London Bridges (Alex Cross 10)

Chapter 122

I COULDN’T LET it go, couldn’t and wouldn’t. The Wolf had invaded my house, taken my family, even though they had been returned unharmed. It could happen again.

Over the next few weeks I tested, then strained, the new cooperative relationship between the Bureau and the CIA. I got Ron Burns to put even more stress on the situation. I traveled out to CIA headquarters in Langley more than a dozen times, talked to everybody from junior analysts to the new director, James Dowd. I wanted to know about Thomas Weir and the KGB agent he’d helped bring out of Russia. I needed to know everything that they knew. Was that possible? I doubted it, but that didn’t stop me from trying.

Then one day I was called up to Burns’s office. When I arrived, I found Burns and the new CIA director waiting for me in his conference room. Something was up. This was going to be good—or very, very bad.

“Come on in, Alex,” said Burns, cordial, as he often was. “We need to talk.”

I stepped inside and sat across from the two heavies, both in shirttails, looking as if they had just come out of a long and difficult work session. About what? The Wolf? Something else that I didn’t want to hear about?

“Director Dowd wants to say a few things to you,” said Burns.

“I do, Alex,” said Dowd, a New York lawyer who’d been an unexpected choice for CIA director. He had started in the New York Police Department, then gone into a lucrative private practice for several years. According to rumors, there were things that none of us knew, or wanted to know, about Dowd and his years in private practice.

“I’m just finding my way around out at Langley,” he said, “and actually, this exercise has helped. We’ve spent a great deal of time and effort digging into everything about Director Weir.”

Dowd looked over at Burns. “Just about all of it is good, an excellent record of service. But this kind of digging into old records isn’t appreciated by some of the ‘old warrior’ types out in Virginia. Frankly, I don’t give a shit what they think.

“A Russian by the name of Anton Christyakov was recruited and then brought out of Russia in 1990. This man was the Wolf. We’re fairly sure about that. He was transported to Engla

nd, where he met with a few agents, including Martin Lodge. Then he was moved to a house outside Washington. His identity was known only to a handful of people. Most of them are dead now, including Weir.

“Finally, he was moved to a city of his choosing—Paris, where he met up with his family: mother and father, wife, two young sons, ages nine and twelve.

“Alex, they lived two blocks from the Louvre, on one of the streets that was destroyed a few weeks ago. His entire family was killed there in ’ninety-four, but not Christyakov himself. We believe the attack may have been orchestrated by the Russian government. We don’t know for certain. But somebody leaked where he was living to somebody who didn’t want him to continue living. The attack may have taken place on the bridge across the Seine that was destroyed.”

“He blamed the CIA and Tom Weir,” Burns said. “And he blamed the governments that were involved. Maybe he went mad after that—who the hell knows. He joined the Mafiya and rose quickly. Here in America, probably in New York.”

Burns stopped. Dowd didn’t add anything more. They were both looking at me.

“So it’s not Klára. What else do we know about Christyakov?”

Dowd raised his hands with both palms up. “There are notes in our records, but precious few. He was known by some Mafiya leaders, but they seem to be dead now, too. Maybe the current Mafiya ‘big man’ in Brooklyn knows something. There’s another possible contact in Paris. We’re working a couple of angles in Moscow.”

I shook my head. “I don’t care how long it takes. I want him. Tell me everything there is.”

“He was close to his sons. Maybe that’s why he spared your family, Alex,” said Burns. “And mine.”

“He spared my family to show how powerful he is, how superior to the rest of us.”

“He squeezes a rubber ball,” said Dowd, “A handball. Black.”

I didn’t follow at first. “I’m sorry, what?”

“One of his sons gave him a rubber handball before the boy died. A birthday present. In one of the notes we have, it says that Christyakov squeezes the ball when he gets angry. He’s also said to favor beards. He’s celibate now, according to the rumors, anyway. It’s all pieces, Alex. That’s what we have. I’m sorry.”

So was I, but it didn’t matter. I was going to get him.

He squeezes a rubber ball.

He favors beards.

His family was murdered.

Chapter 123

SIX WEEKS LATER I traveled to New York, my fifth out-of-town trip in a row. Tolya Bykov had been at or near the top of the Red Mafiya gangs in New York, specifically the Brighton Beach area, for the past few years. He had been a Mafiya head in Moscow and was the most powerful leader to come to America. I was going to see him.