A Russian gangster is doing this? One with mysterious ties to al Qaeda? We are at his mercy now, aren’t we? How incredibly strange.
The meeting was in the Salle des Fêtes, and once again I couldn’t help wondering what I was doing there. I was the American representative in Paris because the FBI wanted me there, because there was a chance that I could make a difference with my experience as a psychologist and homicide detective, because something tragic might have happened to the Wolf in Paris a long time ago. We still hadn’t figured out what.
Inside the main hall, tables had been arranged in a U shape and covered with plain white fabric. Propped on easels were laminated maps of Europe, the Middle East, and the United States. The target areas were circled in thick red crayon. Crude, but effective.
A dozen or more TV monitors were up and running. So was a state-of-the-art teleconferencing system. There were more gray and blue suits than usual, more important people, more obvious power on display. For some reason, I noticed several pairs of rimless titanium eyeglasses—the ever-fashionable French.
Live scenes from London, Washington, Paris, and Tel Aviv played on the TV monitors mounted on the walls. The cities were quiet. Most of the army and police were inside as well. Etienne Marteau came and sat beside me. Martin Lodge had already returned to London.
“What do you think our chances are, realistically, here in Paris, Alex?” Etienne asked.
“Etienne, I don’t know what’s happening. No one does. Maybe we stopped the main cell of terrorists earlier. My guess is that everything has been leading up to today’s deadline. I think the Wolf knew how difficult it would be to pull this together. Something happened to him here in Paris. We still don’t know what it is. What can I say? We’re out of time. We’re fucked.”
Suddenly, Etienne sat up straight in his chair. “My God, it’s President Debauney.”
Chapter 88
ARAMIS DEBAUNEY, the French president, looked to be in his mid-fifties and was very well dressed for the occasion, very formal. He was a compact man with slicked-back silver-gray hair and a pencil-thin mustache, and he wore wire-rimmed eyeglasses. He looked somewhat calm and in control of his emotions as he strode quickly to the front of the room, and began to talk. You could hear a pin drop.
“As you know, I have worked in the trenches and on the front lines of law enforcement for many years myself. So I wanted you to hear from me now. I also wanted to be with you for these final minutes before the deadline runs out.
“I have news. The money has been raised. In Paris. In London. Washington. And in Tel Aviv, with help from many friends of Israel around the world. The entire sum will be transferred in three and a half minutes, approximately five minutes before the deadline expires.
“I want to thank everyone in this room, and all of those you represent, for countless hours of hard work, for personal sacrifices that no one should ask, for the most heroic effort, incredible bravery by so many. We did the best that we could, and most important, we will survive this crisis. Eventually we will get these inhuman bastards, all of them! We will get this Wolf, the most inhuman of them all.”
There was a gold Empire clock on the wall behind the president. Everyone watched it intently. How could we not?
At 5:55 Paris time, President Debauney said, “The money is being transferred now. It will happen in a matter of seconds. . . . All right. It’s done. This should be over now. We will be all right. Congratulations to all of you. Thank you.”
There was an audible sigh of relief in the cavernous room, smiles and handshakes, some hugs.
Then we waited, almost a reflex action.
For any kind of communication from the Wolf.
For breaking news from the other targeted cities: Washington, London, Tel Aviv.
The final sixty seconds before the deadline were incredibly tense and dramatic, even though the ransom had been delivered. I could do nothing but watch the second hand on the clock. Finally, I said a prayer for my family, for the people in all four cities, for the world we live in.
Then it was six in Paris and London; twelve in Washington; seven in Tel Aviv.
The deadline had passed. But what did it mean? Were we truly safe?
There were no significant changes on any of the monitors, no disruptions, no explosions on the live video feeds. Nothing.
And there was no call from the Wolf.
Two more minutes passed.
Ten minutes.
And then, a terrible explosion rocked the room—and the world.
Part Five
DELIVER US FROM EVIL
Chapter 89