house in Webster. Both locations