London Bridges (Alex Cross 10)

suitcase has approximately the same yield. Devastating. We, the old Soviet Union, used to manufacture these bombs by the truckload.

“Want to know where some of the others are right now? Well, there is one or more in Washington, D.C., Tel Aviv, Paris, London. So, as you see, we have a new member in the exclusive ‘nuclear community.’ We are the new members.”

I was starting to feel cold all over. Was there really a nuclear bomb in the suitcase?

“That’s the message you want me to deliver?”

“The other reactors are in place. And to show my good faith, you can take this reactor back with you. Let the boys in the shop look it over. But tell them to look very quickly.

“Now, maybe, maybe, you understand. Get out of here. To me, you are a gnat, but at least you are a gnat. Take the nuclear weapon with you. Consider it a gift. Don’t say I didn’t warn you about what was going to happen. Now, go. Hurry, Dr. Cross.”

Chapter 81

EVERYTHING WAS A blur from there on that afternoon. The dark cloth hood had just been for show, I figured, since I wore nothing over my eyes on the ride back to Paris, which seemed a lot shorter than the ride out.

I kept asking my captors where I was being taken with the suitcase bomb, but neither man in the car would give me an answer. Not a word. They spoke nothing but Russian on the ride.

To me, you are a gnat. . . . Take the nuclear weapon with you. . . .

Soon after we entered Paris, the Peugeot stopped in the crowded parking lot of a shopping center. A gun was held in my face, and then I was handcuffed to the suitcase. “What’s this about?” I asked my captors but received no answer.

Moments later the Peugeot stopped again, at place Igor Stravinsky, one of the more populated areas of Paris, though mostly deserted now.

“Get out!” I was told—the first English words I’d heard in close to an hour.

Slowly, carefully, I emerged from the sedan with the bomb. I felt a little dizzy. The Peugeot roared off.

I was aware of a certain liquidity in the air, particles, a real sense of atoms. I stood motionless near the huge plaza of the Centre National d’Art et de Culture Georges Pompidou, handcuffed to a black valise that weighed at least fifty pounds, probably more.

Supposedly it carried a nuclear bomb, the full equivalent of the ones Harry Truman had ordered dropped on Japan. My body was already covered with cold sweat, and I felt as if I were watching myself in a dream. Could it all end like this? Of course it could. All bets were off, but especially any bets on my life. Was I about to be blown up? Would I suffer radiation sickness if I wasn’t?

I spotted two policemen near a Virgin record store and made my way up to them. I explained who I was, and then told them to please call the directeur de la sécurité publique.

I didn’t tell the cops what was in the black valise, but I quickly revealed the contents to the director when he came on the line. “Is the threat real, Dr. Cross?” he wanted to know. “Is the bomb live?”

“I don’t know. How could I? Please respond as if it is. That’s what I’m doing.” Get your bomb squad over here. Now! Get off the phone!

Within a few minutes, the whole of the Beaubourg district had been evacuated, except for a dozen or so patrolmen, the military police, and several bomb-squad experts. At least I hoped they were experts, the best France had to offer.

I was told to sit on the ground, which I did. Right alongside the black valise, of course. I did everything I was told to do, because I had no choice in the matter. I was feeling sick to my stomach, and sitting made it a little better, though not much. At least the initial dizziness I’d felt was starting to pass.

First, a bomb-sniffing dog was brought in to smell me and the suitcase. A handsome, young German shepherd, the chien explo, approached very cautiously, eyeing the suitcase as if it were a rival dog, an enemy.

When the shepherd got within five yards, she completely froze. A low growl rumbled up from her chest. The hair on her neck rose. Oh shit. Oh God, I thought.

The dog continued to growl until she was certain of radioactive contents, then she quickly retreated to her handlers. Very wise of the shepherd. I was left alone again. I’d never been more frightened in my life, nothing had come even close. The thought of being blown apart, possibly vaporized, isn’t pleasant. It’s a tough one to wrap your mind around.

After what seemed like an eternity, though it was only a few minutes, two bomb-squad technicians in moon suits cautiously headed my way. I saw that one of them was clutching bolt cutters. God bless him! This was such an incredibly surreal moment.

The man with the cutters knelt down beside me. “It’s okay, you’re okay,” he whispered. Then he carefully sliced through the handcuffs.

“You can leave. Get up slowly,” he said. I rose cautiously, rubbing my wrist, but already backing away from the suitcase.

My alien-looking escorts and I hurried out of the designated “hot zone” to where two black bomb-squad vans were parked. Of course, the van was still in the “hot zone” as well. If a nuclear bomb went off, at least a square mile of Paris would be vaporized instantly.

From inside one of the vans I watched the team of technicians work to deactivate the bomb. If they could. I never considered leaving the scene, and the next few minutes were the longest of my life. No one in the van spoke, and we were all holding our breath. The idea of dying like this, so suddenly, was almost impossible to conceive.

Word came back from the French bomb technicians: “The suitcase is open.”