London Bridges (Alex Cross 10)

“The price has just doubled!”

He disconnected. Then he looked around at his people.

“What? You approve, or what? Do you know how much money I just made for you?”

They all began to clap, then cheer.

The Wolf stayed with them for the remainder of the afternoon. He endured their false compliments, their requests thinly disguised as suggestions. But then he had other business in New York City, so he left them to enjoy the house by the sea, and whatever.

“The ladies will arrive soon,” he promised. “Models and beauty queens from New York. They say th

e most beautiful pussy in the world. Have fun.” On my money, my sweat, my brilliance.

He was back in the Lotus then, heading toward the Long Island Expressway. He was squeezing the black rubber ball, but finally he set it down. He took out his cell phone again. Pressed a few numbers. A code was transmitted. A circuit closed. A primer fired.

Even from that far away, he heard the beach house explode. He didn’t need them anymore; he didn’t need anyone.

Zamochit! The bombs had broken every bone in all of their worthless, useless bodies.

Payback, revenge.

It was a beautiful thing.

Chapter 61

WE RECEIVED WORD in London that the deadline had been extended forty-eight hours, and the relief, though temporary, was still extraordinary for all of us. Within the hour, we got word of a bombing on Long Island—several Red Mafiya bosses reported dead. What did it mean? Had the Wolf struck again? At his own people?

There was nothing useful for me to do after the long round of meetings at Scotland Yard. About ten at night, I met with a friend from Interpol at a London restaurant, the Cinnamon Club, which was on the site of what had once been the Old Westminster Library on Great Smith Street.

I was past being exhausted and, in fact, had gotten my second wind. Besides, I always looked forward to spending time with Sandy Greenberg, who was probably the smartest police officer I had ever worked with. Maybe she had a new idea about the Wolf. Or the Weasel. At any rate, no one knew the European underworld better than she did.

Sandy is Sondra to all but her closest friends, and I am fortunate enough to be one of them. She’s tall, attractive, chic, a little gawky, witty, and very funny. She gave me a big hug and kisses on both cheeks.

“Is this the only way I get to see you, Alex? Some kind of terrifying international emergency? Where’s the love?”

“You could always come to Washington to see me,” I said as we pulled apart. “You look absolutely great, by the way.”

“I do, don’t I?” said Sandy. “Come, we have a table in the back. I’ve missed you terribly. God, it’s good to see you. You look wonderful yourself, even with all of this going on. How do you do it?”

The dinner was a fusion of Indian and European that couldn’t be found in the States, at least not anywhere around Washington. Sandy and I talked for well over an hour about the case. But over coffee we lightened up and let things get a little more personal. I noticed a gold signet ring and a trinity band she wore on her pinkie finger.

“Beautiful,” I told her.

“From Katherine,” she said, and smiled. Sandy and Katherine Grant had been living together for about ten years and were one of the happiest couples I had ever met. Lessons to be learned, but who can ever figure it all out? Not me. I couldn’t even master my own life.

“I see you’re still not married,” she said.

“You noticed.”

Sandy smirked. “Detective, you know. Investigator par excellence. So tell me everything, Alex.”

“Not a lot to tell,” I said, and found my choice of words interesting. “I’m seeing someone I like a lot —”

Sandy interrupted. “Oh, hell, you like everyone a lot. That’s the way you are, Alex. You even liked Kyle Craig. Found some good in the creepy, psychopathic bastard.”

“You could be right, generally speaking. But I’m over Kyle. And I don’t like anything about Colonel Geoffrey Shafer. Or the Russian who calls himself the Wolf.”

“I am right, dear boy. So who is this incredible woman you like a lot and whose heart you’ll break, or she’ll break yours—one or the other, I’m certain of it already. Why do you keep torturing yourself?”