“You know what I want, Kyle,” I said. “You know exactly why I’m here.”
He clapped his hands loudly. “Zamochit! The mad Russian!”
For the next half an hour I told Kyle everything I knew about the Wolf; well, nearly everything. Then I gave him the kicker. “He met with you on the night he came here to kill Little Gus Palumbo. Did you set up the kill for him? Somebody did.”
Kyle leaned back and seemed to be considering his options, but I knew he’d already decided what he meant to do. He was always a step or two ahead.
Finally he leaned forward and beckoned me closer. I wasn’t afraid of Kyle, at least not physically, not even with his extra pounds of muscle. I almost hoped he’d make a move.
“I do this out of love and respect for you,” Kyle said. “I did meet with the Russian last summer. Ruthless chap, no conscience. I liked him. We played chess. I know who he is, my friend. I might be able to help you.”
Chapter 113
IT TOOK ME another day at Florence, but I finally negotiated a name out of Kyle. Now, could we believe him? The name was checked and rechecked in Washington, and the Bureau was becoming confident that he had given us the Red Mafiya leader. I had doubts—because it came from Kyle. But we had no other leads.
Maybe Kyle was trying to blow me up or embarrass the Bureau. Or maybe he wanted to demonstrate how smart he was, how well-connected, how superior to us all. The name, the person’s position, made the arrest controversial and risky. If we went after this man and we were wrong, the embarrassment would stick to the Bureau.
So we waited for nearly a week. We checked all of our information again and did several interviews in the field. The suspect was put under surveillance.
When we had completed the due diligence, I met with Ron Burns and the director of the CIA in Burns’s office. Ron got to the point. “We believe he’s the Wolf, Alex. Craig is probably telling the tr
uth.”
Thomas Weir from the CIA nodded my way. “We’ve been watching this suspect in New York for some time. We thought he’d been KGB back in Russia, but there wasn’t conclusive evidence. We never suspected Red Mafiya, never the Wolf. Not this man. Not given his position with the Russian government.”
Weir’s look was intense. “We increased the levels of audio surveillance to include the apartment where the suspect lives in Manhattan. He’s making arrangements to go after Director Burns again.”
Burns looked at me. “He doesn’t forgive and forget, Alex. Neither do I.”
“Is that it? We go to New York and arrest him?”
Burns and Weir nodded solemnly. “This should be the end of it,” said Burns. “Go and take down the Wolf. Bring me his head.”
Chapter 114
THIS SHOULD BE the end of it. From Director Burns’s mouth to God’s ear.
The Century is a famous art deco apartment building on Central Park West, north of Columbus Circle, in New York City. For decades it has been a residence of choice for well-to-do actors, artists, and businesspeople, especially those who are humble enough to share space with working-class families who’ve passed down their apartments for decades.
We arrived at the building around four in the morning. HRT immediately took over the three main entrances on Central Park, Sixty-second, and Sixty-third Streets. This was the largest bust I had been a part of, definitely the most complicated: The New York City Police, FBI, CIA, and Secret Service were all involved in the operation. We were about to take down an important Russian. The head of the trade delegation to New York. A businessman himself, supposedly above suspicion. The repercussions would be severe if we were wrong. But how could we be wrong? Not this time.
I was at the Century, along with my partner for the past week or so. Ned Mahoney was hardworking, honest, and tough in the clutch. The head of HRT had been to my house and even passed Nana’s inspection, mostly because he’d grown up on the streets of D.C.
Ned and I and a dozen others were climbing the stairs to two penthouse floors, since the suspect’s apartment was on twenty-one and twenty-two. He was powerful and wealthy. He had a good reputation with Wall Street and the banks. Was he the Wolf? If so, why hadn’t his name ever come up before? Because the Wolf was so good, so careful?
“Be glad when this is over with,” Mahoney said without a huff or a puff as he mounted the stairs.
“How did it get out of hand like this?” I asked. “There are too many people here.”
“Always too much politics. Better get used to it. World we live in. Too many suits, not enough workers.”
We finally reached twenty-one. Ned and I and four other agents stopped there. The rest of the team continued to twenty-two. We waited for them to get into position. This was it. I hoped this was it. Was the real Wolf on one of these two floors?
I heard an urgent voice in my earpiece. “Suspect coming out of a window! Man in his underwear jumped from the tower! Jesus Christ! He’s down on the landing between the towers. He’s on the roof. Running.”
Mahoney and I understood what had happened. We rushed down to the twentieth floor. The Century had two towers that rose up from twenty. A large expanse of roof connected them.
We burst out onto the roof and immediately saw a barefoot man in his underwear. He was burly, balding, bearded. He turned and fired at us with a pistol. The Wolf? Balding? Burly? Could this be him?