Write a poem about this shit. Somebody write a poem about me. The bridge and poor Henry Seymour and all these other poor bastards out here with me this morning.
He went to fetch the van.
At 5:34 the bridge seemed to ignite at its center. Actually, Henry Seymour’s van was what blew up. The strip of roadway beneath it rose up and then split apart; the bridge’s supports toppled; triple-globed lampposts flew into the air like uprooted flowers blowing in the fiercest wind anyone could imagine. For a moment everything was quiet, deathly quiet, as Seymour’s spirit floated away. Then police sirens began to scream all over London.
And the Wolf called Scotland Yard to take credit for his handiwork. “Unlike you people, I keep my promises,” he said. “I tried to build bridges between us, but you keep tearing them down. Do you understand? Do you finally understand what I’m saying? “The London bridge is gone . . . and it’s only the beginning. This is too good to end—I want it to go on and on.”
Payback.
Part Four
PARIS, SCENE OF THE CRIME
Chapter 70
THE TEST TRACK was a familiar one, located sixty kilometers south of Paris. The Wolf was there to drive a prototype race car, and he had some company for the ride.
Walking beside him was a former KGB man who had handled his business in France and Spain for many years. His name was Ilya Frolov, and Ilya knew the Wolf by sight. He was one of the few men still alive who did, which filled him with some dread that day, though he thought of himself as one of the Wolf’s few friends.
“What a beauty!” the Wolf said as the men walked up beside a red Porsche-powered prototype Fabcar. This very model had run in the Rolex Sports Car Series.
“You love your cars,” Ilya said. “Always have.”
“Growing up outside Moscow, I never thought I would own a car, any car. Now I own so many that I lose count sometimes. I want you to take a ride with me. Get in, my friend.”
Ilya Frolov shook his head and raised both his hands in protest. “Not me. I don’t like the noise, the speed, anything about it.”
“I insist,” said the Wolf. He raised the gull wing on the passenger side first. “Go ahead, it won’t bite you. You’ll never forget the ride, Ilya.”
Ilya forced a laugh, then started to cough. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“After we finish, I want to talk to you about the next steps. We’re very close to getting our money. They’re weakening day by day, and I have a plan. You’re going to be a rich man, Ilya.”
The Wolf climbed into the driver’s seat, which was on the right side. He flipped a switch, the dashboard lit up, and the car roared and shook. The Wolf watched Ilya’s face go pale and laughed merrily. In his own strange way he loved Ilya Frolov.
“We’re sitting right on the engine. It’s going to get very hot in here now. Maybe a hundred and thirty degrees. That’s why we wear a ‘cool suit.’ It’s going to get noisy, too. Put on your helmet, Ilya. Last warning.”
And then they were off!
The Wolf lived for this—the exhilaration, the raw power of the world’s finest race cars. At this speed he had to concentrate on the driving—nothing else mattered, there was nothing else while he spun around the test track. Everything about the ride was about power: the noise, since there was no sound-dampening material inside; the vibration—the stiffer the suspension, the faster the car could change direction; the g-force, resulting in as much as six hundred pounds of pressure on some turns.
God, what a glorious machine—so perfect—whoever made it was a genius.
There are still some of us in the world, he thought to himself. I should know.
Finally he slowed and steered the highly temperamental car off the track. He climbed out, pulled off his helmet, shook out his hair, and shouted to the skies.
“That was so great! My God, what an experience. Better than sex! I’ve ridden women and cars—I prefer the race car!”
He looked over at Ilya Frolov and saw that the man was still pale and shaking a bit. Poor Ilya.
“I’m sorry, my friend,” the Wolf spoke softly. “I’m afraid you don’t have the balls for the next ride. Besides, you know what happened in Paris.”
He shot his friend dead on the test track. Then the Wolf just walked away, never looking back. He had no interest in the dead.
Chapter 71
THAT SAME AFTERNOON the Wolf visited a farmhouse about fifty kilometers southeast of the test track. He was the first to arrive and settled in the kitchen, which he kept as dark as a crypt. Artur Nikitin had been ordered to come alone, and he did as he was told. Nikitin was former KGB and had always been a loyal soldier. He worked for Ilya Frolov, mostly as an arms dealer.