London Bridges (Alex Cross 10)
I dozed for a few hours, then the phone rang. Martin Lodge was on the line.
“What’s happened?” I asked as I sat upright in my hotel bed. “What has he done?”
Chapter 67
“NOTHING’S HAPPENED, ALEX. Calm down. I’m downstairs in the hotel lobby. Nothing’s happened. Maybe he was bluffing. Let’s hope so. Get dressed and come for breakfast at my house. I want you to meet my family. My wife wants to meet you. You need a break, Alex. We all do.”
How could I say no? After all that we’d been through in the past few days? Half an hour later, I was in Martin’s Volvo headed out to Battersea, just over the river from Westminster. Along the way, Martin tried to prepare me for breakfast, and for his family. We both wore our beepers, but neither of us wanted to talk about the Wolf or his threats. Not for an hour or so, anyway.
“The wife is Czech—Klára Cernohosska, born in Prague, but she’s a real Brit now. Listens to Virgin and XFM, and all the talk shows on BBC Radio. She insisted on a Czech breakfast this morning, though. She’s showing off for you. You’ll love it. I hope so. No, I think you will, Alex.”
I thought so, too. Martin was actually smiling as he drove and talked about his family. “The eldest of my brood is Hana. Guess who chooses the names in our family? Hint: the kids are Hana, Daniela, and Jozef. What’s in a name, though? Hana is obsessed with Trinny and Susannah on the TV show What Not to Wear. She’s fourteen, Alex. The middle child, Dany, plays hockey at Battersea Park—and she’s also crazy about ballet. Joe is mad about football, skateboarding and PlayStation. That just about covers it, don’t you think? Did I mention that we’re eating Czech for breakfast?”
A few minutes later we arrived in Battersea. The Lodge house was a Victorian redbrick with a slate roof and largish garden. Very neat and nice, proper, appropriate for the neighborhood. The garden was colorful and well tended and showed that somebody had his priorities in order.
The whole family was waiting in the dining room, where the food was just being laid out. I was formally introduced to everyone, including a cat named Tigger, and I immediately felt pretty much at home, as well as missing my own family, feeling a sharp pang that stayed with me for a while.
Martin’s wife, Klára, identified the food as it was laid out on the sideboard. “Alex, these are koláce, pastries with a cream cheese center. Rohlíky—rolls. Turka, which is Turkish-style coffee. Párek, two kinds of sausage, very good, a specialty of the house.”
She looked at the eldest daughter, Hana, who was a neat blend of her mother and dad. Tall, slim, a pretty face but with Martin’s hooked nose. “Hana?”
Hana grinned at me. “What kind of eggs would you like, sir? You can have vejce na mekko. Or míchaná vejce. Smazená vejce, if you like. Omeleta?”
I shrugged, then said, “Míchaná vejce.”
“Excellent choice,” said Klára. “Perfect pronunciation. Our guest is a born linguist.”
“Good. Now what is it?” I asked. “The food I ordered?”
Hana giggled. “Just scrambled eggs. Perfect with the rohlíky and párek.”
“Yes, the rolls and sausage,” I said, and the girls clapped for my show-off performance.
It went that way for the next hour or so, most pleasantly, with Klára asking a lot of informal questions about my life in America while telling me about the American mystery novels she enjoyed, as well as the latest Booker Prize winner Vernon God Little, which she said “is very funny, and captures the craziness of your country much like Günter Grass did with Germany in The Tin Drum. You should read it, Alex.”
“I live it,” I told Klára.
It was only at the end of the meal that the kids admitted that the names for the breakfast foods were just about the only Czech words they knew. Then they began to clear away the food and started in on the dishes.
“Oh, and there’s ty vejce jsou hnusný,” said Jozef, or Joe, the eight-year-old.
“I’m almost afraid to ask—what does that mean?”
“Oh, that the eggs were gross,” said Joe, who laughed with little-boy delight at his joke.
Chapter 68
THERE WAS NOTHING to do once I left Martin and Klára’s, except obsess and worry about the Wolf and where he might strike, if he was going to retaliate. Back at the hotel, I caught a few more hours of sleep, then I decided to walk and I felt that this might be a long walk. I needed it.
Something strange, though. I was strolling along Broadway and I had the feeling that somebody was following me. I didn’t think I was being paranoid. I tried to see who it was, but either he was very good or I wasn’t that skilled at spy games. Maybe if this had been Washington instead of London. But it was difficult for me to spot who or what was out of place here—except me, of course.
I stopped in at Scotland Yard and there was still no word from the Wolf. And so far, no reprisals. Not in any of the targeted cities. The calm before the storm?
An hour or so later, having walked up Whitehall, past No. 10 Downing Street to Trafalgar Square and back, and feeling much better for the exercise, I made my way to the hotel and had that same creepy feeling again—as if someone was watching me, following. Who? I didn’t actually see anyone.
Back in my room, I called the kids at Aunt Tia’s. Then I talked to Nana, who was on Fifth Street by herself. “Oddly peaceful,” she joked. “But I wouldn’t mind a full house again. I miss everybody.”
“So do I, Nana.”