James PATTERSON - The Big Bad Wolf

‘What happened to the girls? Did you murder them? You have to tell me.’

‘I’m not a killer. I liked to see the girls get off. Some did. We’d party, then they would be released. Always. They didn’t know who I was, or where I was from.’

‘So you were satisfied with the arrangement?’

Lipton nodded and his eyes lit up. ‘Very. I’d been dreaming of this my whole life. The reality was as good as the fantasy. Of course there was a price.’

‘A bill had to be paid?’

‘Oh yeah. I got to meet the Wolf, at least I think it was him. He had sent an emissary to my office in the early days. But then he came to see me. In person, he was very scary. Red Mafiya, he said. The KGB came up, but I don’t know what his connection to them was.’

‘What did he want from you?’

‘To go into business with him, to be a partner. He needed my company’s expertise with computers and the Internet. The sex club was secondary with him, a throw-in. He was heavily into extortion, money laundering, counterfeiting. The club was my thing. Once our deal was struck, I went looking for wealthy freaks who wanted their dreams fulfilled. Freaks who were willing to spend six figures for a slave, male, female, didn’t matter. Sometimes a specific target; sometimes a physical type.’

‘To murder?’ I asked Lipton.

‘Whatever they wanted. Let me tell you where I think he was going with the club. He wanted to involve very rich, powerful men. We already had one, a senator from West Virginia. He had big plans.’

‘Is the Wolf here in Dallas?’ I finally asked. ‘You’ve got to help me, if you want my help.’

Lipton shook his head. ‘He isn’t from around here. He’s not in Dallas. Not in Texas. He’s a mystery man.’

‘But you know where he is?’

He hesitated, but finally went on. ‘He doesn’t know that I know. He’s smart, but not about computers. I tracked him once. He was sure his messages were secure, but I had them cracked. I needed to have something on him.’

Then Sterling told me where he thought I could find the Wolf. And also, who he was. If I could believe what he was saying, Sterling knew the name Pasha Sorokin was using in the United States.

It was Ari Manning.

I sat high in the cockpit of a luxury cabin cruiser in the Intercoastal Waterway near Millionaires Row in Fort Lauderdale, Florida. Were we close to the Wolf now? I needed to believe that we were. Sterling swore to it, and he had no reason to lie to us, did he? He had every reason to tell the truth.

Sightseers came here on motorboat tours, so I figured we wouldn’t be noticed right away. Besides, darkness was starting to fall. We drove past mansions that were mostly Mediterranean- or Portuguese-style, but an occasional Georgian Colonial supposedly signaled ‘northern money’. We’d been warned to tread lightly, not to ruffle feathers in the wealthy neighborhood, which, frankly, wouldn’t be possible. We were going to ruffle a lot of feathers in a few minutes.

On board the cruiser with me was Ned Mahoney, and two of his seven-person assault teams. Mahoney didn’t ordinarily go on missions himself. The Director was changing all that. The FBI had to get stronger in the field.

I watched a large waterfront house through binoculars as our boat approached a dock. Several expensive yachts and speedboats bobbed in the water. We had secured a floor plan of the house, and learned it had been purchased for twenty-four million dollars two years ago. Don’t ruffle any feathers.

A large party was in progress at the estate, which belonged to Ari Manning. According to Sterling, he was Pasha Sorokin, the Wolf.

‘Looks like everybody’s having a fine old time,’ Mahoney said from the deck. ‘Man, I love a good party. Food, music, dancing, bubbly.’

‘Yeah, it’s jumping. And the surprise guests haven’t even shown up,’ I said.

Ari Manning was known around Fort Lauderdale and Miami for the parties he hosted, sometimes a couple a week. His extravaganzas were famous for their surprises – surprise guests like the coaches of the Miami Dolphins and Miami Heat; ‘hot’ musical and comedy acts from Las Vegas; politicians and diplomats and ambassadors, even right up to the White House.

‘Guess we’re tonight’s surprise special guests,’ Mahoney said and grinned at me.

‘Flown in all the way from Dallas,’ I said. ‘With our entourage of fourteen.’

The guests, the nature of the glitzy party itself, made the operation tense, which was probably why Mahoney and I felt compelled to make a few jokes. We’d talked about waiting, but HRT wanted to go in now, while we knew the Wolf was there. The Director agreed, and had actually made the final decision.

A guy in a ridiculous sailor suit was vigorously waving us away from the dock. We kept coming. ‘What’s this asshole on the dock want?’ Mahoney said to me.

‘We’re full up! You’re too late!’ the man on the dock shouted to us. His voice carried above the music blasting from speakers in the back part of the mansion.

‘Party doesn’t start without us,’ Ned Mahoney called back. Then he tooted the horn.

‘No, no! Don’t come in here!’ Sailor Suit began to yell. ‘Get away!’

Mahoney tooted the horn again.

The cruiser bumped a Bertram speeder and the guy on the dock looked as if he were going to have a stroke. ‘Jesus, be careful. This is a private party! You can’t just come in here. Are you friends of Mr Manning?’

Mahoney tooted again. ‘Absolutely. Here’s my invitation.’ He pulled out his ID and his gun.

I was already off the boat and running toward the house.

I pushed my way through the crowd of very well-heeled partygoers who were making their way to candlelit tables. Dinner was being served now. Steak and lobsters, lots of champagne, and pricey wine. Everybody seemed to have worn their Dolce and Gabbana, their Versace, their Yves Saint Laurent couture. I had on faded jeans and a blue FBI windbreaker.

Coiffed heads turned and eyes flashed at me as if I were a party crasher. I was, too. The party crasher from hell. These people had no idea.

‘FBI,’ Mahoney called from behind as he led his heavily armed teams into the crowd.

I knew from Sterling what Pasha Sorokin looked like, and I headed his way. He was right there. The Wolf had on an expensive gray suit, a blue cashmere T-shirt. He was talking to two men near a billowing, blue-and-yellow-striped canopy where the grills were working. Enormous cuts of meat and fish were being prepared by smiley, sweaty chefs, all of them black or Hispanic.

I pulled out my Glock, and Pasha Sorokin stared at me without moving a muscle. He just stared. Didn’t make a move, didn’t try to run. Then he smiled, as if he’d been expecting me and was glad I’d finally arrived. What was with this guy?

I saw him flash a hand signal to a white-haired man whose arm was draped around a curvy blonde less than half his age. ‘Atticus!’ he called, and Atticus scurried over faster than kitchen help.

‘I’m Atticus Stonestrom, Mr Manning’s lawyer,’ he said. ‘You have absolutely no reason to be here, to barge into Mr Manning’s house like this. You’re completely out of line and I’m asking you to leave.’

‘Not going to happen. Let’s move this private party inside. Just the three of us,’ I said to Atticus Stonestrom and Pasha. ‘Unless you want the arrest to take place in front of all these guests.’

The Wolf looked at his lawyer, then shrugged as if this were no big deal to him. He started to walk toward the house. Then he turned – pretending he’d just remembered something. ‘Your little boy’s name,’ he said. ‘It’s also Alex, isn’t it?’