Marcel Aglionby wasn’t at the house, we were told by several of the guests. He was on business in New York. One of his daughters was present; this was her party, her guests, her friends—though some of them looked to be twice her age. Her father was a respected banker, she swore to us. No way was he a criminal, no way was he the Wolf.
So is he the Wolf’s banker? And where does that lead us?
I hated to think it, but I couldn’t help myself: The Wolf wins again.
Chapter 108
WE SEARCHED THE PLACE one more time and, over the threats of the daughter, started to take it apart, piece by piece.
I had to say the house was amazing, filled with antiques and artwork. Sandy thought that Aglionby might be trying to emulate the nearby La Fiorentina, which has been called the most beautiful house in the world. The banker certainly had expensive taste, and could afford to indulge them. Hand-painted Louis XVI pieces were everywhere, as were Louis XV chandeliers; antique Turkish carpets; Chinese screens and panels; tapestries; paintings, classical and modern, on nearly every wall. Works by Fragonard, Goya, Pieter Brueghel. All of it financed by the Wolf? Why not? He has over two billion to throw around.
We assembled the “suspects” in the billiards room, which had three billiards tables and nearly as many plush sofas as the living room. The same tailored formality. Did anyone here know anything about the Wolf? It didn’t look that way to me. More likely, some of them might know Paris and Nicky Hilton.
“Does anyone want to speak for the group?” the French police commander addressed them.
No one volunteered; no one answered any questions. Either they didn’t know or they had been told not to say.
“All right, then, let’s separate them. We’ll begin the interviews now. Someone will talk,” the commander warned.
Since I hadn’t been asked to participate in the interrogations, I wandered out onto the grounds and walked down toward the water. Had we been given another false lead to follow? The Wolf’s game-playing, his strategies and counterstrategies, had been relentless from the beginning. Why should it stop now?
There was a large—actually, very long—wooden boathouse at the water’s edge. It stood maybe a hundred yards from the main house. But what was this? Somebody had transformed the old boathouse into a garage to house a collection of more than thirty very expensive sports cars and luxury sedans. Maybe this was finally something. Evidence that the Wolf might have used this estate. Or was it another ruse, a tease?
I was standing between the boathouse and the water when all hell broke loose.
Chapter 109
ALL HE HAD was his piece of the puzzle, his part in this terrible mission. But it was more than enough. Bari Naffis knew that there had been an incursion at the estate in Villefranche-sur-Mer and that within the hour people would die because of it, including friends of his and one girl he’d slept with, a fashion model from Hamburg. Eye candy to be sure, but very precious stuff.
The French army and police had already taken over the mansion. And now it was Bari’s turn to go to work, to do his job. He didn’t know why this had to happen, only that it did.
As he turned onto the D125, it seemed to him that he was already too late. But he had his orders. Someone had obviously foreseen that this would happen.
The Wolf had known it was coming, hadn’t he? He had eyes in the back of his head. Eyes everywhere! What a scary bastard that one was.
That was all that Bari Naffis knew—and all he cared about right now. He had been well paid in advance, even if this made little sense to him and was highly distasteful. Why kill and maim so many?
Half an hour before, he’d received a radio signal from the main house; the noise had awakened him from a sound sleep in his hotel room.
He jumped from bed, dressed, then hurried to a prearranged position on an estate to the north. He tried not to think about his friends and a lover inside the house. Maybe she would survive somehow.
No matter. He wasn’t going to cross the Wolf over some girl. Bari ran through the woods and thick brush cover. He was carrying a Man Portable Air Defense System, about as ungainly a weapon as there was. The missile launcher was five feet in length, a little over thirty-five pounds. Still, it was extremely well balanced and equipped with a rifle-style pistol grip and forestock. It fired an FIM-92A Stinger missile, and there were two other operators in the woods besides himself. Each of them had his little bit of work to do, his piece of the whole.
Three professional killers on the move at that very moment, maybe feeling the same misgivings he had.
A trap had been set for the police.
A terrible death trap for everybody in that house. Police killed as well. What a mess.
When he was in his final position, only about fifteen hundred feet from the main house, Bari hoisted the ungainly tube up onto his shoulder. He set his right hand on the pistol grip and sighted the weapon with his left. He held the launcher like a conventional rifle, though it was far from conventional.
He easily found his target in the viewfinder. He could hardly miss hitting a house. Then he waited for a final command in his earphones.
God, he didn’t like this! He pictured the astonishingly pretty girl from Hamburg. Jeri w
as her name. So sweet, and what a perfect body. He waited, half hoping the signal wouldn’t come. For Jeri’s sake, for the sake of everyone inside.
But there it was! Electronic. Impersonal as a stranger’s funeral. A whistling sound between his ears.