“Whoe
ver lives back there is certainly loaded. Jesus, how much is enough?”
“When you have a billion dollars or so, this is rather modest, Alex. It’s not a question of a house—it’s houses. The Riviera, London, Paris, Aspen.”
“If you say so. I’ve never had a billion myself. Or a villa on the Riviera.”
The place in question was a sun-drenched, Mediterranean-style mansion, creamy yellow with white detailing; it had gleaming balustrades and porticos, shutters that the staff apparently closed to the midday sun. Or maybe the people inside just didn’t want to be seen? Four stories, thirty-plus rooms—as cozy as Versailles.
But for now all we were interested in was a peek. As we had planned earlier, we reconnoitered at a small hotel just up the coast. The decision was made by local police officials to use the estate bordering the Aglionby place on the south side. It was vacant now, except for a large staff. We would dress and pose as gardeners and household help, starting tomorrow morning.
Sandy and I listened to the plan as it was laid out, step by step. We looked at each other, shook our heads. Not this time.
I spoke. “We’re going in tonight,” I announced. “With or without your help.”
Chapter 107
THE DECISION TO GO right away was backed enthusiastically by Interpol, and even by the French in Paris, who were in close contact with Washington and wanted the murderous Wolf as badly as the rest of the world did, maybe more. For a change, everything happened very quickly that afternoon and through the early evening. I was going to be part of the assault, and so was Sandy.
The attack was planned as if the Wolf was definitely inside the villa. Seven two-person teams of snipers were deployed on all sides of the estate, which were designated as white (north), red (east), black (south), and green (west). Every door and window was covered, and each of the snipers had a specific number of targets. They were closest to the estate. Our eyes and ears.
So far, they weren’t seeing any sign that we’d been spotted.
While the snipers moved into position, the rest of us—Interpol, the FBI, the French army and police—strapped on war gear: black Nomex flight suits, body armor, handguns, MP-5 submachine guns. Three helicopters were waiting less than a mile away and would be used during the assault. We were ready for the green light, but some of the more jaded among us expected a last-minute delay for politics, cold feet at the command level, something unforeseen to get in the way.
I lay flat on the ground on my stomach beside Sandy Greenberg. We were less than a hundred yards from the main house. Starting to feel the jitters. At least, I was. The Wolf could be inside this house; maybe he was Aglionby.
Some lights were on inside, but we seldom saw anyone at the windows past midnight. Security was modest on the grounds, just a couple of guards.
“Awfully quiet,” said Sandy. “I don’t know if I like this, Alex. Security’s light.”
“It’s almost two in the morning.”
“You surprised that we’re going in?” Sandy asked.
I smiled. “Are we going in? No, I’m not surprised. Remember, the French want the Wolf. Maybe even more than we do.”
Then the signal came to go! Sandy and I were part of the second assault team, and we ran toward the house about forty-five seconds after the first wave. We entered through the back—black. The kitchen, to be exact.
Somebody had switched on the overheads. A guard lay on the floor, his hands cuffed behind his head. Highly polished marble was everywhere, four stoves at the center of the room. I noticed a large glass bowl on a table. I took a peek at what looked like dark noses inside.
Figs, I finally realized, smiling to myself.
Then Sandy and I were running down a long hallway. No gunshots had been fired inside the house yet. Lots of other noise, though.
We came to the formal living room of diplomatic proportions: chandeliers dangled over our head, polished-marble floor, half a dozen dark and solemn paintings by French and Dutch masters.
No Wolf so far. No sign of him.
“This for entertaining, or signing treaties?” Sandy asked me. “Alex, why aren’t they fighting back? What’s going on? Is he here?”
We climbed a winding staircase and saw French soldiers leading men and women out of the bedrooms. Most were in their underwear; a few were naked. Nobody looked very sexy, but they certainly looked surprised.
I didn’t see anybody who might be the Wolf, but how could I tell for certain what the Wolf looked like? How could anybody?
The interrogations began immediately right there in the hallways. Where is the Wolf? . . . Who is Aglionby? . . .
The entire house was searched a second time, then a third.