London Bridges (Alex Cross 10)

I grinned, couldn’t help it. “Another detective—well, actually, her title is inspector. She lives in San Francisco.”

“How convenient. That’s brilliant, Alex. What is it, two thousand miles from Washington? So you have a date, what, every other month?”

I laughed again. “I see your tongue is as sharp as ever.”

“Practice, practice. So you still haven’t found the right woman. Pity. A real shame. I have a couple of friends. Well, hell, let’s not even go there. Let me ask you a personal question, though. Do you think you’re truly over Maria?”

The thing about Sandy, as an investigator, is that she has thoughts that others don’t; she explores areas that are often ignored. My wife, Maria, had been murdered over ten years ago in a drive-by shooting. I’d never been able to solve it—and maybe I wasn’t over Maria. Maybe, just maybe, I couldn’t find closure until I solved her murder. The case was still open. That thought had been tugging at me for years and still caused some pain whenever it entered my head.

“I am totally smitten with Jamilla Hughes,” I said. “That’s all I know for now. We enjoy each other. Why is that a bad thing?”

Sandy smiled. “I heard you the first time, Alex. You like her a lot. But you haven’t told me that you’re madly in love, and you’re not the kind of person who settles for smitten. Right? Of course I’m right. I’m always right.”

“I love you,” I said.

Sandy laughed. “Well, then, it’s settled. You’re staying at my place tonight.”

“All right. Fine,” I agreed.

We both laughed, but half an hour later Sandy dropped me at my hotel off Victoria Street.

“You think of anything?” I said as I climbed out of the taxi.

“I’m on it,” said Sandy, and I knew she was as good as her word, and I needed all the help I could possibly get in Europe.

Chapter 62

HENRY SEYMOUR LIVED not too far from the Weasel’s hideout on Edgware Road in the area between Marble Arch and Paddington that is sometimes known as Little Lebanon. Colonel Shafer walked to the former SAS member’s flat that morning, and as he trudged along, he wondered what had happened to the city, his city, and to his bloody country as well. What a dismal scene.

The streets were filled with Middle Eastern coffee shops and restaurants and grocers. The aromas of ethnic cuisines were thick in the air that morning by eight—tabbouleh, lentil soup, b’steeya. In front of a paper store two elderly men smoked tobacco through a water-filtered hookah. Bloody hell! What the fuck has happened to my country?

Henry Seymour’s apartment was located above a men’s clothing shop, and the Weasel went straightaway to the third floor. He knocked once and Seymour opened up for him.

As soon as he saw Henry, though, Shafer was concerned. The man had lost thirty or forty pounds since he’d seen him last, and that was only a few months ago. His full head of curly black hair was almost gone, replaced by a few scraggly tufts of gray and white frizz.

Indeed, it was a struggle for Shafer to connect this man with his former army mate, one of the best demolition experts he’d ever seen. The two had fought side by side in Desert Storm and then again as mercenaries in Sierra Leone. In Desert Storm, Shafer and Seymour had been part of the Twenty-second SAS Regiment mobility troop. Mobility’s primary mission was to go behind enemy lines and cause havoc. Nobody was better at it than Shafer and Henry.

Poor Henry didn’t look capable of causing too much havoc now, but looks could be deceiving. Hopefully, anyway.

“So, are you ready for a job, an important mission?” Shafer asked.

Henry Seymour smiled, and he was missing a couple of front teeth. “Suicide, I hope,” he said.

“As a matter of fact,” said the Weasel, “that’s rather a nice idea.”

He sat down across from Henry and gave him his piece, and his old friend actually applauded once he’d heard the plan.

“I’ve always wanted to blow up London,” he said. “I’m just the man for the job.”

“I know,” said the Weasel.

Chapter 63

DR. STANLEY S. BERGEN of Scotland Yard addressed several hundred of us in a conference room that was filled to the rafters with police and other government officials. Dr. Bergen was a little over five feet and had to be close to two hundred pounds, and at least sixty years of age. But he was still a commanding presence.

He spoke without notes, and not once during his talk did any of us look away. We were definitely operating on borrowed time, and everyone in the room knew it all too well.

“We are at a critical point where we have to implement our contingency plans for London,” Dr. Bergen said. “Responsibility is under the London Resilience Forum. I have every confidence in them. You should, too.